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daydreamerwoah · 2 days

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Family Tree

Alright so this was the first chapter I posted on my AO3. I hadn't started on a new chapter (cause I really abandoned this idea lol). But I think this is the second story I want to work on... It'll be a slow burn, so I think I'll be taking my time writing this. But I want to see how you all like the first chapter... send me all the feedback (if it's a stupid idea please tell me lol!)

Simon x you story <3

Moving. It was something you were so unpleasantly familiar with. You had moved more times than you could count in your lifetime. But moving to Hereford, UK.... what creator above the skies decided on that? You could have said no; you had a choice..... yet you chose to move halfway across the world to that small town all because of the phone call you received a couple of months ago.

"H-hello?" you groggily asked when you set your phone on your ear.

"Hi may I speak with Y/n Greene?" the voice on the other end of the line was chipper; awake. And a thick British accent.

One of your eyes opened to look at the clock on your nightstand. It read 1:48am. Who the hell was calling you, awake, at this hour?

"Yeah? Who is this?"

"My name is Colonel Henry Williams... I'm calling you about your father-"

"-My father?" Your other eye opened as you sat up in bed, confused.

"Yes ma'am... Major Charles Campbell."

You had no idea who the guy was talking about, "I'm sorry. Who?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. You almost wondered if the man hung up the phone until he spoke again. "Y're Y/n Greene no?"

"Yes. Look I don't know who-"

"- is your mother's name Mary Greene?" You froze. How did he know that? You answered 'yes' as you turned the lamp on your nightstand, "Alright. You're the right contact then. Miss, I'm sorry to have to tell you this," he paused for a moment, "Y're father - Charles Campbell - recently passed away."

While any other child would be devastated to hear the news that their parent has just died, you were more confused than anything. Your mom and dad were still in Chicago. And while you hadn't spoken to them in a long time, you knew for a fact that if either of them passed your aunt would have called you; not some British guy claiming he was a Colonel......right?

When you hung up from him, you almost went back to sleep. Except your mind was racing. None of it made sense, yet something in your gut was telling you to call the one woman you had been avoiding since you graduated from college. Your eyes glanced back at the clock; 2:30am. You guessed you could wait until at least the sun was up before dialing her number. So you did. Painfully slow as you couldn't go back to sleep. You found yourself pacing around your apartment for those four hours until you knew - or assumed - your mother would be up getting ready for work. When the time neared 7am, your shaky hands scrolled your phone to the contact 'Mary'. If it had been any other situation, you would have scoffed at the name. Most people have 'Mom' in their phone for the parent who gave them birth. But you.... you hadn't called her that in a long time.

"Y/n?" she answered. Not even a proper hello.

"Hey uh.. sorry to be calling so early-" you stumbled over your words. You were nervous.

"-Oh it's okay.."

There was a long, awkward pause. You nervously bit your lip. A part of you wanted to ask how was she doing, but you knew better. The answer would always be the same.

"Listen.... I got a call from someone last night. Well early this morning. Something about my dad? Charles Campbell?" You rushed out before you chickened and hung up the phone in her ear.

The sharp breath you heard on her end of the line made you shut your eyes.

"C-Charles?"

You sighed, "Yes..."

She stuttered, "I-I.... oh Y/n. I mean-"

"-You told me Rick was my dad." You declared a harsher than you wanted to be."

"He is your dad sweetie."

Frustration swam through your veins, "Don't lie to me Mary."

Another long and awkward pause between your conversation almost caused you to hang up the phone, but then you heard her sniffle. A long story full of emotions came babbling out of her mouth as she explained the full truth about Charles Campbell. He was your real dad.

A lot of cursing and yelling came from your mouth as she continued to tell you why she never told you; why she thought it was for the best to keep this secret. Even your - well now stepdad - knew everything, yet no one said a goddamn thing. You were so sick of her bullshit. Your whole life was nothing but chaos and it all came from her choices. The constant moving, her in and out of mental institutions and rehab, Rick's constant distaste for you in your own house. You were so lucky to have left all of it behind when you turned 18, but it wouldn't be easy. It's never easy letting go of someone you're supposed to love. College years were spent struggling to keep up your grades and cleaning up the mess from those two adults.

You thought back to the conversation with the Colonel and his offer; to move to England since the house was left to you from your dad's will. An opportunity you thought about for two days before calling the man and stating you would be there. A part of you just wanted to see the other part of the world. The other part was ready to get away from it all forever. Your aunt cried when you told her. Your job was a bit sad, but like any job, they would find a replacement. Your mom... well you hadn't spoken to her since that day when she told you everything.

It was the beginning of a new life.

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

You dashed into the cafe from the rain. It was one thing you had quickly gotten used to, but still sometimes hated. The rain was comforting, but not when you were trying to get to work. You had yet to buy a damn umbrella although you kept telling yourself you would. There was a line that formed in front of the register and you internally sighed as you pulled the hood off of your head. You glanced down at your watch; you had some time before you needed to be at work so it eased your mind a little bit. At least the cafe was warm inside with its aroma of coffee, tea, and soft jazz music.

When it was your turn to order, you asked for the same drink you always got; a latte and made it to go. The barista gave you the same curious look as she did each time she saw you. You quickly paid for your drink and took a few steps back to turn around to stand off to the side to wait for your order when you backed up into something hard.

"Shit sorry," you quietly said as you turned and looked at what you bumped into.

"S'alright" the gentleman said.

He was tall; massive; arms bigger than the side of your thigh, with a balaclava on. He had his hood up that was drenched from the rain outside. His dark clothing made his presence feel colder. You blushed in embarrassment from bumping into him; being clumsy in public seemed to be something you did at times. The man's eyes raked over you as you looked back at him. A beat went by until you realized that you standing in his way from ordering; the barista clearing her throat loudly. You quickly moved out of the way and waited for your drink, hoping they'd call out the order before the man finished placing his at the register. Luck - not on your side today - slipped away as he made his way in your direction to wait on his drink as well. He stood next to you, crumbling the receipt in his hand and placing both in his pockets.

God he was huge; 6'3" compared to your height, he towered over you even with the space between.

When the barista called out your order, you quickly walked up to the counter, grabbed the to-go cup, and thanked the girl. The man's eyes followed you... curiosity lingering behind the mask as he took in your presence - slightly flustered and in a hurry. You took one last look at him, offering a quick smile before dashing out of the cafe to work, thankful to be out of the awkward situation.

Being a nurse, you're saving lives each day, but still, there was a big difference from being a nurse in a different country. You were buddied up with another nurse, Ella to help with your onboarding and training. She was a few years younger than you and was eager to help you find your way around the hospital and systems. The thing that stood out to you the most was the dog tags she wore around her neck. In the beginning, you asked her if she was ex-military, but she only smiled and told you that it was her boyfriend's tags. He was in the military and often gone so she wore them as a form of good luck that he'd return to her safe.

"The base is 'bout 15 minutes from here," she explained.

You only nodded and smiled; you were aware of where the base was. The first day you arrived, you met Colonel Williams at the airport who escorted you to his office. There was paperwork you had to sign regarding your father, including his house, assets, and more that they had information on and they were able to help sort it all out with you. The Colonel even offered assistance with you finding a job - which he helped you get at the hospital. You couldn't have been more grateful honestly.

It was also something you hadn't really talked to Ella about. She only knew that you moved to the area because of family, and she easily picked up on how uncomfortable you were to even say that. You stayed to yourself mostly, and that's how you wanted it to be. Although she was determined to break down those walls you had. Deep down she and you both knew that you needed a friend, someone to lean on. You didn't know anyone in the entire country, and if anything were to happen to you, at least she would be there to call the police. But you were stubborn; that was for sure.

Ella glanced at you, "You want to go for drinks after our shift?" she asked.

Every muscle in your body tensed as you wrote down your shift notes. You briefly looked up as you responded to her, "Uh sorry. I need to take care of a few things after work."

You didn't lie... you didn't tell the full truth either. But Ella didn't need to know that. While you didn't have to take care of anything per se, you did need to go somewhere after you got off.

"Maybe next time then," she smiled.

One thing about Ella... she wouldn't let your rejections to hang out deter her from asking any chance she got.

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

The sun was setting as you walked past the many gravestones looking for the one you needed to find. The air was chilly from the rain earlier, making you shiver a bit as you continued on the path.

Even though you had been in that town for almost a month, you had yet to visit your dad. It felt.... strange; paying respects to someone you never knew. But as you strolled up to the tombstone that read his name, a part of you felt like this was all a dream. Maybe even a nightmare that you couldn't wake up from. You laid the flowers in front of the grave as you continued to look at his name - Major Charles Campbell.

"Uh.. I know..." you put your hands in your pocket, nervous about what the hell to even say out loud, "I-I'm Y/n... your daughter...... To be honest, I'm a bit lost for words right now. I had no idea you were my dad," a soft and bitter chuckle escaped your lips, "If Mary was anything back then like she is now, then I'm sorry you had to deal with her-" a long sigh drew from you, "but I'm here now.... I'm sorry I never got to meet you.... a Colonel is helping me sort everything out so I'll get the keys to the house soon." You look up at the sky, cursing to yourself at how stupid you thought you sounded, "Charles - dad - even though I didn't know you, I hope I'll get to see you in heaven one day. Maybe you can tell me all about you."

You hadn't realized that a lone tear trickled down your cheek until you felt the cold breeze. You quickly wiped it away before sticking your hand back in your pocket and turning to leave the cemetery.

If you all do like this and want me to continue, let me know. If you want to be tagged I will add you :)

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meazalykov · 2 days

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nationality switch

esmee brugts x uswnt!dutch!reader

summary: choosing a national team almost made you drift away from the person you love most

warnings: angst

it’s been a long time since you’ve seen esmee, since that fight—since everything changed.

you’re sitting in the corner of a cozy café in barcelona, sipping your iced coffee, lost in your thoughts about how things used to be. the only noise around you is the coffee machines brewing or the ovens beeping in the background of your thoughts.

you never expected to see her today. you thought she moved to arsenal in london. a club that she mentioned her interest in. but then again, nothing with esmee ever goes as planned.

the bell above the café door chimes, and you look over at the door on instinct. when you see her, your stomach flips. is that her? you had to do a double take.

it is esmee. her eyes lock on yours instantly, and for a second, it’s like no time has passed. the familiarity, the memories, all come rushing back. you miss her, but the weight of your last conversation—the fight—hangs heavily between you both.

you don’t move. you don’t know if you should, and maybe she doesn’t either, because she hesitates before walking over. you freeze before you see her stop at the counter.

you took a deep breath before she gets her flat white and walks over.

when she finally reaches your table, you see that same spark in her eyes, but there’s something else now. something different.

“hey,” she says, her voice soft, almost tentative, as if she’s afraid of how you’ll respond.

you raise an eyebrow, trying to keep things light.

“esmee, how did you even find me?”

she offers a small smile, a little suspicious.

“we never turned off each other’s locations on our phones.”

that breaks the tension for a moment, and you can’t help but laugh.

it’s such a typical esmee thing to say. well for you, as someone who is the closest to her. she never fails to make a heavy moment become lighter. you shake your head at the absurdity of it all.

“of course.”

she sits down across from you at the wooden table, and suddenly, the reality of everything hits. you’re both here in barcelona. after all this time, all the distance, somehow, fate—or maybe something else—has pulled you back together.

it feels like you’re supposed to be here, like you were always meant to end up on the same team again. it hasn't been too long since you were both at psv. your contracts ended at the same time and you had a bad feeling that it would've been your last time together.

it wasn't.

“so…” esmee starts, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the napkin in front of her. “i heard the news.”

you nod slowly. “yeah. barca. i guess it was inevitable, huh?”

“inevitable,” she echoes, her gaze dropping to the table before lifting back to meet yours.

“we were always supposed to end up here together, it was our dream.”

the silence stretches between you both, and it’s not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. there’s so much unsaid, and you know it. she knows it.

the past months have been complicated. after the women’s world cup, after that game against the netherlands where you scored that header, after you told her that you weren't going to represent the netherlands on the senior level, things between you two were…different.

“you were mad,” you say softly, cutting through the silence.

her eyes darken slightly, and she nods, not bothering to deny it. “yeah, i was.”

“because I celebrated my goal?”

“because it felt like you were celebrating more than just a goal,” she admits.

“it felt like you were celebrating the fact that you chose them over us. over me.”

throwback to july 26th, 2023

it’s the 62nd minute, and the game between the u.s and the netherlands is 0-1. the tension is suffocating—this isn’t just any group stage match.

it’s a battle between two teams who were in the finals of the last world cup. the netherlands want revenge.

for you, it’s personal. you are dutch and american. your mother was born and raised in eindhoven, while your dad is an american who studied there then met your mother.

while growing up, you considered yourself to be dutch. you never lived in the united states. however, you've wondered what it was like to live over there.

at the age of 8 you met your bestfriend, esmee, at a soccer club. the both of you grew up, joined psv together, and played for the dutch youth teams together.

when your father expressed how he wanted you to chose the uswnt when you reached the senior level, you didn't count him out. the team was the best in the world.

the 2019 world cup solidified your decision to represent your father's side of the family. however, sometimes you think about the other world where you chose the dutch team instead of the americans.

you jog back to your position for a corner kick being taken by rose lavelle, feeling the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders.

your heart pounds in your chest, and as you glance toward the dutch goal, your eyes flicker briefly to the orange clad figure on the left. esmee.

she’s looks at you briefly, her expression unreadable. for a split second, it’s like time slows down. you remember the late nights practicing at psv, the laughter, the way she used to tell you that you’d both dominate the world together one day.

now, you’re on opposing sides, thanks to you choosing your other nationality.

the whistle blows. you snap back to the present, focusing on the corner being taken.

the ball soars through the air, heading toward the front post. you leap, eyes locked on the ball, and your timing is perfect. you rise above the defenders, connecting with the ball in a powerful header that rockets past the dutch goalkeeper.

goal!

for a moment, the world stops. then the noise of the crowd hits you like a wave, and you’re running, arms outstretched in celebration. your teammates swarm around you, shouting, grabbing your jersey, jumping on your back.

you can hear julie yelling for you and lindsey clapping you on the back with a proud grin. it’s chaos—pure joy, adrenaline, and pride.

but as you slow down, turning back toward midfield, your eyes find esmee again.

she’s standing there, watching, her expression unreadable at first. in the moment that you look away before turning back, you see it: the hurt. the disbelief. you know it’s not just about the goal. it’s about everything else.

you swallow the lump forming in your throat and try to focus on your teammates still celebrating around you, but esmee’s look is burned into your mind.

she goes back on the left-back then stands, her hands clenched into fists by her sides, it looks as if she’s frozen. you see her teammates—players you grew up with on youth teams—pat her on the back, but it’s clear she’s not hearing them.

it’s the celebration that did it. you know it. the way you threw your fists in the air, the way you smiled at your teammates like this goal was everything.

to esmee, it wasn’t just a goal against the netherlands. it was a statement, a reminder that you chose the united states over the netherlands, over her.

as the game resumes, you push the thought to the back of your mind. you have to stay focused. there’s still time left, and the dutch team isn’t going to back down easily. but every time you glance in esmee’s direction, it stings.

you see the frustration in her movements, the way she presses forward with even more intensity than before. she’s angry—at you, at the situation—and it shows.

the game ends and its tied. the rest of her team is exhausted, but she doesn’t even wait for the usual post-match handshakes and shirt swaps. she walks straight down the tunnel, disappearing from view, and a pit forms in your stomach.

you want to go after her, explain that the celebration wasn’t meant to hurt her. but deep down, you know this moment has been building for a long time.

the decision to play for the united states on the senior level, the arguments, the silence between you two—it’s all led to this.

in the locker room, your teammates are quiet, they’re focused on the next match.

your thoughts are stuck on esmee. you stare down at your phone, wondering if you should text her, try to explain. but what could you say? what could make this better?

back to the barcelona cafe, a month later

you blink, taken aback by the raw honesty in her words.

you’ve had months to think about it—about what it meant when you chose to play for the uswnt, about how your dad had always pushed you to follow in his footsteps. but you didn’t think esmee would take it this personally.

“esmee, it wasn’t about that,” you say, voice soft, almost pleading.

“you know it wasn’t like that.”

it was your first goal for the national team. it happened to be against your other country, the other country that wanted you to play for them too.

your mother is dutch, and your father is american– so you had a tough decision to make.

esmee shakes her head, and for a moment, you think she’s going to argue. but then she sighs, leaning back in her chair.

“i know. but it hurt. i wanted you to play with me and for the oranje. i wanted us to play together, like we always did in eindhoven. and then, when you celebrated after that goal…it felt like you’d forgotten everything we’d had.”

“i didn’t forget. i could never forget,” you say, and it’s the truth. you haven’t forgotten a single moment.

“but esmee, you know how much my dad wanted this for me.”

“i know,” she whispers, and there’s pain in her voice.

“but i wanted you to want the same things i did. i wanted you to choose me.”

her words hit you hard, and for a second, you can’t respond. this is about more than just football, more than just a decision you had to make when choosing a national team.

it’s about the two of you—about what you’ve meant to each other all these years.

“esmee,” you start, leaning forward, trying to make her understand. “it wasn’t about choosing them over you. you mean everything to me. i-i didn’t even realize—”

“that’s the thing,” she interrupts, her voice trembling slightly.

“i was upset because i always want to be around you. it was selfish, maybe, but it’s the truth. i thought…i thought i was going to lose you when you chose them. what if you didn’t choose to come to barcelona? what if i didn’t? we wouldn’t see each other anymore..”

you frown, confused. “esmee, you’re never going to lose me. what are you talking about?”

she bites her lip, her eyes searching yours, and suddenly, it’s like all the walls she’s built up come crashing down. her hands stop gripping on her coffe cup and goes to gently hold your right hand instead.

you froze.

“i’m talking about how i feel about you,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

you feel your heart skip a beat, and for some reason, her confession doesn’t surprise you.

it’s like you always knew, like a part of you had been waiting for her to say it out loud. she’s been your best friend for years, but deep down, maybe you always knew there was something more.

the left-back never made her crush on you a hidden secret. she was never outright, but her actions towards you spoke for itself.

“es…” you start, but you don’t know what to say. so instead, you reach across the table, gently taking your other hand and holding hers.

she looks at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, like she’s terrified of what you’ll say next.

“i like you too,” you say softly, your thumb brushing over the back of her hand.

“i think i always have.”

her eyes widen even more, but there’s a soft smile playing on her lips now.

“really?”

you nod, giving her a small smile in return. “yeah. really.”

you stand up slowly, moving around the table, and she doesn’t pull away when you lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead.

it feels right and natural, like something you should’ve done a long time ago. you wanted to, but you didn't know how she felt about you then.

nobody was present in the cafe instead of the barista who was too focused on making drinks, so you didn’t feel embarrassed to kiss her.

when you pull back, esmee smiling up at you, and for the first time in months, you feel like things between you two might finally be okay.

“so…barcelona, huh?” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

esmee laughs, that familiar sound you’ve missed so much. “yeah. looks like we’re stuck together again.”

you grin, squeezing her hand gently. “good. i wouldn’t want it any other way.”

my masterlist is here if you want to read more!

#esmee brugts #woso fanfics #woso community #woso x reader #barcelona femeni #fc barcelona #oranjeleeuwinnen #meazalykov #wlw

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whocaresstillthelouvre · 2 days

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Gold Rush

Dieter Bravo x Female Reader

Rating: Teen. Summary: It's the day after your husband left you, Dieter still remains, is his presence and support the reason why you feel okay? Warnings: pov switching, pining, fluff, comfort, marijuana use, champagne, drunken feelings, confessions using a taylor swift song, pizza Words: 5,330

A/N: Golden Girl and Dieter have not left my mind since I wrote them. I couldn't believe how much @almostfoxglove's gorgeous moodboard (see above) that she created with my prompts of "Dieter x adoration x gold" matched my ideas for the follow-up sooo I wrote it out. I hope you enjoy.

Previous Chapter Masterlist

***

You’re awoken by a grumbling snore and a solid heat pressed against your cheek. Your tired eyes blink open and are greeted by a faded wine stained heather gray chest. Dieter.

For a split second, there is confusion, a moment of panic flickers through you. Then it all comes back to you–the heartbreak of yesterday.

The flood of emotions, the tears, Warren’s cold, unblinking blue eyes as he told you he’d fallen in love with someone else. No remorse. Just the simple truth, delivered in his same steady voice he’d use for his clients, as if your marriage now meant nothing. And then he was gone, walking out of the door you’d painted his favorite color green. Then, your shaking hands calling the only person you knew who would be there for you. Dieter.

You don’t know if it was the exhaustion of your marriage ending or Dieter’s body against yours, but you haven’t slept that deeply in years.

Now, you gently pull away, your gaze lingering on him as he sleeps. Fluffy, tousled hair fans across the pillow, his parted plush lips gently percolate out snores. The lines of stress and mischief that crease his face are much gentler and relaxed in his slumber. The sunlight peeking through the curtain casts a golden strip across his face that turns his skin amber and his dark hair almost hazel.

You usually don’t allow yourself to stare at him like this, constantly fighting the pull you’ve always felt towards him, like an invisible string that keeps getting tangled and knotted. That night in the dive bar–years ago–kissing his whiskey soaked lips, feeling the deep rumble of laughter left against your lips when you finally pulled away. You could have had him then.

But you didn’t. You were too enamored by his handsome blue-eyed friend. Warren.

Warren, who said all the right thing, who made you believe everything you wanted to hear, even if half of it was lies. You feel so idiotic.

Dieter’s breathing is steady, his broad chest rises and falls keeping time with the soft hum of his snores. The gold hoop of his earring catches the light. You’ve been enamored with it since that first night you met him all those years ago. A forbidden ring held within his ear, you always wondered how it felt, to be able to freely touch him. Sometimes your hand would reach for it, before your eye would catch the glint of your wedding band. Forbidden, off limits, you’re kept by someone else.

Now, no longer answering to anyone, you let your shocking newfound independence make you happy for once. It’s just you and him, lying in the middle of the bed you bought from Pottery Barn with your ex-mother-in-law, and for the first time you don’t feel guilty for looking at him.

Slowly, almost reverently, your hand hovers over his ear, feeling the soft brush of his hair as you softly pass your finger over the metal ring, a connection to the feelings you’ve always had for him. You pull your hand away, too scared to let the emotions long-held for him take place in your heart.

“Dee,” you croak, your voice is rough from sleep and all of the tears shed from yesterday.

His eyelids flutter open, chocolate brown eyes blinking open, soft and unfocused before crinkling at the edges as a yawn stretches across his face.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low and groggy. The warm smile he gives you makes your broken heart begin mending itself right then and there.

“It’s almost noon.”

He yawns again, his large hand brushing over his face as he props himself up. He slowly comes to life, a haze of sleep still lingering in his eyes.

“Shit, almost noon huh?” his voice rasps deep from sleep. “You okay?”

A simple question, one that you’ve been asked so few times the past few years as your marriage has grown stagnant and lifeless. You nod, though not entirely sure of your answer.

“I know it was a rough day,” he says, sympathy pouring out of his voice. “I-I’m glad you called me.”

“I am too,” you whisper.

Dieter shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, his gaze stays on you. “Warren’s an idiot,” the firmness of his voice surprises you. “He never deser–”

Right then the loud growl of your stomach interrupts.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks, pulling away from you.

“Uh, lunch yesterday?” It hadn’t even occurred that you’d gone that long without food.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to see if you were hun–“

“It’s okay Dee,” you quickly reassure, “I don’t think I could’ve even eaten anything yesterday.”

He studies you for a second, his gaze softens. “Well, I make a mean bowl of cereal or I can order us breakfast if you want something more serious.”

��Cereal’s good.”

He stretches and sits up. “Coming right up,” he says, standing and moving to the door.

“You don’t know where anything is!” you call after him.

He pauses, turning back. “That’s never stopped me before,” he winks, causing butterflies to plume in your stomach, the kind you haven’t felt in ages.

The clattering of cupboards being rifled through finally makes you extract yourself from bed.

“Dee!” you shout as you walk down the hall, “I’ll grab everything!”

You send a quick glimpse into the bedroom you used to share with Warren as you tie your robe tighter and head downstairs.

The sun is glaring through the open curtains, yours and Dieter’s phones lay silent on the coffee table. Nobody knows. Warren said it was your decision over who you want to tell. How chivalrous.

“Hey,” Dieter greets you with a smile, as he puts the milk on the counter. “I found the milk and spoons.”

You shake your head, moving around him to pull two bowls out of the cupboard.

“You put the coffee on at least, that’s most important,” you say, grabbing the box of cereal from the pantry. “All I have are Corn Flakes.”

—

The domesticity of it all is not lost on him. Dieter sits next to you at the breakfast bar happily munching on his corn flakes covered in three tablespoons of sugar.

He’s had this dream so many times before. Bright sunlight shining through the kitchen window above the sink that overlooks the garden you take so much pride in, coffee in the light blue mugs with the little birds you were so proud to find at the antique store off of La Cienega, the sound of you eating and just quietly existing next to him. He never wants to wake up.

The first thing he saw today was you, your voice was the first thing he heard. It’s not a dream, it’s really happening here, in this home you used to share with his best friend–or–who used to be his best friend. Warren probably doesn’t even know he’s here, that he was the one you chose to call and to be consoled by. Too oblivious and self obsessed to realize that all these years Dieter’s been secretly in love with his wife. How could he not fall for you?

He glances towards you, wanting to tell you everything in his heart, only choosing the most obvious statement. “I’m here for you, you know that, right?”

“I know Dee, it means… a lot, but you don’t have to be here, I’m okay… really.”

“Trust me, I want to be here Sweets,” he knocks his shoulder against yours. It’s just about the only physical touch he can trust himself to make. He wants to hold you through all of this, keep your body as close to his as possible. Shield you, go to battle for you, be your soldier. All he can afford is a singular shoulder tap.

“You’ve never given me reason to not,” you sigh.

He never wants to let you down, never wants to make you feel like you’re less than deserving of the whole world. He just has to wait. Good things take time.

“What do you want to do today?”

“Not sure. Definitely get out of this robe and into some actual clothes.”

He thanks his lucky stars, as much as he loves you in the fluffy robe, his heart can’t take the brief glimpses of your upper thigh or chest as the fabric swishes across your body. “Do you want me to grab your clothes for you?”

“No, I-it’s gotta happen sooner than later… i-it’s weird, I know he just left me and everything, but–I don’t know Dee–it’s been not fun being me. Here, cooped up in this house just waiting for my husband to decide to like me and spend time with me. You know?” Your shoulders deflate, he gazes at your crestfallen side profile, still so beautiful even when you’re heartbroken.

You take a swig of coffee, he follows the lines of your delicate neck as you swallow the liquid down. Your skin is always so beautiful, but in this light, it transfixes him. “This is the fourth time he’s cheated on me.”

He coughs at your confession. His brows rise in surprise, he never knew about the others. “I-I had no idea,” he murmurs. His heart drops, how fucking dare Warren.

“We didn’t let it be known, I couldn’t deal with–anybody knowing and them judging me. He’d come back, and swear he would change. Why do you think my wedding ring kept getting bigger and bigger? He’d get me something shinier every time he’d fuck someone else… like I’m some sort of crow wife.”

He snickers, you’re still the funniest girl he’s ever met, even when you’re talking about your piece of shit husband.

“And now, NOW he's found the one. All those times I’d let him back, he told me I was the only one for him.” Tears sprout in your eyes. He thinks of all those years you’ve wasted, all those lies you believed, and now, you’re left just as empty as your cereal bowl. “I feel like a fool, he’s been cheating on me for almost a year with her. I just sat idly by, ignoring all of the cracks in the foundation, all of the same signs I had seen before, he’d call me crazy. I guess a person can only be gaslit for so long before they burn up. The house has been crumbling for the past few years, and I just kept thinking maybe it would change… and the cracks just got bigger until… he left. Now I’m left here trying to rebuild and trying to figure out what I did wrong.”

“Nothing,” he says, his voice firmer than he intended. “You did nothing wrong. Warren’s always been the ‘take what I want when I want’ type. It’s him, not you.”

You solemnly nod, eyes staring unblinking at your spoon swirling in the milky white expanse of your empty cereal bowl. “And I just had to fall in love with him. I feel so foolish.” Your voice floats into his ears, flowing down to his heart squeezing the organ that pumps only for you.

“Hey,” he whispers, “I’ve been best friends with him for almost thirty years. If you’re a fool, then I’m one too.”

You look at him, his eyes meet yours. He offers you a small smile that you return with a nod. You’re sweeter than the cereal milk he just got done slurping out of his bowl.

“Well,” you sigh, tapping the counter and breaking the miniscule moment of understanding. “I can’t do any more of this sad stuff today. I can’t be miserable all day. II know what I want to do tonight.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, raising a curious brow.

“Yep. Drink,” you sigh. “Like, a lot.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I want to forget, just for tonight… and then tomorrow I’ll have to deal with all of the bullshit.”

He doesn’t mention to you that the last time only the two of you drank together, his marriage to Anika had just ended. Now it’s a tradition. “I can help with that. Do you need me to go grab some booze?”

“Nope,” you hop off the barstool and pad over to the wine fridge. You bend over, he strangles his napkin when he gets a glimpse of your upper thighs before he looks away. Not right now.

You pull a fancy looking bottle out of the fridge. “We were supposed to have this for our tenth anniversary. Some dumb expensive bottle of champagne he bought while we were on vacation in France.”

He grabs it from the counter top, eyebrows rising at the fancy label.

“Wow. Thirty-five year old Bollinger, huh? That’s the stuff the queen drinks.” “Of course you’d know that,” you tease, rolling your eyes as you put the champagne in the fridge. “I’m gonna clean up, hop into the shower and change. I don’t know if you want to head to your place and grab some clothes?”

He looks down at his stained shirt and pajama pants he’s been wearing since he woke up yesterday afternoon. He wasted no time in changing when he got the call from you. He could certainly also use a shower.

“If you’re okay with me leaving for a bit,” he hesitates.

“I am, really Dee,” you assure. “I’m going to head upstairs. Come over around five?”

“Five works,” he smiles. Hating the rush of nerves he feels of spending another night only with you.

“You’re the best Dee,” you smile.

He doesn’t know whether to shake Warren for leaving someone like you or thank him as he deposits his bowl in the sink and grabs his keys and phone.

—

The master bedroom is just as it was left yesterday, besides the empty side of Warren’s closet and vanity. How kind of him to move out while you’re left crying on the couch. You were his wife for eight years. Over three thousand days of marriage. A mortgage, two cars, three credit cards with unspent reward points, multiple bank accounts. God, there’s so much to do.

Not today.

Today you’re going to push down these terrible feelings, today you’re going to focus on the future of what can be once you trudge through all of this. Today you’re going to spend the day taking care of yourself and then tonight, you’re going to get drunk with your friend Dieter.

The gold frame on your bedside table catches your eye. Ah, your Australia trip last year, a surprise excursion from Warren. You’re pretty sure he was talking to her while the two of you explored the outback. You thought that trip was the beginning of something new and better for the two of you. It only took a week after your return home for him to start working late and having meetings in other states again.

You love the frame that holds the picture of better days with Warren, you found it at an antique store Dieter told you about. You’ve always loved vintage decor, Warren always preferred brand new, he never liked the idea of “other people’s trash littering his home.” You open the back of the frame, pull out the photo, and crumble it in your hands before setting the empty frame back on the table. One day, it’ll hold a picture of true happiness—one day, there will be someone else to smile with.

You shed your robe and drop it in the hamper before standing in front of your mirror. You look the same, really. Only thing that might give away your husband left you are your eyes that sit a little redder and puffier and your naked ring finger.

A glance at your phone shows a couple of missed texts and calls. Nothing important. Still no word from Warren. You feel foolish for expecting anything more from him.

All the tears you shed yesterday suddenly feel ridiculous. All those tears fell for a man who could barely be grown enough to check on how you’re doing today. You’ve read of slow burns in romance novels, but what about a slow snuff? Where your marriage just gradually dies, suffocated by indifference, until Warren’s selfishness finally snuffed it out. There’s a sense of freedom now, like you no longer have to lie to yourself. Now you just have to figure out how to move on.

You scroll to the playlist Dieter sent you a few weeks ago, smiling to yourself at the realization that as your marriage fizzled, your’s and Dieter’s friendship grew warmer. You turn the tap on as the first song plays.

'Round your city, 'round the clock Everybody needs you No, you can't make everybody equal Although you got beaucoup family You don't even got nobody bein' honest with you

Frank Ocean. Your’s and Dieter’s shared favorite. Warren can’t stand him, of course. When Dieter got tickets to a Frank Ocean concert, Warren spent the night rolling his eyes while you and Dieter screamed lyrics, danced under the strobe lights, and passed a joint back and forth. Anika and Warren stood behind you both, glued to their phones, ruining what should’ve been an unforgettable night with their sulking.

You laugh out loud to yourself at your stupidity. Why did you stay?

The shower feels good and refreshing. You scrub your skin with your favorite body scrub and use your favorite conditioner you buy from the boutique next to your favorite cafe. It’s now up to you to take care of yourself and to show yourself love. Lord knows it’s pretty much been that way for the past year.

Dieter’s playlist plays on. Every song on it you like, he never lets you down.

“You will remember When this is blown over And everything's all by the way When I grow older I will be there at your side to remind you How I still love you”

Your hands pause at the lyrics as you rub lotion across your skin. You wonder what Dieter’s thinking, what he’s thought this whole time, why he speaks to you the way he does. He’s always been such an open book, but ever since his divorce with Anika a few years ago, he’s been less readable. Your mind is crowded by the feelings you have for him, the way you liked waking up next to him this morning, the way you wish he’d never stop holding you.

You remind yourself to go shopping for some new clothes, to fill the newly acquired empty space in your closet. You find the bright robe hanging in the back of your closet. A just-because-gift from Dieter because you mentioned it had all of your favorite colors. He texted you a photo of himself getting ready for an awards show, and you pointed out how much you loved it. He handed it to you the next time he saw you with a shy grin. You try to remember the last time Warren gave you a random gift as you wrap the soft cotton around your body.

You admire yourself in the mirror remembering the way Dieter’s dark brown eyes lingered on you after you put it on. The small smile he blessed you with as he softly murmured “perfect.”

The clock reads 2:30. Just twenty-four hours ago Warren told you he’s no longer in love with you, that he had found someone else. You swallow the sadness, not today.

For the first time in a long time, today you’re going to allow yourself to look forward to something–and somebody. Dieter will be here soon.

—

He knocks on the side door three times before letting himself in. His usual Dieter entrance.

“Sweets?” he calls out, his voice echoing through the house.

“Hey!” you respond, quickly trudging down the steps.

He almost drops the pizza box on the floor, along with his jaw when he sees you.

“Great minds,” you smile looking down at his faded blue jeans–the same color as yours.

“Yeah,” he nods, “great minds.” He swears you’re his twin flame, except he burns even brighter for you. He hopes one day your heart will burn just as hot for him.

“Prime Pizza?” you excitedly say spying the familiar box from your favorite pizza place.

“Yep, also got you garlic knots,” he smiles, lifting a white takeout bag up. “And caesar salad. And vodka pasta.”

“Oh my gooooood,” you sing, grabbing the pre-rolled joint and lighter from the table. “You’re the best. Let’s eat outside.”

His heart feels like it’s going to leap out of his chest as he follows you through the french doors to your backyard. It’s a beautiful, warm evening. You’ve set the table already, the sun is just beginning to lower behind the mountains, bathing everything in golden and purple shades.

He can’t take his eyes off of you as you light the joint and take a hit. He feels ridiculous relishing the fact that his lips will be where yours just were as you hand the joint to him.

Music gently plays in the background and you hum along while opening the takeout boxes and filling your plate.

“Oh my god, this looks so good,” you gush, smiling at him. “Thanks Dee.”

Weed smoke, garlic, and laughter fill the air as the two of you share a meal.

He wishes to never wake from this dream.

—

You always loved this neighborhood at night. The winding hill overlooks downtown Los Angeles and all of its flickering traffic and brake light glory. Street lamps glow golden in the midnight haze. Dieter walks alongside you, keeping tempo with your steps growing clumsier the emptier your champagne bottle gets.

“God, it’s beautiful out,” you say, tilting your head back to gaze at the sky focusing on a singular star. You wonder what it sees as it looks down on you. Does it see the internal struggle within your heart? Your husband walked out on you yesterday, and you’ve already found solace in his best friend. Peace in the heart and mind of the best man at your wedding.

“Ooh! Grass patch! Grass patch!” you suddenly shout, running over to the grassy area just off to the side of your neighbor’s home. “Come look at the stars with me!”

Dieter follows, laying down beside you with a small huff.

“I love doing this,” you say wistfully. “Like it’s so big, and we’re so small. You know?”

“I do,” he says. “Someone in Antarctica has the same view we have. Isn’t that insane?”

“Yes!” you shout, knocking your knee against his and leaving it there. “Sometimes it’s so easy to get lost in the vastness of space.”

“It is…” he softly says.

You turn your head to find him not looking up at the stars, but right at you.

“Hi,” you giggle, a little nervous from the look in his eyes.

“You’re– I think you’re–-” he grumbles and turns to look back at the sky shaking his head. “I wonder how many satellites are recording our conversation right now.”

You follows his lead, turning back to the sky, wishing on a star that some day you’ll hear what Dieter really wanted to tell you.

—

He listens as you softly hum into the breezy night air. A pleasant smile is stretched across your face, your eyes sit a little hazier from the bottle of champagne that you’re holding by the neck.

You stop, bobbling back and forth on your feet. He grabs your arms, steadying your wobbly form. You’re much drunker now thanks to your impromptu stargazing and drinking adventure in your neighbor’s yard.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yes *hiccup* just–haven’t felt this free in awhile,” your body thuds against his chest. His heart goes into overdrive. “Like, GOD, it fucking sucks, but also like, fuck Warren, he didn’t deserve ME.”

He wants to tell you how much he agrees, he wants to pour his rapid beating heart out to you in the middle of this quiet neighborhood. He doesn’t, you’re going through enough, and he respects–nay–loves you far too much to divulge his years-long secret devotion to you.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Fuck Warren.”

“Fuck Warren!” you giggle. “God that feels good.”

“FUCK WARREEEEENNNNN!” you shout, your voice echoing off the canyon walls.

“Whoa, whoa, okay okay, it’s too late; let’s not wake up the neighbors, pretty girl.”

His throat closes at the slip. Panic grips his body.

You take a swig of your champagne.

“Pretty?” you turn in his arms. “You think that— I”m pretty?”

Your beautiful face and those eyes of yours, the same he thinks about waking up to, is lit by the full moon, glistening in the nighttime glow. You’re so gorgeous.

“Always have, Golden Girl,” he sees the line drawn and he steps over it. He’s famous for not listening, for saying it fuck it to the plainly written out rules. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Your throat lets out an unbelieving laugh. “D’awww, Dee thinks I’m pretttttyyyyyyyyy,” you sing-song, swaying in his arms.

“Alright now, you’re pretty far gone. Let’s get you home, pretty.”

“Dieter Bravo finds me pretty. I’d say Warren’s going to be sooooo mad, but FUCK WARREN!” Another battle cry against your husband echoes across the neighborhood.

“Shhhhh,” he wraps his arms around you tighter, turning you to walk back up the road to your home.

His arms stay around you the whole walk up the hill back to your house. He can smell the sweet scent of your honey shampoo. Your back is molded to his front and yet, the lust for you doesn’t course through his veins like it normally does. There’s something else. Adoration, longing, yearning. His need for your heart overshadows his want for your body. Your footsteps commingle with his in the quiet Los Angeles night.

Your house comes into view, the white picket fence surrounds the colonial two story that you fell in love with. “Dee! It’s a Jimmy Stewart house!” you excitedly shouted when he pulled into the driveway after you and Warren got the keys. He was so happy for you, and yet so jealous of Warren. Now he walks you up the walkway to your door. Now he punches the code in on the keypad and lets you in. Now he catches your arm as you almost trip over the rug. Now he holds you close as you giggle against his chest. Too drunk and bubbly, he wishes he could keep you this happy.

“Dee?” you tilt your head up to look at him.

“Yeah?” his eyes meet your bleary eyes.

“Is it okay that I’m this happy right now?” your voice drops, the shame in it slurs it even more.

“Any emotion you have at this exact moment is okay,” he reassures with a smile.

Your body jumps against his with a hiccup. “Oh my god, I’m so drunk!” you giggle.

“You are. You need some food and a glass of water.”

He’s only allowed himself a couple sips tonight, not wanting to get plastered and not be there to take care of you in case you need him. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t say no to a drink.

He settles you on the couch before heading to the kitchen to find you some sustenance to soak up your drunkenness.

Saltines, you always have saltines. You swear that cheddar cheese on saltines is the greatest food ever, he loves how passionate you are about such a ridiculous opinion. He fills the biggest glass with water from the fridge before adding a couple cubes of ice, he knows how much you love your ice water. He likes taking care of you, he likes trying his damnedest to make you feel better. He wishes he could take care of you every single day and prove to you just how special you are.

He almost drops the glass of water and sleeve of crackers when he walks into your living room.

You’re perched on a small island of carpet surrounded by records strewn across the floor. He was gone for only three minutes and you’ve already emptied two entire shelves.

—

You’re holding a single LP in your hands and staring down at it. Track three. The song that makes you think of Dieter.

“Can I play you a song?” you look up, your bloodshot eyes gaze determinedly at him.

The record player sizzles and crackles an ambient hum while awaiting his answer.

“Of course,” he says, walking over and lightly tapping a trail of records out of the way with his foot.

You tilt your head up and nod, before turning and putting the record on the turntable. Your hands tremble as you lower the needle into the groove for the track you want him to hear.

“It makes me think of… you,” you whisper as the song begins.

Gleaming Twinkling Eyes like sinking ships On waters so inviting I almost jump in

He settles across from you, cross legged, joining you on your island in the sea of scattered vinyl. Just you and Dee in the middle of your living room. It was only twenty-four hours ago he held you as you mourned the loss of your marriage.

Now, he sits quietly, elbows resting on his knees with his chin resting on his thumbs, listening to the song. The song that makes you think of him.

Everybody wants you Everybody wonders what it would be like to love you Walk past, quick brush

You’re too brave, the champagne has given you too much permission to bring up those long held desires for your husband’s best friend. If you had chosen him that night in that dive bar, would everything be different today?

His eyes are closed, oblivious to the turmoil that storms within your heart.

What must it be like To grow up that beautiful? With your hair falling into place like dominoes My mind turns your life into folklore I can't dare to dream about you anymore

He slowly nods along to the beat, the golden earring in his ear catches your eye again. Your fingers pulsate, the bare ring finger on your left hand allows you the permission. He’ll feel it now, he’ll understand, he’ll know of your desires.

You reach out, your shaky hand makes contact with his soft hair, and the earring. His eyes open wide and shocked at your touch.

Gleaming Twinkling Eyes like sinking ships On waters so inviting I almost jump in

“Oh, Sweets,” he whispers as the record crackles in between songs. His hand captures yours, pressing it against his head. “I–it’s—you know–”

“I know,” tears well in your eyes, “but I’ve known.”

He thickly gulps, swallowing down the words you long to hear him say. Instead, he moves your hand to rest against his heart.

“You are every–he never deserved you and I’m sorry I didn’t say it any sooner. I’m a coward–but–I’m going to do better for you. It’s— you have so much going on. I will be here for you, but I can’t do that to you… not now.”

“What if I want it? What if I’ve wanted it since… we met?”

He smirks. “I want it too–but not like this–not so soon.”

Your head drops, suddenly you feel quite sober. Embarrassment will do that.

“Sweets,” he whispers. “Look at me. You’re my Golden Girl. You have been. Always.”

Your eyes stare into his, his glassy brown eyes reflect yours, tears welling at the edge.

“That's the blank, unholy surprise of it. You're the golden girl, Sweets. Full of life and warmth and delight.”

He gently pulls you closer, settling you on his lap, wrapping his arms around you.

“Of course you’d use my favorite movie to make me feel better,” you say, settling your head against his broad chest.

“I’ll do anything to make you feel better, Golden Girl.”

He holds you, gently rocking back and forth to the music until the record ends.

That night, you sleep in that same guest room bed, wrapped in Dieter’s strong arms, protected from the spiral of negativity you’ll soon wake up to.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter x you #dieter x reader #pedro pascal #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter the bubble #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction

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thomas-jefferson-miku-binder · 17 hours

Text

I hate Mel Medarda discourse because she’s an insanely well-written character with a lot of depth, but people almost always have only two things to say about her: 1) evil girlboss or 2) never did anything wrong. both make me want to krill myself 🦐

In front of you, there’s a female character born of war who rejects the physical brutality of her family’s name and the regime she was born under. except said violence never really goes away because if it ever does leave, nothing else would remain

This character can and will reproduce the hatred she has always known, just in more palpable ways, ways where she’s allowed to look away — or even better, ways where she’s so distanced from the action itself that where she “looks” doesn’t even matter

It’s also so interesting to think that maybe Mel doesn’t dislike physical violence because it’s “bad” but simply because she does not excel at it The thought that if Mel was maybe stronger or a more skilled fighter, she would be just like her mother tickles my brain. yaaaas Although, to me, that's a more "what-if" scenario than the actual characterization Arcane deceipts

By the way, I do not think Mel is a monster. She clearly does try to be what she considers a "good" person, but the violence she’s always known sometimes escapes (just like in the Viktor scene above — she does not like to be disagreed with).

Sooo insane that she’s a diplomat/politician because yes. what other job in the world would allow her to exercise that repressed violence while also giving her the sense of duty—of goodness.

Mel is stuck at the scene of the execution form her childhood. All she does is repeat the same scenario in her head with different outcomes: sometimes one where she saves the prisoner, another where she doesn’t hesitate (that being the keyword here) to kill her

This reverberation of the violence she suffered is just her manner of coping with that traumatic scene. a way of lessening the pain without actually confronting its cause.

I feel like I need to clarify that no, I do not think Mel is “evil”. I don’t even think she is intentionally manipulative (most of the time), I think she handles people the only way she knows how to, which is probably one of the only reasons she survived Noxus at all (as, to how I see it, there's only a certain extent your House will guarantee your protection in Noxus).

I know the fandom talks a lot about Viktor and Jayce being idealistic, but I rarely see people mention how Mel is just as romantic. Jesus- that’s literally a huge source of conflict with her mother: Ambessa thinks Mel is naive, which to her means weakness, which to her is unacceptable.

I hate that Mel Medarda is forced to be subjected to fandom spaces, because, no, she is not a small bean. no, she’s not an evil girlboss.

Do I believe she is a good person? I think she tries to be (even if her notion of goodness is so heavily aligned with honor, too), and that tells me a lot more about her character than how successful she is at it

#bringing some of my twitter rambles to here because i think it makes semi sense #cali speaks #mel medarda #arcane #arcane: league of legends #lol #league of legends #meta #character analysis

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fangirlofallthefanthings · 2 days

Note

Do you have any headcanons about the relationship between Diomedes and Athena? I feel like their dynamic is incredibly compelling and under-explored

Oooooo... That I do!

From what I've gathered from the Iliad, Diomedes' relationship with Athena is much more formal than Odysseus' relationship with Athena. So here's what I've got:

I imagine Athena sees Dio as an obligation. She feels that she must watch over Dio as an obligation to his father (despite Tydeus going a little coo coo at the end there). When Tydeus dies, Diomedes is a little boy of four with only his mother, sister, and grandfather to take care of him. Because of the Seven Against Thebes' failure, very few could protect her former bestie's son. So she felt the need to at least watch him.

Athena was very distant from him, though. Conversations were rare and usually only happened if she was helping him in battle. To be blatantly obvious, Athena was hesitant to interact with Dio. Because of what happened and how Tydeus died, she sees the family as tainted. She can't shake what happened (I go into more detail here). So she just watches.

Because she's so distant, Diomedes sees her as above him. She's a god. He's a mortal. That's all they ever will be. Yes, he knows he has a stronger relationship with her than most (one of his eyes turned grey, so her influence is evident), but she's not a friend. She's a protector and ally, sure, but far from someone he would consider a friend.

That starts to change over time (partly thanks to OdyPen and partly because of Athena's growth), but I won't totally give it away.

#char ramblings #tagamemnon #greek mythology #the iliad #athena #diomedes #athena and diomedes #'here's a power up. go nuts'#'oh... thanks 🧍'#that's basically how it goes #also I AM SO SORRY I'M JUST ANSERING THIS NOW #fall quarter be crazy #char asks #anon ask

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reaper-in-reverie · 2 days

Text

—come, stay a while.

(though it's not nice to see a familiar face.)

preview.

Wrinkles settling in his forehead with his eyebrows knitted together, a deep, skeptical frown upon his lips as he scanned his reflection, a sense of dread filling him at the familiarity of it.

Oh god, he looked just like him.

synopsis. kaiser, and how his change doesn't seem to change much at all. angst. character interpretation.

warnings. derealization. typical kaiser backstory implications - abuse, neglect, etc. alcohol/alcoholism mentioned. blood but only very little. 1k words. not proofread.

notes. ooc definitely lol. i think it's a bit too melancholy but i don't plan on fixing it. I am projecting so hard. the hyperspecific details are actually references to me :3

He could physically feel himself get worse on more stressful days.

The dull bathroom light illuminated the mirror as Kaiser stared into it. He brushed his blond locks from his face, scanning his own features; the stress of the day etched into them, the natural gleam of attractiveness in his eyes.

He'd accepted a long time ago his life was but a reflection of people before him.

In the mirror, in puddles of rain, in the words of people around him — "you look just like your mother!" It used to sting, the reminder of a mother who looked exactly like him yet he never knew; never loved him as a mother should. First there was anger, spreading over his whole being like a wildfire — why compare him to such a coward, run from home and left her blood behind?

He hated it, disowned it like his mother did him; he hated his blue eyes, which seemed to naturally have a charming gleam in them; he hated his blond hair, which seemed so naturally beautiful he had to make an effort to keep it shaggy, to try to keep him as different from his mother.

The acceptance took years to settle. Eventually he'd come to live with the fact that his reflection was the only thing his mother had left for him to keep. He'd come to find comfort in this fact — somewhere in his blood he was both blessed and tainted with memories of his mom. Truly, engraved within his blood and soul, he still belonged to something. Almost comfortingly, he belonged to his mother. But he did not know his mother. She had no arms to hold him, no voice to guide him; just a face, haunting him in every reflective surface.

Kaiser would stare into the bathroom mirror and not see himself.

Now Kaiser would stare into the bathroom mirror and expect to his mother.

He brushed his blond hair falling into his blue eyes again, in search for something to belong to.

This time, there was something else.

Wrinkles settling in his forehead with his eyebrows knitted together, a deep, skeptical frown upon his lips as he scanned his reflection, a sense of dread filling him at the familiarity of it.

Oh god, he looked just like him.

For the first time, Kaiser felt the intense urge to cover his face. He winced at himself, looking into his own eyes with extreme disgust and judgment, his own expression reminding him of someone else. Why would his father make an appearance now? He'd just never thought he'd find himself looking like...

He tried looking himself in the mirror again, brushing some of his bangs out of his hair. Some pathetic part of him searched for his mother in the reflection, yearned for her care the same way he had when he was younger. And still, like before, there was no one who came to his side. He couldn't unsee it.

He took a sharp breath in, rubbing his eyes long enough until he had splotches of black in his vision. Kaiser looked himself in the mirror again—

And still, his father was there. Silently staring from the mirror in judgment.

Suddenly Kaiser was ten again. When he looked up to the low ceiling, there were splashes of milk stretching out from above his bed up to the corner of the room, painting the ceiling with stars. The pads of his tiny fingers were bleeding from trying to open a can of tuna. The familiar scent of alcohol filled his nostrils — his father was drunk in the living room — but he didn't move from his bed to ask his father for bandages. He did not move to ask his father to open the can himself.

His bedroom walls slowly rotted away, cracks in the corners, the paint peeling off. It didn't take much to notice how many things were in bad condition; entering the house itself had the doors creaking, hell, even the door to his own rotting bedroom creaked loudly when opened.

But Kaiser did not ask his father to get the walls fixed. He did not ask his father to oil his doors' hinges. He did not ask his father for anything. Excluding maybe all the times he'd beg not to be hit...

But he did not ask his father for anything.

And to think that but a child was soaking up such an environment. A polished and unassuming to-be-copy as it sat in the corner of the room. All he could do was reflect what he hungrily absorbed.

That's enough. Kaiser turned away from the mirror, hastily shutting off his bathroom lights. He didn't want to keep seeing his father in himself. He didn't want to see at all.

He walked into the connecting room, leaving the bathroom door open and grabbing a glass to fill with water. He swallowed with fervor, a dizzying feeling of misplaced yet familiar paranoia washing over him in waves.

He had to remind himself he wasn't ten anymore. There weren't any more rotting walls and no more drunk fathers in the living room.

So what was scaring him?

No, what was scaring him more: that it still felt as if his father was here, looming over his every move and judging his every mistake; or that he was the one bringing his father into his own life, in his own actions and in his very reflection.

That somewhere deep down, down to the very nature of his soul, he was bound by blood to a monster.

That somewhere deep down, he belonged to something.

Kaiser glanced towards the rest of his home now. A small apartment. He didn't even live in Germany anymore. Still, he felt he was carrying some part of himself with it. Eerily, it was like nothing had even changed.

Some of the paint on the walls were peeling. He placed the glass of water down to nervously rub the pads of his fingers together. He noticed the bathroom door was still open. Crossing the room to get his hand on the handle, he took one last glance at the mirror. It was dark in the bathroom. He couldn't see himself. He pulled the door closed.

The door creaked loudly shut.

#—reaper writes.#blue lock #bllk #bllk kaiser #blue lock michael kaiser #blue lock fanfiction #bllk fanfiction #michael kaiser #bllk fanfic #kaiser michael

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liminalmemories21 · 6 hours

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WIP Wednesday

tagged by @welcometololaland, @heartstringsduet, @strandnreyes @whatsintheboxmh - thank you!

Sorry I've been MIA the last week or so - work was insane, and then there was a friend's multi-day wedding thing going on (A+ wedding, would let her plan all future weddings I go to). Also, please bear in mind I have not actually had a chance to see the episode yet, because see above about A+ wedding related shenanigans.

But ....

He’s late to Elian’s birthday. He didn’t mean to be. He never means to be late these days. “I just need to stop by the station," he said this morning as they were getting ready. He'd caught the way TK’s lips tightened, but all he’d said was. “I’ll come with you." “No, baby, you’ll just have to sit in the car. That’s no fun.” TK eyebrows had gone sky high.” I’m not allowed in the station anymore?” “That’s not what I mean.“ TK’s muttered, “are you sure?” is just soft enough that he ignores it. And now he’s late, the one thing he wanted to check turned into five things and then a conversation with Campbell and a lead to check on. It wasn’t wasted time. But by the time he makes it back out to his car there are two messages from TK on his phone — a few months ago he thinks there would have been more, and he’s not sure when TK decided to stop trying so hard to get him to come home. There are messages from his mother and sister too. He ignores them and sends TK a text / on my way /. Doesn’t get a response, which makes sense — he’s at Elian's party, probably helping Ana, or letting the kids use him like a personal jungle gym. The party is still going strong when he pulls up to Ana’s house, but the look she gives him when he walks in is unimpressed. His mother looks worried, and all TK says is, “You made good time, light traffic?” “Yes. “ Smiles at Elian who has appeared at TK's elbow, “Happy birthday!” The eyebrow Ana gives him promises a longer conversation, and he’d be grateful that Luisa couldn’t make it out from LA, but he’s sure Ana will fill her in on all the ways he’s failing to live up to their father’s standard. Their father had never missed a birthday, or play, or recital. He doesn’t understand how. Wishes he could ask. He can tell TK's pissed when they leave from the set of his shoulders, isn’t sure if it’s better or worse that they’d come in separate cars and can’t drive home together. Manages to catch him before TK gets in his car. “Hey, I’m sorry. I lost track of time.“ “I figured.” “I’ll make it up to Elian. He probably didn’t even notice I was late there were so many people here.” “He’s 8,” TK says flatly. “He absolutely noticed that his favorite uncle didn’t make it in time for cake and presents.” Carlos winces, but tries for the joke anyway. “Pretty sure you claimed favorite tio a while ago.” Regrets it the second he says it.

tagging @freneticfloetry, @carlos-in-glasses, @reyesstrand, and @lemonlyman-dotcom

#911 lonestar #S5 Interstitials #wip #tarlos

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shrimpybbq · 8 hours

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Blessing in Disguise (2)

Abstract: A war-torn Gwayne is presented with an opportunity when the dragon of a Targaryen Princess is shot down near his camp. A once devout follower of his Knight's oath, Gwayne no longer sees much point when Criston Cole gifts him Princess, his only requirement being to keep her alive. The Hightower Knight has suppressed his own urges for so long, but now, he no longer wishes to, not when he's been given a sweet Princess just for himself.

Warnings: abuse of power, prisoner/captor dynamics, gross men, restraints, Gwayne is growing more delulu, future dubcon/noncon (not proof read)

Author’s Note: this chapter is seriously diving into just how much Gwayne is loosing it, and building up his motives and morals. He thinks of himself as a saviour and all his actions are rooted in this need to keep protecting the Princess.

Tag List: @torchbearerkyle @beautifultacodragon

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Two days had passed since the Princess was captured, and two days had passed since Gwayne had been given the responsibility of keeping her alive. For the first day, he’d faced little trouble as the still unconscious girl slumbered in his tent, her frame draped across his own makeshift bed. The turmoil was rife within the knight however; for he knew little of what to do with the girl. To keep her hidden away in his tent for the rest of the campaign seemed cruel, but letting the Princess roam around the camp was a risk that could bring doom to the army. While he didn’t know for certain of her likely reaction upon waking, Gwayne felt that the Princess would not take kindly to her newfound position as captive.

The second day helped the knight make up his mind, for the Princess began to rouse herself from her state. He’d been eating the claggy paste they called oatmeal when movement caught his eye from across the tent. With sluggish movements, the girl pushed her weak and frail body up to a somewhat seated position as her eyes took in her surroundings. Gwayne found the confused expression on her face amusing, but sighed deeply as her eyes widened in alarm upon laying her sights on the Hightower Green of his doublet and the red of his hair. He watches as she begins to sputter and gasp as she tries to speak, but despite her best efforts, her brain fails to deliver a coherent question to the knight.

“You are in no position to run, or much less even argue, so I suggest you still yourself whilst I explain the predicament you’ve found yourself in,” Gwayne’s lilting voice cutting across the tent, his words stilling any movement from the Princess. Though he’s attempted to make his tone lighter, it’s clear that his tone carries a subtle warning.

The Princess nods softly before speaking, her voice hoarse and croaky due to disuse, “Wh-who are you?”

She fears she knows and yet some part of her hopes that perhaps it has been a case of mistaken identity - that this man across from her, whose tent she lays in, is not the brother to the Queen Dowager.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower, Princess.” It’s all he says. Gwayne notices the crestfallen expression on her face deepen, her fingers beginning to play with the threads of the blanket. “Your dragon was slain after it flew above our territory, the scorpion striking it down with great accuracy. It was not expected that Rhaenyra would have sent her only daughter on dragonback and yet, there you were.”

“M-my drag-”

Gwayne doesn’t let her speak and instead continues his recounting. “Criston Cole made the decision that your life should be spared. He wishes to use you as tool to garner your mother’s surrender, and in turn, has granted you the most esteemed opportunity of a true camp experience.”

The sweet Princess can only listen silently and a small twinge strikes at Gwayne’s heart as tears begin to fall down her cheeks. He lets her process his words, scraping the last remnants of his oatmeal from the wooden bowl. When she says no more, the knight moves to leave the tent when a timid voice stops him in his tracks.

“What will you do with me?”

The Princess watches the man freeze, his broad back tense and rigid. He stays near the entrance, arms clutching the fabric of the tent as he seems to ponder his answer. She had heard stories of the honourable Ser Gwayne Hightower and yet, chills crash over her at his next words.

“Whatever I so wish, I suppose, as long as your heart still beats in your chest.”

______________________________________________

That night the princess remains in his bed, her hands bound and tied to the wooden post holding up the tents fabric. He’s given her some tether, at least allowing her to relax her arms and continue to rest. The Princess had almost drifted into an unpeaceful slumber when a rustling sound echoed around the tent, and a disheveled Hightower strode through the entrance. She had little time to process his intentions as the knight flung off his boots and undid his doublet, leaving him only in his trousers and tunic, watching wide-eyed as he stalked over to the makeshift bed.

“What are you doing?!” The princess shrieked as Gwayne lowered his body next to hers, the flimsy material dipping with his body weight.

“I am sleeping, or at least I hope to be.”

“Get away from me! How dare you,” the girl cried, her body tense as she flung her body out of the bed.

“You may struggle to recall this, but this is my tent. You have been sleeping in my bed and as much as it pleases me to see you enjoying it so, I too wish to rest,” Gwayne bites out, his tone laced with sarcasm and thinly veiled contempt. She could’ve been sleeping on the dirt floor and here she still complains.

Gwayne hears her muttering “no, no” and finds little inside of himself to care, instead tugging on the restraints binding her hands. The squeal as she falls back into the bed makes him smirk, pushing the girl into the fabric and covering her with a blanket.

“Sleep. And keep any foolish ideas you may have of escaping to yourself, for you have no dragon or the faintest idea of your location.”

Gwayne rolls away from the Princess, feeling smug with himself at the lack of response he receives, though the rigid frame of the girl seems to be conveying enough to him. She knows her hopes of escape will not come to fruition tonight, not with the Hightower sleeping by her side. She can’t even retaliate when his heavy frame drapes over her own during the night, arms slung across her stomach as he clings to her body heat. Restless, she lies there listening to his languid breaths, her own heart pounding with anxiety.

______________________________________________

The Princess had been in the camp for what felt like months, though her stay had only totalled five days. It seemed that her and her captor had fallen into a somewhat amicable routine: Gwyane would venture down with the Princess to the nearby lake to allow bathe, and the pair would break their fast with the rest of the soldiers. He would then return her to his tent while he talked strategy with Criston, leaving the girl alone, but not unsupervised. He’d given up use of the rope that had attached to her ankle after the first night in the bed, but the knight was still wary of the Princess trying to escape. In the evenings the two would sit by a small fire in the common area of the camp and eat their meager meals, Gwayne even allowing the girl her own cup of mead to wash the bread down. Gwayne couldn’t deny that it felt comforting to have another’s presence as a constant, especially after such long periods of loneliness and isolation. He even begins to warm to his captive, small chuckles leaving his lips more often as they conversed.

And yet their moments of ambivalence seemed to come crashing down as Gwayne left to fetch more mead, only to return and see a common soldier leering over the Princess. His stout body crowded into her space, his hands clutching at her shoulders, the fabric ripping in his harsh grip. From a distance it was difficult for Gwayne to hear the man’s words, though he held strong suspicions of their nature, however as he covered ground his ears picked up more and more.

“Mmm… do you think you could handle the cock of a real man, Princess?” the man muttered sleazily, “I don’t think you could. All you Royal cunts act like you’re above us, but maybe you just need a little demonstration.”

The Princess’s discomfort was plain for all to see, no more so than Gwayne. Her shaking frame and teary eyes look around broadly, pleading for an intervention as her bottom lip trembles in fear. It only takes him a moment to unsheath his sword, raising it to the neck of the soldier.

“Remove your vile hands before I do so for you,” he demands, his tone firm and gaze locked on the scum in front of him. Gwayne revels in the shock that crosses the soldier’s face and his disappearance from his sight shortly after. Common-born folk always aim far above their station, coveting what should never be sullied by them, Gwayne thinks.

The Hightower is caught up in his thoughts as he brings the Princess back to his tent. His chest feels as if it’s filling up with anger, breathing growing heavy at the feeling of the Princess trembling under his grip. Many soldiers had been invited to fight with a great army in the name of the King, and yet here they stood leering and preying on the King’s own niece. Such depravity should be expected of commoners but to dare even suggest of defiling a Princess of the Realm would ordinarily be treason.

It’s only the wide, teary eyes that finally snap Gwayne out of his thoughts. The Princess is clutching his arm, her body pressed into his side as she looks up, lower lip still trembling. The girl had been scared out of her mind, too weak and powerless to stop any advances, and now here she stood a wreck because of it. To see the Princess looking up at him in such a way sends a new series of thoughts running through Gwayne’s mind, tightening his breeches and quickening his breathing.

The men in the camp were only acting in such a depraved way due to a misguided conception that the Princess was not spoken for. They believed that she was free for the taking, for any common man to use and keep. She was his captive though no man seemed to acknowledge his stake of claim over her. She slept in his tent each night, in his bed, by his side. If that would not convince these vile men to back away, then only one thing would. Gwayne was a flawed man, he himself could acknowledge that, but he would protect the Princess as was asked of him, in any way he could. And if that meant he would need to make his position clearer to the camp then he would.

The Princess would understand the actions he needed to take, he thinks, as his hand begins to brush at the exposed skin on her shoulder where her dress had torn. As her breath hitches at the contact, Gwayne can’t help his growing smirk - she’s so responsive to him, not even aware of how she’s pushing her body closer to him unconscionably. He can feel her plush breasts press against his chest and her hips against his own, though she seems unaware of the growing hardness pressing against her stomach.

The Hightower knight assures himself that he won’t enjoy his next actions, for it is only his duty to keep the Princess safe and protected from those who wish to do her harm. He assures himself that the Seven will grant him forgiveness, for he is only acting as any nobleman would. Finally, Gwayne assures himself that the Princess would forgive him for what he was about to do - soon she would understand that becoming his own spoil of war would keep her safe from other men of less valiant intentions. She would thank him sooner or later - she would, he reassures himself over and over again as he begins to lead the Princess over to his makeshift bed. He ignores the thought in the back of his mind telling him that even if she withheld her forgiveness, he wouldn’t mind too much - he would care much less than he should.

#gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne hightower imagine #gwayne hightower fic #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #game of thrones imagine #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #gwayne imagine #gwayne x oc #gwayne fanfic #gwayne x reader #blessing in disguise

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damndamsy · 13 hours

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part i)

a/n: I suppose this series will be a short one, 4 parts maybe? I just love Claere so much - she's my little unhinged weirdo :')

It was a rather secluded and quiet affair, the marriage between Claere Velaryon and Cregan Stark. There were no great halls crammed with noble witnesses, no bright banners flying high to announce the union of two ancient houses—only the low rustles of the breeze through the pines and the crackle of a distant hearth as the vows were uttered.

The ceremony took place beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. The holy weirwood tree loomed with its gnarled white bark, etched with time, and ruby leaves swished in the cold Northern breeze. Claere, a priceless dream draped in rare emeralds, silver silks, and white furs akin to seafoam—a nod to her Velaryon heritage—eclipsed against the stark landscape of Winterfell. She made up for the glitz and grandeur that this lifeless gathering lacked.

Cregan Stark, silent and relentless, took her freezing hand with the kind of sworn resilience that marked Northern might—his bold grey eyes sceptical of the bride before him. Though the match had been arranged by the Sea Snake, the union between them was regarded as special—one for the histories. Theirs was not a marriage forged in the fires of splendour but in the subtle rendition of what they each represented: a union between sea and snow, Velaryon and Stark.

No songs were sung, and no cheers erupted, but in that stillness, something more meaningful lingered.

Cregan was first informed of Rhaenyra's second child and only daughter as if she were a fleeting nymph from a fairytale, a cold mystery whispered from beyond the Wall. "She is adrift in dreams," his maester had told him. Claere Velaryon possessed all of her mother’s fabled graces—from her haunting violet eyes and white-gold hair to the sharp, aquiline features that marked her as pure Valyrian. Her skin, fair and translucent as glass, only furthered the ghostly aura that surrounded her.

If summer snow had ever reincarnated in his time, it would have been Claere Velaryon. The rumours spoke of a 'beautiful freak', chiselled like an ice sculpture, who sang like the sweetest lark, whose fingers danced effortlessly over the harp, filling halls with melodies as delicate as her presence. She was drawn more to solitude and the quiet company of the stars than to her brothers, most of her nights spent soaring high above the world on her silvery dragon, Luna—hatched in her cradle and enormous beyond her years.

The whispers had reached him long before he’d ever seen her. She doesn't eat food, prefers the taste of human flesh and blood, they had said, each rumour darker than the last. She once tried to stab her uncle in the heart. She dabbles in blood magic with that wretched dragon of hers. Some claimed her visions could only divine the worst of futures, and that she would cut herself to the bone just to understand pain. It was said everything she touched withered into the gloom.

Cregan swallowed against the rising dread. He had been pragmatic in agreeing to this union, believing the support of the ancient Targaryens would strengthen the North. Yet now, as he stood face to face with the girl cloaked in a bizarre silence, he wondered if he had invited his own destruction. The North had weathered many storms, but this... this felt different. He had faced wildlings, dire winters, wars, and beasts, but Claere Velaryon might be his greatest unknown yet.

Perhaps this alliance, this bond forged for power, would be his ultimate undoing. The Sea Snake must’ve played him for a fool, tying him to a sorceress masked as a Valyrian princess.

As if her touch had stung him, Cregan recoiled and returned his hands to his sides, a flicker of unease settling beneath his skin. The girl’s violet eyes stayed distant at his reaction, focused on some invisible realm beyond the godswood, oblivious to the accusations that swirled around her name like storm clouds. Never meeting anyone’s gaze, she stood perfectly still, frigid as the legends surrounding her, the direwolf sigil on his chest holding her attention.

When the quiet ceremony was over and it was time for goodbyes, the weight of the moment settled heavily on them all. Soft whispers filled the air as hands were clasped, and final glances exchanged. The warmth of shared vows had already begun to fade whilst the mother and daughter, her three brothers and their grandsire traded farewells. Cregan wavered close by, observing his new wife's interactions.

No one cried except the youngest brother, Joffrey, who had refused to let go of the princess. Everyone around her, her own kin, had kept their distance in approaching her.

"Who'll sing to me now, Claerie? The moon song?" Her little brother wept, shedding his tears into her fair silk gown.

Claere’s eyes moved from her tear-streaked brother to the rest of her family. Her voice was glacial, her expression more bored than curious.

"Why does he cry?"

A brief pause passed between the lot of them.

"Because he... we will miss you, sister. We might not see each other for a long time." It was young Lucerys who eventually answered her, his tone painfully understanding. He must be the forbearing one among them.

"Then do not miss me," Claere said to them simply. "It is not my wish to cause you pain till then."

Her certainty unsettled them, a silent dismissal that left her words hovering unanswered. She seemed unaware, perhaps unconcerned, that her family could not comprehend her detachment.

"I love you, Claerie." He buried his face deeper into her gown, as if afraid she might vanish from his arms. Claere remained still as if brooking her brother's overflowing love.

There it was—a twitch in Claere’s blank eyes, a flicker of something almost human. She glanced down at Joffrey, and with visible reluctance, patted his head. The gesture was mechanical, lacking the warmth he sought. A moment later, Jace stepped forward, his hands firm as he pulled Joffrey away, his actions laced with an unspoken fear that any more time in her presence might invite something unwanted.

"Will you stay with me?" Claere asked them, though her voice, usually collected, wobbled just enough to betray the edge of apprehension.

"Not for long, my girl," Rhaenyra said to her, her smile strained, hiding some secret discomfort. "Your home is here now. You will grow to love this place and your husband. I am sure."

"A cage of stone and ice," she murmured, her gaze distant, as if already relinquished to the cold halls of her future.

Rhaenyra's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. She was unduly firm. "You speak too soon, Claere. You are a Velaryon and a Targaryen—power runs in your blood. You will learn your duty in time."

"And you'll have Luna on your side," Luke appeased her in vain. An unspeaking, fire-breathing beast for a companion. His tender heart did not hold a candle to his blind faith.

But Claere said nothing more, her expression as stony as ever. The distance between her and the life she was meant to embrace felt as vast as the sky beyond.

Cregan watched the exchange in silence, the chill in his chest deepening with each word. His worst fears were confirmed. Claere was a stranger, even to those who should have known her best. They spoke to her as if she were something fragile, something... unnatural.

A freak.

And now, she was his.

No one was more reluctant than Cregan to spend his first night with his new bride.

As far as obligations went, he had managed to ban the sickening tradition of a "bedding ceremony" from the occasion, much to the disappointment of some. The thought of parading the princess through a crowd of leering men felt like an abomination, yet even without that outlandish formality, he still felt the burden of duties and expectations ploughing down on him like an axe.

His familiar chambers felt chillier today, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth as Claere stood near the window, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She was silent, as she had been throughout the feast, her face betraying little emotion. She refused to eat, revel in wine, or even speak. She had managed a quiet nod after well-wishes, sometimes pressing her lips tight to pass for a smile.

He recalled, with an involuntary tremble, the black rumours that had plagued him during the dinner. The whispers of how his wife’s tastebuds were supposedly tempted not by the fine meats and ales of the North, but by the flesh of those who dared to covet a single glance from the Velaryon beauty. Fattened soldiers who sought her favour and found only their doom.

It was absurd, indeed. And yet, as he glanced at Claere, so still and detached by the firelight, Cregan couldn't shake the disturbing thought. What sort of woman had he brought into his home?

The distance between them felt more than just physical—it was as though she existed in another world entirely, one he had no access to. He didn't know what troubled him more: her silence, or the eerie calmness with which she met her fate.

As Cregan set down his ancestral sword and shrugged off his heavy fur cloaks, Claere moved to him with quiet resignation. Her fingers began to undo the delicate laces of her nightgown, her motions disconnected as if compelled by some unspoken assignment. The fabric slipped, gathering at her shoulders, poised to fall, when Cregan's voice broke the tense stillness.

"There is no need for that," he said sharply, cutting through the air between them, the words coming out quicker than he intended.

He stepped forward, his rough fingers gently, yet firmly, adjusting the cloth back over her bare skin. Every inch of paleness he touched was smoother than the silk she adorned, warmer than the ice-cold fingers he had held in the godswood.

Claere blinked, startled, her violet eyes searching his face for the first time that night. The vigour of that shade disarmed him for a moment before he looked away. Yes, she was his wife, but more than that, she was a mystery. And he was a man who distrusted what he could not comprehend.

"Rest. That is all for now," he added, softer now, the command awkward in his throat.

Claere scrutinized him still, her sharp gaze unrelenting as if she could unearth the truth behind his stoic mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Is there another you hold dear, my lord?"

He sighed, sinking into a cushioned seat by the hearth. "No," he replied, his tone careful, meeting her eyes with conscious composure. "And you?"

A strange smirk flickered across her face, the barest twitch of her lips. "Everything I hold dear gave me away like a pawn on a board."

Her words struck him like a blow, twisting his gut with an uncomfortable pang of pity. He allowed for her loneliness as if somehow, he was responsible for it. Yet, a strange foreboding hung in the air and kept his response locked in his throat.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the flames, fists clenching against the armrests as the fire danced and crackled, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of guilt growing in his chest.

"I understand you favour peace and quiet," he began carefully, his words lingering in the space between them. "But would you consider sitting with me tonight?"

Claere, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight, turned her gaze to him. Her eerie eyes, unnervingly calm, gave no indication of her thoughts. For a moment, he regretted speaking.

The pause stretched, and Cregan felt the silence chew at his nerves.

"Why?" she asked finally, her voice as undisturbed as it was empty, as though the idea of companionship was foreign.

He hesitated, searching for words. "I thought it might ease... the strangeness of the night." His eyes flickered to hers. "For both of us."

Claere’s lips barely moved as she gave a soft hum of acknowledgement, her face unreadable. The stillness in her made him wonder if she felt anything at all, and a deeper anxiety stirred in him—that perhaps she was as strange and otherworldly as the whispers suggested.

Without answering, she crossed the room, her movements as fluid and graceful as a phantom. She sat across from him, her gaze never leaving the flickering flames. Even now, such a short distance felt insurmountable.

"Ask away, my lord," she said quietly, reading into him deftly. "I do owe you many answers."

Cregan’s gaze faltered as Claere contested, and for a moment, the heat of the fire did nothing to chase away the chill crawling up his spine. Something was unnerving about the way she stared at him, something impenetrable, as if her pale eyes held some ancient secret he wasn’t meant to uncover.

"Do you hear them?" His voice was low, almost lost to the sound of the crackling wood. "The whispers about you."

Claere’s expression remained unchanged, her face as still as a porcelain mask. "What do they say?"

"They say that I was a fool to take a girl like you," he said, keeping his emotions hidden. "A girl who walks in dreams, who doesn’t belong to this world. They fear you."

Her gaze did not move an inch, unaffected by his claims. "People fear what they do not understand."

Every rumour, every whispered story of her strange tendencies crept back into his mind, grinding at his resolve. The tales of oddity, of rituals, of things best left unspoken—they clung to the air between them.

"Are you afraid of me, my lord?" Her question cut through the silence like a blade.

Cregan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart lurching in his chest. He wanted to say no, to deny the concern that gripped him, but something in her gaze made him feel exposed, powerless in a way he had not been before. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but the intensity there—the unreadable, unfeeling stare—made him feel as though he were sinking into a frozen lake.

His jaw clenched for a moment, as though wrestling with the words he ought to say to her. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, but no less intense.

"I will not be made to live in dread of my wife," he countered firmly. "Though, beyond question, those whispers do waver my trust for you. Upon your integrity. Time will tell."

For the first time, a glimmer of something passed over her face—a brief crack in the mask. Hurt? Confusion? Whatever it was, it was fleeting. Claere tilted her head slightly, studying him from head to toe like one might a curious specimen. He shifted back into his chair, unease unfurling in his stomach.

"You should be afraid of me," she said softly. It wasn’t a threat, but a statement, as if she were merely acknowledging a truth he had yet to accept.

Cregan did not sleep a wink that night. His ancient sword, Ice, lingered closer to him than expected, leaning on his bedside. He laid utterly still as Claere slumbered gingerly, uncaring of the shadows that danced around her, like a tarrying chill that would not leave him alone.

As the sun crested over the horizon, spilling its golden light into their chamber, there was one thing he made certain: Cregan understood that his fear was not of Claere herself, but of what she represented—an unknown force that defied the forthright disposition of his life.

As the days wore on, Cregan found himself perpetually on edge, his mind halved between the whispering suspicions that crept through Winterfell and the cold reality of his new wife. Claere moved through the castle like a careless sprite, floating just beyond reach, drifting from room to room, always apart from the people around her. She left a wake of uncertainty in her path, tales trailing behind her like a fog.

Scarcely did she remain grounded; more often than not, she soared into the skies with Luna, her dragon, a creature so tremendous that many in Winterfell whispered it had outgrown the older beasts of war—Vhagar's equal in size and perhaps ferocity. The sight of it, gleaming silver scales slicing through the frozen air, sent shivers through the keep. Claere’s infrequent appearances at suppers left the hall feeling incomplete, her absence punctuated by muttered resentments from the courtiers and smallfolk alike. The duties of a lady to Winterfell—tending to the hearth and home, overseeing the castle’s workings—were not simply ignored but utterly abandoned.

And yet, Cregan could not bring himself to care. As long as Claere caused no disturbance, as long as she kept to the law, she was no hindrance to him.

As it went, Cregan had not slept in her bed since their wedding night. In fact, they had barely spoken. Claere had quietly suggested moving to a nearby chamber, giving him "his breathing space," as she put it, and he hadn’t objected. He offered up the one nearest to the enclosure where her dragon was housed and arched ceilings, for when she dabbled in her music.

Her peculiarities deepened with every passing day. In the dead of night, her harp’s haunting refrain would echo through the passageways, its melody weird and hypnotic. At other times, he would hear her soft footsteps racing through the corridor, out into the courtyard, lost in her dreams until dawn. But most unsettling of all were the strange songs she would hum—songs that danced on the edge of his consciousness, unnervingly poignant, yet cruel in the sweet voice they reached. As if she were singing of things far beyond this world.

Blood and shadow, ice and flame, Sing the tune without a name In the frost, their voices hum Of dead unseen, of eyes aglow Of footsteps deep beneath the snow Ice will crack, and winds will wail, Have you seen the end unfold, the secret that never sleeps?

Claere's songs instilled an image of the most unspeakable cold he knew, distant woods beyond the Wall, where whispers of horrors awaited, ready to engulf the unwary. Sometimes, the songs became too much, stirring a dread in him so deep he would storm down the hall, ready to confront her. But each time he did, within her room, like a figure of utmost naïveté, she would have ensconced herself by the hearthside, rent of her sleeves, weaving dried winter roses across a vine.

"Did I wake you?" she had asked up at him.

His words faltered. Rather a hollow noise whooshed out his lips, his resentment fleeing at the sight of her.

"The hour grows late, princess," he would reply stiffly, the reprimand hollow even to his own ears. "It would be wiser to find some sleep before the morn."

"I adore the night," she had said to him. "Without it, you cannot see the stars. Or see the shadows."

Cregan had expected to hate her. He had expected to find her burdensome, a hardship forced upon him by duty. But he did not. Indeed, he endured her and accommodated her. As unfamiliar as Claere was, there was something fragile beneath the mantle of her mystery. He found himself unable to despise her, though neither could he truly be fond of her. A part of him, born of compassion, wanted to protect her from the world that had turned its back on her. Perhaps, buried beneath her oddities, she yearned for some semblance of a connection she had never known.

It was one of the handmaidens who had come to him, trembling with unease, to speak of her lady’s growing detachment.

"She barely eats, my lord," the young girl had said. "I fear she grows weaker by the day, surviving on little more than water and grain."

"Have you asked the princess what she would prefer? Surely, our larders are rife enough to sustain her... distinct palate," one of the lords from Cregan's council interjected before he could react.

Cregan shot him a sharp, warning glare. He had long since grown weary of the whispers—the looks exchanged behind his back, the way people averted their eyes when his wife entered a room. The court treated her as if she were a curse, a spectre they wished to avoid. It only stoked his resolve to protect her, to ensure she was not devoured by their disdain. Claere was different, but she was not an object to be mocked.

The maid shifted uneasily. "I have spared no effort in this. Though, there is another issue, my lord."

He sighed. "Aye, go on."

"Her ladies have dwindled to nought. I am only charged to tend to her meals, if not no one."

Cregan's heart sank at the thought. He wanted to believe that Claere was merely adjusting to her new life, that in time she would settle. But with each passing day, it became harder to ignore the isolation tightening its grip around her.

"And what, pray tell, has come over them to spurn their service to the Lady of Winterfell?" His voice was low but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The handmaiden lowered her head, unwilling to speak the truth aloud, yet the answer was clear enough. Fear. The court, the smallfolk, her own attendants—everyone was frightened of Claere.

When his eyes bore into her, she hesitated whilst wringing her hands. "We see strange things where the dragon sleeps. My lady's songs... people say they hear them echoing in the courtyard when no one else is there."

"These slights must cease at once," he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper, but the weight behind it made the girl flinch. "Claere is a princess of the realm, moreover your lady. Any who fail in their duty will answer to me. Am I clear?"

She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, my lord," she stammered, bowing quickly before retreating from the room.

And when the next issue reached him, it was, once again, centred on the most pressing concern: Claere's dragon.

"We are unable to feed the beast, my lord," a nervous steward reported, his voice trembling as he stood before Cregan. "The men refuse to go near it. Even the bravest among them say they hear odd noises from its holding."

Cregan's brow furrowed deeply. "Are they afraid of a dragon doing what dragons do—eat?"

"It's not just that, my lord," the steward began, his voice shaky. "We simply do not have the numbers to sustain it. We've lost livestock faster than we can replenish, and there is not enough game in the woods this season. Our people will be left with nothing if it continues like this."

Cregan stood from his chair, pacing toward the hearth as the steward’s words sank in. Feeding Claere's dragon was becoming a task fraught with superstition and suspicion—neither of which he could afford in Winterfell. And now that dragon was a looming menace not just for its size, but even for its insatiable appetite. If they couldn't meet its needs, there was no telling what havoc it might wreak.

"I will take her out to hunt on the morrow," a hushed voice spoke up from across the room.

Cregan turned sharply to see Claere standing in the entrance, her pale little figure silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. No one had even heard her approach.

A rush of murmurs, of "my lady" and "your grace", went across the sparse crowd in the hall.

For the first time, he noticed how discomfited she seemed with the attention on her. She had courteous bows for the little council of lords before she stood before Cregan, her thin lavender silks trailing by her feet. How it catered to her warmth, he would never know. She ought to wrap a good layer of furs around her.

“You heard all that?” he muttered to her, trying to mask the unease.

Claere nodded, unruffled. Then she mellowly addressed the rest of the council who was seated and the anxious steward.

"Luna will no longer be a burden to you," she assured. "Thereafter, I will fly her beyond the Wall. There must be plenty of wild herds there that would satisfy her. And it will keep her from Winterfell's rife supply for a time."

While the disparaged lord hung his head, Cregan's heart constricted. The idea of Claere—of anyone—venturing beyond the Wall unsettled him, but the alternative was just as threatening. It was dangerous to let someone so young and inexperienced roam in the ancient, Northern wilderness. The risks were too great, even for a dragonrider. His argument would be proved right by the last Targaryen who visited the wall, Claere's own great-great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon, Silverwing.

His gaze never left Claere as the lords around them voiced their concern, exclaiming how unwise it was for her to embark beyond Castle Black in such perilous times. Yet, she stood before them as cold and unbothered as ever, her violet eyes betraying no hint of fear or doubt.

"You plan to hunt beyond the Wall alone, as winter draws nigh?" Cregan asked, laced with tension. "You would risk that?"

One of his bannermen, old and discerning to the dangers of the North, came forth with an incredulous look. "A Southerner such as you would have no idea of the true perils beyond Whitetree, my lady. Five hundred years have passed since the last great threat, and still, we are not entirely certain what lurks in the darkness. If it isn't the cold that claims you, it might be wildlings or worse—barbed, spindly creatures, drawn from the blackest legends."

Claere tilted her head slightly as if the lord’s words were of little consequence to her. As if she knew something about the Land of Always Winter that he did not.

"Do not fret, ser," Claere replied, gentle yet astute. "Luna is fearsome when she needs to be. She is not just any dragon—she is the last living relic of Old Valyria, a mere egg when Aenar the Exile first claimed Dragonstone. She will protect me."

Her words should have been reassuring, but they left Cregan with a hollow pit in his stomach. It wasn’t her confidence in the dragon that troubled him—it was her complete lack of concern for the threats she would face. He had seen fear in men’s eyes before, but Claere’s violet gaze was barren, as though no amount of danger or uncertainty could touch her.

"You speak of Luna’s strength as if it is enough," Cregan finally said, his voice low. "But what of your own?"

"You needn’t concern yourself with my safety," she replied, her tone as impassive as her expression.

He studied her closely, weighing his options and her obvious solutions, searching her enchanting face for some flicker of apprehension. There was nothing. It irked him to no extent. Did nothing shake her? Did nothing put her off?

"I am the Warden of the North," he bit out. "Your safety is under my jurisdiction."

She shrugged one side of her shoulder. "Then it appears we have reached an impasse, my lord."

Her words were calm and detached, as though she were discussing the weather. Cregan's patience wore thin, his protective instincts clashing with her indifference.

He strode to her side, towering over her, his imposing figure blocking them from the view of the council. Claere leaned away, her eyes dipping down, her face contorting in disquiet at his proximity. Yet he pressed on, tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Don't," he tried to protest.

"Look at me," he urged, his grip tightening as frustration bled into his words. "I cannot risk you for something as feckless as a hungry pet. Do you understand me, Claere?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. For a brief moment, it was as if she were on the verge of revealing some hidden truth, some implicit fear or vulnerability.

"You do not risk me. 'Tis I who take the risk," she said, her voice painfully even.

Cregan's jaw clenched, his exasperation palpable as he released her chin, stepping back but still glaring at her. He could protect Winterfell, the North, and his people—but her? He was not so convinced anymore.

"Fine. Do as you wish," he surrendered.

She offered him nothing more than a parting curtsey as if she had already said too much. With that, Claere turned to leave the room but his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

"However, I will ride with you."

For a moment, she remained still, her back to him. Slowly, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. And finally—there it was.

A flicker of astonishment in her violet eyes. A break in the mask of indifference she so carefully maintained. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something deeper, more vulnerable, flickered in her violet gaze, a shadow of doubt or unease, quickly concealed again behind her calm facade.

"You need not trouble yourself, my lord," she said softly, though her voice trembled ever so slightly.

"It's not a request," Cregan replied, his tone brooking no arguments. "If you are to face danger, you will not do it alone."

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer, her expression unreadable, before she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned once more and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.

Cregan stood still, watching the place where she had just been, and where no one could see him, broke out into a triumphant smirk. This was it then, a game at which two could play. If she was a tempest, then he would be the steadfast mountain, immovable against the storm.

thank you for reading! idk how a taglist works but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

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serene-faerie · 2 days

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When Melian returns to Aman, she returns as a stranger in a strange land.

Her time in Beleriand has changed the very essence of her spirit, and she quickly finds that Aman is no longer the same as when she'd first left.

Melian can no longer find beauty in the unchanging perfection of the Blessed Realm. Though the landscapes are lovely, there is always something missing.

She misses the rugged but natural, cavernous beauty of Menegroth. The sparkling, open cities of Tirion and Alqualondë are strange to her, with their many buildings that glitter in the sun. Both cities are lovely, but they're too perfect, too clean.

She misses the cool air of the forests of Doriath. Though the forests of Aman are lovely, they are too pristine, too perfect. They don't grow tall and wild like Nan Elmoth, and there's no sound of rushing water like there had been in Neldoreth.

She misses the nights of Beleriand. In Doriath, the forests always came to life, with fireflies drifting through the trees and crickets chirping alongside the songs of nightingales. Nights in Aman are too peaceful, too quiet, unless you were in Tirion or Alqualondë.

Melian struggles to fit in with the rest of the Maiar. Many of them cannot understand the emptiness she feels. Her time among the Children of Ilúvatar has changed her so much, she cannot go back to how she used to be.

She misses Elu Thingol, her beloved husband and life partner. She misses the Iathrim, the people she loved. She misses Lúthien, her only daughter, and Beren, her brave mortal son-in-law. She misses Dior, her willful and spirited grandson. And above all, she misses Doriath so much.

However, she doesn't regret her life in Middle-earth. She was able to be a wife, a mother, and a queen. She was surrounded by people who loved her, and she loved them all with every fiber of her being. She had a beautiful family of her own, and they were her greatest treasure.

And even after all of the sorrows and heartache, Melian knew that she would gladly live that same life again if she could.

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mentha-vacciniumrainbow · 3 days

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Zestmilla tickle fights with the girls?

Nice idea, can do! (Hope you enjoy, is a silly little thing 💜)

《Clara, no 》 warned Carmilla, but it was all useless, as her daughter got ready to pounce on her

《Clara yes! 》 The kid screamed, jumping from the top of the wardrobe and onto her mother, her little hands busy tickling her 《I got you! Mum is my prisoner now! 》

《Stop it! I'm serious! 》 scolded Carmilla between laughters, carefull to move herself so that both her and her daughter would hit a soft surface when they would inevitably fall 《No TV the whole weekend! No spicy chips! No... No skateboarding! 》

《Worth it! 》 giggled the child, well aware that none of those threats would be followed by action. Her mum liked to act as she didn't enjoy their surprise attacks, but truth was, she could always see them coming from a mile away and never did anything to stop them from happening

《Stop! 》 She ordered again, as they fell on the bed and her dearest friend entered the room, alerted by the noise but not particularly panicked

《Zestial, a little help, please! 》 She pleaded, but Zestial, her oldest friend, the almost father of her daughters, her lighthouse in the storm, simply watched her with a knowing smirk, as he made his way towards them

《Thou doth not seem to particularly mind, mine dear 》 he noted, simply standing as her hyperactive child had the time of her life tickling her and undoing her neat updo.

So, apparently that was how he wanted to play, this time

《Traitor 》

《At least thou art getting cuddles 》 he comforted, and Clara stopped her assault to look at him dead in the eyes, a fanged smile brightening her round little face even more

《Don't worry jefe*, we won't make you feel left out》

《We? 》 asked Zestial, starting to look around the room, but it was already too late

《SURPRISE ATTACK 》

《Odette! 》

The child threw herself from the chandelier, successfully managing to knock Zestial to the ground and climb on him to deliver her own ticklish assault

《I'm speed, I'm stealth, I'm grace, I'M THE INVISIBLE TICKLER! 》

《I see thee perfectly, little lambkin 》 he laughed, still a bit out of breath, as he tried to rise, but his daughter was of a different opinion, and climbed on his chest as she pulled a long feather out of her sleeve

《Not for long! Feather attack! 》

《No! Not the feather, my only weakness 》 he played along 《show some mercy, I beg thee! 》

《No! Clara, I need help, dad is too tall to tickle alone! 》

《Reinforces are coming! 》

Assured the other, climbing off of her mother and joining her twin in her endeavour.

As his two beloved little menaces went wild on him and his poor clothes, Zestial noticed his dearest swiftly recomposing herself and preparing to slither out of the room

《Carmilla, mine dear... 》

He tried in his meekest voice, but this time it was her turn to smirk as she watched from above

《Na-ah. You were ready to leave me to my destiny, I'm leaving you to yours. Good luck, dear friend! 》

With a satisfied smile, she made her escape and closed the door behind her.

"Oh well, I deserved it." He thought "Yet, I shall nonetheless have my own ticklish revenge on mine loveliest lady... after our little ones are settled for the night, without a doubt."

*"Jefe" is the Spanish word for "boss", but is also affectionately/respectfully used for one's parents. I have a whole headcanon around it -used in my main fanfiction "You bring back my Springtime"-, but long story short, it's Clara's way of indirectly recognising Zestial as her dad, where Odette is more explicit.

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verifiefangirl · 3 days

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I've been rewatching Shadowhunters and just bear with me.

If you want to hit peak sad vibes read it with this is me trying.

Azriel is training with the girls and he notices Gywn seems off. Her smile wasn't as dazzling. Instead of her usual irreverence there seems to be a heavy weight on her shoulders. Her usual teasing and goading non-existence. Azriel is usually observant but he'd been paying special attention to the priestess lately. Even Nesta hadn't sensed something was bothering her yet. He knew better than to push but his eyes stayed glued to the other half of the ring throughout the whole session even though she was technically Cassian's charge.

Most of the trainees had dispersed after class but Gywn always went the extra mile to get a half an hour in alone. On a usual day, Az would either offer his teachings if his schedule wasn't packed which seemed fewer these days with the amount of responsibilities on his plate but today he just leaned against the archway and watched, his hazel eyes lost in thought as he catalogued her moves and her seemingly building frustrations. As she moved to the side of the ring to leave, ignoring his presence the whole time. He gently encircled her wrist with his fingers, stopping her in place.

"Berdara." His voice was deep like gravel, his all seeing eyes flickering over her worn form. Her breathing was rough from exertion, skin wan. Their eyes locked for a brief second and the amount of pain washing through those teal eyes knocked the breath from his chest. She jerked out of his touch and continued her descent down the house stairs without looking back.

It had been couple weeks since that incident and neither had spoken since that day. The following training sessions had followed a similar pattern with Gywn's mood plummeting further. Cassian, along with the other charges made sure to give the flamed-haired, nymph a wide bearth, in and out of training.

Azriel didn't know why he chose to go to the library. His shadows had been pressing on him all day, whispering utter nonsense. He told himself it was because he needed more resources on the otherworlds and nothing to do with the Valkyrie that resided there.

Clotho bowed her head to him in greeting. You seem more restless than usual this evening, Shadowsinger.

"Just some unfinished business." He mumbled back flatly as he disappeared inbetween the stacks. His wings were tucked in tight and body stiff. His fingers skimmed over multiple tombs until he found the one he was after. On a normal occassion he would just grab his books and go back to his office but his shadows urged him to watch, to listen.

He sighed. He could already feel a migraine coming on. He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten more than two hours of sleep in. His tired eyes skimmed over words and symbols. The sound of his pen scratching over parchment filling the silent air of the library.

He didn't know how much time had passed but he could feel a crick forming on his neck. He stood up to stretch, his muscles stiff from sitting for so many hours. He heard a slight shuffling coming from a level below the sound of voices. He stilled, knowing it was none of his business at all what was bothering Gywn but he went below anyway against his better judgement. His shadows were swirling like crazy around him.

He had every intention of making his presence known but stopped in his track when heard a white haired female berating Gywn. Every bone his body straightened at the tone.

"You are worthless, Gwyneth." She sniped as she slammed a tome in front of her.

"How am I supposed to read your sloppy writing." Gywn softly whispered something back that his ears couldn't make out.

"What are you good for if you can't do such a simple task that even five year olds have perfected. Mother above, you call yourself a priestess. Why have you been shackled to me? " She groaned.

Anger so hot choked Azriel. He wanted to roar at her for speaking to Gwyn who was one of the most capable people he knew in such a way. He knew that was a bad idea and took all his restraint to not defend her. He knew how as a male he was already intimidating in this place but add his darkness and shadows and he was terrifying sight, just like his father.

"I-I...I'm sorry, Merill." Gywn voice was shaky and her entire demeanour was defeated. Merill just looked at Gwyn in disgust before she stalked into another row of books.

Azriel watched as Gywn took a deep breath, trying to steady herself but he could see the tremble of her lips and the way her fingers kept opening and closing.

She turned to make a move back to the desks in the centre when she came face to face with him.

"Azriel!" Her voice conveying surprise. He could feel the shame rolling over her in waves. Her eyes were turned to the floor as her hands went behind her back.

"Are you okay?" His tone was soft but his eyes were still a hazel storm.

"Of course." She tried to play it off like it was nothing but her irreverent nature was nowhere to be found. Her lips still trembled and her eyes were like sea glass as they glistened.

"Gywn..." It was one of the few times he used her name and it seemed to break something inside of her. The dam had finally broken and a sobbed strangled in her throat as her hands went to her face to cover her tears.

"Everything she said is true, I couldn't save my sister, I couldn't complete the bloodrite on my own and I can't even write some damn notes for Merill. How can I call myself a priestess let alone a Valkyrie." Her body shook from how hard the tears were pouring out of her.

"She's wrong and you are too." He merely shrugged, knowing this would infuriate her. He could handle her annoyance, her anger, her teasing. Anything but that hopeless look in her eyes.

"You don't know anything about me." She scathed. He shrugged again, feigning calmness when he was anything but.

"I know enough to know this isn't you. You are a fighter and a scholar and the bestest friend Nesta has ever had. You are a Carythian and a Valkyrie and a Priestess. That is more achievements than most would ever accomplish in 10 lifetimes and sometimes what we think to be our greatest weakness is our biggest strength."

The Nephelle philosophy.

Gwyn blinked at him, stunned for a second.

"Thank you." the sound a mere whisper, tears still streaming down her face. She tentatively wrapped her arms around him. Both of their bodies went stiff. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been embraced by a women whom he wasn't in a physical relationship with. She made to pull away, clearly finding it too awkward but he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in closer. His breath ruffling her strands of hair. She melted into him now and his fingers gentled over her head as his eyes fluttered shut and he just enjoyed this moment. He felt warm and...and something else he couldn't quite name the emotion but it was nice to have a friend such as Gwyn. Who was fierce and loyal and went to the mat over and over again and she was here, hugging him and thanking him...He felt good..in a way he hadn't for many centuries now.

Thank you for listening to my ramblings. I have no doubt I'll have more Az inspo as I continue to rewatch the show and see more of the snacc off a man on screen and the way they both have that long they both have a long suffering vibe about them. Someone give these two characters a break with pina coladas

#Azriel #Azriel imagine #Alec is so Azriel coded in the show lol #gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #verified tag #verified writing #verified imagine #gwyn berdara #gwyn acosf #shadow daddy #shadowsinger

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nectarinesalt · 2 days

Text

Cornflake Girl

...he showed up all wet on the rainy front step wearing shrapnel in his skin and the war he saw lives inside him still...

pairing: drafted/military/PTSD Eddie Munson x reader (whose brother died in the same war)

warnings: war, language, angst, death. terrible childhood, poverty. talk of domestic violence. eventual PTSD, eventual smut.

word count: 1k

author's note: slightly thinking about making this into a multi-chapter. tell me what you think.

~~~

The exhaust from the line of buses in the road choked you like the clammy, stone grip of Death himself. You found yourself in a trance - staring at the weeping mothers, the trembling young men - the only thing to shake you back to reality was a familiar firm grip on your own shaking fingers.

“...before you know it. Trust me, Wink.”

You stuttered over a response. “W-what?”

Your older brother Zeke raised an eyebrow at you with amusement. It’s the exact look that he had been giving you for weeks, and quite frankly, it pissed you off. How could you be so fucking casual about being drafted, Zeke?

In simple terms, the world as you knew it was ending. Your best friend, your big brother, your savior - he got that goddamned letter in the mail.

Of course, Ezekiel Elliot Winkler didn’t bat an eye. Did he expect it? Well, you were sure he did. The newspapers talked about nothing but war. But… did Zeke want this? Your mind suddenly ran past all of the memories of the previous years; him and your father shoving each other around, Zeke ripping bottles of wine out of your mother’s frail hands.

Your brother, only eleven months older than you, covering your ears in the stuffy closet you shared as your parents smashed dishes in the kitchen during a fight. You recalled how bad you shivered in the closet that night - probably because the furnace went out again, and no one had fixed it in months.

Probably as much as you shivered now. Zeke’s chocolate brown eyes were different from yours, lighter almost. His gaze flickered between your pathetic scowl and your hand, where your anxious thoughts manifested into a severe cuticle picking problem.

“C’mon, quit the picking, sis. How’s an engagement ring ever gonna look on a chewed up finger like that?” Zeke winked at you, knowing all too well that you swore off marriage over a year ago.

His sense of humor didn’t fade one bit, not even as the heavy bag slung over his shoulder. You helped him pack it the night before, last minute as always.

You really want to pack this much?

He smiled that toothy smile of his, dimples catching the shadow from the bare bulb above you both.

It’s all I got, Wink.

A deep gasp rose in your throat and you squeezed your eyes shut. Your memories escaped you suddenly, but then came rushing back with the enveloping squeeze of Zeke’s long arms lifting you a few inches off the cold pavement. He had always been at least half a head taller than you.

Ignoring the scrutinizing gaze of your mother, Zeke mumbled in your ear. “Just… hang in there. Please? Someone needs to take care of her while I’m gone.”

You fought the urge to argue, to protest. You didn’t want to watch over your drunken mother. You’d be eighteen within six months - who’d be responsible for her then? After all of the nights you both went to bed hungry, the narcissistic comments as puberty hit you like a semi truck. What the fuck did you owe her?

She didn’t attend the funeral of your father when her car wrapped around a tree… only for her to walk away with nothing but bruises.

You were shocked that she had the motivation to leave the couch to send off Zeke. Hell, right now, you were stunned she was even slightly sober in the parking lot of Hawkins High School. But that was probably for her reputation's sake, not for her only son being drafted like a pig to the slaughter.

A sudden flash of silver caught your eye.

Snapping like a twig in the middle of a dry Indiana January, your neck craned instinctively towards the sight: two buses down, the flicker of a silver chain on the strap of a man’s duffel bag.

Eddie. Your best friend.

Well, your former best friend. Before you had to start wearing a bra. Before your PMS and family stress turned you into a hormonal monster. Before he popped boners every time you smoked behind the bleachers with him during cheer practice. Before… before he did nothing but obsess over Chrissy Cunningham.

You sighed.

Eddie Munson, born the same year, nearly the same damned month, as Zeke, got the letter in the mail, too. Duty called to him like a whisper in the night, beckoning him with a curling finger, looking at all of his failures, insecurities; Eddie didn’t think he truly had a future in Hawkins. So why not embrace the draft?

At least, that’s what you imagined it was like. Now, your puffy eyes drew to him like a magnet. Eddie looked drastically different, yet all the same. His hair was buzzed like it was when you were in 5th grade. He kept his back awkwardly straight as he spoke silently to his uncle, Wayne. That tiny family was always so good at trying to make life easier for each other.

You silently begged them to let the walls down. Shed tears. Hug deeply. But no, nothing like that happened.

Zeke said his farewell to your frigid mother as you focused on the sparse Munson family. Eddie held a firm grip on his uncle as he pulled him in for a brief embrace. As your childhood best friend turned for the bus, he immediately froze at the sight of you across the parking lot.

Fuck.

A whistle sounded nearby, tearing you from the invisible silver chain that connected you to Eddie.

“Zeke!” you choked out, refusing to let go of the strap on his bag. “Write to me. Please tell me you’ll write.”

“I thought you hated my handwriting?”

“Shut up!” You gripped his strap harder, pulling him forward in a gut-crushing hug, trying to ignore the feeling of Eddie’s eyes on you.

The last thing you remembered was the easygoing smirk on Zeke’s face as he waved through the bus windows.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddiemunson #eddie munson x female reader #stranger things #eddie munson slow burn #eddie x you #eddie munson x you

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abbysimsfun · 8 hours

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Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 54 (The Game Tried to Take MY SON!)

cw: toddler peril. I learned a lesson about playing with unpatched mods but I played up a bit of drama despite not accepting what happened as canon. Only shot of Ash is above because more felt gratuitous for something that technically never happened because I reversed it.

The quiet house unnerved him. Conrad knew something wasn't right. He texted Heather, and in less than a minute his phone rang. "I'm sorry I didn't text," she sobbed through the phone. "Ash's daycare called and I...I...I'm at the hospital with him now. Doctors have him sedated."

"What happened?!"

"It was daycare," she repeated. "They said he was on the slide but then they looked away and...and they thought..." She broke down, and Conrad felt her pain through the line. Her fear shook the phone in his grasp.

"It'll be okay. I'm on my way there."

He embraced her when he walked through the door to St. Sims Hospital, and she fell into his arms. "He'll be okay," he assured her, but he didn't know any better.

"How did this happen?" she cried. "What kind of mother lets her son-"

"Stop. This isn't on you."

"If I didn't work so much, I could have been home with him. Maybe I could have..."

He pulled her close, feeling every tense muscle in her rigid body. "This isn't on you," he repeated. "And we're not gonna lose him. We'll all get through this together. We're a team, remember? That means Ash, too."

She was quiet. "Conrad... Do you believe in curses?"

"Like witches?"

She frowned as her thoughts pounded against her skull. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe mermaids? But Mortimer Goth told me a story once about cursed Landgraabs, and I know how it sounds. But when Ash came along I thought about it a lot more than I should, and then I had to give him their last name. After tonight, I feel sick to my stomach. What if I cursed my son by giving him Malcolm Landgraab for a father?"

"There's no way Ash is cursed," he said quickly. "I know you're scared for him, but curses aren't real and Ash is one of the luckiest kids in the world. He'll get a Landgraab trust fund and he's got you for a mom."

She managed a smile, but when the doctor emerged from the pediatric care unit, she raced over to hear word of her son. "How is he? Oh, Watcher, please let him be okay..."

Dr. Serra smiled. "He hit his head pretty hard, but other than a headache for a few days, we think he's going to be fine. We want to keep him overnight for observation, but he's awake and he's asking for you."

Heather's whole body breathed with relief as she embraced her son's doctor. "Thank you!" she sobbed. "Thank you so much!"

Behind her, Conrad felt his muscles loosen. He'd been so focused on Heather, he didn't even notice his own fear at the thought of Ash in peril. "Thank you, Doctor. We're so grateful."

Dr. Serra smiled. "You must be Conrad. Ash asked for you, too."

Ash would recover quickly, but Heather wasn't so sure about herself. Even with Conrad's unflinching support, she felt torn apart by guilt over her son's near-fatal accident while she'd been working.

She was always working, trying so hard to earn enough to buy out her clinic from Ash's other family. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

WCIF St. Sims Hospital? Sims 4 Gallery build by @pihe89/pihe89. Stunning build, simply put, and very popular (so many copycats). And it comes with a science lab and alien wormhole nbd. Two floors, so many varieties for rooms. Why would I build when people are this talented? It's in a second save and I'll use it again for babies, but hopefully we're not back here for any tragedies anytime soon.

How did this happen?!? Needless to say, Heather's guilt is also mine. I had too many mods and tested fate playing before updating them all! I played some Ultimate Decades Challenge generations and still have the Children and Toddlers Can Die mod installed (I like having options, I guess?), which only kills toddlers with hunger if I'm not mistaken. I was also having some mod issues after the Lovestruck update and didn't realize it until this happened, but the toddler needs bars stayed in the green while their needs deteriorated and I didn't know. Only the toddlers!

So I followed Conrad to work and when he came home Ash was gone and Heather had the 'lost a child' grief moodlet. Cue my internal scream! I revived him instantly with MCCC because this is not UDC and I have plans for this kid! I was so shocked I didn't take any screenshots of the whole disastrous event, but I couldn't pretend it absolutely didn't happen. And honestly the accident ties in with Heather's nagging fears the curse could be real, which is the one unintended benefit of this whole thing.

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #sims in bloom #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 story #ts4 story #legacy challenge #sims legacy #ts4 legacy challenge #gen 2 #brindleton bay

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rosanna-writer · 2 days

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Love at First Sight's for Suckers (5/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally...

Warnings: None

Thank you again to @itsthedoodle for beta-ing my gift for @the-lonelybarricade!

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent. | Ch. 3 - Guts and Glory | Ch. 4 - Dead or Dreamin' | Ch. 5 - Something to Believe in

You can read the fifth chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

A mating bond was a massive, overwhelming thing. Feyre didn’t have the words to talk about it—didn’t even know where to start. It all seemed safer if her suspicions stayed suspicions.

The moment she voiced them aloud, her whole life would change.

For just a little while longer, she wanted to stay Feyre-the-newsie, not Feyre-the-prince’s-mate. And it felt good to give in to the urging of the thread in her chest—her mind went pleasantly blank every time Rhys’s lips touched hers. She wanted to drown in him and forget about everything else.

She started to reach for the buttons of his jacket, but a broad hand covered hers. “Mother above, Feyre,” Rhys murmured, huffing a soft laugh, “we don’t have to do this on a rooftop.”

Feyre started to protest—after all, they’d have even less privacy if she brought him down to her crowded, shared bedroom in the tenement below—but before she could get the words out, her feet were off the floor. Rhys had slid his hands beneath her knees and shoulders to scoop her up.

Her stomach flipped. If being cradled against his chest didn’t feel quite so nice, she would have wiggled her way out of his arms. She still had half a mind to do it, just to spite him for not giving her any warning.

Rhys snapped his wings out wide. She felt the slight bend in his knees, as if he were about to— “Don’t take off without telling me where we’re going,” she said quickly.

“The House of Wind,” he said, as if it should have been obvious.

A blush crept up her cheeks. “You’re…taking me home?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not an ill-mannered brute.”

They shot into the sky, and the rushing wind drowned out any of Feyre’s further complaints. All she could do was loop an arm behind his neck and cling to him even tighter.

Feyre was built for the shadows—not the open skies. As the city fell away beneath them, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on the hard warmth of Rhys’s body against hers. With each beat of his wings, she could feel the powerful muscles of his back and chest at work. An Illyrian warrior exactly where he belonged.

But still, it was something of a relief to feel the world fade into mist as he winnowed them. He was impatient, she realized. The flight wouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but apparently that was too long to wait.

In the space of a heartbeat, they were in the sky again, this time directly above the House of Wind. Rhys held his wings out as they descended past the wards in a smooth glide. The balcony rushed towards them, but Feyre barely felt anything as Rhys’s feet touched the stone floor.

She didn’t feel like she belonged in the palace—especially not after the High Lord had called her there earlier just to intimidate her. Feyre spent her life on the streets, never anywhere this opulent. She couldn’t shake the feeling, ridiculous as it was, that they’d be caught any moment and she’d be forced to leave.

Rhys set her down, and on instinct, Feyre made herself incorporeal again. He hadn’t dropped her hand, and the shadows skittering along her skin extended down her arm, enveloping him, too.

“There’s no need to hide,” Rhys said. “In case you’ve forgotten, I live here, and I invited you.”

“Don’t be a prick. There might be problems if we run into someone,” Feyre said. She was sure the High Lord wouldn’t be thrilled to see her again—and she was fairly certain Rhys’s sister was also somewhere nearby.

“After all those headlines about how many people I’ve brought to my bedroom, no one will be scandalized, I assure you.”

Feyre growled, and perhaps that should have embarrassed her. But it was a relief to stop pretending she hadn’t been envious of everyone the press had linked to him romantically over the years.

Something sparked in Rhys’s eyes, an excited gleam that made Feyre’s toes curl in her boots. He’d liked that low, possessive sound when it came from her.

“I thought it would be obvious by now,” he said, “but apparently I hadn’t made myself clear before. You are the very last person I’m bringing to my bed and the one I want there the most.”

She knew why. But she still said, “Prove it.”

In an instant, Rhys was tugging her through walls and furniture. He seemed completely unbothered by temporarily becoming incorporeal, which was unusual—Lucien had always complained the shadows felt like spiders crawling all over his skin. Maybe it was different for mates.

Feyre let the shadows fade when they reached a room that could only have been his—bed large enough for wings, desk covered in paperwork and the sword she’d seen him brandishing the other day, curtains rustling gently in the glassless window.

Curiosity got the better of her, but only for a moment. Rhys had used their joined hands to pull her against him, and his tongue was already pressing its way between her lips again.

Perhaps his way of proving he wanted her there was just…devouring her whole.

Not that she was the sort of person to just stand there and get devoured. Feyre had heard all the rumors about Illyrian wings, so she reached for his, brushing a hand against the membrane just to see what would happen.

Rhys groaned, and they were pressed so close that Feyre felt every inch of his full-body shudder.

So there had been some truth to the stories she’d heard, then. She reached out and pressed a little harder against his wing—the taut skin was cool to the touch, silky and surprisingly soft. Slowly, she dragged her hand down.

Rhys’s hips bucked against hers, and Feyre couldn’t help but giggle. “Did you just…” she said.

“No, but I will shortly if you keep that up.”

That sounded like encouragement, so she stretched her hand out again. Rhys snapped his wings back before she could touch them.

“If you can’t last very long, I promise I won’t leak the story to the press.”

“My stamina isn’t an issue,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her again. It was softer than on the rooftop, his hands settling gently on her hips. “As I told you, I’m not an ill-mannered brute. Ladies first.”

Before Feyre could respond, he was already on his knees. Splaying one broad hand across her stomach, he pressed her back against the door, then hooked one of her legs over his shoulder.

There had been a flurry of headlines about Rhys refusing to kneel to his father in protest, then several more after an interview where he’d revealed the mountain and stars tattooed on his knees—that they meant he’d bow to nothing and no one but his crown. It had been dangerously close to declaring an intent to kill his father and take the throne.

But he’d knelt for her without a second thought. His crown and his—

No. Feyre wouldn’t let herself think it again.

Besides, Rhys was already hooking his fingers in the waistband of her pants. He looked up at her, a question in his eyes. As if now, she might actually change her mind. She’d never known him to look unsure of anything.

She nearly managed to say what they were to each other, just to wipe the doubt from his face. But Feyre wasn’t quite brave enough to manage it. Not yet.

“Keep going, please,” she said, hoping it was enough.

Rhys peeled the threadbare leggings down, and Feyre gripped his shoulder to steady herself as the fabric stretched around her knees. But that hand pinning her to the door wouldn’t let her fall.

He pressed a kiss to the bottom of her abdomen, and Feyre couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been so soft with her.

There was nothing hesitant in the first sweep of his tongue, a slow stripe up her center. Too much, but not enough. Feyre whined and canted her hips closer.

With a satisfied growl, Rhys feasted on her in earnest, licking and sucking every part of her he could reach. Feyre writhed, her hand on his shoulder digging into the fabric of his jacket. A wave of knee-wobbling pleasure was building within her, and the fingers of her other hand scraped uselessly against the wooden door.

The relentless strokes of his tongue didn’t slow despite his hand reaching up to interlace his fingers with hers.

Feyre squeezed his hand with enough force to crush his fingers as release crashed through her. Breathing hard, she started to slide her leg off his shoulder. The hand on her stomach pressed her back into the door, holding her in place.

His voice echoed in her head; with his tongue already slipping inside her again, Rhys couldn’t speak aloud. You taste too magnificent to stop after just one.

There was nothing to do but let him wring more pleasure from her. Rhys seemed to be intent on making her climax as many times in a row as he could, at least until Feyre finally managed to whisper, “I want the next one with you inside me.”

She kicked her leggings the rest of the way to the floor as he stood and lifted her up. Without his mouth on her, her head finally started to clear, and it suddenly seemed massively unfair he was still completely clothed.

He carried her towards the bed, and once her shaking legs were locked around him, Feyre tore at the buttons of his jacket. The rest of their clothes disappeared with a crackle of magic.

Quite a lot of ink had already been spilled about Rhysand’s chest. Since he’d won the Blood Rite and earned his tattoos, he’d favored plunging vee necklines to show them off, and it wasn’t unusual for him to stumble out of Rita’s missing the tunic he’d gone in with. Feyre had certainly never complained—not when that chest splashed across the front page sold so many papers.

But none of that prepared her for how good it would feel to run a possessive hand down the expanse of hard muscle.

Feyre couldn’t make promises—not with a one-way ticket to the Continent in her pocket. If she was leaving, it wasn’t fair to snarl and call him hers and no one else’s.

She wanted to, though. Cauldron, she wanted to.

He was staring down at her like he wanted the same thing, and it was all too much. They were coming dangerously close to blurting out a confession, so she plunged her fingers into his hair and dragged his lips towards hers again.

It was another hungry, open-mouthed kiss, and it felt far better than talking. Feyre tipped her hips up, a silent plea to keep going. Her clit brushed the underside of his cock, drawing a mewling sound she made right into his mouth.

Needy little thing, aren’t you? The words floated into her head as if carried on a night-kissed wind.

I’m not needy, you’re just slow. I told you what I want.

The thread tying them together—that Feyre was still trying very hard to ignore—seemed to hum with wicked amusement. She lifted her hand from his head and stretched it over his shoulder.

She could feel the rumble of his low laugh as he tucked his wing out of her reach. His hips shifted, and his considerable length slid into her.

The stretch was ecstasy. There was no way around it—Rhys’s cock was big, just like the rest of him. He moved slowly at first, and Feyre let her eyes flutter shut as she just savored the feeling of him filling her up.

It was nearly too much, but at the same time the instincts driven by the bond in her chest pushed her to take him deeper and demand more. She pressed her hips up, taking every inch of him she could.

It was all the urging he needed to go faster. Suddenly, Rhys was fucking her like his life depended on it. He was far from Feyre’s first partner, but she’d never had someone chase her climax so relentlessly. There was nothing to do but give into it until she shattered around him.

He was breathing hard when Feyre came back to herself. She knew she should have smirked, said something blasé to make it clear this was just a bit of fun before she left for the Continent. Made it clear this was casual so she could ignore the bond in her chest just a little while longer.

But no, whether it was the mating bond or something else, Rhys had just utterly ruined her for anyone else. And based on the way he was looking at her…he felt the same way about her, too.

Leaning down, Rhys rolled them both over until they were on their sides. The mess they’d made disappeared from between her legs with half a thought.

“Stay,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Please.”

Feyre let herself believe he only meant for the night. After all, she’d have to be back here in the morning for the start of negotiations anyway. Not forever.

“I will,” she whispered back, pulling him tighter.

Even during bombshell tell-all interviews, none of Rhys’s lovers had ever mentioned his wings, and most of them had stumbled out of his bedroom or bid him goodbye before he skittered home. Feyre pillowed her head on his massive bicep, tangling her legs with his as his wing blanketed them both.

Warm and safe, she drifted off and let herself dream.

Out of habit, Feyre woke just as the eastern sky began to lighten. She wanted to linger a bit longer—she couldn’t remember ever sleeping on a mattress free of lumps before—but years of poverty had shaped her into an expert at dragging herself out of bed.

She started to wiggle free of Rhys’s hold, but he let out a sleepy, irritated growl. The arm around her waist tightened.

“I can’t be late for my own strike. Don’t be a prick,” she whispered.

His reply slipped into her mind, as if he weren’t awake enough to speak aloud quite yet. You can’t be late when you’re already here.

She still needed to bathe and change. Pulitzer and the High Lord would laugh her out of the room if she arrived at the negotiation table in yesterday’s clothes and reeking of Rhysand and arousal. If word got out, that would certainly—

Did you really plan on taking all ten thousand steps instead of just using my tub? Rhys asked, interrupting her train of thought.

She had. It seemed easier than asking to use his bathing chamber and borrow some clothes. Feyre didn’t regret what they’d done last night, but she’d get her head on straight easier in the familiar territory of the Rainbow instead of staying in the House of Wind a moment longer.

And Feyre needed to be sharp today.

Before she could protest, one of Rhys’s legs joined the arm twined around her. Something deep within seemed to purr in satisfaction as he pressed her flush against him. Stay. You can sleep for another hour and still have plenty of time to make yourself presentable.

It made sense. And even if it didn’t, Feyre suspected the thread in her chest would pull her right back to him. A contented little noise escaped her as she tucked her head under his chin and closed her eyes.

Golden light streamed in through the glassless window when Rhys nudged her awake again. Feyre lifted her head and spotted a gown folded on top of a chest of drawers. Someone—Rhys, presumably he didn’t allow servants in his room while he slept—had placed her cap atop it.

“You needed something to change into,” he said, answering the question before she could ask.

This time, when Feyre pulled away, he let her. To her immense relief, Rhys didn’t try to kiss her good morning. Feyre’s mind was already on business, and she didn’t need him setting her head spinning.

After pointing her to the bathing room, Rhys set off to handle breakfast. Probably just because he was making himself useful. Feyre did need to eat, after all.

Definitely that, and not to head off any possibility that she might be the one to find food and offer it to him.

Feyre thought that she’d feel more herself after she’d gotten something in her stomach and washed her face. But the flaky, layered pastry and impossibly fluffy eggs were nothing at all like the porridge she usually breakfasted on, and the fine fabric of the gown must have cost more than she’d ever make in a lifetime of selling newspapers.

It fit perfectly. Just a bit of good luck—Rhys certainly didn’t know her measurements, even if as the heir, he probably kept a small army of seamstresses on retainer. Feyre supposed his sister or Mor had just lent her a spare gown. Probably.

Their eyes met in the mirror as she slipped the newsie cap onto her head. Just like at home, it was the very last step Feyre took before venturing out for another day of hawking papers. It had never made her feel quite so much like a knight slipping on a helmet before battle.

“Are you ready?” Rhys said, offering his arm to her.

Feyre took it, oddly grateful for something steady to hold onto. Her hand brushed the fabric of his tunic, and she realized their clothes were made of the same cloth. As if the two of them were a matched set.

A pair, equals matched by—

She cut off that line of thought before she could finish it. Rhys didn’t blink; her shields must have been intact, and she thanked the Mother for that. Besides, there wasn’t time to be distracted, not when they were already headed towards the meeting rooms in the more public sections of the House of Wind.

They paused at one of the main balconies, where Feyre and Nesta had agreed they’d meet the other day. It was empty. Feyre stared at the door, hoping Nesta was just late.

It wasn’t like her sister to forget. Not when there was money on the table.

The sound of rustling wings pulled Feyre’s attention to the window. An Illyrian. And in his arms…Nesta. She’d tucked her head just under his chin, resting it against his chest, as if he often cradled her like this.

Feyre recognized the male, another war-hero friend of Rhys’s, who’d graced front pages since the war. They’d never met, Feyre remembered shouting the headline about the building that he’d leveled in Adriata. That one had sold more papers than all the stories about his courage on the battlefield and swift promotions through the ranks. Cassian, if she wasn’t mistaken.

As the pair landed, Rhysand slipped into Feyre’s mind again. I wasn’t aware they knew each other.

Neither was I.

They’d discuss it later. Nesta was already dropping gracefully to the floor and smoothing out her skirts. “Work has already halted in Illyria,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “They’re following through on their promises of support.”

The faint sound of chanting floated all the way up to the very top of the House of Wind. Hundreds of newsies and their lesser fae supporters rallied at the base of the stairs, accompanied by Illyrian war drums. Feyre could just barely make out the words— minute by minute, that’s how you win it.

When she turned to her sister, Feyre’s smile was grim. “Then let’s go hand Pulitzer his ass.”

***

For Rhysand, watching Feyre negotiate was exquisite torture. She handled herself like a queen—like a High Lady, really. A businesswoman who’d gotten down to brass tacks as soon as everyone was seated.

“The Illyrian warriors have chosen to lay their weapons down in solidarity with the newsies of Velaris,” she’d said. “We have you surrounded, and Lieutenant Cassian can confirm. Until we sign a fair contract, the Night Court will be without an army.”

But as much as he admired the efficiency, Rhys couldn’t help but hate it, just a bit. She’d be gone when the strike ended.

He tried not to think about it, instead choosing to observe his father. Rhys had expected far more bluster from the High Lord—the newsies had, after all, essentially arranged for insubordination on a massive scale. But the High Lord had gone strangely quiet.

To Rhys, that spelled danger. He knew from experience that if the High Lord wasn’t making a show of power in front of others, it was because he was waiting to do something more devastating in public.

Rhys tried not to shiver when ebony claws speared his mind, ripping down his shields. His father never bothered to knock out of courtesy.

You can keep her. The words rang with ancient power, and Rhys tried not to bristle at the way his father spoke about his mate as if she were a stray dog.

Then what was the point of that one-way ticket to the Continent?

If she doesn’t use it, a daughter-in-law I can send to beat the governors of the Palaces into submission would be useful. Merchants often get cocky and mistake their wealth for true power. And if she leaves the Night Court…well, you won’t see me complaining if the trash takes itself out.

Rhys growled, low in his throat. The negotiations ground to a halt as every head in the room whipped in his direction. On instinct, he reached towards his hip for a sword, though he hadn’t carried one since coming home from the war.

His eyes flicked to Pulitzer. “I agree with Feyre,” Rhys said evenly, covering up the fact that he’d been speaking mind-to-mind with his father. “That proposal would be unacceptable.”

He’d been too distracted to hear what the proposal had even been, but it seemed to be the right answer. The talks resumed, even if Feyre did shoot him a brief confused look.

The High Lord didn’t invade Rhys’s mind again, but he didn’t need to. He’d made is position clear. Instead, Rhys sat back and continued to marvel at how well Feyre held her own as the details of the agreement were hammered out.

Nesta communicated with the rest of the newsies, making sure there would be support for the contract when they put it to a vote, working in tandem with Feyre, who dug her heels in with Pulitzer.

He challenged her on every single aspect of the deal, a transparent attempt to wear her down. A sound strategy, considering the resources at his disposal. But fortunately, the well of Archeron stubbornness was infinite.

Eventually, they came to what Feyre termed “a compromise we all can live with.” To let Pulitzer save face, the price of papers would still go up, if only by half of what he’d originally planned, but in return, the publishers would buy back the unsold papers at the end of the day.

A victory—fewer losses for the newsies to eat when papers didn’t sell on slow news days.

The sun had long since set by the time they finished it all—the back-and-forth, the voting, the signatures, spitting into palms and shaking over deals, celebrations with Elain and Nesta and Lucien and the rest of the newsies. By some miracle, Feyre had allowed Rhys to stay at her side throughout all of it.

Once it had all ended, they found themselves alone, walking along the Sidra. A last look before Feyre left. Rhys wanted to mention it—and perhaps try and change her mind—but the words caught in his throat each time he tried. He’d thought about offering his arm, but Feyre had kept her hands jammed firmly in her pockets.

If last night had merely been a distraction before a long day…he understood. Watching the lights glitter on the surface of the Sidra with Feyre nearby was more than enough.

It wasn’t Rhys who finally broke their companionable silence. He tensed at the sound of hurried footsteps behind them, then the abrupt silence as whoever it was winnowed to catch up.

“I’ve been looking for you two everywhere,” Mor said, materializing on Feyre’s other side.

Rhys glared at her over the top of Feyre’s head, irritated by the interruption. “Have you now?” he said, voice icy.

“I was positive you’d be at Ressina’s, but when I asked around, no one there knew where you’d slipped off to.”

“And you didn’t consider that might have been because we didn’t want to be found?”

Mor stuck her tongue out at Rhys, earning a laugh from Feyre. “I needed to catch Feyre before she left,” Mor said. “Ressina let me have the stack of paintings you were going to leave behind. There was a portrait of your friend, the one with the mechanical eye. Apparently he’s quite the charmer—flirts with them all when they buy their daily paper. They were horrified to hear the High Lord sent him to the Prison. After the fuss they made, Rhys’s father is going to start sending petty thieves somewhere more humane than an island full of monsters.”

Feyre stopped in her tracks, so abruptly that Rhys nearly walked into her. For a moment, she stood rooted to the spot, blinking in surprise.

“All that because of my art?” Feyre said slowly.

Mor nodded. “I wanted to make sure you knew. That was just one portrait, so just think of all the good you could do. And congratulations on the victory today.”

“I—”

Before Feyre could get the rest of the words out, Mor pulled her into a rib-crushing hug. Rhys raised his brows, locking eyes with his cousin over his mate’s shoulder. Mor winked and flashed him a grin.

“Safe travels, Feyre,” Mor said, giving her one last squeeze before winnowing away.

“She’s right, you know. Your paintings could do a lot of good here,” Rhys said quietly.

Feyre merely nodded, her gaze flicking back to the lights of the Rainbow. She seemed to be staring at the view as if she were trying to memorize it. They were silent, and it took all of Rhys’s willpower not to slip into her mind to find out what she was thinking.

“I should get home and pack,” she whispered.

“So should I.”

Feyre stilled. For a moment, Rhys thought she might disappear into a shadow. But she said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t aware you held a monopoly on leaving for the Continent tomorrow. Unless you don’t want company.”

“But don’t you have obligations here? Work, your family?”

“Don’t you?” Rhys said. When Feyre said nothing in response, just opened her mouth and closed it—he knew he’d won. More softly, he added, “If you want to get out of the city, there’s somewhere I’d like to show you. We can leave now if you want.”

Feyre’s cheeks went pink, but perhaps that was just the cold night air. “Alright.”

She reached out a hand, clearly expecting that he’d take it and lead her somewhere. But Rhys scooped her into his arms instead. To his surprise, she didn’t protest, just looped an arm behind his neck to steady herself, comfortable and familiar.

Rhys let his heart swell before winnowing them to the cabin in Illyria.

This far north, it was even colder, and Feyre shivered, pressing herself closer as Rhys glided to the ground. They could have walked from the edge of the wards—it was only a few yards. But it had been a long day, and some part of him wanted to carry Feyre instead of putting her back on her feet.

“What is this place?” she said, finally wiggling out of his arms after they’d crossed the threshold.

“Traditionally? It’s where the wayward youths of my family have been sent for ‘reflection’ for millennia. But I thought you might want the peace and quiet,” he said.

Rhys waved a hand, and a fire sprang to life, lighting up the cabin and warming it. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but out of habit, he toed off his shoes and placed them near the door. Feyre did the same, apparently following his lead. She sighed, and Rhys could practically feel the tension melting off of her as she closed her eyes.

“Thank you. It’s like I can finally hear myself think.”

It was exactly what Rhys suspected she really needed—a break. Even if a new life on the Continent seemed appealing, everyone she loved was in Velaris. But if Feyre didn’t agree…there would be no forcing her to stay.

He couldn’t let her leave without telling her the full truth, either.

Rhys forced himself to say, “We need to talk, and no one will disturb us here.”

“I think we do.”

There it was again—that tug, right behind his heart. The first time, Rhys had hoped he wasn’t mistaken, and after feeling it again, he was more sure. Feyre knew. And hopefully she wasn’t about to rake him over the coals.

He ushered them into the living room and gestured for her to sit. Out of habit, his movements had gone stiff and formal, though he longed to pull her close and share a blanket. But he wasn’t sure that would be welcome. Instead, he kept a careful distance between them as he sank onto the sofa.

“Feyre,” Rhys said, forcing himself to look at her. Each word felt like it was dragged out of him. “You’re my—”

“Mate. I know.”

Rhys flinched—the words sounded like a rebuke. And there was a harsh finality when the words were spoken aloud for the first time. They couldn’t be taken back. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry that we’re mates? Or is there something else you’re about to confess to me?” Her voice went sharp, and Rhys wished he could disappear.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner,” he said quietly.

“How long have you known?”

“The bond snapped a few months after meeting you. That day our fingers brushed as you handed me the paper—I think the contact triggered it.”

Another tug. This time, Rhys pulled back, just because there was no fear of being found out this time. Feyre’s hand flew to her chest, eyes going wide.

“It’s real, isn’t it?” she said, shaking her head as if to clear it. “I felt the spark that day, too. But you were such a flirt—with everyone —and I didn’t want to be some deluded girl who convinced herself it was more than a bit of fun.”

“I thought you would have noticed the headlines about my love life stopped after I met you.”

“I did. I just…didn’t think it had anything to do with me. At least not until recently. And then we were in the middle of the strike, and it’s not as if you had an opening to tell me.”

“I didn’t want to burden you with it.” Rhys still didn’t. It was honestly a wonder that Feyre hadn’t rejected the bond already; she’d shouted headlines about enough kidnapping and assassination attempts to know what a life with him would be like.

Feyre slid her hand across the sofa, interlacing their fingers. “It’s not a burden, but I need time. Can it be just us for a while? No High Lords, no labor unions, no newspapers.”

Word would get out eventually. They’d been seen together often enough in the past few days, and Rhys could hardly slip out of Velaris unnoticed. But if they stayed at the cabin, they could put it off for a while.

He pressed a kiss to their joined hands. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Another tug, but not behind his ribs this time. Feyre was pulling him closer, until Rhys lost his balance and they became a tangle of limbs and nearly tumbled off the sofa together. Her breath tickled his ear as she let out a peal of laughter. Rhys hooked a leg around her waist, twisting until she was on top of him the way he liked.

It was a while before they actually made it to the bed. And even longer until he finally fell asleep with a wing blanketing them both.

Rhys woke to a claw poking at his shields. Not hard, but insistent. His father would have just pushed his way in, which meant the daemati who wanted his attention must have been his sister.

He opened a crack for her, one just wide enough to say, Go away.

I’m outside.

Go. Away.

I’m coming in. Make sure you’re decent.

Truthfully, he was lucky Rhiannon hadn’t pounded on the door to wake up Feyre, too. Rhys bit back a snarl and slowly slid out of the bed; hopefully, he could get his sister to leave before Feyre even realized someone else had been there. With a flick of his wrist, Rhys summoned a robe and slipped it on, hurrying to the door.

Rhiannon was already in the entranceway, running a hand through windswept hair. Her dark cheeks and the tip of her nose had a pink tinge from the early morning cold—she must have flown here.

“Mother’s tits, how the hell did you two make this place stink so badly in just one night?” Rhiannon said, making a face.

“What are you doing here?” Rhys said.

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. “Meeting my new sister because you couldn’t be bothered to introduce us before running off.”

“She’s not your—” A shuffling sound from the other room cut him off; Feyre must have woken up. Rhys snarled, then slipped into Rhiannon’s mind to add, Do not ruin this for me.

Ignoring the sound of her snickering, Rhys turned to see nothing more than the faint outline of Feyre creeping through the shadows. She’d gone incorporeal, probably because she was shy.

“We can go back to bed. Rhiannon was just leaving,” Rhys said pointedly.

Rhiannon pushed past him, nearly smacking Rhys in the face with a wing. Feyre materialized fully and, still a bit groggy from sleep, blinked at them both owlishly.

Rhiannon reached into a pocket dimension and pulled out a copy of the Herald . “I’m just here to make a delivery, and I’ll be out of your hair,” she said, holding it out to Feyre.

Feyre took the paper and unrolled it. Rhys stepped closer, reading the headline over her shoulder. Newsies Stop the Presses: Historic Lesser Fae Coalition Secures Labor Win. The accompanying picture had been taken just after they’d inked the deal, a smiling Feyre flanked by her sisters and Lucien in the House of Wind.

Rhys heard his mate’s breath catch, and he decided that perhaps he wouldn’t kill his sister for this after all.

“After all that time you spent selling the paper, it just seemed fair to bring it to you when you’re finally in it,” Rhiannon added, a bit more softly.

Feyre smiled. “Thank you.”

To Rhys’s shock, Feyre accepted a hug from his sister, and true to her word, Rhiannon slipped back out after that. Thank the Mother she hadn’t insisted on staying for breakfast.

Once the door shut and they were alone again, Rhys said, “I suppose if we head back to bed, tomorrow’s headline will be about the mountains shaking.”

Feyre laughed and took her cap off the hook where she’d hung it near the door. Pressing a kiss to Rhys’s cheek, she put the cap on his head. “We’ll make a newsie of you yet, mate.”

It was only a matter of time before he made her a High Lady, too.

#feysand #love at first sight's for suckers

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