#brought to you from me re-reading all the novels

[seraphdreams]

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

"TO SEE WHAT YOUR INSIDES LOOK LIKE." | GHOSTFACE!ARMIN ARLERT.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 4.6k

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. fem!reader, smut, modern au, mentions of murder / death / blood, fingering, armin’s a creep, symbolism, noncon/dubcon, insanity, manipulation, monomania, creampie, knives, stalking. mdni <3.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. armin’s worked hard to build up his perfect life, and he certainly wasn’t expecting for someone to rip that from under him. he’s obsessed — with a life that isn’t his.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! we are sooo back n in full swing for kinktober this year !! i’ll drop my masterlist here for all the prettie dolls to check out … please show this some love by reblogging / sharing, it’ll mean the absolute world 2 me !! kk, luv ya, bye ♡

Armin Arlert. Age 23. Graduated from Shiganshina University.

Armin Arlert, starting his new life under a freshly installed roof that rivaled his dorm of the past four years and provided him with much needed privacy. Armin Arlert, with a degree in humanitarian affairs accompanied with a promising future ahead, it’s the life he deserved after the turbulent destruction that was his tragic past. He could start over now in high hopes of making a name for himself in this unfamiliar city. Nothing could stop him, or the unperturbed spout of elation percolating within.

Aside from optimism, though, he remained undoubtedly sure that the life he had curated for himself was one that no other could outclass. He was smart — spent his days in libraries, in his study room, reading about anything that satiated his appetite for enlightenment, and be that as it may, he wasn’t looking for a lover. His solace brought him far better pleasure than any person could possibly imagine.

He’d work, research, and then work some more, day in and day out. And the day of your meeting was no different.

He had decided to utilize the time he carved out of his restless schedule for a much needed re-read of his favorite book. Moments like these were significant to Armin; the pungent aroma of freshly brewed tea in his mug, luminescence dim in the apartment, and a faint timbre of violins that spilled from his speaker.

Moments like these were when he couldn’t keep track of how many hours had passed him by as he flipped page by page into whatever universe his books had drawn him into.

Rested against the kitchen counter with his novel in one hand and retrieving a sip from his beverage in the other, his eyes scanned the piece of literature. Every once and awhile, he’d shift his weight from his left hip to the right, or opt to sit on the cozy loveseat in his study. All without withdrawing his attention from his book.

Glasses low on the bridge of his nose, he gently pushed them up — Then it came. The sonority of his doorbell, jostling him out of his serene thoughts and the inquisitiveness that flowed through his veins soon after, urged his body to tread to the front door in search of the cause.

As his footfall led him closer to the handle of the door, he could make out a silhouette, seemingly of a woman. All inquisitions of who could be at his doorstep were fulfilled once he opened it and you stood, with a bright smile on your face.

Armin’s angelic features hidden underneath a veil of golden blond tresses accentuated his soft, azure-hued eyes. His face was one of few that aided you in comfort just upon first glance, which chased away the unease of the possibility that he could’ve been ill-tempered.

“Hi, I’m Y/N! I moved in next door,” You pointed your thumb in the direction beside you as if to signal which side of the building you’d be occupying. “I just thought I'd introduce myself,”

He matched your syrupy sweet beam with one of his own, the corners of his eyes turning upward in tandem as if they were smiling too. He held the door open slightly wider to catch a better glimpse of you. From your attire, he could discern that you weren’t much of a modest girl, but it’d be wrong of him to idly make assumptions. Especially when his choice of dress during the lax hours of the day were a white button-up, cashmere cardigan thrown atop, with a pair of tan slacks.

“Y/N?” He repeated, in a manner to affirm that he had heard correctly. “I’m Armin. It’s nice to meet you,”

He would’ve held his hand out for yours had it not been engaged by his book. You weren’t trying to pry, yet the cover of the story was lucid in your mind once you took notice. “Berenice? The Edgar Allan Poe novel?”

His eyes trailed to where your manicured nail was pointed. The rosy flush of his cheeks deepened while he rubbed away the discomfiture stirring at the back of his neck. Once again, he had mindlessly brought his book with him wherever he strode.

“Y-Yeah, It’s my favorite. Have you read it?”

“A few times,” You hummed, meeting his sheepish gaze. “It’s so jarring, right?”

Armin skimmed over your face before allowing himself to speak. “But there’s beauty in the madness,” His words trolled over in a more weighty tone than he had intended, an apologetic smile on his face once he caught wind.

“Or at least that’s how i interpret it,”

His outward timidity roused an endearing chuckle from you. “I truly don’t mean to bother you, though. If you need anything I'm on your right!” You retort with a vague inclination of haste.

Truth be told, Armin’s interest in you piqued with the mention of the Poe story. “Oh, you’re not a bother-”

His vocables fell short against your own when you waved him goodbye, and he mirrored your actions with cordiality in his eyes.

Maybe she’s just busy.

—

Ever since Armin’s first encounter with you, he had found himself taking a rather atypical interest in the relations of you. The first bout of instances being regular events of curiosity where he’d watch as the moving company aided you in getting your belongings settled; hauling in furniture and appliances, all while Armin remained under the guise of checking his mailbox. Over a short span of time, though, he found himself increasingly knowledgeable in the subject that was you.

You showered at 8:00pm. You ate dinner at 7:00pm. The alarm settled on your desk, a few feet beyond your bed would go off at 6:00am sharp, and he’d be up at that same dawning hour to anticipate your departure to work.

He knew these things. Of course, he did.

He memorized all of your schedules to calculate what you’d be doing throughout the day, and where.

His own work was slow for him during those days, and books didn’t seem to capture that spark of exhilaration like you did. For once, he felt enthralled by each day granting him an opportunity to analyze you further.

On another day, he’d built up enough confidence to observe you as you came home from work, once more, under the false assumption that he’d been checking his mail.

“Good afternoon.”

Armin’s voice registered within your being quickly, startling you out of your fast-paced strut to your door. “Oh, good afternoon!” Your footfall faltered until you reached a close. “Armin, was it?”

Over Armin’s time of stalking- no, studying you, he’d come to realize just how ethereal you were. It was as if the deities above handmade every feature on your face, curve of your body, lilt in your voice with the intention of making you one of their own — an angel.

He found you charming.

With a nod of his head, he braced himself to inch toward you. Not proximal enough to cause you discomfort, he wouldn’t want that, yet enough to signal his unwavering immersion. “Did you just come from work?”

It was otiose of him to ask the question seeing as he undeniably knew the answer. Judging from your business attire and pencil skirt just a little too short for any other establishment’s dress standards, he had assumed you worked a kushy job at an office firm. You evidently earned a heap of money, with him recalling the numerous occasions you’d come home with luxury shopping bags hanging off your arms, tied in with the fact that the suites he inhabited weren't exactly affordable for the average person.

You responded hospitably to his question, that same lovely smile poured over your features and seeping into his personage. “Mhm, and what about you? Your work?”

He was surprised at your need to pull the conversation along further, it was as if you were succoring to curate his plans, as if you could read his mind and pick out from a haystack that you were his only interest, you were his source of bliss. A serendipitous moment, indeed. He straightened himself up, clearing his throat. “Me? Oh, well I just help out at charities and organizations from time to time,”

He’d be a fool to deny the set of wide eyes that were fixated upon his figure.

“For real? You must be a really good person then.” You responded with your hands clasped together and held against your chest, pupils of your eyes glittered in a sense of unshakable admiration.

As the conversation went on, you had begun to synonimize your neighbor with the fresh, and comforting feeling of congeniality. It helped that he was easy to converse with, seeming as he’d always been listening while keeping eye contact and rewiring his queries in a way that deemed you the main focus, and he, a vessel for your words to absorb within.

For Armin, he enjoyed getting to know you. You were perfect, in all the best ways.

And soon enough, through an exhausting series of prying inquiries, he’d piece together that your perfection wasn’t hulled along by determination or strong will, but by God’s good grace. He’d come to register that you didn’t have to struggle like he did to reach the triumphant point in life for which he stood. You were born that way, born with a silver spoon in your mouth and just the right kiss-ass people in your life to keep you that way. A spoiled fucking brat.

What had been the rationale behind his suffering? The years in which he’d been bullied repeatedly in public schools, had acquaintances that had only cared about him for their personal gain, and parents so utterly vapid that they’d give up their only child if it meant they could continue working towards an unattainable goal?

Fueled by a sense of jealousy, he waned your nepotism a hindrance. You were merely a telescope that he wanted so badly to see into.

For Armin was obsessed with a life that wasn’t his.

Meticulously, he had spent his time after that hidden away within his flat. Armin didn’t care to know anything more about you, he didn’t care to see your face, and he surely didn’t care for you.

When he stumbled across an unkempt, unpacked box in his room with the label of “Uni 2019,” written on the side in thick, inky letters, his concern led him to relive those memories upon removing the cardboard lid.

In it, there were polaroid photos, compact trophies he’d won from participating in school events, courtesy of his STEM minor, and a dark piece of fabric that caught his eye more than anything.

He recalled his first year of college where his two closest friends, Eren and Mikasa, dragged him out of their stuffy shared dorm and onto one of the first parties held by the school’s fraternity house during the fall semester.

“Armin, you look ridiculous,”

Mikasa said as she stomped away in her leather boots, leading the way for the two men accompanying her to follow her off-campus.

She was dressed in homage to Misa Amane from her favorite anime, although the style of dress aided no significance since it was hauntingly similar to her everyday wardrobe.

Eren was intended to show up as “Light” but he insisted on wearing something he deemed appealing, his plan was to get initiated by the end of the night, anyhow. He wore a deep black cloak, dark ripped jeans and had his hair tied aimlessly into his warped perception of a bun, with the mask of a ghost facing sideways on his head to allow for him to see.

Ghostface. Scream (1996).

Armin allowed himself to be pulled away by the Ackerman, his rebuttal falling on deaf ears. “You didn’t give me enough time, Mika. This is all I could come up with.” Armin’s poor excuse for a costume was tissue paper wrapped around his frame in stereotypical mummy fashion, a classic of all classics.

Though, that night had concluded like any other gathering involving college-aged students, the trio having woken up to hangovers and bad decisions.

Armin stared at the contents of the box a while longer before taking the cloak out and trying it on for size. Obviously, it was meant for a taller person, but regardless, the wheels in his head gradually spun.

He took it off after careful observation when the sensation of juvenility filled his veins. He wasn’t fond of the costume rousing the impression that he was an illegitimate killer — He knew more than he let on, and his passion for the grotesqueries scribed in his books further proved that.

Concurrently, you had been pondering the reason for Armin’s disappearance. After your last conversation with him, he’d stopped formulating ways to talk to you and seemed to never leave his suite, and your heart yearned for his presence once the feeling truly settled in.

You had been swayed by his charm.

His dulcet tone of voice, the intriguing quirks that seemed to hang off of him like leaves to a tree; You missed the way he cared for you, through mundane matters and the like.

Night had fallen, the warm, ochre hues of the day meshing in perfect balance with deep purple tones that signified time’s passing. You were settling into bed, just about ready to fall into slumber when you heard light tapping at your door.

Only for a second did the thought of who could possibly be up this late float through your mind.

Your soles kissed the floor when you made your way to the front door. And once you finally opened it, the sight of your worst fear was drawn to life — The deviant sight of the unknown, with what seemed to look like a kitchen knife in its right hand.

Quickly, without time to react, you attempted to slam the door shut with the force of your shoulder but the action proved futile when the aggressor’s strength pushed back against the wood, sending you stumbling backwards and vulnerable to any attack.

Heavy footsteps creeped eerily towards you out of something from a horror film. Your worst mistake was turning your back, scrambling for a way to retrieve your phone, or even a weapon.

“Help! He-”

The stranger was more agile than you had assumed, easily capturing you with one arm around your waist and its hand cupped against your mouth. You couldn’t shake the terror growing within you as hot tears seemed to spill down your cheeks and your heartbeat so intense, you were sure that it’d had been noticeable.

Your body soft in the assaulter’s touch, they embraced your body taut. The sensation was suffocating, your eyes squeezed shut to further distance yourself from the situation at hand, even if it was only a mental trick.

You resided in a relatively safe area, so why were you in this situation? What cruel joke were you the target of?

The grip on your body loosened ever so slightly, yet you were still fixed in place by the attacker’s opposite hand. While your body was immobilized, you felt the lingering of metal lightly drag against your abdomen to find itself settled just underneath the band of your lace pajamas.

Just moments prior, you had completed your elaborate nightly routine consisting of a glass of wine, face mask, and a warm bath. You also found it fitting to change into one of your newer pajama sets — Thin, baby pink, lace bralette with matching shorts that called for forgoing the need for panties.

All you wanted was to wake up from this nightmare.

“It’d be so beautiful if you died right here in my arms,” Your assailant spoke.

Through your ears, his voice was familiar. A tone so soft, you refused to believe the possibility of who it’s owner could be.

His hand over your mouth was hesitant to situate itself elsewhere in wariness of how you’d react. He was aware of the power behind a blood-curdling scream. The neighbors in this area were nosy. He would know.

He let out a sigh. “But you look really pretty tonight. I wouldn’t want to get blood on you,” His knife trailed further into your shorts, the edge cutting out a hole in the fabric at the seat of the garment.

“Did you do all this for me?”

You winced when the sonority of cloth ripping resonated through your ears. The blade felt dangerously close, running along your body as if to taunt you. That had to be the case; You were in the perfect position to be harmed, so why hadn’t your attacker done so? With your body stricken from fear, his job was easy. Was it not?

The hand over your mouth moved to caress your face and you gasped heavily for the air you were denied.

“W-What do you want?” Your voice echoed shakily throughout the room, barely audible enough for the two of you to hear. His knife inched upward to your sternum, and slowly dragged itself back down to your abdomen as he spoke.

“To see what your insides look like.”

For a split second, his hold on you seemed to diminish, granting you the perfect opportunity to run. Yet, your legs felt frail as if there were weights tied to your ankles. The assailant quickly repositioned himself in front of you, his head tilting slightly while he continued his up and down ministrations with the edge of the blade gingerly pressed against your flesh. Not forceful enough to draw blood.

“But maybe now, I want to feel your insides,” His steps crept closer, and instinctively you tried to create as much distance as possible by stepping back. It proved useless when your back hit the cold surface of the door, his face mere centimeters from yours.

Your breath hitched as you found comfort in the presence of the door, leaning against it as if it’d keep you from harm’s reach. You fidgeted, fumbling to grasp at the handle that’d grant you escape. The masked man took notice, hovering over your frame to keep you from trying anything.

“Please- -” Your plea fell in the form of a choked up whimper, just the sound he wanted to hear.

More uncomfortable ripping was sounded when his blade etched a perfect cut in your shorts, leaving your bare cunt out on display for his eyes to see. “Don’t be shy, pretty. I’m sure lots of guys have seen you like this. Am I right?”

Crudeness started to sink in as your face morphed into a contradictory pout. He took your expression for a no and chuckled genuinely, albeit louder than his previous tone. “No? Does this make me the first?” His eyes scanned your lower half once more, then flit back to meet your fear-blown orbs.

“I’d really love to be your first,”

Having grown confident enough to be sure that you wouldn’t try to break free, he dropped the knife to the side, metal clamorously clinking against hardwood flooring while he used his free hand to lift your right leg over the juncture of his elbow. He carefully slotted his middle and ring fingers into your hole, shallowly pumping. Your legs threatened to close with what you couldn’t make of embarrassment or denial.

Your mind felt cloudy once your body gave up its immobility and allowed pleasure to course through your veins, heat rushing to your core with every pump of his fingers. He took notice of the way your expression hastily contorted into one of pure pleasure, eyebrows knit together and your mouth slightly agape, eliciting quiet moans to tumble past.

It was a whorish sight, indeed. A circumstance you couldn’t control with your death at the forefront, yet it was terrifyingly easy to succumb to the euphoric sensation building up within you. The pad of his thumb found its way to your aching clit, and from just the light circling motions in tandem with his fingers, you felt yourself floating to the cusp of release.

“F-Fuck- -“ you rasped. Your hand reached out for his wrist to push him away but the attempt was futile and in turn, he sped up his ministrations.

“Didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth. You’re making me lose interest.” He coyly teased.

He was thankful you couldn’t see how flushed his face appeared under the mask. The sight of you spread open for him was too much to bear, he could cum in that moment without ever feeling your gummy walls wrapped around his painstakingly hard cock.

Just before you were about to hit your orgasm, he pulled his fingers away. An agitated groan rumbled from your throat, eyes finally opening to the sight of the man before you, removing his mask and unveiling his true identity.

Something within you didn’t want to admit what you had seen.

From the golden strands of hair that shimmered against the moonlight to his cyan-hued orbs tinted dark with madness. It was Armin, but it wasn’t Armin.

“M-Min.. You —“ The words failed to leave your mouth in a coherent string of sentences. It couldn’t have been your neighbor, not Armin. He was far too delicate, too feeble to carry out a task like this.

He kept unwavering eye contact with you, your pupils shaking from shock. “Hm? Couldn’t see a thing with this mask on,” His response was that of nonchalance, his hand coming to caress your tear-stained cheeks.

“You’re much prettier behind the mesh.”

He pulled down the zipper of his slacks along with the garment itself and his briefs, just enough so that his cock was freed. You didn’t want to look, but you did. You notice how bulbous the head was, glowing a bright pink while the rest of it was pretty girthy as well. It bobbed under its weight, the strings of precum leaking onto your inner thighs as he lined it up with your entrance.

“Why would y—“

Just before you could get the vocables out, he pushed his entire length inside of you, head tilted back and adam’s apple bouncing with each groan he let out. You felt as though you were being split open by how fat his cock was, how it glided effortlessly in and out of your heat.

His pace was tauntingly slow as if he’d shoot his load prematurely. Once he gradually thrusted more vigorously though, you found it hard to keep whimpers at bay. Each push in felt deeper than the last, the wind within your system struggling to keep you afloat. You reached for something to hold onto, scrambling for Armin’s shoulders in the end. Your nails dug deep at the lean muscles of his back, creating raw, catlike scratches on the flesh.

The pain was enough to make him smile. Or maybe it wasn’t the pain, but the sight of you so desperate for him — So desperate for your killer.

How pathetic.

He leaned himself upward to meet your gaze again, that of something from a horror movie, his gaze was darker than before, strung together by a serious expression. “Kiss me.”

You almost didn’t hear him as your impending orgasm was your only focus. When you took too long to respond, he glanced back at the knife settled just underneath his foot, in a manner to remind you of the real dangers he was capable of.

With the slightest inclination of hesitancy, your lips met his. Contrary to his actions, his kisses were soft, sloppy, and hungry, as if he were craving you. He hooked his arms beneath your knees to hoist you up and against him.

Deeper. You whimpered into his kisses wondering how his cock fucked into you deeper. He slammed your body down onto his length, using your body like it was a toy. You pulled away from the kiss, heaving for air as your head fell upon his shoulder. “Gonna cum, ‘m so close!” Your words slurred, and before you knew it, your essence came in waves, each aftershock more jolting than the last.

He continued pounding into you, shifting his position to hold you up against the wall. Your pleasure reverberated in the form of an inaudible cry while you allowed for the bullying of his cock in your cunt. It was evident to you that he was close from the way his features were etched in pure ecstasy.

Armin looked pretty like that — Wisps of tawny bangs messily splayed across his forehead from perspiration and a light tinge of scarlet dusted across his nose and cheeks, up to the tips of his ears. His soft, rosy lips were slickened with the mixture of your wet kiss and his.

“Oh, God-”

The guttural groan he let out had your walls clamping down taut around him. “Cum for me again—Shit! Say my name,”

The stamina he retained came as unexpected to you, your overstimulated heat trying to find pleasure in the way it’s being battered up. He spoke again, this time with a docile lilt in his tone.

“Tell me you’re mine, Y/N. I wanna be yours.”

You didn’t want to. You were beyond opposed to feeding into his hedonistic delusions, especially in the impuissant state that you were in. Yet, you couldn’t stop the affirmations from flowing once another orgasmic high coiled up in your core.

“Armin! ‘M yours! All yours,”

Just as soon as your words circulated through his mind, he felt his balls tighten, his thrusts faltering in potency as he reached closer to his high.

In his mind, it was profoundly amorous that you both had hit euphoria simultaneously, warm ropes of his sticky seed painting your walls while he shallowly jettisoned every last drop. Your womb was the goal, and he had scored.

He was tentative to pull out, wanting to relish in the warmth of your core for as long as he possibly could but he knew the idea wouldn’t be feasible. “You’re so good. I mean, you listen so well,”

He delicately placed you back on your feet, your body lax in his hold. “Thank you!” He beamed, tilting your head upwards to meet his gaze.

“Thank you for what?” You responded, your eyes searching for anything else to focus on as you gained enough strength to separate yourself from him, even if it was just a few inches.

“You helped me,”

You couldn’t make sense of the nonsense coming out of his mouth nor his need to be a hair's breadth away from you at all times.

“You helped me realize I never wanted to hurt you,” His hands found their place at your waist, softly running along the curve. “I just wanted to be inside you.”

“No, you wanted to kill me.” You spoke in a more conflicted tone, wondering if the gears in his head were turning at all. He chuckled, creating a few inches of distance between the two of you.

“I mean, I did at first. I was jealous, Y/N,” His voice sounded like that of a beg. “You have such a perfect life and I want it — I want to be in it.”

You couldn’t bear to listen to anymore of his twisted thoughts, feeling the heavy coat of uncomfortability weighing your shoulders down. “Armin, you’re crazy.”

“I love you, Y/N. Let me into your life, please?”

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his hands furthering south until they halted at the small of your back.

“I won’t hurt you,”

“I love you.”

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — @valentinevampyr @oneofthesevensins @iamtrashgod @iconicbabii @inusdoll @kloesklarity @bakuhoe-3 @antistellxr

[wellntruly]

If you read the novel Catch-22 (1961), about U.S. Army pilots & sundry stationed on a Greek island during World War II, you will encounter this off-hand description during the period where Yossarian is hiding in the field hospital:

At which you will either pause worryingly, or you’re normal.

I am not normal, because I have watched the television show M*A*S*H (1972-1983), about U.S. Army medical staff in a mobile surgical unit during the Korean War, and which features a character called Hawkeye Pierce, who frequently looks like this:

Now this bathrobe, iconic simply, appears red to the observer. However, deep into the run there is a line in which Hawkeye refers to it as "purple"—great consternation. But film cameras and light waves being what they are (capricious, devilish), it could very well be maroon in life. It could very well be maroon. It’s what I assumed after that comment. But what I'd never asked was, what is it made out of? Is that corduroy, could it be corduroy, could this be—

Oh noooooooo!

Why is Hawkeye the only one who is wearing the robe of patients from the last war, I ask you! Is it for the METAPHOR. To make me YELL. Did the costume department make it for him, or did they just already have one on hand in the WWII storage? Wait it wasn't real was it? Where is it, where is this robe!

Well babe, it’s in the Smithsonian:

A) of all, fucking fantastic, could not be a place I more want Alan Alda’s bathrobe as Hawkeye Pierce to be than the National Museum of American History. B) well well well well well, what do we have here:

[sic]

So looking THAT up brings you nothing that makes any sense, even trying to correct for spelling. But not to fear: historical re-enactors are here.

On the website of the “WW2 US Medical Research Centre,” an absolutely delightful combination of words and spelling brought to you by two European history buffs, and that’s Europeans who are obsessed with history, specifically American medical units in the 1940s, there’s a page for pajamas, and why look who’s here:

OH ho oh HO!

“Progressive Coat & Apron Mfg. Co.” is so similarly bizarre that I would be very willing to bet that something like idk, the imperfect process of digitizing thousands of records for a website catalog, could have absolutely resulted in “Agressive Coat and Manufacturing Company.” Which would mean yeah, yeah yeah: vintage World War II, slash Korea, just five years later. It was authentic, what they gave Alda to wear, along with his dog tags.

Just Hawkeye though still, which is what's odd.

BUT HANG ON.

Heeeeey now!

So I was recently reminded that in the pilot episode, but the pilot episode only, Wayne Rogers as Trapper John McIntyre also has the regulation corduroy MD/USA bathrobe! In fact, he actually has what would appear to become Hawkeye’s—observe the location of the embroidery. Pocket, like Hawkeye’s in every robe appearance after this first episode, the robe that ends up in the Smithsonian Museum. Whereas the one with the embroidery on the chest that's hanging above Hawkeye's cot here, a common variant that shows up when you’re searching around on military history websites, after this appearance I believe is seen just once more on a visiting colonel later in the first season, then quietly vanishes. Alda ends up in Trapper's, and stays in it for keeps, while Rogers gets, of all things, a cheery goldenrod terry number.

But like, why. Why just Hawkeye in the WWII surplus robe. Both Doyle and Watson have avenues here that I like to think about. For the Doylist side, I suspect it was a decision of like, this is simply too matchy. It’s 1972, our TV screens are small, we gotta take any chance we can get to distinguish these tall white men constantly wearing the same of two monochrome outfits.

In fact, I actually wonder if there was a world where Trapper might have stayed in the maroon and Hawkeye could have ended up in Henry’s robe.

The light blue & white striped bathrobe McLean Stevenson wore as Henry Blake was sold at auction in 2018, and the item description contains the curious detail of it having a handwritten tag inside reading “Hawkeye.” Well heeeyy again.

And here’s another curious detail:

There was a blue & white striped Army-issue robe as well

Now Henry’s is clearly NOT vintage WWII, lacking the pocket embroidery, being terry cloth, and also of course: pastel. But it’s INTERESTING, isn’t it? They had to have been GOING for that look, with that same unusual collar shape and that multi-stripe patterning.

(Also, for real 'what the hell even IS this color' fun, this militaria collectors purveyor has one of the maroon versions too, with photos you can page though and laugh as it flips between looking clearly purple and clearly red in every other photograph. Cameras!!!)

Anyway now we turn to the Watsonian explanation, which seems to run like this: the men at the 4077 were just casually passing their robes around to each other. It's about the intimacy in the face of war, etc. I can see bathrobes going missing when they bug out, getting stolen from the laundry by Klinger and scrapped for parts, being handed off to a poor cold Korean kid who needs it more, and then they need to get to the showers and one of them is like hey, just take mine, and then it’s his now. And eventually most of them end up in warmer-looking civilian robes than the Army holdovers that were being distributed early on, but Hawkeye, he just hung on to Trapper's.

And as a side effect, still looks like he's been injured in World War II.

[ask-whitepearl-and-steven]

Is shattering permanent in the comic (especially with the force fusions and cluster) or can it be fixed down the line like future did? Asking for your opinion on this too bc I found out about it in Future and it makes me feel weird (bc now it feels like any SU stuff and shattering has no consequence or tension, so haven’t been able to read or write stories). Maybe I’m seeing this wrong? Would love your thoughts

Hmm...

So to answer your first question: The comic for WDAU works on the same rules as canon does. I have no intention to over-write anything canon clearly stated to be true.

The ability to put back together shattered gems is definitely a part of that.

So yes, theoretically, even in WDAU, gems being shattered is not 'the end' because they can be eventually re-instated through the work of the diamonds, IF they someday decide to Change Their Minds like they did in the original series.

That being said...

I want to talk a little bit about something you said, because it tickles my brain in an interesting way:

"now it feels like any SU stuff and shattering has no consequence or tension"

And the best way to talk about stuff, I've found, is to ask questions about our underlying assumptions. So my questions for you (all) today are:

For us humans, death certainly IS a constant that remains ever-permanent, and thus it's easy to compare it to shattering and draw that parallel... but is that a fair comparison?

In fiction, death is often circumvented and there still remains reasonable tension in things like magic-heavy worlds, vampire novels, sci-fi where almost any sickness is eradicated, etc. Is this not quite similar to what shattering is for gems?

Is the perceived permanency of shattering the only reason it feels like a heavy consequence?

Are there OTHER consequences of being shattered that make it just as interesting, if not more than, to be explored as a plot device?

Must there be an ever-looming threat of something horrible and permanent happening to make a story good?

There isn't a right or wrong answer to these questions, necessarily. I'm not posing these in order to lead you to a singular, 'absolutely correct' conclusion or way of writing.

For some stories, death DOES need to be permanent in order not to make light of what the characters go through! In some forms of writing, there IS no other way around that consequence.

But I daresay SU is not one of those stories.

Let me put it this way - 100 years ago, medicine had only BEGUN to develop into the thing we know it as today. Sure, there were therapies and treatments for diseases, broken limbs, poisonings, etc. Some of them were quite good, even! But overall, the death tolls back then from basic illness were MUCH higher than they were today.

Pnumonia, Malaria, Syphillis, Smallpox, Bubonic Plague, AIDS.

These were things that people died from, with near CERTAINTY, for the LONGEST time. They were considered the road to a permanent black screen.

And today? Even though they are still, without proper intervention, JUST as deadly, we now have new tools and vaccines to combat them. Hell, if you get vaccinated fast enough you can get bit by a rabid dog and live to tell the tale, unscathed! Rabies used to be a one-stop-shop to the afterlife.

Despite this, we still view these diseases with appropriate fear. They are still dangerous - in the right conditions.

In the right conditions, the consequences for a LOT of things can be permanent. If permanency is what you're looking for.

So alright, the Diamonds can heal shattered gems now. Booooring. How easy it is to fix any shattered gem! What a simple solution to anything tragic.

But................... will they ALWAYS do so?

In fact...will the Diamonds ALWAYS be around?

Will the gems who got shattered always be picked up, piece by piece, and be brought back to them, perfectly preserved? Or will they lose pieces of themselves along the way - literally?

And what NEW consequences can we think of, when we stop thinking of the permanency of death, and start thinking of the Impermanence of those tools that keep us here longer and longer?

Just food for thought. 👀

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

You Call It Madness But I Call It Love

Chapter 20: You Were There

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV, Rosemary (OC) POV.

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter twenty of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 7.9K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this one 18+ just to be sure. Angst, Cursing, Fluff, References to Past Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Family Problems, Self-deprecating thoughts, Awkward Situations, Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, completely a little OOC. Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from the Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

*********************************************************

Reader POV

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? I’m not too heavy?” You ask cuddling into Ben.

He was leaning against the antique wooden headboard with you laying  against chest, his body curving around your back where the two of you were entwined together. Your knees were pulled up in front of you, with Ben’s legs stretched out long on either side of your hips while the photo album you brought was perched on your thighs. His arms were wrapped firmly around your waist, head looking over your shoulder where you rested back against his toned stomach and muscular chest. He was warm and perfect, the hardness of his muscles contrasting against the softness of your curves, causing you to relax deeper against him as you laid there together, and making you feel like you belonged there with him, like he was made just for you and you were made just for him. You couldn’t remember feeling this relaxed in a long time and couldn’t believe that you forgot how good it felt to be in his arms.

It was the first time that the two of you had tried anything like this, besides the morning you woke up with him after your birthday with your head on his chest, the morning when you told him you loved him and everything fell apart. But you weren't thinking about that right now, you weren't thinking about Countess, or the past, all you were thinking about was being  present in the moment with him. You thought that after everything that had happened in the past 24 hours you deserved that. You both deserved that.

The house was quiet, everyone had gone to bed except Rosie, who you knew was awake because you heard the gentle rustle of pages every few moments and you knew that she was reading one of those worn paper backs that she always carried around with her. Each weekend she would drag you and Lou to her favorite used bookstore, Inky's Inspirations, where she would browse through dusty shelves looking for treasures while Lou sat in the kids section flipping through the picture books giggling, and while you sipped an iced coffee and avoided the romance sections where there were countless Vought published Soldier Boy fictional romance novels. The ones that Stan Edgar and Legend thought would enhance Ben's image as America's Heartthrob and make him more “readily available” to the people of United States, and despite Ben’s initial protests,  you knew that Ben liked them because no matter the book, the descriptions of Ben’s naked body were gratuitous.

Honestly the descriptions were rarely exaggerations. You think to yourself feeling the way Ben’s muscular body curves around you leaving very little to the imagination.

Well. Not exactly little. Your cheeks heat with the thought, heartbeat spiking and hoping that he couldn’t hear it.

But you figured that Rosemary needed at least a few pages to escape tonight.

No, I’m not thinking about her or what she snarled at Ben and I’m determined to make him forget it too.

So now you were focused on Ben, how he was holding you close, molding his body around yours and making you feel safer than you ever had. And although the two of you had shared a bed almost every night since you were ten, when you would fall asleep and wake up in his arms the next morning, this felt new. New because every loving kiss he pressed to your shoulder made you feel light, new because each time Ben moved or flexed you couldn't help but feel your cheeks warm, and new because every few moments you remembered that Ben genuinely wanted to be there with you, that he loved you just as much as you loved him and had loved you all these years.

“Sweetheart you’re not too heavy. You’re perfect.”

“Not everyone has super strength-“ You bite the inside of your cheek, plucking your thumb against the front cover of the photo album in your lap.

Ben adjusts you in his arms to pull you further on top of him. “It’s not about having super strength honey. You’re perfect. Have been since we were kids and you’re just as beautiful now as you’ve always been.” Ben traces his lips down your throat, beard scratching against the sensitive skin. He had kept his promise about keeping it just for you and you were definitely reaping the benefits. He moves his mouth slowly back upwards so he can brush them against the curve of your ear breath hot against your skin. "And I love having you on top of me doll."

A shiver travels down your spine. “But-“

“No buts. Well unless we’re talking about yours, which is really-.”

“Ben!” Your face turns bright red.

“What? You’re sexy as hell.” Ben purrs tightening his grip on your body, nudging his nose into the shadow of your jaw, and you feel his smile against your skin.

It's not a word that you had heard anyone use to describe you often. The one time you’d heard it was when you’d told Ben that you’d never been with anyone before. You were beautiful, cute, but never sexy.

However the night you and Ben slept together for the first time you felt it, felt sexy the whole night you were with him, powerful because it was you making him fall apart, your name on his lips, you touching him while he looked at you like you were the only woman in the world.

"Sweetheart?" Ben raises his hand from your waist to your chin, turning your face so you're looking at him over your shoulder.

"Hmm?" You whisper lost in the memory of what it was like for him to make love to you.

Probably shouldn't be thinking about that while I'm laying on top of him.

"How many others have there been?" He almost murmurs it, eyes soft in the warm light from the lamp on the bedside table. It was the same question he asked you when you stood outside Rosemary's apartment building, the one that you avoided.

You don't answer immediately.

"Are you afraid to tell me?" Ben whispers with a frown, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone. "That you think I won't want you if you've been with someone else. That I won't love you anymore? That I'll leave you again?"

"Ben-" You breathe.

"I know that you're still trying to forgive me, and that's okay, but I don't want you to be afraid to talk to me or tell me things Sweetheart. I know you don't believe me, but I never want to leave you again. I want to be here with you." His gaze is earnest.  "And I know you keep saying how much it'll hurt you if I leave again, but I swear that if you left it would destroy me."

"Ben-" Tears burn in your eyes with his confession, seeing how he was opening up to you, willing to push past what he'd been conditioned to believe from his father about sharing his feelings, to assure you further how much you meant to him.

His hand drags through your hair gently brushing it back from your face. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You reach back over your shoulder, turning your face into his, noses nudging together as you kiss him.

“No.” He shakes his head softly. “I really love you.”

You snort, smiling into his mouth, your hand curling in his hair. “How is that different?”

“When I came back you said that I didn’t know what love was, but I do. Love is you. You make me so happy. I don’t remember being happy ever except when I’m around you. I’ve never loved anyone but you y/n. And I’m never going to love anyone else like I love you.”

“Ben-“ Tears crest and fall down your cheeks, but Ben brushes them away with his thumb.

“I would do anything for you without question. Nothing you ask me is too much. You mean everything to me. I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it. I spent forty years without you and I don’t want to spend any amount of time away from you. I’m so sorry.”

“Ben we’ve already discussed your apology. You don’t have to apologize anymore.”

“I just still think I have to. I have to fix this.”

“You have.” You smile at him.

“Yeah?” He looks deeply into your eyes. Ben's arm tightens on your waist pulling you further back into his chest. “So you’re happy?”

The question makes you hesitate.

Am I happy?

You think about the past 24 hours, when Ben made you feel more loved than you’d ever had, when he acted like you were everything he ever wanted, when he made you finally believe that this wasn’t one sided, and when he reminded you of the boy you fell in love all those years ago. When even he was wearing his Soldier Boy suit, he was still looking at you to same way, speaking softly to you, and acting differently than he had. He was trying his hardest to make it up to you and you couldn't describe how wonderful it made you feel.

But then your thoughts shift to Rosemary and Homelander.

Truthfully you’d be happier if Rosemary liked Ben or at least could have a conversation with him without ripping his head off and you’d be happier if you weren’t hiding from Vought and Homelander at Legend’s but-

You focus again on the warmth swirling in the pit of your stomach as Ben holds you close to him, the buzz of love and care that comes with every breath and each kiss. And you answer honestly.

“I would be happier if all this shit with Homelander was over, but I am. Very happy.” You squeeze his arm where it lays over your waist with a soft smile.

“Good. That’s all I want for you. That's all I've ever wanted for you." The look in Ben's eyes breaks you, transports you back to the moment he asked you to come with him all those years ago. When he was the only one who understood that you weren’t happy that the future you had with Howard wasn’t the one you wanted.

"It's all I've ever wanted for you too Ben. You deserve that. You deserve more than you think you do and I want to give it to you."

“You have."

The kiss that follows consumes you, makes you burn, destroys you, and then remakes you. You cannot remember a single moment of your life that has felt this way. He is everything you want and something you thought you'd never have, but yet here he is holding you, proclaiming that he loves you, refusing to go, and you never want him to.

"There hasn't been anyone else." You whisper against his lips.

Ben's body freezes when you say that. "What?" Shock dances in his eyes.

"There hasn't been anyone else. Only you." You smile stroking your hands through his hair. "At first I was busy with Rosemary taking care of her and then by the time I started thinking about it again, it never felt right." You bite your lip, cheeks blushing with your confession. "There was an almost once, someone I knew from the gallery, another artist, but it didn't feel right to use him like that when I didn't feel anything for him. I've never felt this way about anyone else. And even with everything that happened, I still felt like a piece belonged with you.  Maybe I should be embarrassed that I haven't since-"

Ben's mouth closes over yours so fast you don't have time to take another breath, one of his hands holding your face to his while the other wraps around your waist, hand splayed on your hip over your t-shirt your own hand covering his.

"All of you belongs with me." Ben moves his hands possessively over the curves of your hips. "Don't be embarrassed about that Sweetheart." He nips your bottom lip fusing his lips against your all over again, before raising his darkened eyes to lock with yours so intensely that it makes you forget how to breathe. "Because it means that I am your first and your only. That no man has ever touched you, ever made love to you, and that you are completely and utterly mine. As it should be." Ben's gaze meets yours and your cheeks flush as a shiver travels down your spine that he doesn't miss. "Just as all of me belongs to you."

He doesn't stutter, he doesn't look ashamed. He says it so simply, so irrevocably honest that it makes your chest tighten.

The weight of his words settle in the pit of your stomach. It was almost the same thing he had said to you the first time you slept together, and it was true, you were his, didn't want to be anyone else's. And for the first time you actually believed that he was yours and that was enough, he was always enough for you.

“Always.” You whisper back, searching his gaze again. And as soon as you say it you’re scared. A piece of you still waits for Ben to pull away from you, for him to suddenly go cold like he did the day that you told him the three little words that meant the world to you.

Why did I say that? It’s too soon. I should have waited. It’s-

And then Ben is kissing you again like he never wants to stop, breathing you in like a man gasping for air, holding you so tight against his chest that he thinks you’ll fade away to nothing in his arms, and smiling into your mouth as if kissing you is the most wonderful thing he can be doing.

Ben clears his throat lips brushing against yours again. "Sweetheart if you keep saying things like that, I don't think I'm gonna be able to stop. And I know that you want to wait."

Did I? Oh right I did. I did want that. Fuck.

"Yes." You murmur. "I do."

"Didn't sound too convincing there doll." Ben's smirk shifts into a smile, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he kisses you one last time. The heat of his skin was hypnotic, everywhere you were pressed against him felt like it would spontaneously combust. "But I don't want to make love to you if you don’t want me to-"

He stumbles slightly on the words ‘make love’ as if it’s difficult for him, grimacing slightly. But it made you smile. The fact that he was trying not to say 'fuck' meant the world to you. Because it meant that Ben really was trying to make up for the past, really trying to show you how much you meant to him.

"I want you to." You search his eyes, watching them darken with your words, causing goosebumps to erupt over your skin.

You really did. Apart of you again was afraid that it was too soon, that you shouldn’t forgive him this easily for what happened, but deep down you knew that you had. You knew he had changed. You knew that what was happening between the two of you was different this time, that you were different and that he was different.

"I want you to make love to me. I want you to show me how much you love me and how sorry you are." You say, repeating what he said to you the night he came back into your life, continuing to stroke your fingers through the dark hair at the back of his head the way you know he likes earning a soft groan that rumbles up through his chest. "I want you to make me forget that night and forget the past forty years." You kiss him again, pulling back to look him in the eye again. "But I want you to make love to me in our home, in our bed. Not here in Legend's house where God knows what has occurred over the years. Not when we're on the run from Homelander. Not when we have to worry about everyone else hearing us.” Your cheeks flush at the prospect of Butcher or Rosemary hearing you and Ben, both of which had supe hearing.

Because that's exactly what she wants to hear right now.

“I want it to happen when things have calmed down a bit. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is.” Ben cups your cheek with a gentleness you never knew he possessed. “You said our.” He breathes with a soft smile, causing your own to mirror it.

“I did. Because it is. It’s our home.”

“Does that mean I get to use the hot water?” Ben smirks.

“If you pay the rent I’ll let you do whatever you want.” You snort, but then suddenly realize the weight of what you’d said.

Ben’s eyes glint with his mischievous smirk. “I like the sound of that doll.” But leans his forehead against yours. “As much as I want Butcher to hear you scream my name," He breathes against you lips. “I’m happy to wait for you. Because I don’t want to rush this, don’t want to rush our time together at least not the first time after all these years. I want to take my time with you.” Ben brushes his lips against yours, thumb rubbing over your jaw to hold your face steady. “I want to savor you.”

Ben smirks wider feeling the shiver that travels down your spine. “Sounds like you’d like that doll.”

“Ben-“

“If I didn’t know any better  I’d say you’re excited.” He kisses you again, beard scratching against your cheeks before working his way across your jaw. “That I excite you.” Ben raises his glittering green eyes to yours once more. “You excite me too.”

One of these days he’s going to kill me.

You sit there together for another few minutes, his hand cupping your cheek, forehead pressed against yours, lips occasionally finding one another, as your heart thuds madly in your chest and you find yourself unable to stop the happiness and warmth that circulates through your body. It felt dangerously similar to how you felt the morning you woke up next to him in bed the morning after your birthday when you couldn't stop yourself from saying that you loved him, but now you welcomed the feeling.

"Can I show you the pictures now?" You breathe.

"Yeah." Ben smiles against your mouth as he kisses you one final time, before leaning back against the headboard and releasing his hold on your face so you can cuddle into him with the photo album perched on your lap once more.

Truthfully your collection of photos had grown exponentially from the small box beneath your bed to a collection of photo albums that lined the bookshelves in your living room at home. This one you had grabbed on the way out of your apartment, shoving it into your suitcase as you went. It held a good amount of pictures from when Rosemary was born to when she got married, and you knew it would be a perfect record of the life Ben had missed when he was in Russia.

"Before I open this," You say quietly, leaning back into him. "I want you to know that I'm only showing this to you because I want you to experience what it was like the past forty years. It is not to make you feel bad for not being there. I want to share this with you, but if you're going to get upset, then I don't want to-"

"Please show me." Ben tightens his arms around your waist again, sitting his chin on your right shoulder so he can see the book perched on your knees.

The picture on the first page is you standing in front of a two story house built out of grayed boards with a collection of white painted wooden steps leading up to a beautiful porch where two wicker chairs sit. A large garden dominates the lawn on either side if the cobblestone path that you stand on which leads to the house behind you. Wildflowers, roses, sunflowers, lavender, daisies, and herbs explode all over the front lawn, curling onto the cobblestone path. You're smiling in the photo, hair loose and pushed back by a wind that Ben can't see, wearing a loose pair of jeans and a large t-shirt, that does little to hide your swelling belly. Standing next to you is an elderly woman, with gray hair pulled back in a bun under a large gardening hat, wearing a faded green dress, but smiling just as widely as you with her arm over your shoulders.

"When I left New York, I went North and ended up in Maine. It seemed like a good place to disappear.  I had never been before and I found a woman, Melanie, who was renting out a room in her home. Her husband had died years ago, she never had any kids, and really no ties to the supe world.” You smile at the memory of the woman in the picture. Melanie had been more of a mother to you than yours ever had been, gently spoke to you, helped you through a dark part of your life when you found little to be happy about while pregnant with Rosemary. "It took her about ten seconds to realize that I was pregnant, but she never pried about my life or why I was there, what I was trying to run from. She was so different than the people we had been around all those years. She was kind, honest, and warm. She taught me how to bake, garden, and cook. She took care of me when I was struggling to find a reason to keep going. I owe so much to her. She was practically a grandmother to Rosie. Rosie loved her so much.”

"Is she-" Ben breathes softly.

"She died right before Rosie went to college and she left me the house."

"That one?"

"Mhmm. It's a bit different now, but mostly the way she left it. I had to remodel it a bit, it’s honestly almost as old as us.” You snort. “But we usually go for a few months every summer. It's about ten acres on the edge of a forest, with this beautiful forest path that leads out to a private beach. There’s no one for miles. The closest town is at least forty minutes away.”

"I want to see it some day."

"We'll go when all this calms down." You promise as you turn the page.

The next picture is of you standing on a chair holding a paintbrush, eyes focused on the wall in front of you. Your hair is pulled back in a red bandana, and you’re wearing a pair of paint splattered overalls, but you're definitely more pregnant in this picture. And you can't help but smile at the memory this picture brings. "I got this crazy idea to paint a mural on the nursery wall. Had to practically fight off Melanie so she'd let me stand on the chair."

"You shouldn't have been if you were that pregnant-" Ben frowns at you and you smile to yourself at his obvious urge to protect you even if he wasn’t there.

"Well how was I supposed to reach the top of the wall Ben? Not everyone is as tall as you.” You laugh. "It really was a nice mural of the forest outside. Melanie convinced me to do a smaller version on a canvas and have it displayed at the local art gallery. It was the first painting I ever sold. The first check I got that I actually felt like I earned."

You point at the picture next to it of you holding up a slip of paper and smiling wide at the camera. You had been so excited about it that you framed it, refused to cash it. It was still hanging on the wall at the house.

"But you earned money from Vought?" You could hear the confusion in his voice.

"It never felt like my money though. All I did was show up for pictures or appearances in malls or commercials and it never really felt real for me. But getting that check was really special, putting my name on something was real."

Ben presses a kiss to your shoulder. "I'm sorry you were so unhappy being a hero."

"I wasn't unhappy. I was just ready for something new. And I found it in Maine. But if this is making you sad I don't want to show you any more-"

Ben catches your wrist as you try to close the album. "I want to see."

The next picture is of you sitting out on the beach. You were wearing a one-piece red bathing suit, head tilted back in the sunlight, eyes closed drinking in the day. You were probably about seven months along and although you didn't like having too many pictures of you taken when you were pregnant, Melanie had insisted on this one and you liked it. Ben's body stiffens beneath you when he sees the picture, his hand moving from your waist to touch the page softly.

"You like that one?" You whisper.

"Yeah." He murmurs back eyes locked on the photo.

"Why? Because I'm practically naked?" You joke nudging your elbow back into his ribs.

"No. Well maybe a little." Ben's chuckle rumbles up through his chest against your back. "You look different. You're glowing."

"Shut up. Why is that a thing that men say to pregnant women? There is no glow. It's nine months of being so bloated and swollen you feel like a flotation device. Nine months of being so hormonal that you're not sure whether or not you want to laugh, cry, or just stay in bed for days. Nine months of wanting to puke your guts out. And don't get me started on the cravings, I'm pretty sure I would have eaten chocolate covered spiders one day if a traveling salesman showed up on the front porch toting a box!"

Okay. Maybe I'm ranting a little bit.

"It's true sweetheart. And I like the picture, because you look happy." His breath is warm against your ear.

"I was. Everything about being there felt right. I was always relaxed, I felt like I could breathe again, and I found myself there. I really needed that after everything." You lay your hand down where Ben's arm's rests on your waist. "Whenever I go back I always feel that way. I always paint better and feel more creative, just something about that house is almost magical." Your cheeks flush. "I know that sounds stupid."

"No." Ben breathes. "It's not. Why do you live in the city if you like it so much there?"

"Because Rosie lives in the city. Her job is there and they're the only family I have left. I don't want Lou to grow up without having me in her life. And I like being in the city. I like my studio, but sometimes it's nice to go to the house in Maine and forget for a little bit."

The picture on the next page is of you sitting in your  bed at the house, holding a baby wrapped in a knitted pink blanket in your arms, smiling down at Rosemary like she's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. And she was. Melanie had delivered her, you were afraid to go to a hospital because you didn’t want the possibility of someone recognizing you and having an announcement in newspapers. Holding Rosie for the first time was bittersweet, because you were so happy and yet there was a sadness that settled over you. At first you couldn't place it, but now sitting here with Ben you understood what it was. You were sad that he wasn't there to hold her too, sad that he was missing this. Of course back then you thought that he was dead and that the only piece of him that you had left was in your arms.

"I like that one too." Ben mutters leaning further over your shoulder to get a better look.

"The first time I held her. She was so little and I was always afraid that I was going to hold her too tightly and hurt her." You smile. "Melanie delivered her. I didn’t want to go to a hospital and risk someone recognizing me. Honestly she was such a big help after, let me have a few moments of rest whenever everything got to be too much. And I was so tired for so long-"

"I'm sorry."

"Ben what did I say about you apologizing for things out of your control?" You press a kiss to his cheek where he is leaning over your shoulder, his beard tickling against your lips.

"I know. I just, I still wish that I could have been there."

“Honestly, you kind of were.”

Ben looks confused. “What?”

“Rosemary’s just like you Ben. When she was younger, she’d get this mischievous look in her eye and I knew that trouble was coming. It was the same one you always had right before you got us in trouble back in Philadelphia. I don’t even want to think about the teen years. And the college ones, forget it.” You groan. “Lou gets the same glint in her eye sometimes. I’m sure you’ll see it.”

“I think she’s like you.”

“What?” You turn to look at him.

“I mean sure she’s got my hair and my eyes, but she’s strong. She doesn’t bend easy. Stubborn-“ Ben smiles.

“You’re stubborn-“

“Not like you.”

“Oh please.” You roll your eyes at him.

“She’s got your smile.” Ben traces his thumb over your lips, cupping your chin gently. “And she’s just as beautiful as you.”

You flush with the compliment. “She's got your protective instincts. She doesn’t let anything slide.”

“I’ve noticed.”  He frowns and it makes your heart break for him.

“I promise one day she’ll warm up to you.”

“I know. I just wish it was today.” Ben sighs, brushing your hair back from your face. “Was it hard to raise her alone?”

“Sometimes.” You answer honestly. “But Melanie helped a lot.”

“I’m so-.” Ben begins.

“If you say I’m sorry one more time I swear I’m going to  kick you out of this bed!” You joke, but you both know the threat holds no power. Not when it feels this good to be in his arms.

 “You're here now." You whisper, softly running your hand over where his arms hold you tight against him. "And that's all that matters to me."

He turns his face to look at you, chin still on your shoulder, green eyes so soft they remind you of grass on a warm summer day. "I don't want to be anywhere else Sweetheart."

"Good." Your heart flutters in your chest, and Ben smiles when he hears it, his own thudding in his chest against his rib cage so hard you can feel it where it's pressed against your back.

And this time as you begin to fall, you know that he's going to catch you.

*************************************************

Rosemary POV

Rosemary tried to read through her book, tried to drown out the sound of her mother and her supposed father in the lower parts of the house with the smooth flow of words on the written page in front of her, but she couldn't. She found herself reading the same sentence over and over again while Lou slept in the bed beside her, her small body curled into a ball wearing her favorite pink polka dot pajamas beneath the gaudy bright red and gold comforter that only a man would choose for a bedroom.

Legend was exactly as she remembered him, eccentric like an old rich uncle that you'd never met but somehow remembers to send you a check each year for your birthday. But she could see how much Legend cared about you and that made him family, distant family, but still family. She knew what Legend had done for you after Ben left, how Legend had helped you through the weeks that followed Ben's death, helped you close all your bank accounts, and help you vanish without a trace. He kept your secrets from Vought and didn't question when you had showed up again toting someone you said was your cousin, but looked like Ben.

Rosemary sighs, hands tightening on her book as she listens to Ben and you talk quietly in the basement. She heard every word that Ben said to you, every promise that he made, every kiss that he laid on your lips.

The truth was, Rosemary didn't want to hate him and maybe she really didn’t, but she was still angry.

When she was a child her imaginary friend was Ben, or rather the version of Ben that you told her about, the one that was always there for you as a child, who climbed in your bedroom window, and the boy who was your best friend. Although she had you, Rosemary was lonely, not allowed to go to school with other children because of her abilities, not allowed to make friends until she was older, and not allowed to go into town. She didn't resent you for that, she understood that you did those things to protect her, just as she did those things to protect Lou, but to get through those lonely days she spoke to Ben or rather the version of him that lived in her head.

The one that was kind, who laughed at her jokes, sang with her to bad karaoke songs, who danced with her in her room to songs that you yourself called "noise" and looked at every one of the ridiculously bad paintings that she created and lied, telling her that they were masterpieces.

But that version didn't exist. And the real version she met a few hours ago was not what she expected. He looked, normal, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with his dark hair falling forward into his eyes. Soldier Boy looked just like anyone else you'd see on the street, handsome yes. Anyone could see that.

Whenever you would leave the house to go to the grocery store and Melanie was asleep, Rosemary would sneak into your bedroom, lounge on your bed and look through your box of photos. Seeing the ones of you as a child with your own mother, seeing the ones of her grandparents together, the photos of Ben and you together as heroes, and finally the yellowed collection of photos from a photobooth of Ben and you as teenagers smiling and laughing. She loved that collection of photos, loved how happy you looked with Ben, and loved how happy he seemed to be. It was one of the only pictures you had of the two of you as children that Rosemary could find, but that made it all the more special to her.

She wanted you to be happy. And before you had told her the story of what happened between you and Ben, Rosemary, as a child, had imagined Ben showing up after all those years, walking up the worn front steps of the house that always creaked, through the front screen door that always slammed no matter how softly you shut it, and into the house so the three of you could be a family.

All children want that. Want a family that feels whole.

And although Rosemary never met Ben before she had the oddest feeling as a child that there was something missing. She hoped that Lou didn’t feel that way about her family.

Rosemary sighs and allows her book to fall down on her chest, trying not to think about the photos or Ben or her mother. She knew she wasn't going to get any sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes all she saw was you standing in the hallway outside her apartment holding the hand of the man who ruined your life, who abandoned you and broke your heart.

How can she just forgive him like that? How can she just pretend that nothing happened? That he didn't break her? That he didn't say any of those things?

Rosemary couldn't understand and deep down underneath it all, she was afraid. Not of Ben, she didn't believe that he would physically hurt you, if he did or tried to she would rip him in half, but of what he could do to you.

She could see how different you were and he'd only been back in your life for a day. She saw how you looked at him, how you seemed to smile more, how you seemed to almost shine when he looked at you. She'd never seen you look so utterly and completely happy before. Sure you'd been happy, but it didn't mean that Rosemary didn't worry about you, because she did. She worried that you were lonely, that you weren't allowing anyone into your life because you were still broken, and she could see the cracks that you tried to hide from everyone else, the cracks that had been there as long as she'd known you, the same ones that Ben left behind when he threw you away like you meant nothing to him.

The problem Rosemary saw when she looked at you now, is that she could see those cracks slowly fading, and she was worried what would happen if Ben abandoned you again.

Maybe that's why she couldn't forgive him, because of how easy it was for him to treat you that way.

Rosemary stops to listen to you talk softly to him about the life you and Rosemary had and could hear the telltale flip of the pages of the photo album.

Even though she was angry with Ben, she couldn't believe how patient he was being with you. How softly he looked at you, how he never took his eyes off of you, not in a possessive way, but in a protective way, like he was willing to throw himself in between you and whatever or whoever tried to hurt you.

She also wasn't expecting to look so much like him. Sure Rosemary had seen pictures, watched every single one of Soldier Boy's films, music videos, and commercials to learn more about him. But in person was different.

Rosemary sighs, drumming her fingers against the cover of the book on her chest.

She just didn't want you to get hurt again, didn't want him to hurt you, didn't want to let Ben into her life either if he was just going to vanish all over again.

Rosemary's eyes drift to where Lou sleeps silently. She wasn't happy with how comfortable Lou was getting around Ben, because again, if Lou started to rely on him too and Ben just left it would break Lou.

She huffs out a breath, settling down into the unfamiliar bed. Her thoughts drift to Homelander. Rosemary wasn't afraid of him, one touch would make her just as unstoppable as him, but she was worried about you.

She was always worried about you. When you told her that you were going to Russia to get Ben, Rosemary felt her heart stop. She didn't want you to go alone, and she certainly didn't want you to expose yourself to the world, not after everything she had done to keep you hidden.

Rosemary's jaw tightens. There were things she hadn't told you, things that she did to protect you just as you had protected her and Lou, things that if you ever found out wouldn't understand. Sacrifices were necessary and a deal had to be made to ensure that you were safe.

And now that Ben was back and Homelander knew about you, Rosemary wasn't sure how long those secrets could stay hidden.

*********************************************

Soldier Boy POV

Ben trailed his hand softly up and down your back holding you closer to him where you were laying on his chest. Your head was directly over his heart, hair fanning out behind you, breathing evenly while you slept.

Ben smiled to himself. It was better than he remembered. Ben could feel any anger he still had about the past fading with each breath you took. While your soft sighs and the gentle beat of your heart lulled him into a calm that he hadn't felt in forty years. 

He couldn’t remember a time where he felt so happy, but he knew that it was probably the last time he held you like this. The morning that you told him you loved him and all he wanted was to say it back to you.

Ben tenses for a moment as the shame comes back over him in a never ending wave as he thinks about what he did to you, but now it’s lessened. You said that you’d forgiven him, and Ben believed you, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to do everything he could to make you happy everyday the rest of your life.

The sunlight was peaking through the floor length curtains on the edges of the room, sending a gentle light over the bed.

But he didn't want to wake you up, not yet, not when you were holding on to him like you thought he would vanish, not when you looked years younger in the sweet relief of sleep, and not when Ben wanted to stay in bed just a little longer.

This was exactly what he wanted every day for the rest of his life, to exist here with you, feeling your soft curves against his broad chest, hearing your heart beat steadily in your chest, and feeling your hair tickle just under his chin. It was what he dreamed about when he was in the lab, getting back to you, being with you again, and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers ever again.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head before he can stop himself continuing to rub your back just as gently as he had before.

You sigh softly, mouth twitching into a smile as you cuddle further into him, the arm you have thrown over his chest tightening just for a moment.

Someone knocks at your door and before Ben can do anything, Rosemary walks in.

“Mom I need to talk to you about-“ She stops, eyes focusing on Ben and your intimate position.

Could be worse. We could be naked.

Ben’s not sure what to do. He hadn’t expected her to hate him so much, hadn’t expected her to have the reaction she did as soon as she laid eyes on him for the first time.

At first he had been frustrated with himself for not being there angry because he had been away from you when you needed him the most. And when he realized how much Rosemary hated him, he’d turned that frustration on you. Yelled at you because you’d told Rosemary what had happened between the two of you.

He hadn’t meant to do that again, to lose his temper like that. Not to mention he figured that Rosemary could hear everything that he’d shouted at you.

He understood that he needed to calm down and give her time, but he wanted her to like him and he knew that he wasn’t the most patient person. He was trying to be better for you.

He’d never liked his old man and look how he’d ended up? He didn’t want to have that kind of relationship with his kid, and especially didn't want to have that kind of relationship with Rosemary because he saw how close you were with her. And he worried that if he couldn't get Rosemary to like him that you'd pull away from him, push him out of your family and then he'd be alone all over again.

She said that it was your family too.

Ben thought to himself remembering last night, when you showed him what the past forty years had been like while curled up against him. He remembered every photo, every story you told him, while you smiled, kissed him and made him feel like he was there with you all those years. He wished he was, but it was the next best thing, because you weren't looking at him like you were afraid he was going to leave, you were looking at him the same way he remembered the morning after you made love and it made him feel hopeful.

But right now watching Rosemary frown at him and you, that hope was sizzling up like an egg on a hot day.

"Um. Good morning." Ben half-smiles, but Rosemary doesn't return it.

You begin to stir on his chest, squeezing him just a little harder as you do as if to reassure yourself that he's there, before you blink open your eyes to stare at him.

Ben's gaze flicks down to yours.

"Morning." You sigh happily, pressing a kiss to his chest right over his heart and nuzzling your face into his soft t-shirt. For a moment Ben forgets that Rosemary is standing there and can't help but smile back at you.

"Morning Sweetheart." He whispers, brushing back some of your hair from your face.

Rosemary clears her throat loudly, before crossing her arms over her chest.

Ben watches you realize that she's there. You sit up and turn towards the doorway that leads into the basement bedroom.

"Rosie hi." Ben can hear the anxiety in your voice and he hates it. He wanted to let you asleep just a little longer so you didn't have to deal with this so soon.

"I have to talk to you."

"Oh okay." You sit up and adjust so that you're sitting beside Ben rather than on top of him. "What is it?"

Rosemary's eyes flick to where Ben is sitting next to you. "Alone."

Ben feels his chest tighten when she says that and tries to fight the sigh that builds behind it.

Can't she see that I'm trying to make up for everything? That I am trying to be better than I was?

He can feel the anger and frustration coming back, washing away the calm he felt when he woke up with you on his chest, causing his feelings of happiness to evaporate once more.

You glance over at Ben for a second, with an apology in your gaze, before you look back at Rosemary. "Okay. Give me a minute. I'll meet you on the porch."

"Sure." Rosemary waits a second as if there's something else she wants to say, but she thinks better of it and leaves, her footsteps soft against the stairs.

"Ben I'm sorry-" You begin to say, but he sighs.

"It's alright Sweetheart."

But deep down it doesn't feel alright, and Ben can't help but feel a little disappointed by all of this.

"Baby." You whisper, touching his cheek softly to turn his face to yours.

He's never prepared for the way it feels when you touch him, even just the slightest brush of your fingers against his skin sends him into overdrive. It's never been this way with anyone, just you, and he never wants to get used to the way your touch makes him burn.

"I know when you're lying." You press your forehead against his, and Ben can't help but wrap an arm around your waist to pull you closer against him.

"I know."

"I promise that this is going to get better. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll see you in a little bit?" You nudge your nose against his, smiling against his mouth.

"Yeah. I think I'll take a shower."

"Good, because you're still smell like drywall and smoke."

"Shut up." Ben rolls his eyes at you, but he can't help but smile.

"But-" You press your lips against his, making his entire body feel like it's on fire, your lips soft and supple against his, making a pleasant buzz vibrate in his chest. "You also smell a little bit like me."

"You like that doll?" He murmurs.

"I fucking love it." You kiss him one more time, tangling your hands in his hair, fingers brushing against his hair just like you know he likes and he can't help but groan softly.

Sometimes he didn't believe that you were real, that you cared enough to pay attention to what he liked, that you remembered everything about him, and that you saw all the pieces of him that he tried to hide beneath the bravado he forced himself to adopt long ago so that he was the version of the man his father wanted him to be. But now he wanted to be the man that you wanted him to be and he would be.

And somewhere deep down he knew, that you just wanted him to be him, and that would be enough.

****************************************************

A/N: It's a whole lot of fluff until the ending and I'm so sorry for how sad it got. But hopefully in the coming chapters Rosemary really will try to get to know him and will try to forgive Ben.

As always thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist please let me know :)

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[vanishedinvain]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒'𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐄

—𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader (but she doesn't show up yet, sorry lol)

summary: benedict's last moment of contentment before the storm that marooned his dreams.

warnings: very very brief mention of a gun, baby's first fic (it's me, i'm baby)

wc: 1.6k

next chapter // series masterlist

The Wiminet Art House sits just outside the limits of Mayfair, owned by the Dowager Baroness Lyra Wiminet. It is only half the size of a wing at Somerset House, and most of the artists are either anonymous or so unknown, they are as good as anonymous. It crams in an overwhelming number of pieces, barely a centimeter between each frame. It features a myriad of styles: soft landscapes, portraits, absurd finger-paintings, violent war scenes. 

When it first opened, every London newspaper dismissed it as the eccentricity of a widow, mad without a man to guide her. There was no cohesion, they said. Downright tasteless. Where was the class? The refinement? It was a laughingstock for all of two days before the ton moved on as they always did.

It was also Benedict Bridgerton’s most frequented gallery. And Eloise had no idea why.

“You have been here at least twenty times in the past year, and they have only changed a single painting,” Eloise pointed out on one of these trips. Though she did not prefer to visit the same blasted gallery with the same blasted paintings, it was more merciful than watching Daphne and their mother flit about the house searching for the perfect dress to secure a proposal from the Prussian prince.

Plus her brother promised to buy her an apricot ice afterwards.

“What could possibly be left to see?” she asked.

They were standing in front of a rather large seascape, one that spanned a quarter of the wall. Benedict turned away to look at Eloise, a grimace upon her face as she tried to see what her brother saw. It was a quality Benedict most appreciated in her; she was stubborn and quick to snark, but she never wrote off his interests as frivolous. She was attempting to understand, even if she was staring at the painting like it personally offended her.  

“Do you remember when you were eleven and Colin brought home that mystery novel for all of us? The one where an opera singer was killed in the middle of a show.”

“An Aria Most Deadly,” she recalled, smiling, “I couldn’t put it down. Col was scolded for bringing home such a—how did Mama word it?—terribly gruesome and improper book.”

He chuckled, remembering their mother’s scandalized face. As Colin was being scolded, she had set the book down on the settee. Eloise, ever nimble, snatched it and ran up to her room with nary a scuff across the floor.

“You re-read it over and over, looking for the clues, even after you’d finished it days prior. A snide comment from the stagehand that was once humorous turned dark. The author’s insistence on describing the location of the candelabra suddenly became obvious.”

“The details were so much clearer in hindsight,” she remarked.

“That is usually the privilege of hindsight.” He gestured back to the painting in front of them. “What do you see?”

She stared for a moment, tilting her head to one side to see if a change in angle would help. It was a turbulent scene, violent even, with outbursts of red and orange screaming amongst the cerulean and imposing slate clouds as the ship went down.

“A shipwreck?” Eloise answered with a shrug. “An unfortunately timed storm?”

Benedict stepped back, and grabbed Eloise by the shoulders, shifting her to the right so that she could stand in his place. “Do you see that spot of red on the ship?”

She squinted slightly. “Clearly, a fire broke out on the ship. Likely from the gunpowder catching on the wood. I mean, it says it in the title, Ship on Fire in Water,” she said, reading off the plaque underneath.

“But look closer at this spot of red at the front of the ship. Or that one by the captain’s quarters. Compare it to how the artist paints the flames,” Benedict insisted, gesturing to each area of interest. “He or she blends out the flames with orange and a bit of yellow usually. But these particular spots aren’t. They’re blended with brown. Maybe even a bit of black. That’s not fire, is it?”

Her eyebrows raised as the realization dawned on her. “It’s blood! Someone was killed. The captain, maybe?” She turned back to look at him in unbridled excitement at the newly-uncovered narrative.

Benedict smiled widely, crinkles forming around his eyes, watching his little sister finally get it, get him. “Possibly.”

“What do you think was the motive? Was it a mutiny?”

He shrugged. “That I am unsure of, dear sister. Every time I come back, I see something new. So, perhaps we need to look at it longer. Or make our rounds and come back with fresh eyes.”

Eloise had bounded off before he even finished.

They spent another two hours in the gallery, making little comments on each one, attempting to decipher a story from it. They even requested a step-ladder for the ones that had been skied because Benedict, having met Lady Wiminet, knew that there was no rhyme or reason as to the placement of each painting.

There was a most brilliant park scene about half a meter down from the ceiling. The artist did not draw a realistic, soft sunset, but a heightened one with punchy plums and a bright tangerine shade to blend. It was a bold choice that Benedict would’ve never thought of. The scene itself was of a promenade, much to Eloise’s displeasure, but she found amusement in mapping out the interpersonal relationships of the swans in the lake.

They made their way back to the bloodied, fiery ship shipwreck, standing in amicable silence before Eloise spoke.

“I understand it now. Why you've been here twenty times. Why you sketch until your fingers shake at dinner, but then use your drawings as fire kindle at night. You’re chasing greatness.”

“I want to get one of mine on these walls one day, El,” he said quietly, as if they weren’t the only people in the room. It was the first time he had admitted that ambition out loud.

“You will,” she replied, equally quiet back.

He sighed in relief. He wasn’t worried about Eloise’s reaction, though her vote of confidence was cherished. He was worried about being so unworthy that the words would refuse to roll off his tongue, lodging in his throat as a croak. But the idea was out there now, and a mirthful giddiness sprouted forth in the soil where his insecurities were rooted.

“I’d be anonymous, though,” he added after a pause.

She frowned, but neither of them made further comments on the subject. He already understood what she didn't verbalize. She dreaded living and dying in anonymity without a university degree or prolific novel attached to her name, something to outlast her that wasn’t a dullard husband or terrifying child. She could not stand the thought that the world might feel zero impact from her existence. 

Benedict, however, was far less eager to sign his name on a canvas. He could be displayed in any gallery in England if he simply asked, regardless of whether he was even good enough. Who would dare criticize a Bridgerton painting, with nine generations of viscounts breathing down their necks? If he were to ever put his name on any of his work, he wanted—needed—to be so good that everyone would be too awestruck by what was in front of them to check whose name was etched onto the little copper plaque beneath the frame.

This was one of the only points of incongruence between the second eldest Bridgerton brother and sister that couldn’t be remedied by a simple anecdote or shift to the right. Though, perhaps there was no need for one; a painter would never ask a writer to adjust her palette and a writer would never tell a painter his meter was off-tempo.

It was an afternoon well spent away from the ornery obligations of the social season, coming home with their appetites spoiled from the promised apricot ices. Benedict grabbed An Aria Most Deadly from the library, and read the first few chapters before retiring for the night. He’d finished the novel after he pried it away from Eloise years ago, so he knew it was the conductor who had killed the opera singer. This knowledge only pulled the deftly placed clues into crisp focus upon this second reading; even the first chapter was littered with hints.

Perhaps that is why when he sits in the viscount’s study, the one that was never supposed to go to him, he often thinks about the night of Granville’s party. That night began with him feeling so alive, more alive than he could ever fathom. Yet, it ended with a sinking stone of dread taking up a months-long residence in the pit of his stomach.

Were there clues he should’ve seen?

If he’d been less drunk off the wine or the women or both, he’d have noticed Daphne wasn’t wearing the necklace gifted to her by the prince, even though he clocked the ostentatious clunk of jewelry when she left for the Trowbridge Ball. Or that the hem of her dress was muddy and her face was pinched, on the verge of tears.

If he wasn’t so preoccupied with how to take advantage of his freedoms as the spare of the family, he’d have noticed the blooming violet bruises on Anthony’s knuckles as he yanked Benedict into the study with considerable force.

It wasn’t until he was rolling his shoulder, about to complain that his arm could've been popped out of its socket, when the gun box was placed on the desk with a resounding thud. 

Things only clicked into place as Anthony began frantically talking about estates and dowries and an appointment with the duke at dawn, but there were signs from the moment he walked in the door.

The details were always so much clearer in hindsight.

next chapter // series masterlist

a/n: they dropped new abc pictures last month, and i decided to make it everyone else's problem by starting this fic. now it’s bridgerton eve!!! rejoice!!!

[skbeaumont]

Texas Heat | Joel x Reader

Chapter 2: Same time next week?

Series masterlist Chapter 1 here

Chp. 2 summary: Your first tutoring session with Sarah goes as expected, until Joel gets home and sends your head spinning. Rating: Teen (for now) Tags/Warnings: flirting, sexual tension, age difference (reader is 25, Joel is 37), AU no outbreak Word Count: 2.4k A/N: Blown away by the response to my posts so far, thank you all so much! This story will be updated every Friday unless otherwise specified. Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for this and others.

Taglist: @mysterialee

The next couple of days pass by in a flurry of jetlag. The Adlers are nice: Easy to get on with, friendly but not in a way that makes you feel like you’re living on top of them. Connie’s cooking is good, if a little repetitive, and Danny is sweet and makes you laugh, telling you stories about his youth living in Austin. Nana doesn’t speak, but she has your mum’s eyes, and you spend the evenings sitting by her in the living room, reading the stack of novels you brought with you, enjoying the easy company and warm sunlight.

You see Joel outside through the window one early morning, casually ask Connie about him as you watch him load toolboxes and ladders into the bed of his truck. One kid, Sarah, a brother who lives with him, most of the time, no wife. This last shouldn’t send a spike of something like excitement down the back of your spine, but it does. You’d just assumed he was married when he’d told you about Sarah – no wedding ring, but working in construction, that made sense.

The knowledge that there isn’t a Mrs Miller makes you re-evaluate the car journey back from the airport, the way he’d let his arm rest along the back of your seat, that teasing, mischievous glint in his eye as he’d said goodbye, promising to take you up on your offer of maths lessons for Sarah. Those thoughts keep you up late that night, pressing your thighs together beneath the thin cotton top sheet in the Adler’s guest room.

Early Sunday evening you bump into Sarah in the driveway when you get back from Walmart, equipped with a new US sim card for your mobile. She’s sweet, even prettier in real life than in the photo you saw, not at all shy like you were when you were her age.

“Dad said you’re good at math,” she says without preamble, appearing from the side of Joel’s truck, looking at you with a sideways expression that’s a mix of consideration and incredulity.

“Pretty good, yeah.” You reply, stomach jolting at the thought of Joel talking about you, even if it’s to say something as benign as how talented you are at maths. “I’d be happy to help you out with homework, or whatever, if you want. I promise I’ll try not to make it too boring.”

Sarah smiles at this, the incredulity in her face morphing into approval, or as close to approval a thirteen year old can manage.

“You coming, Sarah?” Joel says, stepping out of the front door, head down as he examines something on the phone he’s holding. “Oh,” he says, looking up and seeing you, “hey.”

“Hi.”

He’s dressed the same as he was when he picked you up from the airport; dark t-shirt over faded jeans, the knees a little worn, but he’s wearing a baseball cap today, pulling his messy curls back from his forehead. You feel a blush inching up your neck as he so obviously tries to avoid checking you out in the tiny shorts you pulled on that morning.

“How are you settling in?” He asks, moving to stand next to Sarah by the truck.

He crosses his arms against his chest and the movement draws your eyes to his biceps, struggling against the tight sleeves of his tee. There’s a thin slither of a tan line just above where his shirt naturally falls, paler skin peeking out. It makes your head swim.

You clear you throat, refocus your eyes on his face.

“Good, I think. It’s a big change, but it’s nice. Hot, though.”

“Texan summers.” He replies, “Take a bit of getting used to if you ain’t suffered through one before.”

“I’ll say.”

“Sarah’s keen on those lessons, by the way.” He puts a hand on the girl’s shoulder, shakes her about so that she giggles. “Here,” He pulls out his mobile. “You got a US number yet?”

“Just picked up a new sim, actually” You pull your own mobile out, read off your number to him so that he can put it into his phone.

“I’ll text you later on,” He says, “we’re just heading out now.”

You say your goodbyes and leave the sweltering heat of the driveway, listening to Joel’s truck start up and pull off. Inside, Mercy greets you, rests her head on your knee as you collapse onto the sofa, clutching your mobile to your chest.

True to his word, Joel texts later that evening as you’re getting ready for bed.

Glad ur settling in ok. Would Tuesday work for math with Sarah? She gets back from school around 4. Joel.

You type out several draft replies before finally sending one that matches his straight-to-the-point tone.

Thanks. Tuesday works for me. See you then.

His response doesn’t arrive until the next morning, and when it does, your stomach sinks.

Sounds great. Will just be Sarah though, I’m working late Tuesday.

It’s almost embarrassing how disappointed you are by those last four words. In your head, it had been you, Sarah and Joel around their kitchen table, Joel’s toned forearms resting on warped wood, his deep chuckle in your ear as you worked through maths problems with Sarah. This makes you feel guilty, of course, because the whole point of this exercise is helping Sarah with her maths homework, not flirting with her father.

You fall back against the pillows of your bed. Around you, the room is already starting to feel a little like home. All of your toiletries are stacked up on the dressing table, and you’ve put your clothes away into the generous walk-in closet. Your books are scattered about the room, a few on the bedside table, another pile of them next to the full length mirror. The bed sheets are cool when you slip beneath them, bare legs sliding against soft cotton.

You stare at the green-grey light of your Nokia, looking at the last text from Joel, wondering if you should reply or just leave it. Best to play it cool, you decide, but restraint’s never been your strong suit and before you can stop yourself you’re typing out a reply, hitting the send button and grinning into the pillowcase.

That’s a shame. I was looking forward to testing your addition skills.

He doesn’t reply.

*****

Tuesday rolls around, bringing unrelenting sun and a dry heat that keeps you indoors most of the day. You help Connie rearrange her DVDs – an impressive collection – and take Nana out onto the porch in the early afternoon, waiting for Sarah to get home from school.

It’s just before four when she appears at the end of the cul-de-sac, hair bouncing around her shoulders as she makes her way towards you. She’s got her school bag slung over one shoulder, jeans rolled up at the ankles, a pair of scruffy Nikes on her feet. 

“Hi, Nana, Connie,” she calls as she approaches the porch, gaze turning to you, “math whizz,” she finishes, grinning.

“Hi yourself,” you return, pushing yourself out of the deckchair, brushing crumbs off of your bare legs. You say a quick bye to the Adlers and follow Sarah up her own driveway and into the cool, still air of the Miller’s kitchen.

It’s a little disorderly: there are pots scattered on the kitchen sides, and a menagerie of clutter on the table which sits under a window, bright afternoon sunlight streaming in. Sarah dumps her school bag on this, pushes a notepad, two tape measures and a pair of mugs out of the way so that you can sit beside her.

“Okay,” she says, drawing out an exercise book and placing it in front of her, “before we get into this I need you to understand that math is my weakest subject.”

“Right,” You say, watching her serious expression as she pushes the book across the table towards you, “understood.”

“And you need to promise me you won’t judge me based solely on my algebra skills, or lack of them.”

This makes you laugh, a chuckle bubbling up out of your throat. Sarah holds your gaze, her face still serious.

“Sorry,” you say, “I mean to say, I would never judge anyone based on their maths skills.”

Sarah’s face breaks into a grin. “I’m just messing with you.” She says, laughing at the look on your face. “I am pretty bad at algebra, though.”

She’s not. You work through a dozen or so exercises, helping her when she gets stuck, showing her where she’s going wrong, but she’s actually fairly good at the calculations once you’ve explained it to her a couple of times. The afternoon goes by quickly. After two hours or so Sarah stretches in her chair, yawning.  

“You wanna stay for dinner?” She asks, pushing the exercise book away from her. “It’s just leftover chicken casserole, but there’s enough if you want some.”

“Oh, uh, sure.”

You sit by as she reheats the casserole, refusing your offers of help. Instead, you look around the rest of the room, searching out little hints of Joel that are tucked about: A pair of worn leather sandals by the back door, two plaid shirts hanging on the back of the door to the living room, a battered, dog-eared copy of a drill instruction manual, well-read and ringed with coffee stains.

It’s comfortingly domestic, and it makes your chest ache a little, thinking of your mum back home in London, all the friends and familiarity you left behind. Then Sarah’s placing a hot plate of casserole in front of you, joking about the fact that you don’t look very much like a mathematician, by which she means you don’t resemble Albert Einstein.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” You tell her, and she smiles.

“You should. You’re much prettier than he was.”

You help Sarah do the dishes, stacking them neatly on the side to be put away later. After, Sarah asks if you want to stay and watch a movie, and you both spread yourselves out on the sofa in the Miller’s living room, flick on the television and watch Tim Allen and Sigourney Weaver mess about in outer space.

Sarah falls asleep before the film ends, even though the sun hasn’t fully set and its barely ten. You’re debating waking her when there’s a rattling from the kitchen and the sound of the front door creaking open. Joel.

You hear him clear his throat, scrape his boots on the door mat and then his deep voice is cutting through the silence of the house. “Sarah? You still up, baby?”

Sarah shifts where she’s asleep next to you but doesn’t stir. You push yourself off the sofa, step into the kitchen. Joel’s pulling off a toolbelt from around his waist, thick fingers unbuckling the clasp in a way that makes your heart rate jump up.

“Hey,” You say, leaning against the doorframe.

He jumps, his eyes shooting up to you before recognition softens his gaze.

“Hi,” He replies, finally working the toolbelt off and letting it drop onto the worktop beside him, “I didn’t expect you to still be here. Everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah, fine. Sarah made me dinner and we watched a movie. Well, she fell asleep.”

Joel chuckles at this, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, she has a habit of doin’ that.”

“Work okay?” You ask, thinking you should probably leave him to a restful evening, not wanting to at all.

“Long,” He says, rubbing at the coarse stubble on the side of his jaw. “How did math go?”

“Good. She’s bright, just needed a little bit of guidance with it.”

“Always been switched on. Dunno where she gets it from.” He steps around the kitchen island, rolling his jacket down off of his shoulders as he goes, narrow hips winding around the island and the fridge toward you.

He pulls a ten dollar note out of his back pocket, hands it to you between two thick, calloused fingers. “For the lesson,” He says.

“You don’t have to, Joel, honestly.”

“S’only fair, darlin’” He proffers the note again and you take it, trying not to think about the way that casual darlin’ has gone straight to your head, blood rushing to your cheeks so that they feel like they’re on fire.

���She in there?” Joel asks then, nodding behind you to the lounge. “Oh, yeah,” You turn, let Joel look past you into the darkness of the living room, where Sarah is spread out on the sofa, breathing deeply, eyes flickering in the dull light from the paused DVD. 

As he leans into the room he steps toward you, the movement bringing him distractingly close, making you notice how much taller he is than you, how much broader. The t-shirt he’s wearing is stretched almost painfully across his shoulders, wear showing in the stressed seams. The patchy stubble at his jaw is longer than it was a few days ago, covering the sharpness of his jaw, the strong lines of his throat.

He looks away from Sarah’s form on the sofa then, his dark eyes flicking over your face, catching you watching him. You feel a blush creeping along your neck and up to your cheeks, and try to look away, but he’s holding your gaze, pupils wide in the dim light. Then his eyes dip down to your lips, follow the slight movement of your tongue as it worries at the edge of your mouth.

You can feel heat rolling off of him in waves and you wonder how it would be to push yourself up onto tip-toes and kiss the corner of his plush lower lip. This close, you can see the thin creases that line his eyes, the beginnings of grey in his dark eyebrows, raised slightly and pinching in the middle as he looks at you.

Your head is tilted up, your breath mingling in the dizzyingly narrow space between you. He clears his throat. You both realise, quite suddenly, how close you’re standing. Before you can say anything he’s moving back, tension breaking as he takes the white-hot heat of his body with him, leaving you flushed and dizzy.

“I should get Sarah to bed.” He says into the silence.

There’s a flush in his tanned face, painting his cheeks a deep red-brown, evidence that you aren’t alone in your distraction, in the surge of arousal that seems to be lighting you up from the inside. He runs a hand through already dishevelled hair.

“Right,” you reply, hoping he can’t hear the quaver in your throat, “I should head home.”

Outside, you rest for a moment against the wall next to the Adler’s front door.

Your heart is still thumping in your chest, each beat a reminder of the look in Joel’s eyes as he towered over you, his breath hot on your face, pupils blown wide because of the darkness, or maybe something else.

Before you get inside, your phone buzzes. The text is from Joel.

Same time next week?

You grin at the screen.

[theyoungeragrippina]

🫶🏻 15 gentlebeard/blackbonnet fic recs

(17 if you squint)

hey legends, in this bittersweet period where a lot of a us are feeling gutted but simultaneously, rebelliously hopeful, i've emerged from my reading den to showcase to you all some of the brilliant talent we have in this fandom! these fics are some of the best of the best, and i hope you love them just as much as i do! <3

they are all complete, do not feature any ongoing steddyhands/edizzy/stizzy, and are above 20k words.

peruse part 1, part 2, and part 3 at your leisure if you want to compare our tastes/devour more fine literature, or check out my masterlist as an ao3 collection.

adrift between the dreaming seas by @dandy-pirate-time

49k, mature, locked

stede lives a cursed life on a moving island, until the monotony of his days is suddenly interrupted by the fearsome kraken.

this was such a fascinating & incredible idea! i love how it manipulates aspects of the original story and transforms them into parts of the cursed island <3 sweet & unique & magical. i want to hug poor stede.

Five Birthdays and a Funeral by @bizarrelittlemew

58k, explicit

"When Ed and Stede's friend groups merge, they meet at a birthday party, and Stede's life is turned upside-down. As they collide again and again, he not only has to figure out what Ed means to him, but what he means to himself."

stede gets to be oblivious and a bit of a silly goose as a treat. also: treasure hunts, lucius is the best, ed has a cat whom i would die for, such a sweet & heartfelt fic. you will be so unbelievably fond of this version of every character.

The Ghost of Frigate Point Lighthouse by @piratecaptainscaptainpirates

53k, explicit

"When history professor Stede Bonnet goes to investigate rumors of a ghost haunting the local lighthouse, he's thrust into a mystery centered around the ghost of one of the most famous pirates of all time."

was SO eager to read this and it did not disappoint!! it has everything - fun, magic, mystery, tired TA lucius, and a lil bit of seduction. good enough that i am worried the author may actually just be a sea witch recollecting events he personally witnessed.

Haunted by @thepirateroo

60k, explicit

"The Kraken is a famous spiritualist, working the music halls of 1920s London to help families communicate with their dead. But Stede Bonnet knows that underneath the fame and illustrious title, Edward Teach works as a ghost hunter, debunking the spirits he makes his living off."

this is, genuinely, in the top 5 fanfics i have read for any fandom EVER. i wouldn't bat an eyelid if i read this exact work as a published novel in a bookstore. the mystery is so good and had me guessing and re-theorising constantly, the characterisation is brilliant, and the emotions are perfect. i cried, i laughed, i felt sick with worry for the characters, and i couldn't stop reading until i was done.

haunt me, then by @hyruling

28k, explicit

"He releases the ropes slowly, barely registering the burn as they slip through his fingers. Then, fallible as Orpheus, turns to meet his ghost."

post s1 fixit fics ily. everyone needs some therapy. really VERY well written and a joy to read.

Homeward Bound by mari_who

51k, explicit

"In the long-ago year 2000, bouncy blonde boy-band member Stede Bonnet is 17-year-old Edward Teach's gay awakening. Decades later, Ed hears a voice he could never forget."

i said 'ohhh no poor ed/stede' so many times while reading this. a lovely exploration of emotion and human connection, and finding yourself when everyone else has always defined who you are on your behalf.

I just need some air by @cuddlytogas

26k, teen

"Stede Bonnet's been having panic attacks for almost as long as he can remember, suffocated by pressure and expectation... When [he] finally takes his life back — divorces Mary, moves to Melbourne, starts his own event management business — things get better, but he's still no good at parties. He still needs some air, even at the very events he's brought to fruition. Meanwhile, Edward Teach, renowned chef and owner of Blackbeard's Catering, is wondering why the newest bigwig in events still hasn't hired him."

zoomed through this faster than lightning mcqueen. such a lovely writing of stede, ed and the whole crew - it feels like there's depth in every character, even background ocs.

also fantastic australia rep (i was jumpscared by mention of the cotton on group) AND i've been to the bar the final scene takes place at!!!! most exciting reading experience of my life.

i'll be your treasure by @monksofthescrew

48k, mature

"Wasn't the Dread Pirate Blackbeard rumored to have a hoard hidden somewhere near Essex? It's a metal detecting AU. They're detectorists. They fall in love."

i LOVE this fic so much it is just,,,, so sweet. stede does self-discovery and is seduced. ed is a bit of a goose and i'm obsessed with him. doug and mary are lovely. alma is so cool and i love her.

+ the sequel! drift o'er the rolling hills, swim through the briny sea (made me cry. btw. doug keeps being the best.)

The Kraken's Sacrifice by @trinityofone

22k, explicit

"Every year, a person is chosen—supposedly at random—to be sacrificed to the Kraken, to quell the sea's worst storms and to stop the taking of ships... Stede discovers that there is much more to the creature than he was led to believe—and that they have a deeper connection than he could have ever dreamed."

i LOVED this okay. it was funny and sweet and gave an interesting spin to the ed-is-the-kraken genre. get both of these boys some self-esteem asap. also comes with art by @avatoh!!!!!

lovers in a dangerous time by @veeagainsttheday

52k, explicit

pacific rim au - "Edward Teach becomes a jaeger pilot, first with Izzy Hands and later with Stede Bonnet. It’s not easy trying to save the world and falling in love with your drift partner…"

made me feel every emotion under the sun, including foaming at the mouth jealous that i don't have a drift partner. absolutely, masterfully written. i've popped this link first since its the fic that focuses on stede & ed, but it was written as a prequel for:

+ catagory five: a shatterdome romance by @owlinaminor (27k, mature), which focuses predominantly on jim & oluwande, and which i also massively recommend reading (first). it's told through lucius' words and made up of journalistic notes and transcriptions, and its really terribly clever. i knew nothing about pacific rim before this, and now i'm really very invested. if i wrote something this fantastic (& creative & wildly unique) i would never shut up about it.

More of the Gravy Basket than of the Grave by @veeagainsttheday

36k, explicit

"Ed and Stede’s ‘unorthodox friendship’ ended four months ago when Stede left Ed without a word after Ed asked him to run away to a parallel universe with him. They’re thrown back together when they’re summoned to perform a supernatural exorcism at the Hillside Hotel during a blizzard."

this has got to be one of the coolest and most creative fics i have ever had the pleasure of reading. genuinely kept me guessing and so so intrigued, PLUS the most sweet stede & ed dynamic!!!

Nothing Missing in My Life by @semisweetshadow

63k, explicit, locked

"Hollywood action star Ed Teach is bored with his celebrity life. Everything changes when he meets Stede, a sweet extra working on the set of his latest film shoot. Stede doesn't know who Ed really is and treats him like a real person and Ed can't help wanting to keep him."

ed plays an action hero called jeff the accountant, and if that's not immediately the greatest synopsis ever idk how else to win you over. hilarious, clever, & so heartfelt. i gasped and said 'oh no' with a hand over my heart nearly as many times as i laughed out loud.

not pickles by smallestchurch

84k, explicit

"Ed's minding his business when the new neighbor's kid comes around holding a human puppet. It's creepy as hell, but as soon as the kid's father rounds the corner, Ed doesn't mind."

i actually feel a bit ill when i think about this fic because i love it so overwhelmingly. there's family, and healing, and good food and friends, and ed teach and louis bonnet become the dynamic duo they always had the potential to be.

Our Fangs Mean Death by @flawedamythyst

87k, teen, locked

"Master Vampire Blackbeard's afterlife is enlivened by the arrival of a new coven in town, lead by the self-styled Gentleman Vampire. Now here's a Master who doesn't mind shaking things up by wearing clothes 300 years out of date, buying a massive gothic mansion for a lair, and leading the most eclectic coven Blackbeard has ever seen."

ridiculously fun. this is the vampire novel/fic i didn't know i needed and i loved every silly second. stede really gets to fulfil his dad-ness. i'm furious i can't join the gentleman vampires coven irl, will just need to embrace the gothic vampire aesthetic in my own life.

Wayfaring by @justkeeptrekkin

35k, explicit

"The downside to being stuck on a desert island is that Stede's not awfully good at adapting. The upside is that he and Ed can finally have some peace and quiet– that is, if Ed ever wakes up from the gunshot wound in his stomach."

the sweetest desert island fic, feat. the cutest piglet in the world, a little bit of pining, a helpful skeleton named dusty, and some of the best & most accurately written stede and ed content ever (imo).

[dallasgallant]

As I re-read the novel I find myself appreciative and disappointed. As it’s really damn close a lot of the time, some parts are word for word and there’s little details here and there but then it’ll loose these pretty important moments. The biggest for me being how cut down the drive in scene is. Not only because there are some funny quippy parts to it but also so much world building and character work.

The whole reason Marcia cracks her “you just burry him no sweat.” joke is because Greaser fighting is wildly complicated! It’s fascinating to how two bit explains it.

To a greaser violence becomes almost like another form of communication, blowing off steam, solving an argument- getting the anger out of the way now so there’s less grudge holding and more solidarity. They have self made rules and honor that holds them to their system of fairness. You back up your friends when they ask you but sometimes it’s their fight alone— Dally’s getting what’s coming to him for slashing those tires, they ain’t cheap and it’s a poor community. Tim will whip him and they’re back to buddies by the end of the night. Big fights, real fights - rumbles- are organized with rules and this weird sense of civility.

There’s this weird mix of “Boys will be boys” roughhouse with “got to be tough to survive” raised in violence survivalism.

Meanwhile,the Soc’s are a lot less warm with their approach to fighting its “cold and impersonal” like they handle all things. Though honestly I’d argue it’s a lot more personal— not fighting for communication but because one can or to exert power. They don’t fight fair, they hold those grudges and there’s no solidarity to that. Ponyboy describes them best as “a snarling pack”. Their violence is rooted in the same systems and misfortunes Greasers face - in that what perpetuates violence is a bit universal. The difference is a greaser will help a guy up and maybe get him an ice pack where as a Soc will just leave you in the street for the sake of appearance or dominance, it’s not enough that they beat you. Nothing is ever enough, like Cherry mentions they can never be satisfied.

“It’s not the money it’s feeling— you don’t feel anything and we feel too violently.”

I’ll keep mentioning that quote until I’m blue in the face honestly, it goes right alongside “things are rough all over” Differences stem especially from their reactions and behaviors in response to what’s rough. Some hardships are universal but don’t mishear me as a good portion of it is also class issues because the Reason a Soc might drink himself into oblivion is way different from why a Greaser might.

Beyond Two-bits explaination I’m sad we loose more of the talk between Cherry and Pony on emotions and money. How people are people and they’re all a lot more similar than one might think (despite the contrasting I’ve been doing in this post it’s very true). And talking about his brothers. In the movie it’s a little weird as he only brought up Soda once but she “feels like she knows him” and he brings up sunsets to her later in the movie and they never mentioned it here! Unless they’re trying to imply they had more of a convo on the short walk to the parking lot but I’m not buying that.

Ponyboy being resentful (not that he’s wrong for it) because how hard everyone he knows has it compared to Soc’s. How he has to learn though the novel that “things are rough all over” isn’t that everyone has the same troubles/level of trouble. As they’re certainly worse off; it’s about empathy and everyone being human. That some might be better off but that doesn’t mean they’re entirely without problems. That not everyone is out for a fight all the time.

It’s just a shame as this scene adds so much context to the world, social circles and the moral of the literal freaking novel. The compare/contrast with their lives is pretty important… I digress.

[simplymarr]

Chapter two.

warnings: none.

The next morning was gloomy. The classroom filled with people like always and the weak, pale light coming through the windows made it look even more suffocating.

The class started at the usual hour. As he talked i could tell that his accent made his voice sound quite raspier. The humidity in the air made his skin look like porcelain, glistening in the dark of the room.

He made a couple of questions and by the time the class was ending i was quite embarrased i was the only one answering; yes, i was passionate about study but i didn't want him to think i was trying too hard.

He didn't seem to care.

I stepped out of the building about 10 am and as i walked towards the street i saw him getting into his car. It was a dark-green chevy malibu, perhaps from the mid 70's. My fist thought was that, somehow, the car matched perfectly with his looks. Once he was inside he lit a cigarrette just like the day before. Suddenly he raised his head and looked at me, smoke coming out of his mouth. I was embarrased that he caught me staring at him so i began walking faster than before.

a couple of minutes and some blocks before it started raining. Large drops of water fell on every surface of my face and clothes. I hadn't even brought an umbrella and i was carrying all of my books. The sky completely fell apart as if it was laughing at me.

"Fuck. Is there something else that could happen to me, God?" I thought to myself.

Question aswered. Again.

That vintage chevy again, this time coming behind me then driving slowly, almost stopping, by my side. The window opened revealing the silver hair and the blue eyes that were driving it.

"Do you need a ride? It's getting dangerous to walk with this rain". He said, raising his voice a little, for all the water that was hitting the ceilling of the car made a big and loud noise.

"Oh, no thanks. It's just a couple of blocks until the bus stop".

"Well, it seems like you're gonna get there swimming then". He said, with an ironic but concerned tone.

" It's not a problem, really. I don't want to bother you" . I stuttered with a not convincing smile as i kept walking. He kept driving slowly by my side with the opened window, the grey strands of hair starting to get wet.

"Look, i have to drive all across downtown, it's really not a problem".

I stopped walking, looking at him quite ashamed. The water starting to get on my eyes and shoes. I hessitated.

"I don't bite." He said, with a soft smile. The lines on each side of his mouth appeared again.

I laughed at his bad joke and opted for getting into the car.

As i closed the door the watery sounds stopped, the air filled now with silence. It was kind of awkward for me. A student getting into her professor's car?

He looked at me quickly and i met his eyes. Then he lowered his gaze and streched out his free hand to open the glove compartment, positioned in front of my knees. He brushed them unintentionally with his nuckles and i prayed to God not to blush in front of him. Then he took out a pack of cigarrettes and aproached them to me, offering me one.

"How much does this man even smokes?" i thought to myself.

Though i've smoked casually, i said no with my head and then he put one between his lips.

He broke the silence first.

"I have been reading the drafts you submitted in class. They`re consistent, though i have made some remarks for you to work on. I'm sure it's not going to be a problem". He said with the unlit cig still in his lips. Then he reached out for the lighter.

"Well, thank you. I've been working really hard. I guess being the girl in law school kind of obligates you to".

He laughed, kindly. "y/n, isn't it?" He asked, pronouncing my first name with his french accent.

I nodded with a soft smile. My nervious hands gripping my still wet books.

"Ah, l'Etranger, d'Albert Camus" He said, looking over to the novel i had in between my hands. His voice dripping perfectly in each syllable. "Great, great work."

"Isn't it? Existentialism could not kill me even if it tried." I joked badly, looking at his hands gripping the steering wheel. He looked at me and laughed.

We spent the next 15 minutes talking about books, philosophy, his carreer and what was i going to do with mine once i gratuated.

He seemed the kind of man that likes to listen. He kept asking me questions and i was surprised with how much attention he payed to my words, dissecting every phrase and analyzing every tone of mine. He was very funny too. Kind of an ironic humor that matched with mine.

I didn't even notice that it had stopped raining and that we were parked at the bus stop. I looked at him with surprise, which he seemed to reciprocate.

"Thank you so much for the ride".

"Sure you don't need me to drive you home? I still have a trip to make". His tone felt genuine.

"Oh no, you've already done too much. Thanks anyway". I said while i stepped out of the car.

I bent slightly and looked over the window, no clear words passed my mind but i wanted to see him once again.

"See you next class. Oh, and i will email you the corrections soon, okay?".

"Okay". i said, nodding softly. "Thanks, Mr. Renzi".

"Just Vincent". He smiled at me once again and i reciprocated.

He started the car as soon as i stopped the bus with my hand, and i was kind of wishing we were still talking.

next chapter soon.

[codenamesazanka]

OKAY. Got it. Shigaraki dies, and goes back in time. To the day OFA was transferred to Deku…

rough idea/summary [part 1]

•

Shigaraki wakes up in a bed in the Doc’s lab, head pounding, crazy vertigo, feeling awful. Apparently he had suddenly collapsed. Kurogiri brought him to the Doctor, who didn’t seem to find anything wrong with him. AFO is there to check on his ward. 

As the Doctor runs some more tests, Shigaraki tries to regain his bearings. Try to make sense of himself, his surroundings, all the stuff swirling around in his mind. Shigaraki tells AFO that he had a dream, where he died. There was a war, a big one, between Heroes and Villains. He destroyed a lot of things. He fought until the very end to destroy. 

AFO listens, smiles, saying that it sounds like a good dream. Is that what you want, Tomura? To destroy everything? 

Shigaraki considers, and says, Maybe. He considers some more: everything that happened in his 'dream' - all his suddenly now-recovered memories, his new knowledge and experiences. A whole life he just had, and a death.

He's read about this before... mostly in badly-written online light novels. Someone going back in time and getting a second chance. Re-doing their life, with various cheats, to right everything. Taking a different path, taking missed opportunities, taking revenge; all to become a hero, fulfilling their dreams. Absurd power fantasy stuff.

So what’s his stupid power fantasy? What does he want? Shigaraki thinks, and out of everything that just happened/will apparently happen... there's only the League that comes to mind. 

In those light novels, the main character always has to tread lightly, has to keep everything a secret and pretend nothing is wrong and keep walking along the old familiar path until he has harassed the power to change things... But Shigaraki considers killing AFO (again) right here and now. So he confronts AFO the way he never got a chance to do.

Sensei. In my dream...You told me that you gave me my quirk. And not just that. You told me that everything that happened was because of you.

AFO is caught, smile frozen... but then relaxes to a real smile again; laughs. It's a surprise, to be sure, but it's wonderful. AFO has always looked for a time travel quirk. To think that one does actually exist...

Plus, it looks like AFO really had raised Tomura successfully. AFO thought such a revelation would shatter him, but Tomura braved through it. He's still here. A strong, ironclad willpower - exactly what AFO wanted, after all.

So let's get started.

Shigaraki tries to attack/defend, but AFO is faster, stronger, and has that Rivet Stab quirk, literally pinning Shigaraki down.

Foolish child, biting the hand that fed you. AFO monologues - without him, Tomura wouldn't even exist. AFO made him; he belongs to AFO, always had, always will. All that Tomura is, AFO gave to him. And now Tomura will give it all back. 

With that, AFO tries to take Decay—but for some reason, he can't. 

Because Shigaraki was the one who was able to steal Danger Sense from OFA; the one who was able to reject being given OFA, even. And now, if he doesn't want to let Decay go, then AFO can't take it. Shigaraki is the one with the stronger willpower, and he is so much more than AFO has made him. He's so much more than AFO can ever be.

Taking advantage of AFO being momentarily stunned, Shigaraki is able to free himself. He has to break and slice apart his hand, but still, he's free, so he proceeds to decay AFO. Hand to his head, hand to his chest, hand through to the heart. Decays every last bit of flesh he can grab and clench into nothingness. Super-regeneration can't help here.

(Moments too late, proto-Noumu is unleashed by the Doctor to stop Shigaraki, but Shigaraki decays them too. And part of the lab, for good measure.)

It's a bloodbath. ❤️

Afterwards, Shigaraki confronts a cowering Doctor, his aura of fear literally immobilizing the old man. Knowing AFO and the Doc, they probably have a backup plan or five. A copy of AFO (quirk) somewhere, obviously, but what else? A clone? Some sort of memory transfer to a digital brain? The Doc is unable to answer, but Shigaraki doesn't care too much about it right now. Just don't even try digging those out. Shigaraki will deal with him later - there are things Shigaraki needs to confirm and deal with first.

[peppershark]

WOLFER --- The real California history behind the Tomione Fic

Convict Lake Camp (OwensValleyHistory.com)

When I was a kid, my family frequently visited Bishop, California. I can still feel the light-headed enchantment of hopping out of the van at a relative's green, creek-watered ranch shadowed by towering granite faces of the High Sierras. The dusty road and sage-sharp aroma propelled my imagination two hundred years into the past.

Wolfer is set in 1890 Bishop Creek, and while some of the location names are changed to fit the story, the town really had ranching barons like the Sacred 28 families, churches which exerted certain levels of social power with the well-to-do folk, boarding houses for mill workers and on-farm worker housing for fruit pickers and cowboys--or perhaps the odd wolfer.

It's amazing what you can dig up when you're procrastinating working on your WIP, lol. I did a lot of initial research while writing a Gingerrose fic set in post Civil War Bishop Creek.

Here are some things I found.

Main Street, Bishop Creek 1880 (OwensValleyHistory.com)

In Chapter 1, Tom rides down Main Street to the marshal's office (played by a grudging Severus Snape) and runs into Hermione.

Way off into the upper right you can see the steeple of the First Baptist Church on Main Street.

East Line Street, Bishop Creek (OwensValleyHistory.com)

Tom chases Hermione to Line Street, where he pushes her up against the Brown's Machine Shed, which is of course re-named to fit Lavender Brown's family.

(OwensValleyHistory.com)

Check out that snow! Sitting at 4,000 feet of elevation in the foothills of the East Sierras, the snow can get quite voluminous.

W.D. Roberts Ranch, Round Valley (OwensValleyHistory.com)

The ranch near the dry saltbeds of Owens Lake where Draco visits Harry, (by way of Mad Eye Moody) might have looked like this.

Cerro Gordo photo taken some time between 1871 - 1879 (OwensValleyHistory.com

We get a brief glimpse of the Cerro Gordo silver mine when Draco and Harry ride off into the sunset together for a night of wild debauchery. The brothels and bawdy houses within these sprawling mining towns would have perhaps been some of the only public places for late 19th-century gays to be themselves. Miss Lola's was among the more famous, and I'm struggling to find the website where I originally learned this this but I believe she hosted queer sex workers and provided space for an early LGBTQ+ scene.

The silver mine itself brought together a richly diverse group of fortune seekers. I accessed California census documents and found that while Bishop Creek was mostly white, Cerro Gordo had a much more diverse population (interestingly all marked with 'I', even Latinx names).

I did a phone interview with the Inyo Historical Society and chatted for an hour with a local historian, telling him I was getting context for a novel. (He didn't need to know that my novel was also a fanfic, hahaha.) The historian told me the mine had Mexican, Black, Chinese, and Indigenous populations working as miners, teamsters (people who drive wagons), cooks, brick masons, farm laborers and all kinds of interesting jobs related to running the mine.

Main Street in Bishop Creek, 1878 (OwensValleyHistory.com

One thing that sticks out in my mind from the conversation with the historian is how the white and Mexican ranchers demolished the irrigation canals the Numuu Indigenous tribes had dug to create a green landscape in Owens Valley. Native Americans have been 'farming' America's landscape for thousands of years in a low-impact way. In Chapter 4, Tom muses on this detail as he's setting a wolf trap on Rosier's ranch.

Perhaps the most illuminating account of the region comes from Sarah Winnemucca, daughter of Chief Truckee (after whom the town is named). Sarah travelled as an advocate for Indigenous rights and cataloged her experience and the story of white settler colonization in her book, Life Among the Pauites: Their Wrongs and Claims which you can read for free here.

Thank you for diving into California history with me!

Read Wolfer here.

[danmei-confessions]

I truly think SVSSS deserves a revision more than any of MXTX's other novels.

I love the novel, yes, but it is poorly written. MXTX rushed the chapters after Bbingqiu's reunion due to using VIP lock for the first time and it makes the writing distinctly worse. I understand that she was young while writing it, which is the whole reason why it deserves a revision. The novel could have so much more potential than it currently does and it's no wonder that it's her least popular when even fans of her other novels choose to not read it due to being uninterested.

So much more story could be added, or just minor details. For example, we barely know anything about the 12 peaks all together, and unless you make up facts, there's practically nothing on their peak lords too. I see complaints about the SVSSS wiki being empty regarding the peak lords and I hate to say it, but that's NOT due to the moderators but rather pure lack of content. Hell, most of the facts that do existed were only in the light novel and not in the web novel at all. There's such little information it's really not shocking that the fandom runs on head-canons. In all 100 chapters of her novel, half of it in slightly plot, while the other is SQQ being... SQQ.

I have so many thoughts on the potential SVSSS has:

Despite it being mentioned that there are 'plenty of minor sects' we only hear the name of one.

Despite sects like Tian Yi or Zhao Hua being a part of the main 4, we know almost nothing about them, how they run, or their disciples/sect lead (literally the only named Tian Yi disciples are the 3 nuns). We also don't know their locations, what locations they control, or their history

The past events of SVSSS (before SY transmigrated) are so messy. Theres only 2 timelines I've found here on tumblr and even those are so different from each other. Theres no clear years compared to TGCF or MDZS and its so frustrating. This also leaves characters practically age-less (other than like. Binghe) unlike her other characters.

Almost none of the side-characters grow development with anyone other than Shen Qingqiu. I say 'almost' but I can not name any off the top of my head. There are characters that have/had such interesting relationships that were completely thrown out the window For The Plot. This is so.... disappointing, considering other character's relationships make up the plot! It's not only the MC!

Everything being rushed is heartbreaking, and with a re-write I think arcs such as the Holy Mausoleum, Jin Lan, Borderlands, etc could become SO much more interesting. Alongside that, the Mai Gu Ridge situation was blown off so fast?? Like, it was mentioned that the Endless Abyss was breaking through CCM, then just never mentioned again...

Power Scaling. Fights. Actual fights between people who aren't LGQ or LBH. We only really got NYY/LPM, MBJ/his uncle, and TLJ/LBH. Most of those were ALSO rushed.

The System's appearance was reduced LARGELY in the later chapters-almost like MXTX forgot about them. The whole first 2 volumes include The System so much, and its unique! functions! all for it to be disregarded and those functions to never be used other than the jade necklace.

Actually going into the wonderous world of PIDW that is claimed to have interesting weapons (only Xin Mo was shown), locations, plants (only Qingsi and that one thats too long for me to feel like typing shown), and creatures (only rly ZZL and Madam Meiyin shown).

That's all I really have right now. I'm not trying to be an anti of MXTX's other novels. I just think that SVSSS has so much potential that she could have brought out if she had chosen to revise it. I love TGCF and MDZS very much, they have great scaling, brought-out potential, and relationships that SVSSS so could have.

I do want to exclaim that out of all her 3 novels SVSSS has been my favorite for years. I genuinely feel upset that it was not the one picked despite how obvious it is that it has barely any NEW content. Or at the least, confirmed facts. In her QNA's most of the questions are purely MDZS/TGCF while there's maybe 2 SVSSS ones. Those few questions answered by her are literally lifelines for some fans. (Such as heights and Moshang) The novel could become popular just if the criticisms/potential of it were actually addressed. I'm not saying that casually but I am very sure of it as MXTX is a freakishly great writer and she COULD take the novel to the same heights as TGCF/MDZS if she truly wanted to.

.

[fictionplumis]

On the plus side, my terrible experience has brought me to a Sandman human!AU.

Hob Gadling is a history professor who has the terrible habit of getting himself into shit situations, the newest one being hit by a car while walking to work and ending up in the hospital with some pretty serious injuries. After surgeries and stuff, since he has no family and doesn't want to bother friends looking after him, he gets an extra long stay in observation, and the only spare observation room happens to be near the pediatric ones. His doctor is Dr. Teleute and she's the best, they hit it off really well, even if her first experience was him drugged to high hell and badmouthing all doctors in general.

Dream is her little brother and an author, mostly children's books, but he has more adult (re: mature, not sexual) novels under his penname Morpheus. Every so often he'll go to the hospital and go around room to room, reading to the kids. Hob overhears him and as Dream goes to pass his room, jokingly calls out, "What, you're not going to read to me?" and gives Dream the biggest puppy dog eyes.

He's joking, of course.

Dream freezes in the doorway for a long second, awkwardly because he's fucking great with kids but this is a whole ass adult and he has no idea how to answer this. Not that he looks uncertain, he's way too stoic for that. So he just...

Walks into the room and asks, "Which book would you like? I have one about a raven named Jessamy, one about a wyvern, pegasus, and griffon guarding a king's castle, and one about the world's best librarian."

Hob wasn't expecting to get that far. He chooses the wyvern one because it sounds awesome. And it is! He genuinely enjoys it, and Dream enjoys telling it to an adult and still having the story thoroughly appreciated.

He keeps coming back to read the kids, more often than he would usually just because Hob confesses that's bored as fuck and it's nice to have some company and someone to talk to, and he brings different book options for Hob to pick from. They end up talking too, and Hob eventually admits that he likes hearing Dream read from the other rooms because he's really great with the kids. Super patient and chill, always answers all their questions even if the question is utter nonsense, and it reminds Hob of when he had his own son.

(Eleanor and Robyn were in a car accident. It took her immediately, took Robyn a few agonizing days afterwards, and Hob can't keep from choking up as he tells Dream. Robyn was five. He had been married to Eleanor for nearly a decade. Dream merely says that he understands, and though he says no more, the look on his face is enough for Hob to know he really, truly does.) Of course, the day comes that Dream shows up and Hob's room is empty and his sister is like, "Sorry, little brother, but it's against HIPPA for me to give you his contact information... JK, haha, he actually left me his phone number specifically for you, here you go."

[fullfiresiren]

unconquered // 10

[10; by exhale alone]

house of the dragon aemond targaryen x last valyrian!reader

[read on ao3]

Despite the early hours of the morning, the Keep, you find, is always busy.

You walk along the long corridors as the golden hour streams through the windows, passing maids and servants as you go, all immersed in their duties to the crown.

You wanted to visit Prince Aemond, but your sworn sword made it known that he had left on Vhagar last night and hasn’t returned since. You think of him fondly, a warm sensation blooming in your chest, and you cling to it. It feels like home.

You are on your way to the library, with Ser Erryk by your side. There’s no real rhyme or reason for your visit -- just something to pass the time and keep you occupied throughout your days. Perhaps you can find more of the novels that Helaena brought you -- grandeur tales of romance and love that have you thinking more and more about her brother. Perhaps you could research what little is known of your homeland? Search out any books that speak of Valyria? Reading knowledge of what you have forgotten may trigger other memories to resurface.

“I shall wait outside for you, my lady,” Ser Erryk interrupts your thoughts when you arrive, taking position next to the large wooden doors.

“Ah, thank you, Ser,” you say, passing him.

“If you need help carrying any books back to your apartments, please send for me.”

“Oh, I can take books out?” you stop, blinking curiously, as if the thought never once occurred to you.

He looks at you with soft confusement, before smiling. “Yes, my lady. If you wish to.”

You must seem pleasantly surprised, and Ser Erryk laughs to himself at your innocent expression, before reaching out, and holding the door open for you to step inside.

At once, you are greeted by a recognisable head of long, white hair.

“Helaena!” you exclaim happily. “What a wonderful surprise!”

“Y/n!” She shoots up from the table she was reading at to rush to you, grasping you in a welcoming hug. “Dear sister!”

Her endearing nickname makes you feel like finally finding refuge from a torrential downpour, outlasting the storm that you thought would sweep you away.

“Have you been well?” you ask.

“Yes, I have,” she says, all bright and shining. “I missed your company yesterday, but I heard you were out doing something far more interesting with my brother."

You smirk at her with mirth. “What did you hear?”

“Only that he had a wonderful time. My brother is very smitten with you.”

Your heart squeezes at the knowledge. Helaena clasps her hands in front of her chest, and then motions to the table behind her.

“Would you like to join me?”

“Very much,” you grin, “I will just find some books.”

“If you’d like to read ones like those I gave you before, I have a pile of similar novels over here?”

“Oh, wonderful!” You pause, thinking on whether you should voice your question or not. Helaena gives you an expectant look, and you bite the inside of your gum. “Do you happen to have any novels on Valyria?”

“I am sure we do,” she says, but then becomes a little shy. “However I am not the best person to ask. My brother has always adored Valyrian culture, and has read every book in this library that contains some knowledge about it. When you next see each other, you should ask him to show you. I’m sure he would be more than happy to speak with you about it.”

You mull over your thoughts with an open book, sitting beside your soon-to-be sister-in-law as the two of you indulge yourselves by reading at a long, mahogany table. You have long since lost interest, however, in the words written on the page. The library is quiet, in a soothing sort of way, and with Helaena by your side, you feel as if you could sit here for hours; content in watching the way the dust flits about lazily as it passes through narrow streams of light.

My brother has always adored Valyrian culture.

The phrase is like fire in your veins. Has Prince Aemond truly always loved your homeland? So much so, that he’s read every single book in the Red Keep’s library if it even so much as mentions the topic? Does he... hold you in the same regard? Is your joining fate, something unspoken carried through the ages, that transcends time -- or is it a carefully woven plot? Helaena coughs absentmindedly from beside you, and inadvertently interrupts your thoughts.

My brother is very smitten with you.

You are close enough with her now, that you feel you can voice them.

“Helaena,” you begin, and she turns her head towards you, eyes finishing the last sentence she was reading before she gives you her full attention. “I want to say to you that I am entirely enamoured with your brother.”

She grins, all the way to her eyes. “Are you truly?”

“Very deeply.”

She giggles, all happiness and excitement, and closes her book to face you, elbows on the table, chin in her palms. “Tell me everything!”

“You cannot utter any of this to another soul -- especially the prince!”

“Dear sister, I promise I will not!”

“It cannot leave this room!”

“On our bond, I swear it!”

You sigh, placing your own book on the table in front of you, and she grasp your hands, holding them tightly. Deeply invested in your courtship with her brother, Helaena is perhaps its most vigorous champion -- openly supporting and advocating your growing bond.

“He’s very reserved, and painfully shy,” you begin, and she nods mutely, agreeing, “as if the effort of conversation is almost too much for him. I feel it is also something that does not come easily to him. How elated I am, then, when I watch him make every endeavour to speak with me, about anything -- about everything. With each day that passes, I grow to know him better, and with every minute spent in his presence, I understand him deeper. Now, he commands my attention. I search for him everywhere, and I long for him. For his company, for his words, for his smile. I ache for it.”

The confession leaves you red, brilliantly so, and Helaena is positively joyous.

“You love him?” she asks softly, tentatively.

You cannot utter it yet. Not until you feel it in your soul.

“I believe my heart is waiting for only him.”

She squeezes your hands, and cries, “I am sure he loves you, dear sister, do not give up!”

You burst into laughter together; both kicking your feet under the table and bouncing with delight at loves true profession. Helaena gushes about the upcoming wedding, practically designing the entire affair herself as she describes just how it ought to be -- blue flowers would compliment the both of you best, after all, she says, and how you look in your wedding dress will be the talk of the continent, for sure!

Your face flushes at the thought of hearing Prince Aemond whisper he is yours -- one flesh, one heart, one soul. That he will be with you now, and forever.

“Tell me,” you speak, “of him. Whatever comes to mind, I wish to know. What was your brother like as a child?”

“Soft,” she says, “Kind. My brother has always been my mothers favorite. When he was young, he would sit in the gardens with me, and spend his time making daisy chains. I guess it was his way of giving me a crown when we both knew I’d never have one,” she smiles, tracing the gilded details of her book. “I remember some nights at dinner, he would complain that he wasn’t hungry, despite the large amount of food that he had piled onto his plate. He would explain that he was taking food back to his chambers, so that he may eat when he felt like it, but I later realised he was sneaking out of the castle at night to give what he could to the smallfolk who were most poor and starving. My brother is like that, y/n. It pains me that none but us see it.”

Just as the poverty in the city struck a chord within you, so too, had it left a deep impact on the prince. How alike the two of you are. With each new segment of information you are privy to, the bond of familiarity and similarity strengthens, almost impossibly so.

“He was... different... after...” she trails off, face turning down in sorrow, “He isolated himself; locked himself in his room for days on end. I thought I had lost my sweet brother forever, but... I see glimpses of him every now and then. Moreso when he is with you.”

You have a feeling you understand what she is referring to, and yet, you cannot help but ask, “After what?”

“After he lost his eye.”

Your throat goes dry. Morbid curiosity has plagued your thoughts on more than one occasion about the events that lead to the prince loosing his eye. A mishap? An injury in training with a sword? A quarrel? A fight? Was it accidental, or, dare you say... purposeful?

“I knew he would have to close an eye for his dragon,” Helaena sighs sadly, “but I didn’t understand at the time... If only I knew the true circumstances, would I have done anything to change it? I hope I would have...”

You take a leap of faith.

“If you do not mind me asking, princess... how did the prince lose his eye?”

She avoids your gaze when she answers quietly, “It was cut out.”

Something seizes your throat and steals the air from your lungs. It was not accidental after all. Someone out there purposefully maimed Prince Aemond -- and when he was a child, no less.

Helaena drops the subject, and does not go into much detail. You cannot find it within you to press her for more, sitting back in your chair, mood low and pained.

“Dear sister,” she begins, and the atmosphere lifts slightly at her affectionate nickname. “If it is alright... may you... tell me about your time... in Old Valyria? If you remember?”

Keeping it quiet only makes the nightmares worse.

“Of course,” you reply, gifting her a smile you hope looks genuine. You would hate to lie to Helaena. “You may ask me anything. If I am able, I will tell you.”

“What was it like? You were a royal, were you not?”

“Ah, yes,” you hum, “I know my parents were the King and Queen -- of that I am certain. I can remember something about my ascension to the throne, but not much else. Only a period of time where I felt the weight of something... more than likely the duty of the crown. Of course, I can remember our dragons. I can remember parts of our city -- our castle. I can remember vividly the golden magma that carved a path through the streets.”

She stares at you with a floaty expression, as if imagining everything you speak of.

“Were there truly hundreds of dragons flying above the city?”

You grin. “Thousands.”

“What about the golden towers? Were they as magnificent as history says?”

“Even more so.”

“Did you have wonderous libraries? Filled with all manner of books?”

“We had an entire building dedicated to them.”

She sighs dreamily. “Were you engaged before?”

The question takes you off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, I apologise,” she lowers her eyes, worried about perhaps offending you with her question. “You were a royal of Old Valyria, and, I’m certain you were as beautiful then as you are now. Surely you must have had your fair share of suitors?”

“Oh,” you understand what she means, and think of how to clear up the confusion. “When I lived in Valyria, it was at the pinnacle of power. There were no need for marriages of convenience or strategic alliances. I was the crown and the throne by myself. I did not need a King. There were many suitors to be sure, but... none ever interested me. Your brother is the only one I have ever been engaged to.”

“How romantic,” she sighs, tapping the table. “It is almost as if it were meant to be.”

You laugh. “How so?”

“You transcended time to find one another,” she explains. You must look confused, and so, Helaena elaborates. “You took no other in your days in Valyria, hundreds of years ago. And yet, you arrived in this precise time, found your way to Kings Landing, and willingly accepted my brother as a husband and equal. Does it not strike you as fated?”

In honesty, you have never really thought about it.

“My brother has always had this deep love for Valyria, too. Ever since he was young. Our father never took much interested in the three of us, but... I remember Aemond would often beg him to speak of it. To tell him what he knew, to recount old stories he’d heard -- any piece of information he could give. It is the only time he would ever spend in Aemond’s company...”

Her statement makes you think of your own parents. They grow clearer in your mind with each passing day. You remember emotions from them, evoked by their memory. You remember feeling loved, cared for. You remember feeling content, and happy. After all, you expect nothing less from the pinnacle of your empire. Perfect parents and a perfect life.

Somewhere in the corners of your subconscious, something whispers that you, too, felt ignored by your father.

After reading in comfortable, and relaxed silence for the next hour, midday approaches. Helaena expresses a longing to see her darling children, and you have never been one to refute her on anything. You have met the twins only once before, noting them to be well natured and soft -- a gift they undoubtedly inherited from their mother.

“Will we meet again for supper?” she asks, helping you stack a few books to carry back to your room.

“If you wish it, I am always happy to oblige -- you know this.”

“Then I dearly wish it.”

You have never had a friend like Helaena. Nor, you think, will you ever in all your life.

She links arms with you until you pass through the doors of the library, where Ser Erryk waits patiently. He takes the multitude of books from your arms, and you send him on ahead, so you may walk with Helaena until the two of you must part. When the time comes, you bid her a fond farewell, promising to see one another again at dinner.

You are alone once again, wandering the halls of the castle absentmindedly, your thoughts mulling over nothing in particular, when you hear it.

It’s hushed conversation that draws your attention, urges you closer; fervent whispers and overlapping voices that are too vague for you to truly make out, until you quietly press yourself into a nearby alcove, straining, listening in to something that was never meant for your ears.

“Do you remember who your family is? Where your true allegiances belong?!”

It’s Otto Hightowers voice, and he hisses harshly at someone. Condescending scorn, like he’s speaking down his nose at something inferior.

“One wrong move, and annihilation awaits!”

“Yes. I understand the severity of the assumed threat.”

That voice you’d recognise anywhere.

You’d know him without touch, without sight. You’d know his very breaths, by exhale alone. Gods, you know him better than you ever knew yourself.

“Foolish boy!” Otto snaps, sharply reprimanding Prince Aemond for his uncaring aloofness, and your mouth parts with the ferocity of his tone. “Think of your mother! Of your dear sister! What could happen to them if we do not control the path taken!!”

He slices back, “I have already given my word that I would, have I not?!”

The atmosphere is heavy and thick, the argument powerful, and despite only catching the tail end of it, you can tell the weight of it burdens those involved greatly. There is painful silence, and you keep it yourself, pressing as close to the wall as you can, too frightened to release the breath you’re holding. Whatever the argument was about, it is obvious it holds great importance to the Prince and the Hand.

Something unsettling grows in the pit of your stomach when you watch Prince Aemond stalk away from your position, coming into view only briefly before he is gone. He was holding something in his arms, shoulders tense, long hair thrashing with his anger and frustration.

The footsteps of his grandfather recede in the opposite way, and when all is said and done, you are left alone with the silence, and more questions than answers.

No matter how you look at it, the events simply refuse to explain themselves. Your puzzled thoughts cannot make sense of the heated discussion, and you’re frowning to yourself. Why was the Hand so adamant that Prince Aemond remember who his family is? Why was he so firm in reminding him to control ‘the path taken’? Are there some affairs to do with the throne that you are not privy to? Crown business you would not understand? Would Prince Aemond even tell you if you questioned him?

You press off from the wall only when you are certain no one is around, thoughts racing over different possibilities, intent on making it back to your apartments without running into another soul.

You almost succeed, arriving at your chambers only to be greeted by the prince himself.

You are a little surprised, if you’re honest. You thought he would have stalked away to his own apartments to be in solitude, or to the courtyard to express his frustrations through the sword.

Yet, here he stands, before you now, as composed as ever, but the strain in his posture tells you otherwise. Even if you had not been privy to the argument, you would know something was wrong. You feel a small sense of victory in your developing skills when it comes to understanding the prince’s innermost thoughts and feelings.

What was cradled in his arms earlier, you notice, reveals itself to be clothing.

“My betrothed,” he greets, bowing to you with a coy smile.

You give him one of your own, but the events of minutes earlier overshadow your expression, leaving it a little unconvincing. Regardless, you readily greet him back.

“My prince,” you say. “Are you well?”

He nods in response. “Are you?”

“I am. What a pleasant surprise to see you here.” You gesture to your apartments, saying, “Would you like to come in?”

He falters at the offer, and instead, to keep himself focused, holds out the bundle in his arms.

“Your riding clothes have been finished, my lady. The ones my father commissioned for you to wear when you fly with Archeon.”

How regal, you think, his name sounds from the lips of the prince. What would your own sound like? Something whispers like a sacred prayer.

“Oh, how lovely,” you murmur, stepping closer to inspect them.

Your fingers trace the black fabric with reverence, with respect, with fondness. The prince is mesmerised. He wants you to touch him like that.

“I thought today we could fly together?”

You ignite, beaming, “Really?”

“Yes,” he laughs softly at your happiness. “Really. Shall I wait here for you whilst you change?”

“Please,” you breathe, taking the clothes from his arms, and he hates that he knows he’d do anything for you; if only you spoke softly, like you did just then. “I shan't be long.”

You disappear into your apartments, and Prince Aemond is left alone with his thoughts. He paces a little, stares at the dust on the stone floors, watches the way the sun reflects off the silver embellishments of his outfit. He’s excited, he realizes, to spend more time with you; nerves and anxiety giving way to a brief feeling of soaring joy. Prince Aemond feels himself smiling only when the muscles of his cheeks begin to ache from the expression. The number of hours he gets to spend with you, he feels, is never near enough. He wishes to be with you always.

You reappear promptly from your chambers clothed in the black riding gear; an almost identical outfit as his. Soft leather and silver clasps on your fitted jacket, well-tailored trousers, and calf-high boots. You’ve pulled your hair up and away from your face, and you look breath-taking, even in something as plain as black. He realises he’s staring, and looks away sharply.

“Shall we go?” you ask, stepping towards him.

You’re pulling on leather gloves, and he wants to tell you not to -- the memory of your hands touching fresh in his mind from before, soft skin fitting together like they were always meant to. He wants to feel your fingers intertwine. He’s completely hopeless, and shakes his head at himself, lips pulling up into a smirk.

“Yes, my lady.”

The walk through the crowded city is pleasant with the prince as your company. Conversation flows, pauses in between lull softly, and yet, the noise of passers-by, and those going about their daily lives somehow fades away when you speak with one another.

It’s as if there is no one around.

The streets lay bare and empty, and your laughs bounce off vacant buildings. Market stalls are unattended, no horses brush past you, and the entire city is uninhabited – all except for yourself, and the prince. You cannot see anything but him.

When the buildings finally give way one by one to the beaches, the expanse of the Narrow Sea greets you readily. The sun glints off the unending stretch of water, and it sparkles like it was never really water at all. The soft sand of the beaches remains pure, and turns shades of its former self only when the waves break on the shore; like a lover returning home. It never looks this wonderful when you are by yourself.

Archeon is lounging as he always is, close to the cliffs, and lifts his head at your approaching presence. You hear him coo; extending the same greeting to the prince, growing fond of him in a way similar to you.

He lifts his head at you, and then pointedly turns to stare at the opposite end of the beach. Your eyes follow his, drawn to a mass of forest green, larger still than he.

Vhagar lay at the very end of the sand beach, far enough away from Archeon that it’s clearly intentional -- as if she doesn’t trust him enough to move closer, and you cannot say you blame her. She is apparently sleeping, her massive form rising and falling slowly with easy breaths.

This is the first time you’ve seen her in person.

“I landed her here the last time I was out flying,” he explains, as if sensing your curiosity. “I also... spoke with her... like you told me to.”

You look at him. “You did?”

“Yes,” he says, descending the stairs to the sand. “I told her that she would be staying here, on the beaches, now.”

You follow him eagerly, down to the shores. “I feel she may have been disgruntled at the change in scenery. Not many are fond of being so close to the tide.”

You had heard that Vhagar slept in the wide expanse of lands beyond the city, far too large to be housed in the dragon pit like the others. She sleeps with her back to Archeon, a clear sign for him to leave her well enough alone. Your own shuffles closer to greet you when you approach, and Prince Aemond does not shy from him.

“My heart,” you say, with warm affection. “You have a companion now, I see. She seems friendly.”

He snorts. Not entirely.

“Give her leave to act stubborn,” you murmur, stroking him. “She is old, and tired.”

He nudges you gently, so gently, but the feeling is there. I am old, too.

“Lies, my heart,” you laugh, giving him a look. “You may be older than her, but age does not touch you in the same ways. You know this.”

Archeon looks past you to the prince, huffing at him, as if he will take his side on this. Prince Aemond smiles, hands behind his back, and bows his head to your dragon. There is an audible coo in response, and it carries heavy weight and meaning.

“He is growing fond of you, you know,” you say, leaning your head against Archeon’s muzzle, scales pressing into your cheeks. “As I knew he would.”

“I feel flattered,” he chuckles, “I'm sure Vhagar will feel the same towards you.”

“I hope so.”

“Shall we find out?”

You smirk, and push yourself away from Archeon towards the prince, walking together across the expanse of the beach. You almost act on your urge to hold his hand, but think better of it, inner thoughts battling on what his reaction would be if you leaned into him, and intertwined your fingers with his. Would he pull away sharply? Would your day be ruined thereafter? Would the distances you’ve covered up until now, the path you’ve forged with him in your blossoming relationship be undone? Or would he squeeze your hand tightly, nudging into you wordlessly with a smile reserved only for you?

You reach Vhagar before you can decide.

The great dragon lifts her head at her riders presence, blinking at him slowly, rousing from her slumber. Unlike Archeon, and what you can remember of your others, she is almost completely without horns; skin wrinkled and old, loose with age and covered with thick scars. Her jowls hang low, and her wings, you see, are pitted and torn in places. She wears her almost 200 years in clear abundance, every last day etched into her being.

Her large amber eyes flick towards you, and she huffs.

You smile knowingly, nodding in greeting. “Muña.”

Mother.

Her eyes widen significantly at your speech, and she shifts until she can look at you more clearly. The ground rumbles with her movements, and Prince Aemond steps slightly in front of you, as if ready to pacify her should anything begin. But she only wants to unlock you, discern your character, confirm her suspicions.

The blood of the dragon runs thick, and Valyrian lineage is potent.

“She is beautiful,” you say to him, the hot breath of his dragon rushes past you when she breathes, “If only we could see all the many things that she must have. I can barely imagine the battles she’s fought in.”

“She was there at the Field of Fire,” he says, and you try to press your mind into remembering what you’ve heard of it. “Along with Balerion and Meraxes, she destroyed the largest army ever seen in Westeros. She was also responsible for bringing the Vale to heel in the conquest.”

“You must be incredibly proud to ride her,” you murmur softly, watching him approach his dragon. Her size overshadows his by an incredible amount. Archeon is monstrous, but truly, not as large as Vhagar.

“I am,” he strokes her softly, and you can see he’s smiling when he turns back to you. “Will you join me in the skies, my lady?”

You tell him you will, backing away so he may mount Vhagar with ease, settling into her saddle like he was always meant to be there, before he commands her to fly. She cannot lift herself from the beaches without a running start, and Archeon has enough sense to slink into the tides so she has the full expanse of the beach to take off. He watches her pass him, spread her wings, and soar.

You trudge back along the sand towards your own dragon, the huge imprints of Vhagar’s footsteps swallowed only when Archeon meets you halfway. You are staring at the skies, watching Vhagar’s form linger low; spray kicking up from her mass when she glides over the waves. The sun catches the prince’s hair in a way that almost blinds you. Stark white in direct contrast to the great black beast by your side.

“He claimed her,” you say, in a way that Archeon can tell is full of infatuation. “When he was no older than 10. She was the largest and oldest dragon at the time, and he was brave enough to claim her all by himself.”

He releases a breath of air, turning to watch the pair in the skies, and the sun makes his eyes look like liquid gold. He has already lowered his shoulder for you, and you clamber up his foot, his horns, finding footing on his withers, and settling into his black saddle.

The beating of wings above you pulls your gaze upwards, and Vhagar flies directly above you, the markings and scars of her underbelly clearly visible. She glides gracefully, using the wind from below to stay level and true. Archeon feels your deep desire to join, and without vocal command, launches himself into the skies to be with them. You reach them immediately, gliding together, side by side, over the sea and through the skies.

They are both incredibly large, your dragons -- a fearsome sight to behold. One that took part in the conquest, and the other, from the freehold itself.

After a few minutes of flying, you hear them. They’re speaking to one another. Not in the ways that you do, though. Moreso vocalising -- chittering and humming -- and the more they do, the more you notice their wings beating in sync, their flight style mimicking one another's, their turns and dips fitting together like a puzzle. You’ve never seen this happen before, and judging from what little you can see of his expression, and the way he’s leaning to watch it, neither has the prince.

If Vhagar chooses to bank right, Archeon dips his wing down to do the same. If he climbs higher, so too, does she.

You glance over at Prince Aemond as your dragons level out together, and he looks right back at you, lifting his hands up to signal his own acknowledgement of their actions, and his subsequent confusion. You shrug your shoulders in an exaggerated motion so that he can see from his position, laughter floating across the gap.

It’s endearing and soothing, all the way down to the depths of your soul. A sense of shared belonging washes over you when you watch them interact. It’s like a secret you’re privy to; one shared only between you four.

You’re not even sure how much time passes, too consumed with happiness in flying with the prince and your dragons to notice the sun waning in the sky. He is the first to reluctantly make some kind of signal towards you to land, and when you finally realise what he’s saying, you urge Archeon to descend on the shores, just as Vhagar does the same.

A portion of the cliff face breaks off with the force of withstanding two colossal dragons landing almost in sync, and plummets to the floor. You watch it drop, breaking into hundreds of smaller pieces under the force of its fall. To your right, you notice Vhagar shake her head. She looks tired, whilst Archeon is still lithe and energetic, chittering away happily at nothing in particular. You have a feeling he might annoy her with his youth and size.

Prince Aemond uses the rope attached to Vhagar’s saddle to dismount and lower himself to the sand, and when he is settled on the shore, she turns, stalking off towards the opposite end of the beach again, no doubt, to rest. Archeon does his best to aid you in your own dismount, hugging the earth so the distance between yourself and the sands is never too great. You wonder if you should ask for a rope too, but sensing your thoughts, he gives you a pointed look. You laugh, lowering yourself down by his horns, and plopping onto his great wing.

“I won’t ask for one,” you reassure. “You were so indignant at being fitted with a saddle, I fear how disgruntled you would be if I commissioned something else for you.”

You give him a few more fond pets, his hot breath fans over you when he exhales, and you feel Prince Aemond come to stand beside you.

“Until next time, my heart,” you whisper, and then, you retreat from the beaches, with the prince at your side.

The sun is cresting through the golden hour, casting everything in a brilliant hue of copper, the skies shifting through varying shades of vermillion, but everything seems that much more beautiful with the prince by your side.

He strikes up conversation openly, and you both enthusiastically discuss the events of the flight; talking passionately about your dragons and their synchronized movements, coming up with theories and ideas to explain their behaviour.

“How odd!” you exclaim, “I’ve never seen him do that -- not once!”

“Nor I with Vhagar!” he adds, “It was like they were existing as one!”

You recount tales of your times with both dragons, all the way back to the Keep, high spirited and vivacious, until the bronze gates part to give you entrance. Prince Aemond seems to forget himself whilst he listens to you talk animatedly, staring at you openly with a visible fondness. That is, until the Red Keep’s maester approaches you both from across the courtyard.

“My prince, High Lady,” he bows to you both, announcing his presence, voice warbling with age. “Are you ready for your lessons? We have a few to go over before your supper today.”

Prince Aemond’s face drops instantly, replaced now with cold indifference as he stares back at the old man.

“Ah, yes, I see,” he hums. “A moment, please.”

The maester bows, and takes his leave to wait for the prince inside, leaving the two of you comfortably in one another presence.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Prince Aemond speaks, features soft when he looks at you. “It seems I must take my leave sooner than I would have wished.”

You shake your head with understanding, wishing the worry lines on his face to ease.

“It is alright, my prince,” you say. “Please do not fret. We may see one another again whenever you wish it.”

“Tonight then,” he presses quickly, adding, “For dinner. If you’d like.”

“I would,” you grin, “Your sister has already asked for my company at supper, so I shall surely be there.”

“I look forward to it,” his tone is soft when he talks, expression warm, “and I had fun today with you.”

“So did I,” you murmur.

You stay like that for a few moments, staring at each other with muted fondness, until the prince must regrettably pull away take his leave for lessons, and you, to retire your apartments.

It is like an unavoidable rhythm, or a set pattern you must abide by whenever you return to your apartments looking anything other than pristine. A part of you feels awfully guilty, when you watch Elen rush around, already preoccupied in her tasks. She almost never complains though -- not about her job or her duties, and whenever she does, it seems it’s only for the sake of your safety, or you apparent dishevelled state.

She fusses, of course, huffing quietly to herself whilst she lays out various creams, towels, soaps, but it seems only brought on by the labours of the task, and never by you. She takes pride in you, you feel; picking out perfumes and scented washes, scrubbing you with care and diligence. Your wet hair is braided, kept up and away from your face and left to dry in a halo shape, whilst makeup is applied liberally to your eyes and cheeks. Nothing too extreme, Elen adds. Only something to compliment your tone, and bring out your features. Your garments are prepared in a similar fashion, more formal than daywear, but less than what you would wear for a celebration or ball. You wonder if you’ll ever experience one of those -- either before or after your wedding.

Thankfully, Ser Erryk is the one to escort you to supper that night, and both the conversation and atmosphere are a thousand times more enjoyable than they ever were with Ser Criston. This time, too, thanks to your sworn swords diligence and care, you arrive earlier than most – even before the King and Queen themselves. The guards have no need to announce your presence, and allow you swift entry upon your arrival.

When the doors open, you are greeted by Helaena, and her brother-husband, Prince Aegon. The two are standing near the long table, partaking in what looked like dull conversation, and at the noise, they turn towards you.

To your dismay, Prince Aemond is nowhere in sight.

Helaena brightens considerably, and Prince Aegon gives you an awkward look, tipping his head upwards in casual greeting.

“Oh,” he frowns, eyes landing on the man by your side, “Arryk, what are you doing here? I thought I sent you away for the night?”

“It’s Ser Erryk, my prince.”

The two must truly be indistinguishable from one another if even Prince Aegon cannot tell the difference between his own sworn sword, and yours. You must use considerable will to suppress a laugh.

“Right,” he says warily, as if he does not believe him, turning to pour himself another full glass of wine.

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” you dip your head, voice soft. “You may retire for the night if you wish.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he bows, “Please enjoy your night.”

As he takes his leave, you wonder if his brother is as kind and gentle as he.

“Dear sister!” Helaena’s voice grabs your attention, as she rushes to greet you with a warm hug. “I am glad to see you again!”

“She’s not your sister yet, you know,” Prince Aegon drawls. “And weren’t the two of you in each others company only earlier today?”

She gives you an incredulous look, as if exasperated by her husbands company already. “Lady y/n is my dear friend, and soon to be my sister also. Why should we not spend time together? Her company is most enjoyable.”

“Any time spent with you, my dear Helaena is always a blessing,” you whisper.

“And what is it you do in each other’s company, hmm?” Prince Aegon always has this strange lilt to his voice, like he’s annoyed by everything around him. As if life itself exhausts him. “Discussing my darling little brother, no doubt. Has she told you that he used to wet the bed--?”

“Aegon,” Helaena quips, sending him a sharp look.

“Oh, sorry!” he drawls exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I just thought our dear sister should know what she’s getting into!” He smirks, adding, “Have you told her about the blue sapphire yet?”

Your interest is morbidly piqued, but Prince Aegon cannot explain further, cut off suddenly by the double doors opening, and the King and Queen arriving in grandeur. Thankfully, they are without the Hand, but disappointment sits heavy in your chest when you realize Prince Aemond is also not with them. Even with the bows and warm greetings you all exchange, you catch Helaena give her brother a dangerous look from the side of your vision.

“High Lady y/n! What a lovely surprise,” King Viserys greets, happiness seeping from his grinning expression, “You joined us tonight for supper!”

“Ah, yes, your grace,” you bow slightly, “I apologize if this causes any disruption--”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” he makes a noise at you, waving his hand to the servers and ordering an extra plate for you. “We are most glad to have you here.”

You feel, at any rate, a little out of sorts. The Queen gives you a look you cannot place, and you sit in the seat saved for you last time, between Helaena and the absent Prince Aemond.

“Will tonight end in another tantrum from our little brother?” you hear Prince Aegon mutter to his sister-wife.

“If it does, I shall scorn him profusely,” Helaena quips back under her breath.

You spare several glances to the empty seat on your left, wondering where the Prince could be, and if he’s still caught up in lessons. Will he even be able to make it to dinner? You strongly hope so.

Pleasant conversation flows, the food arrives, and the Queen opts to say a few words in prayer before you begin. Everyone bows their heads, and closes their eyes, and you are a little confused with what is happening. Never once do you remember doing such a thing before any meal in Valyria. Something urges you to wait until they are finished, before you begin eating.

“May the seven bless this meal,” she begins, in quiet tranquillity, “may the Father judge us fairly in all that we do. May the Mother smile down upon this gathering with love. May the Smith keep the bonds between us strong, and may the Warrior--”

The doors behind you open sharply and you all fall silent to look.

Prince Aemond walks in, as ethereal as ever, dressed in dark green unlike his usual black, and you cannot help but stare. The color suits him well. He is a little wide eyed at the attention, and you beam at his arrival, face glowing in the candle light. His eye finds you immediately, and he cannot help but return your smile upon seeing how delighted you are simply by his presence, eye swimming with mirth and joy.

“Forgive my lateness,” he says, walking into the room and towards his chair. “I was held up in my lessons.”

“That is no issue, Aemond,” the Queen mutters, giving him a warm look.

He returns it with a curt nod of his head, taking his seat beside you.

“We were just saying a prayer,” his mother says, and he clasps his hands together on the table, closing his eye as she resumes.

You peak at him from the corner of your eyes, and he opens his own to stare right back, lip curling upwards when your shoulders lift with happiness. He cannot stop his own blossoming across his chest.

When his mother finishes, and everyone begins eating, he leans in towards you.

“Please forgive my late arrival, my lady.”

“I was worried you would not come at all my prince,” you begin, taking the initiative to begin plating your food, turning your head to add, “but you have, and I am most pleased.”

“You are?” he teases, leaning in a little closer.

You are about to reply that you missed him, grieved his absence in what little time you spent apart, but the Queen interjects before you can.

“Aemond, how were your lessons?”

He sits upright at once, pulling sharply away from you.

“Good, mother. Informative,” he replies.

“I am glad,” she smiles, before tossing Prince Aegon a displeased look. “If only you were more like your younger brother. How you enjoy wasting your days will always be beyond me.”

The comment comes out of nowhere, and makes the atmosphere horribly awkward. Where the Hightowers and Targaryens may be used to familial squabbles, as someone who is still considered an outsider, there should be no place for them in front of you. But, then again, you remember Prince Aemond mentioning that his parents may bicker, so this in itself does not take you entirely by surprise.

Prince Aegon must have a short patience tonight, knocking back his entire cup of wine before he spits, “More like Aemond how? Dreary? Dull and boring? I’m perfectly happy being the family disappointment if it means my life has at least some semblance of fun.”

“Now now, Aegon, please,” the King tries to keep peace, smiling awkwardly at you, but it seems his son is too far gone to let the comment slide.

Prince Aemond, too, cannot let jabs to his person go without punishment, retorting hotly, “You were always a wastrel. I highly doubt I had any impact on how you turned out. No, you managed to be a disappointment all by yourself.”

The squabble is petty at best, and although you wish to jump in to defend Prince Aemond, he’s holding his own pretty well without you. More than anything, however, you wish the conversation topic would change entirely, and for the quarrel to abide. Helaena sighs heavily to your right, giving you an exasperated look, and you give her a meek smile, hoping the argument lulls by itself. Never one to leave without having the last word, Prince Aegon stands sharply, throwing his cutlery unceremoniously down onto his plate.

“At least I have both eyes,” he spits, and with that, he storms out, taking his leave.

It’s a low blow, and your mouth parts a little at the cutting remark. It’s a clear hit on the prince’s insecurities, and you feel, somehow, not entirely directed at him. It was the Queen who ultimately started the chain of events, and yet, somehow Prince Aemond is the one who suffers.

You cannot openly console him, nor could you even if it were just the two of you. You cannot hold him, nor squeeze his hand reassuringly, and you feel it is even out of place to whisper words of kind affection to him in this setting.

You can tell he’s biting his tongue, cutting himself off from going on a verbal rampage -- if the way he’s pursing his lips tells you anything. He’s also actively avoiding your gaze, and you cannot blame him. He’s been publicly ridiculed in front of his family and future wife on something that is a raw insecurity. If you were in his position, you would feel mortified. You wonder how you would wish to be consoled if the roles were reversed.

The scraping of cutlery on plates resumes, and conversation is strained and forced.

“My prince,” you begin, leaning in.

He hums tightly in response, but does not look at you, focusing instead on cutting his chicken far more forcefully than necessary. You feel a little spurned by his unwillingness, but you cannot bring yourself to blame him.

He thinks you’re going to speak on what just happened, and internally commands you not to. If you resurface the events, bring to light anything to do with his injury or lack of eye, he’ll explode. He can handle hearing of his inferiorities from his family, but not from you. He cannot bear to hear you speak of them, cannot bear to acknowledge that you understand he is incomplete, and undeserving.

You lower your voice, so only the prince can hear.

“I have a pre-eminent theory on our dragons behaviour today.”

Thank the seven you spoke nothing of his fears.

He turns his head to you; tension that palpitated from him in waves begins to soften when he looks at your excited expression. His interest piques, and you grin, raising your eyebrows.

“Will you tell me?”

“It is because they know our feelings unspoken.”

He furrows his brows a little at you, smile pulling tight. “I know that already, my lady.”

“No, I mean,” you shuffle a little in your chair so you may face him easier, using your hands to explain, “they understand our bond. Mine and yours. The bond between us.”

His face grows hot.

Us.

You continue, unaware of the way he’s repeating the word like a mantra in his head.

“They can clearly sense our growing bond. What we mean to one another. What we...” you pause, avoiding his eye, “will mean to one another. We are to be wed, of course. To be... one. I think they understand that. Whether they realize it is affecting their movements so perfectly, is beyond me, but... I do think they know what we mean to one another.”

“And what is that?”

He speaks before he can stop and correct himself.

You blink up at him, embarrassment at the open words of affection and his own question paints itself across your features in a red glow.

“A lady never tells!” you jest, turning back to your plate, laughing.

“A lady should tell her lord husband everything,” he sighs, giving you a sneaky side eye.

“I suppose a good lady wife would,” you muse.

“You do not plan on being a good lady wife to me?”

It’s obvious he’s joking; close enough with you now that teasing comments are good-natured, and only meant to poke fun.

“On the contrary, my betrothed. I shall be the most dutiful and honourable lady wife the realm has ever seen,” you say, smirking, and the words slip out before you can truly understand what it is you’re saying. “I plan on giving you Valyria.”

He cannot tell if you are joking.

Neither can you.

There is an awkward moment where neither of you say anything.

“Hmm,” he says, and you think that is all he will offer, until, “Then I suppose I should teach you the histories of Westeros, from your time until the present -- just as you wished.”

You notice he doesn’t use the word ‘Doom’, for your sake. You are grateful.

“I would like that very much, my prince.”

Supper continues with a pleasant atmosphere despite the earlier events. You exchange small talk and niceties with the King and Queen, talk about your plans to read and sew together with Helaena, and this time, there’s even a warm dessert brought out for you to all enjoy.

When dinner concludes, the prince asks if he may eat breakfast with you tomorrow morn, and voices that he wishes to walk you back to your chambers. You heartily agree, but his mother interrupts.

“Aemond, I wish to speak with High Lady y/n,” she says, giving you an empty smile. “So you may go on ahead.”

He seems apprehensive, for whatever reason, but bids you a warm goodnight nonetheless. Helaena hugs you, and promises to meet again tomorrow. The King gives you a happy smile, and with that, you are left alone in the company of Queen Alicent.

“Will you walk with me?” she asks, but you doubt you have little choice, following behind her as she stalks the corridors.

You walk in heavy silence until you reach what you assume is her apartments, and Ser Criston, much to your dismay, is standing guard outside. He greets the Queen with fondness, and you, with much less.

“Please sit,” she offers once you are inside.

She takes a seat by the lit fireplace, and beckons you over.

You are anything but naïve, clearly sensing that she’s brought you here to discuss a matter that must be sensitive. If it weren’t, she would have voiced her thoughts in the presence of others, and not taken you somewhere secluded with no witnesses to your conversation but her loyal kingsguard.

Only once you are settled, does she begin, and you brace yourself for what is to come.

“You seem to be getting on well with my son.”

It’s said without tone or emotion, and you feel she is not looking for an answer. Your suspisciouns are confirmed when the Queen continues, giving you no time to draft a response.

“It would be a terrible shame if he were hurt in this process.”

Ah.

You understand now. This is a threat disguised as motherly concern.

“Aemond has always been a shy boy,” she sighs, fixing her dress. “He’s rather grown out of that as his youth left him, but I know he still retains some form of softness. I can see it in the way he treats you. As my son, it is my duty to protect him, always. I worry for him, as his mother. He has already experienced enough struggle and torment to last him his entire life. It would truly be a great shame if he experienced any more.”

“Indeed,” you agree with a level voice, before saying, “May I ask what causes this concern, your grace?”

She blinks at you. “I am his mother, High Lady y/n. If the day comes when you are a mother, you will understand.”

Her tactics are as obvious as her fathers were, but the unspoken threat takes you slightly by surprise.

Why is she worried about her son being hurt by you? What can you do? You cannot leave the Keep -- you have nowhere to go; no living relatives, no people, no army, no alliances, not even any friends -- only dragons, and as of right now, only one. If there were any major disagreements between yourself and any member of the Targaryen family, including Prince Aemond, and a fight broke out, they have three adult dragons, and you only have one. If it boiled down to dire circumstances, and if they worked together, Dreamfyre, Sunfyre and Vhagar could easily overpower Archeon with little to no quarrel or effort. There would truly be nothing you could do.

But... if you had all five of your adult dragons together... there would be nothing anyone could do to stop you.

The Queen is holding your gaze, and you suddenly realise. This has nothing to do with her son, and everything to do with you. She already knows the odds, and, as they stand, her family has all the power. She cannot risk you gaining the upper hand. It falls into place, pieces itself together, and you realize now why Ser Erryk was reluctant to take you to see Archeon that night. Why members of the court become uneasy when you mention flying with him, and why there has been every effort made to stop you seeing him.

“Is this because of my dragons?” you ask.

She bristles but covers it well. “Of course not, my dear.”

Of course it is.

“I see,” you nod.

You understand now. She’s frightened. Who else feels this way? It is clear the Queen and the Hand are doing everything they can to stop you using Archeon to find your others, but... does Prince Aemond know? Does Helaena? Can you truly trust anyone?

You feel caught in a thick web, awaiting your own death, and what's worse, is that you entered of your own volition.

Or... are you just being paranoid?

The King himself took you to the beaches to see your dragon, and so, too did his son. Helaena speaks openly with you about her own dragon, and regards yours with fondness. Are you overthinking? Are you being overly cautious? If there were any real sense of threat from you, would they not have killed you already, or thrown you in the cells below the Keep? Why give you the life of a royal? Why betroth you to the prince?

“You may go,” the Queen says, slicing through your thoughts and gesturing to the door. “Please have a good night.”

You stand, bowing to her. “Goodnight, your grace.”

On the walk back to your apartments, the silence returns.

[ourfatherwhoartinhell]

A Dark Redemption // [Part III]

Prompt | "Mountain being found by Ivy in the woods, not summoned"

Word count | 1842

⚠️ Warnings | Mountain is kind of a spooky bitch at first, very possible OOC Ivy, story has a bit of a horror vibe.

Plot Summary: Livestock have been going missing from the back pasture, Siblings have been telling stories of a 'demon' in the woods. Terzo sends Ivy to investigate, only for the ghoul to find the woodland creature and give him a chance at redemption.

A/N: Another long part, but this is pretty much the end! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!! There is a small epilogue to wrap things up after this 🖤 xo Emery

[Prev][Next]

Ivy had a hard time sitting still during band practice the following day, eager to get back to the forest and begin Mountain’s lessons. The sooner he could get the new ghoul accustomed to the surface, the sooner he could bring him to Papa for protection.

“Are we done? Can we be done?”

Ifrit smirked as he looked over at Ivy standing behind the drum set. “Why, got a hot date?” Ivy just gave him the middle finger and looked back at Terzo.

“Yes, Ivy. We are done for the day.”

The Earth ghoul quickly thanked his Papa and hurried out of the practice hall to the forest. He approached the clearing where they agreed to meet. 

Mountain crept out of the shadows on all fours with his head tilted way too unnaturally to pass as a surface creature, slowly crawling towards the smaller ghoul.

“First things first, we need to teach you how to glamour, because this,” Ivy gestured to the almost 9 foot tall creature creeping in his direction, “is scary. Even for me.”

The next 2 hours were spent tirelessly helping Mountain find his perfect surface appearance. It was painful at first for the large ghoul to reduce his size so dramatically, but the more he did it, the more comfortable it became. He was still very tall for human standards, but it was at least passable. Ivy also brought some mice he caught to use as treats when the new ghoul was doing a good job.

‘It’s better than the Sister’s goats’, he thought.

Ivy was impressed at the new Earth ghoul’s eagerness to learn. Mountain would often ask questions about what he saw during the daytime, which he often spent quietly observing the Siblings from the shadows. Ivy gladly explained the intricacies of the interactions the younger ghoul witnessed, and how they were different from the way they do things down below.

The more he learned, the more Mountain enjoyed the simple complexities of the surface people. He never liked the way ghouls were hardwired with such violence, so the thought of being able to just 'be' was very enticing.

Mountain was a smart ghoul, he picked up on things easily. Ivy’s mind was already racing, thinking about what instrument Mountain would like to learn and the role he would play in the band when he introduced him to Papa.

Learning English was Mountain’s biggest struggle though. In the Pit, he would communicate the same as he did with Ivy at first, through chitters and rumbles. Since his mask shielded his mouth when he was not feeding, it made normal speech difficult. This type of communication is how kits talk before learning the satanic alphabet, so all ghouls had the ability to understand him. If not through the vibrations, then through his telepathic abilities.

Ivy brought Mountain children's books from Copia’s room and the library. He sat as the Earth ghoul read the stories back to him, correcting his pronunciation on some of the more difficult words and gradually increasing the difficulty. Ivy never knew this, but Mountain would sit and re-read each book to make sure he remembered, not wanting to disappoint the little ghoul. It was a little frustrating for him at first, being a ghoul with an extensive vocabulary in their native tongue, reduced to mere children's novels. However, that only fuelled his desire to learn.

It had been about a week and a half since Ivy had started Mountain’s lessons and he was almost ready to meet Papa. His English was still a little behind but he had been wearing his glamoured form every night, the new look now almost becoming second nature.

Tonight saw Ivy traipsing around the den, trying to find an outfit that would fit the large ghoul. Omega’s old uniform wouldn’t be perfect, but it’s the closest he could find. He packed up the large Quintessence ghoul’s old outfit and grabbed one of Earth’s old jackets, just in case Mountain was more comfortable wearing clothing from a ghoul who shared his element.

When Ivy made it to the clearing, Mountain was already waiting for him, sitting cross legged and reading.

“I think you’re ready to meet Papa, so I brought you some clothes. It won't be a perfect fit, but I hope they’ll do until the Sisters can make you your own.”

Placing the duffle bag on the grass, Mountain eagerly dug in and started to change. When he finally managed to get everything on, Ivy had a hard time not laughing. Omega’s pants were more like capri’s, and on his feet were only socks since he was unable to find boots that fit. Earth’s jacket almost fit him perfectly but the sleeves were still too short.

“I’m sorry about the shoes.”

Mountain just shrugged. “It’s alright. I don’t really like shoes.”

Ivy beamed with pride as he took in the sight, all the hard work had finally paid off. There's no way Terzo wouldn't let him in now. The two ghouls walked to the edge of the forest. Mountain momentarily pausing at the edge, his pointed ears drooping pensively.

“It’s going to be fine, I promise.”

Mountain looked up from his lowered gaze, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath. He stepped one foot onto the freshly cut grass, feeling the soft blades between his toes for the first time as he returned to Ivy’s side. There was a small bench situated at the back of the garden, mostly hidden by bushes and shrubbery. Ivy told Mountain to stay there while he went to go find Papa.

Ivy was not without worry though. He hoped his nightly lessons with Mountain were enough for the ghoul to be granted a home within the Ministry. He hoped Terzo wouldn’t want to send him back to the Pit for stealing the livestock and scaring the Siblings - both of which were punishable offences. Ivy’s mind raced with endless possibilities of how this could go, climbing the stairs to Terzo’s office and knocking lightly once he reached the door. 

“Come in!”

Ivy turned the knob and the door creaked as it swung open. Terzo was sitting at his desk, sorting through paperwork before he looked up.

“Ivy!” He said cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”

The ghoul shuffled his feet nervously. “Actually Papa, I’m here about your forest problem.”

“Ah, Si. It has been business as usual.” Terzo leaned back in his chair. “You must’ve scared it off!”

Ivy scratched the back of his neck, “Not exactly.”

Terzo sat up straighter, face contorting in confusion at the ghoul’s words.

“I was hoping I could show you something,” Ivy asked quietly. “In the garden.”

Terzo nodded and the Earth ghoul led the way.

The walk through the halls to the backyard was quiet, neither one of them speaking a word to break the anxious silence. Once they reached the garden, Ivy stopped short of the back terrace.

“What is it?” Terzo asked with his voice low, unsure what he was supposed to be seeing in the dark of the night.

Ivy looked through a hole in the bushes, a clear line to where Mountain was pruning the flowers around the trellis. Ivy motioned for Terzo to take his place.

Looking through the peephole, Terzo watched Mountain carefully look over the plants. He was using his powers - not to frighten and steal - but to create vibrant and healthy bouts of lilies and peonies. Happily picking dead leaves off the stems and willing new, healthy ones to grow in their place. It was quite a peaceful sight indeed.

Terzo backed away, unsure of what he was seeing. “Is he?”

Ivy nodded. “He’s a ghoul, an Earth ghoul in fact. He was the one eating your animals and scaring the Sisters. He was all but feral when I found him.” The small ghoul looked in Mountain’s direction adoringly. “I have been giving him lessons every night, he’s a quick learner and eager too. I had hoped you would grant him your blessing.”

To say Terzo looked shocked was an understatement. He didn’t know what to think. He needed a moment to process what his ghoul was telling him.

“I didn’t summon another Earth ghoul? I have you.”

“Clearly whoever did it wasn't aware and he just stayed where he was comfortable, in the forest." Ivy said honestly. "He didn’t know how to glamour or speak when I found him, but he can now.” Ivy looked at Terzo with hopeful eyes. “Please, Sir. I promise he is very sweet, he was just scared and confused. He didn’t know the rules.”

Terzo waved him off, feeling slightly uncomfortable under the ghoul’s pleading gaze. “Let me meet this poor ghoul before I make any unholy decisions.”

Ivy nodded in understanding and led his Papa to meet his young apprentice.

Mountain was just minding his own business, beyond content as he tended to the Sisters' tulips. Ivy returned with who he assumed was the man called ‘Papa’. Mountain stood, respectfully bowing as they approached.

“No need for such formalities young one,” Terzo spoke as he looked up at the tall ghoul, who now stood awkwardly in front of him. “I am told you were the demon in the woods? Scaring the Clergy is a big no-no.”

Mountain lowered his head in shame. “Yes, I apologize. I didn’t know where I was, I was very confused and frightened. I will accept the punishment for my crimes.”

“Oh no, that won't be necessary. Yes, I am a bit upset about my little cow, but alas. Ghouls must feed, no?” Terzo tilted his head, studying the large ghoul. “What can we call you?”

Mountain opened his mouth to speak his demonic title, before catching himself. “Mountain, Sir.”

Terzo smiled kindly and softly nodded. “Very appropriate, Mountain. And please, call me Papa. They all do.”

Ivy beamed brightly as he stood back, watching the scene unfold. Terzo allowing Mountain to call him Papa was a very good start.

“Of course… Papa.” Mountain spoke with a smile that was not hidden by a mask for the first time in his life. He finally felt like he was starting to belong somewhere.

“Ivy,” Terzo called, and the ghoul appeared at his side. “I believe I owe you a debt? He is your responsibility until he is more familiar with the surface. When he is ready, I promise to find a place for him.”

Looking from Ivy back to Mountain, Terzo’s face squinted in disgust. “But first things first, he needs a uniform that fits properly. I appreciate the effort, but this..." Terzo looked at Mountain from head to toe. "Is a tragedy.”

Ivy snorted with laughter, endlessly thanking Terzo for his generosity before the short man started the walk back to his study. Looking over at Mountain, the smaller Earth ghoul was glowing with happiness.

“Let's introduce you to the pack and get you a room.”

Mountain's eyes grew impossibly wide, “There are more ghouls here?”

“Of course, and they’re all excited to meet you!” Ivy chuckled.

[Next]

[sarcasticmirage]

Okay I can't find the post anymore, but a little while ago there was a poll about what animal coding Han Sooyoung had, and only four people said dragon, and yes I get it an aquatic animal, fits into the trio. And hsy is almost always figuratively knocking shit off counters, so cat works too... but have you considered i will die on this hill

novel spoilers!

So this all starts with one part in orv that has always been a sticking point for me: why is hsy's constellation ABFD?

It always seemed weird to me because kdj and yjh have both never had sponsors that were not part of the trio, and in a complete parallel kdj and hsy were both constellations who both had yjh as their incarnation (reader and writer only able to communicate through a character). So all this works... but where the hell does ABFD come in? To be honest, it makes more sense for 1864 hsy to be sponsored by secretive plotter, it ties the trio even closer thematically and even makes sense considering the contract that the two of them make in the early scenarios. So why ABFD?

The easiest answer is that it's meant to draw parallels between kdj and hsy, with both of them having similarities to Kim Namwoon, and at times acting as a villain or antagonist to the narrative. The other meta explanation is that if hsy had a strange sponsor or no sponsor at all, it would clue the audience in, that hsy is just as distinctly important to the world as kdj and yjh... and make it harder to convince the reader that she "totally didn't" write twsa. But there are easier ways to draw parallels that aren't as core to the story, and why of all constellations was abyssal black flame dragon chosen?

Because hsy, herself, is a Dragon...

Dragons are important to ORV, the most destructive thing within the star stream, and in some ways the only thing that could kill yjh, so what does it mean to be a dragon?

This conversation with the apocalypse dragon is the only real time that dragons as a thematic are brought up, and on the re-read, damn do most of these descriptors sound like hsy, or at least the perception, at this point, of the twsa author. The author is viewed as "the origin of evil" in ORV, they're the person who has made each of the scenarios and has caused all suffering in the characters lives. Hsy, similarly, when we first meet her is a villain, using the apostles to directly control canon and attack kdj as well as our whole primary cast.

However after hsy is revealed as the author of the novel and her story is told, we learn that she "was chained to restrictions" giving her only a few hours a day to be in control of her body and it was during this time that she was "the scenario's target of submission" made to make the scenarios, yes to save kdj, but also because she had always made them, without them already existing she could never have gone back to create them in the first place, but she is never given the chance to exist in the main story beyond this role. Before the end of the story, she is mainly seen by the narrative as either a villain, or someone forced to suffer (50 yrs later). Yjh is the protagonist of twsa. Kdj is the protagonist of ORV. As for hsy?

One of the most classical concepts in storytelling is that of a Hero, Damsel, and a Dragon.

The Hero embarks on a perilous journey to save the Damsel from imprisonment,

The Damsel is stuck alone and far away from those she loves,

The Dragon guards the Damsel to the point that she is trapped away from others.

These roles are even referenced in one of hsy and kdj's first conversations:

Kdj is not the Hero,

he's the Damsel.

Hsy is not the Damsel,

she's the Dragon.