#partly inspired by my life at the moment

[smua70]

Need some comfort? Go read An Angelic Hug from Muriel, a flash fic I just wrote.

[lieutenantselnia]

Request drawing of Selena and doof at a masquerade ball in the 18th century

Oh that is a lovely idea! The costumes seem pretty detailed though (which is not exactly my strong side) so I bet they'd take a good amount of time to draw😅 But I like the idea, I'll keep it in mind for later! :)

[redflagshipwriter]

The Proposal

This mini fic was inspired by the anon prompt to @faeriekit linked here and all the development that Faeriekit did for the idea. This fic is perilously regional. I half expect angry yelling from other areas of the Midwest.

Original post

Word count: 2718

Masterpost of my Archive Down Fics is here.

Jason came to with cream cheese stuck under his fingernails and in the creases of his fingers. He looked around the room wildly, trying to understand the situation he was in. The kitchen smelled fucking weird. He sniffed the air. Meat? Like, ham and also vinegar?

He washed his hands really well, grimacing at the greasy texture. Then he reconstructed what must have happened by the debris. This was not his first post-blackout rodeo, but usually he was reconstructing a literal crime scene.

There was an empty pickle jar on the countertop. There were packets of deli meat in the trash.

There was some kind of abomination on his nicest plate, which was obviously made of cream cheese wrapped around pickles, blanketed by the meat, and sliced thin like sushi rolls. It was lovingly protected by a perfect sheet of cling wrap.

“The fuck?” Jason said, a little scared and pissed off.

He paced the kitchen for a while and then went to pace on the balcony, because he needed a smoke to process this culinary abomination but something in his gut wailed at the tragedy of ruining it with cigarette smoke. Which was absurd, partly because the plate was in the refrigerator. He sensed in his bones that it needed to cool until the cream cheese was as hard as it would get, so that he could safely transport it. Transport it fucking where? Was this an assassination attempt against Batman? That sappy motherfucker was probably the only man in the world who would choke that down to make Jason happy.

He had a long drag on his cigarette and tried to ignore the way his fingers shook.

“Okay,” he said, squeezing his free hand shut and opening it. Maybe stimming would prompt his brain to go brr and explain this. “Did I have a stroke? Maybe I was possessed?”

It was hard to tell. He ground out his cigarette and tossed the butt in the tray before venturing back inside. He was calm. He was more centered. He flicked on the kitchen fan to clear out the pickle stink and then he went and put on his coat and grabbed the plate.

Why was he doing that?

The compulsion led him three blocks before he realized where he was going.

Not far away from the safehouse he was in, some college freshman had wasted the Joker when the clown tried to drag him into a van. He had called the police, crying the whole time in shock about being a murderer.

Jason had not been on the scene. He had only heard through comms. He had been out of town when the Joker got out. He had been rushing back on his bike, heart pounding and sick with nerves at the thought of his family out there without him.

And then the fucker had failed to secure the first victim for whatever sick play he’d had in mind, and the poor out of town kid who had apparently never heard of the Joker was breathing a sigh of relief that ‘oh, this wasn’t like, a birthday clown? Whew, that’s alright then,’ previous guilt over ending a life all gone.

Jason liked that. It was hugely undignified that the Joker had been got by someone who didn’t even know who he was. If he’d known, it would have killed his ego. As it was, Jason had laughed himself nearly sick before barricading himself inside to read the file Timmers put together on Danny Fenton.

Well. If his gut said that he should deliver this horrific dish to Fenton as thanks for the murder, well…

Jason grimaced. He just wouldn’t be seen doing it. If Fenton thought it was an assassination attempt and called the cops, Jason would never fess up.

He broke into Fenton’s apartment, very glad that the guy was in class at the moment. He mourned the loss of his plate but honestly, this was the least destructive black out he’d had, so it was whatever. He put the pickle rolls in the fridge, looked around, and then left. He was done. He’d thanked Fenton, or whatever (maybe he’d attacked him, honestly, Jason didn’t know how he would react to finding that trash in his fridge.)

It could end now.

The next morning, Jason scrubbed away a yawn and realized that he had just scraped a mess of chopped snickers bars into a bowl that already had clouds of something white and -

He took out a piece and bit into it to confirm that it was perfectly cubed green apple.

“I am possessed,” Jason said in horror, looking around the counter to see what the Pit Madness had cooked up this time. Why did the fucking Lazarus Pit know these recipes?

The white shit was a mix of cool whip and vanilla pudding, apparently. There was an untouched bottle of caramel sauce waiting innocently.

“...Does that go in?” Jason wondered, vaguely horrified.

Well, maybe an evil witch was doing this to him. Bottoms up. He poured caramel in until it felt right, guided by what had to be someone else’s goddamn ancestors, and then mixed it all up with a spoon.

This looked a lot better than the last thing. Jason scraped it into a bowl and then stole a spoonful of it to try.

“Holy shit. It’s like eating a caramel apple,” he said, muffled around the food. He swallowed and genuinely considered taking more.

Nope! His gut said nope. This was another offering for–

“Hold up, offering?” Jason put it in the fridge, clingwrap on top, and let his mind be blown. He put his face in his hands and just reeled. He was making offerings for this motherfucker now. He opened his phone, intending to search the things he’d been blackout making and froze.

His lock screen was Danny Fenton’s police intake photo, looking pretty relaxed after he'd been told the booking was a formality.

“I don’t remember doing that!” Jason frantically changed it back to his old lock screen, a grimy alleyway with a hilariously shaped filth puddle and one of his favorite rats.

He snuck this dessert thing into Fenton’s fridge, collected his clean plate with some relief, and left. He didn't know if Fenton had eaten that shit or if he'd thrown it away, but at least he'd washed the plate.

“That was the last time,” Jason told himself, pacing around his room. He wasn’t– that was two days in a row now that he had a normal day, went out on patrol, went to bed, and woke up in his kitchen. It wasn’t going to happen again.

He chainsmoked all day to such a degree that Stephanie Brown saw him, whined “Dude,” in disbelief, and jumped off a building while holding her nose to get away from him. It was a fair reaction. He had a shower before patrol so that no one could make a connection between Jason, stinkiest man in Gotham today, and the Red Hood, a guy who owned a shower.

Patrol went fine. He caught himself veering past Fenton’s shitty apartment building twice but no one was nearby enough to call him out for it.

He went to bed and got a jumpscare because at some point of his most recent fugue state he'd gone out and bought a bunch of wedding magazines and made them into a nest. He made a roar of frustration and pushed them off the bed with only a twinge of interest in what that swan centerpiece was made of.

Jason went the fuck to sleep, determined to walk this off.

He woke up the next morning in his kitchen. “Cream cheese, again,” Jason complained. He gave the bowl he was mixing a furious stir and then shoved it in the fridge.

Cream cheese, chopped meat, and chopped green onion. He searched the internet to identify the fucker. This was a cheeseball.

…He frowned, thinking of the fugly mess in the bowl.

It was the larval form of a cheeseball, he amended.

Why did he know this shitty recipe.

Stomach tight with dread, he looked up the other things. Day one was a pickle roll. Day two was snickers salad.

These were all real Midwestern potluck dishes. He hadn't made them up. Why did the pit know these recipes?

The Snickers salad offended him as a concept and he bitterly regretted finding it delicious.

“Salad,” Jason repeated in aggrieved disbelief. It was good but it was no goddamn salad. “I could just make him a real salad. Will this end if I bring Fenton good food?”

It wasn't the worst idea. He put a pin in it.

Grimly, as if he was going off to war, Jason researched how to shape the ball. If he was doing this, which apparently he was for no goddamn reason, he was going to do it to perfection. When he was done he wrapped it up tight, got an assortment of crackers, and left it at Danny Fenton’s apartment with a sort of tired resignation that this might as well be happening.

This time was different. This time, Fenton was home.

Jason barely avoided being seen by rushing out the window over the sink and hiding from the immediate line of sight. He was, however, close enough to hear–

“Holy shit, is that a cheeseball? Who loves me?” and then some truly ghastly, wet crunching as Fenton tore through the crackers and cheeseball like a wild beast. It felt like being in a horror film. Jason very badly wanted to leave. Jason very badly wanted to crawl back inside and present himself for a scrap of Fenton’s approval.

What the fuck? What the fuck!

He fled. And this time, he decided to take action. He was going get out of this sick mind trap and-

“Nothing wrong with you, it's not a curse,” Zatanna said, bored about it. “Whatever is going on is safe, sane, consensual, and none of my business.” She portalled away before Jason could argue that it did not feel sane. He was having an entirely new category of mental breakdown and when one of the Bats found out about it, he was going to be a case study.

Fine. He gritted his jaw. New plan. Maybe he could beat the curse by showing it up.

He called out of crime for the day and ignored the confused commentary in the background of his phone call– can he do that? Of course he can, he’s the friggin’ boss– and spent it furiously researching. He needed a crowning achievement. He needed to find out what was sacred in this culinary tradition, master it, and then tell the compulsion to suck on bricks.

Casserole. The answer was a casserole.

Jason scrolled through dozens of recipes, scowling fiercely. That was no good. That offended his senses. He just knew that would be bland. He-

“Do I want to make that?” Jason asked aloud, puzzled by his fixation on the old-fashioned goulash casserole recipe. Worcestershire sauce– he didn’t have that in this safe house for sure. Beef, pasta, tomatoes… yeah, okay. This was the one. For no fucking reason at all, this was the one.

He went out shopping like he usually went on life-or-death missions, full of grim purpose.

He got back and assembled his ingredients. It was not exactly a challenge to follow the recipe. Jason turned off the stove top and froze in place. “I don’t have an ancestral pan,” he said, horrified. Holy fuck. How could he dare to give it in a regular baking pan- he had to get one. Where the fuck does one acquire an ancestral casserole pan on short notice?

Panicked, he called the Manor, hands shaking as he packed the whole thing up and stuffed it in the fridge to keep it food safe until he could bake it.

Bruce answered, sounding a little choked up. “Hello, Jason, so glad-”

He hung up. He texted Tim. “I need you to steal something for me from the Manor.”

“You’re allowed in, you gigantic freak,” Tim wrote back.

Jason did some meditative breathing and resorted to outright pleading immediately. “What do you want? I will give you whatever you want. I just need an ancestral casserole pan.”

“I am NOT stealing from Alfred’s kitchen,” Tim wrote back. Which was fair. “Drake ancestral pan alright?”

Jason thought about it. It was still a family pan, sorta. By the transitive property, and that was a perfectly good property. He sent back a thumbs up, his GPS pin, and the word “Hurry.”

A while later, Tim dropped off a glass dish, loudly said “I don’t wanna know,” and slammed Jason’s door shut.

Fine. He was already moving his stuff from the now-cold frying pan into the casserole dish. It went into the oven from there. Jason spent the bake time trying to think of new coping mechanisms, because apparently smoking wasn’t up to this level of mental fuckery.

He waited out the bake time. He let it cool enough to be safe to travel with but hot enough to deliver warm. Jason grappled to Danny Fenton's apartment for the fourth time in four days, let himself in, and nearly jumped out of his boots when he realized that Fenton was in the kitchen watching him.

“Hey,” Fenton said. He was sitting on his counter in his pajamas, eating ice cream out of the bucket with a spoon. He was certifiable. Jason wanted to cross the room and kiss whatever Fenton would let him. Hands, face, feet, whatever.

Wow, weird.

“...Hey,” Jason said, way too late.

Fenton crunched down on his ice cream. “...That a casserole?” He said.

Jason nodded wordlessly, feeling very grateful that he had his hood on. He put the casserole down on the counter. He took a step backwards to flee.

Fenton pointed at Jason with the spoon, wholly unintimidated by the heavily armed man who'd broken into his house. “This is a proposal.”

Oh. Oh, motherfucking shitsocks. Jason felt weak through the knees. It was. Why was- why was he proposing??

Fenton took in his shock with a detached air. “Huh,” he said, like he'd learned something from this. “Um, it's nice of you and all. Have you been like, fixated on me for a while or- ohhh. I avenged you, didn't I?” He dropped the spoon in his ice cream carton and slapped both his palms down on the countertop. “He killed you? That sucks, man,” Fenton empathized. “I get it. I think if someone smashed the portal with a hammer I'd be down on one knee.”

Jason's brain was simply not running any program any longer. He gaped. He wasn't coherent enough to ask why Danny knew he'd been murdered by the Joker, but he had his shit together well enough to be fixated on the point.

“Um, it's not usually me being chased,” Fenton said. He made a face. “I… huh, I think I'm flattered.” He very obviously gave Jason a once-over. “I suppose this is your way of showing that you're a provider.” He heaved himself off the counter and went to investigate the casserole, sniffing and lifting the lid. “Oh, fuuuuuuck,” Danny groaned. He sniffed appreciatively. “Good demonstration of your husband material, t-b-h.”

Jason resisted the urge to tackle him to the ground.

“That's the good stuff.” Fenton closed it back up, but not before giving his ice cream spoon a considering look.

Oh, yuck. This guy was so grungly. Jason needed him badly. He shuddered.

Fenton looked at him.

Jason looked back.

“Do you wanna try moving in and see how we get on?” Fenton offered. “Take it slow, no wedding just yet.”

“Absolutely.” Jason full-body twitched with just how eager he was. “How do you feel about swans?”

“Neutral,” Danny said, after a brief moment of consideration. “I like stars, though.”

Okay, so that would be their wedding theme.

Jason only realized he'd said that aloud when Fenton's eyebrows shot up. Mortified and really wondering what was wrong with him, Jason offered a weak smile.

Fenton made a considering noise. He crossed his arms. He looked Jason up and down. “...Can you grill?” He asked. “Like, beer chicken?”

[hoseoksluna]

ICHOR | jjk

pairing: idol!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.4k

summary: after a bad day at work, you lose a sense of yourself and jungkook leads you right back to her.

warnings: crying, capitalism, death metaphors, sadness, jungkook is sweaty and is wearing that nike shirt he wore in his working out live, has fluffy hair!

note: hiii, bubbas, so this is fluff fic is partly for @frmisnow bc she inspired me to write this & i also want to make her feel better with this sacchariny-sweet jungkook, partly for me bc i genuinely wrote in detail about what i went through at work these past two days. and, also, for all you guys because i made you go through reading about such evil jungkook in my last berries fic. i hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think. here's to a bit of happiness in our lives *cheers with an imaginary glass of imaginary pink, glittery, strong, fairy alcohol*. <3

You used to be a goddess, the ichor in your veins carried the color of roses, glinted with flecks of gold that would radiate your skin from beneath, make any heads turn, especially the one you loved the most. Customers at work smiled upon seeing your cordial aura, close-knit even though they were mere strangers, preferred to go to you amidst the flock of your other colleagues around. They would become radiated just the same, joy so terribly evident on their faces as their smile would grow. They would frown upon seeing the state of you at this current moment—curled up on your bed while the heat of the beginning of the summer clings to your near bareness, coming through your wide opened windows, the white, translucent curtains billowing up and down in their strange, but magnolious dance. 

You’re not Aphrodite. You’re not Euphrosyne, the goddess of joy and mirth, either. 

You’re the slain fawn at their feet—for their very own feast and for the feast of those aforementioned customers, who stand behind the dryly bloodied cause of your death. 

Work was hell, to say the least. 

You always thought death was a kind embrace, not a tight clasp of doom around the nape of your neck, your mental strain and disquietude the half moon marks that ever so slowly deepen. You mimic the movement on the hem of the linen shirt you wore for the day, one that you were too drowsy to take off when you arrived at home, having only a slight wisp of an energy to rid yourself of the uncomfortable tightness of your jeans and crawl onto your bed, knees to chest, on your side. You bunch up the fabric in your fist, wrinkling it, but you hardly vanquish the cuts that your anxiety slashes on your skin. You thought it would alleviate you of your tenseness, but as it seems—it only worsened it. 

You don’t even have tears to shed. Wept them all out in your manager’s office while she harshly, yet calmly reprimanded you for your mistake and the gravity of the fact that you almost lost your precious job, that you can’t imagine living without, washed over you and pained you like a splash of salty water in your eyes. Wept them all out when you breathed in the crooked, paralyzed expression of disappointment in her face—and that’s the sole thing that emptied out your system of that ichor, wiped out your reputation of being a good, reliable employee that everybody liked. 

Now the next unfolding of your days spent at work shall be filled with silent judgements and secretive gossip, the big talk of the entire building—something that will hang by the strands of your hair for every head to turn to until something else comes along. Another topic, another fuck-up. That’s the face of modern capitalism, the absurdity of day-to-day normalcy its features, and you’re so sick, so repulsed to be staring at it every single day of your life that you yearn to not be anymore. 

Death has flattened over you, but has not finished its job. It was Dante who described the process of hell in his Divine Comedy and you hate him for the rotten pulchritude of his mind because you find yourself to be standing in the middle of inferno with no guide—no Virgil, no Beatrice—to hold your hand and lead you through this scalding maze. You’re all alone, your mistake carving the branches of the trees burning down in your hell over your burdened, heavy heart that has been longing for the company of another ever since you walked out of your manager’s office. 

Your face screws as another agonized emotion rises in you. You can’t stand your aloneness, can’t stand your burden—and before you realize what you’re doing, your fingers have already tapped on your boyfriend’s name in your history of calls. The screen of your phone is cool against the fever of your cheek and you rub your face harder against your duvet, staining the strawberry pattern with the particular tinge of your makeup, which must have been the color of your ichor. 

You wince, the rings prolonging in your ear, your impatience running thin. 

Then, your heart drops once you hear the broken whisper of your Beatrice, faintly, barely, which causes your heart to spread its longing. Damn iPhones and their bad service. 

“Jungkook?” you call out, nonsense coming through the other end—and you repeat his name until his voice smooths out, relief sinking in like a stone in a pond. 

It turns out you were exchanging each other’s names and the intimacy of it curls the smallest of smiles on your mouth. You miss him; you need him. 

“When are you coming home?” you ask, wishing to descend into the emitting waves of the call, slide through them until you spring to wherever he is, no matter how tired you are—you’re willing to cross the distance. 

You hear him turn on his blinker and your heart almost does it for you. 

“I’m driving home right now. I’ll be there in ten,” he says and your relief expands in your chest, taking a small weight off of your heart. You place your palm against it. 

“Okay.” 

A beat of silence. 

“Why do you sound so sad?” 

Your mouth curls downwards. “Something happened at work.” 

An inhale of breath. “Screw that, baby. I’ll be there in five, okay?” 

A whimper. “Okay, drive safe.” 

And your Beatrice didn’t lie to you. Soon, you hear the banging of the front door closing, the tossing of his keys and the prodding open of your shared bedroom door. The hastened footsteps, hefty on the floating floor, the squeak of the mattress as his knee dips on it and the glide of his hand up your thigh. All before you use the last of your strength to focus your swimming vision on him. 

Hearing him alone helped you take a step further in your inferno. 

And then you can smell him. The scent of sweat clinging to his favorite ivory Nike shirt, interlaced with his natural, poetic scent, creating something divine that blesses you with the strength to place your palm on top of his hand. Your coworkers hugged you earlier, clasped your hands in theirs in reassurement and more than welcome it, you absolutely despised it. Lingered in their affection only because you thought you should let yourself be consoled, for you know they care about you. But his touch… that’s not something you sense your body to want to run away from. On the contrary, it seems to be something that it’s missing. 

You can’t part the stream of your new tears with your other hand. 

You spill, completely. 

Jungkook coos, squeezing the bare flesh of your thigh as turns you onto your back and nudges himself between them, plopping his body on top of yours. And then, he’s kissing the place your undone shirt made for him, trailing his lips up your neck, where he stays, where he conjures a garden of fluttering gardenias, their tender petals tickling you. 

“What did they do to my princess?” he murmurs against your skin, his words muffled but heard clearly by your ears. You sob, your chest shuddering in violent staccatos against his, unable to settle, unable to speak. Jungkook lifts his small head and frowns, his thumb swiping your tears away while the rest of his four fingers cradle your cheek. You lean into the balmy safety of the realm of his palm, gaze fixed on the wrinkle between his brows, mouth letting out puffs of soft, gentle exhales. He kisses your chin, the corner of your mouth, the wetness of your other cheek—buries his nose into it, right beside yours, inhaling you, giving you fresh air to breathe in. “Don’t cry. I’m gonna decapitate them.” 

The whisper, the hand that parted the stream. You whimper and he steals the traces of your despondency, pecking the new, smooth surface, planting roses to bloom, its roots bestowing you with the ability of speech. 

Two sentences, two miles further in the inferno. Your burnt down trees are lost in the far distance, swallowed by the fire, yet the forest shows every sign of growing anew the longer Jungkook’s heart beats against your breast. 

He’s so benevolently patient with you, not rushing you with your explanation. It all the more drives you to disclose it to him—and you open your mouth to speak, your fingers following suit, helping you with your words as you drag them through the soft mop of his fluffy hair. 

“I made a mistake yesterday while closing up,” you croak out, licking your lips. Jungkook lifts himself onto his elbows, clutching your shoulders, keeping the close proximity intact. His warm grip is a stability you lean on, one you appreciate with every broken shard in you. “I did it five minutes earlier and somebody came in. I sent them away and they filed a complaint against me. They wrote an email to my manager and I… I almost lost my job.”

The wrinkle between his brows deepens and you thumb it, wishing it away. You don’t want to mar his beautiful face because of your foolishness; you want it to remain that soft ball of light that he always is, but then you realize you’re asking for the impossible. His mouth flattens, pity flashes across his round eyes, which helps you perceive that if he didn’t react like this, he wouldn’t love you—and his love is the air you breathe; his love is the ointment you need for your sadness. 

As if he heard you, he kisses you delicately and you sail—skip the purgatory and land in paradiso, a meadow of wildflowers overlooking a cliff that opens the restfulness of the sea, scattered with windswept petals of those lost blossoms, coloring the surface with pinks, whites and the greens of their leaves. 

“Did your manager yell at you?” Jungkook questions, his lips lifted a millimeter above yours, his thumbs fondling the fabric of your shirt upon your shoulders. 

“No, but she was very strict with me. Told me not to cry—”

His breath wafts over your face when he looks into your eyes, displeased. “She made you cry?” 

You cried because through her words you comprehended the gravity of your mistake and its repercussions, not because she deliberately used them to open the dam of your emotions. It’s precisely why she told you not to cry, giving you a hint of her perpetually nonexistent compassion. And you tell him. 

“No, she didn’t. She was very professional with me and made me realize what I did after I apologized. I cried because I was so scared of losing my job, of disappointing her and shit like that.” 

Jungkook purses his lips, shaking his head, curly strands rippling like the tremor of leaves. “She should’ve dropped it after you apologized. Five minutes is nothing, baby. You did nothing to deserve to be treated like that.” 

Your chest heaves, his love and reassurement sifting sand into your bloodstream, the color of ichor. “I know but… you know,” you trail off, indicating the realm of respect all peers must have for the management that you don’t really want to venture into, not when Jungkook had to deal with it as well in his music company. But unlike you, he broke out of its clutches. It cost him tears, frustration and weight loss, but now he’s a free bird of paradise. You don’t wish to make him remember his cage. 

Jungkook sighs. “Yeah, baby, I know, which is why I’m telling you that you didn’t deserve that.” 

Your chin quivers, the negative thoughts that wore you down in his absence returning at full speed. “It affects my mental health when I’m bad at my job.” 

Brows rounding upwards, his eyes flick to your chin, a glossy wetness coating them. He pecks it before he gazes into your irises. “But you’re not bad at your job. You just closed a few minutes earlier. You’re amazing at your job. You make people happy. I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” he says, meaning every word with the way he presses each one into your pupils. You feel its magnetism and you take it. “And I’m proud of you. Every day. You work so hard. Come home tired every day. Deal with people who aren’t always nice to you with kindness that I envy. I’m proud of you, you hear me? You didn’t make a mistake. You did good.”

And there it is, the stampede of your bloodstream—Jungkook has seeped the entirety of the sand until he emptied out his hand and your ichor charges forward, its light like a bud flaring open beneath your skin. And you're floating on that sea in paradiso, your braid adorned with the wet petals that swims back and forth to his arm that holds your body steady upon the surface, the names of the Greek goddesses lining every perimeter, sinking within. 

You’ve become them, all over again. 

“Thank you, Ggukie,” you whisper, running your hand through the front bangs of his hair, gripping them. It’s as if you’re holding the petals. “I needed to hear that.” 

He pouts, touched by the love name. “I know. You need to rest now after such an emotionally exhausting day. No more tears, okay?” 

You nod, feeling whole, feeling like you can face tomorrow with more courage. “Okay.” 

You pout, mimicking him, asking for a kiss and he gives it to you in that same delicate manner, plunging the entirety of the summer’s heat, molded by his hands, into you, making it bearable for you. 

Looks at you for a long time, after. Smiling. 

“You know, I didn’t take a shower after the gym for you,” he says, quirking a smile on your face.

You’re intimately acknowledged with the reason why, yet still you ask: “Why’s that?” 

He reciprocates the smile. “I thought you’d help me wash up. My muscles are sore and all. I lifted the double amount of your body weight.” 

You bite your lip. You’re willing to wash every inch of him with your utmost care. You deem he deserves it for enlivening you, but you’d much rather stay here, inhaling that dizzying scent of him. 

“I’ll do that, but let’s stay here for a little while.” 

Jungkook nods, kissing your jaw before he finds a comfortable place on your bosom, listening to the rush of your ichor, the sun rays upon the sea of that paradiso, inching you closer and closer to God. Augments the ending of that Divine Comedy. 

Doesn’t lead you to the final installment of death, but pushes you to life full of that brisk wind, the humming of the sea and the song of swaying wildflowers. 

Holds your hand. 

Doesn’t let go. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

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[daedelweiss]

“LIFE MISSION: SAVE MY BROTHERS” 💖 The Red Knight’s Mission (Episode 1: The Buried Memory Page 28-41)

and, finally, the last set for this episode. this was actually harder to get through compared to the rest of the sets, physically and emotionally 😭 drawing leo grieving broke me and i cried like a baby sketching that panel. i wish i could add more panels in but i didn't want to drag out the comic too long and give myself too much work. it was supposed to play out similarly to "E-Turtle Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" where leo's memories pushed back against him to avoid painful memories but i feel like that would've destroyed the vibe and somberness of the softer moments. plus it'll make the episode much MUCH longer. also leo didn't actually lose the colors of his scarf. it was more for symbolic reasons. and if the last panel of page 35 looks familiar, i took inspiration from the movie and imitated the expression mikey had when he tried to open the portal for the third time to save leo. (no, i did not trace it) it may or may not be foreshadowing for later 🤭 and yeah, the comic will be taking a hiatus……. to make more of the comic 😂 dw it's not for mental health or personal life reasons… actually it's partly that because i have an upcoming VISA interview 😭 bUT i'll still be making LM stuff behind the scenes, dw >:3 next episode won't be as drama or action packed as this one but… we will meet raph for the first time 👀 i'm really rEALLY excited to work more on the comic, and that's TWO reallys! i just hope y'all will be patient with me because it is no easy feat working on this. i love it but i'm only one person, after all 😄 thank you so so much for supporting this comic again! comments and shares are very much appreciated! 💖 BEGINNING / PREV / NEXT EPISODE (coming this april) •

( 🌿 please do NOT repost, edit, trace, use, and/or sell 🌿 )

[rawrsatthetree]

Dark urge and Astarion hold a baby

GN!Durge!Tav x Astarion

Inspired by a fanart of Astarion holding a baby and an audio of Neil talking about babies as Star

Warings: well it's druge so descriptions of violence

As you and your party waded through the crowd of refugees a strange sound caught your attention. It sounded like crying but far too high pitched to be any person or child. The sound grated and scrapped at your mind and before your realized it, you had wandered off from your party in search of the source.

Among the crowd of broken families and lost souls you found an old elven woman cradling a squirming bundle in her arms. The thing wriggling about in her grasp was what had been making the terrible noise that had now quieted down into a pathetic whine.

You didn't notice how close you were lingering until the old woman spoke up. "Can I help you dear?" She questioned, her demeanor warm and friendly.

"Oh, um I was just um..." You were at a loss of words, your eyes fixed on the thing in her arms.

"Would you like to see him? Come closer, no need to be shy." She gave you a warm smile.

Hesitantly you shuffled forward to where you could see what it was she was holding, expecting some sort of animal or other strange creature.

"A baby?"

"Yes, a precious little thing, his name's Arthur." The woman rocked him in her arms.

The baby took a reprieve from it's fussing to turn and look at you. It stared at you blankly for a moment as you stared back before it broke into a smile and babbled at you.

"Would you look at that." The woman cooed, "he hasn't smiled once since he lost his mother to the Absolute's army."

The very sight made you mind ache and twist. Thoughts of all the horrible ways you could end the small innocent life flooded your skull. Perhaps you could simply smash it, the little ball of goo and viscera that it is. Or maybe it would be fun to squeeze its little neck until its doll like eyes popped out of its skull and its neck snapped.

Your vision started to blur, your pulse pounding, hands shaking. You tried to regain your sanity, remembering the mediation exercises you had practiced with Halsin. First ground yourself, breathe, what can you hear, what can you see.

Breathe in, you heard the footsteps on the crowd.

Breathe out, you felt the cool breeze.

Breathe in, you smelled smoke and farm animals.

Breathe out, you heard the chatter of the crowd around you.

Breathe in, you heard the old woman speak. "Would you like to hold him?"

Breathe out, you could see the baby still smiling up at you.

Your mind cleared as your vision came back into focus. The Urge had passed for now and relief washed over you. You answered the woman, "Can I? Are you sure its okay?" You asked mostly to her but partly to yourself.

"Of course dear, he seems quite fond of you and it would give my old arms a much needed rest." The woman held little Arthur out to you.

You stood there stiff as a board not sure how you were meant to take the baby.

"Have you never held a baby before?" She asked noticing your apprehension.

You shook your head 'no'. Even if you could remember you doubted you had ever held a baby in your past, at least in a way that it's limbs stayed intact.

"Here, hold your arms like mine, almost like your making a basket."

You followed her example as best you could. The woman shifted the baby into your arms with out warning.

"There just like that! Be sure to support his head, see you're a natural." She encouraged you as you panicked with the infant in your grasp.

After an awkward moment of adjusting to the warm squirmy little weight in your arms, Arthur calmed and snuggled into your chest. The innocent little thing feel asleep in your arms happy and at peace. You were over come with emotion, it felt so sick and wrong, it shouldn't have been possible for you to hold something so precious. Yet there your were holding a baby gently without any intent to harm it. The feeling of his little body in your arms filled your heart with a feeling you didn't quiet understand but it brought tears to your eyes all the same.

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

Ever since that night he had you restrained, Astarion had tried his damnedest to keep an eye on you. It figured the moment he got distracted by some snide comment from Shadowheart, you had vanished. He hadn't even noticed until he went to turn to you for back up only to discover you were gone. Panic over came him as he frantically scanned the crowd for any sign of you. Either you had been abducted by one of your countless enemies or your urge had drawn your attention away from the party. Both outcomes filled him with dread.

Without even a word to the others he rushed though the crowd. He smelled the air for any hint of blood, yours or your victim's. Nothing, at least you weren't hurt or hadn't hurt anyone else yet. He only grew more worried as he moved though the refugees with no sign of you, surly you couldn't have gotten far.

Just when he was sure you had been kidnapped by some villain never to be seen again, he found you. There you were with your back to him standing with some old woman. Whatever relief he felt was quickly replace with concern as he noticed how you rocked and swayed.

"Darling, what are you doing?" He approached you cautiously hoping he wasn't to late to save you from the urge.

"Oh, is this your husband? What a handsome young man." The old crone greeted.

Astarion ignored the woman only focused on stopping you from what ever nightmarish act you were about to commit. Before he could reach out to you and pull you way, you turned around to him.

"Astarion look! I'm holding a baby!" You beamed at him. You moved closer and whispered so only he could hear you, "and I'm not hurting him."

You were a sight to behold grinning from ear to ear with dried tears staining you cheeks. Just as you said, there in you arms was a fat little lump of a baby curled up and completely intact.

He wasn't sure why but seeing you standing there with a baby cradled in you arms made his cold heart ache. He was relieved you were safe, proud that you had fought through your urge, deeply sad - although that was nothing new; but there was something else, a longing he didn't understand. Not wanting to dwell on the feeling he turned his attention to the baby.

"Just look at the little thing, so cute and helpless." He smiled fondly at the infant.

You noticed the way he looked at the baby with such softness, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Can my husband hold him for a bit?" You asked the woman, not realizing how naturally the word 'husband' had rolled off your tongue.

"What?" Astarion was taken aback, "No, I couldn't possibly." He looked to the woman hoping she would object.

The woman gave the two of you a knowing look before answering, "of course dear."

You turned back to him, your eyes shining, holding out the baby, "only if you want you Starlight."

Astarion caved under your loving gaze, he hated how easily you swayed his heart. "well alright give it here, you know I can't say no to that face."

His action did not reflect his words as he stood there froze just as you had, not sure how to take the baby. If he had ever held a baby it was centuries ago long before he had been turned and far to long ago to remember.

"Here Star, hold you arms like mine." You instructed him just as the old woman had done for you before gently passing the baby into his arms.

The aching longing tore a hole in his heart as he held the sleeping infant in his arms. You felt it too as you watched him, your love, cradling the baby as if it were the most precious thing in the world. You moved closer to him warping an arm around his waist, you cuddled into his side as he relaxed into you resting his head against yours. The two of you didn't need words to understand what the other was feeling. The baby, although a source of pain, was also a symbol of your hope. Hope you'd both find freedom, hope you'd survive this whole ordeal, hope you'd have a future.

"Astarion, I-" You were cut off by a familiar voice calling out over the crowd breaking your tender moment.

"There they are! Hey!" Shadowheart was waving at you as she approached with Lae'zel close behind her.

As if snapped out of a trance Astarion quickly handed the baby back to his caregiver and thanked her. He whipped misty eye before either of them could notice.

"What the hells are you two doing, we've been looking everywhere." Shadowheart scolded, examining you both with suspicion.

"Sorry, I had another episode," You lied. "Thankfully Astarion found me before I could hurt anyone."

"Enough doddling, we've wasted enough time searching for you." Lae'zel turned as if to leave with out you. Shadowheart simply rolled her eyes, turning to follow.

"Come my love, we don't want to be left behind." Astarion spoke to you softly as laced his fingers with yours, pulling you toward the party. You waved goodbye to baby Arthur and the woman before turning to continue you journey.

[housetargaryenloyalist]

From a seed grows

Chapter II: Petunia

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Synopsis: To claim a dragon one must be prepared to give up their life, yet this is the one thing you never wished to give up.

Wordcount: 9.6k

Warnings: Canon divergence!! This will not follow canon completely and will mix book with show canon (because I can ❤️), bastardphobia, mention of death and killing, yelling, Jace is a bit hot tempered but so is reader.

Author's note: I'm a bit insecure about this chapter with all the recent happenings in the Jace, plus it's my first really writing this much for one chapter. so I hope you'll like it. Also feedback is super duper appreciated as well as likes and reblogs!

(Future chapters will most likely also be around this lenght)

English is not my first language, apologies for any mistakes.

Happy reading <3

♡Chapter I: Thyme♡

Dragon fire burned hotter than anything else known to man. Bards all throughout Westeros have sung of how the dragon fire of Balerion the Black Dread melted together thousands swords and create the Iron Throne. A testament to the strength of dragons and their riders. It was meant to intimidate enemies and inspire reverence in allies.

Everyone knew that dragonfire burned hot, and now you would experience just how hot firsthand

A most horrid end, yet one fitting for a bastard of Targaryen Lineage most would say. No pyre would be made for you, your body instead burned to ash on the cold beach of Dragonstone, with not a soul to mourn you.

Your eyes were closed as those thoughts surged through your head. It terrified you to be of so little consequence, to be so mortal.

Someone once told you that when death was near you would think back onto your life and all your most important memories.

You would be filled with happiness of your most joyous moments before the Stranger would give you their kiss. Death would be warm, warmer than your bed in Flea Bottom, warmer than a mother's embrace.

At the time you had smiled and cheerless smile , eyes looking into the distance as your hands gripped a black shroud, “that would be nice” you had whispered.

Now you cursed them quietly in your mind. There were no memories drowning you in happiness, no memories to distract you from the ice cold terror that had settles in the pit of your stomach and spread throughout your body. You waited with abated breath for the beast to devour you, you waited for low rumbling followed by a bright burst of flames and then indescribable pain would consume you until there was nothing left to consume.

Silence.

Slowly, you opened your eyes, expecting to see large teeth and open mouth waiting to devour you. Instead, you were met with an intense gaze from emerald eyes. The creature’s gaze was locked onto yours, and for a moment, you could have sworn there was a flicker of recognition, almost as if the dragon was studying you, trying to understand. You didn’t know what to do, lying there, coarse sand digging deeper into crevices of your body and etching more scratches into your skin.

The dragon remained unmoving, letting out an occasional snort as it studied you intensely. Trapped partly underneath its snout you do nothing but observe the creature in similar fashion. Both of you started at one an another, a weird feeling flourished within your chest.

“Why aren’t you killing me?” you whispered, voice hoarse and exhausted. The dragon only coked it’s head slightly, as if to convey they did not understand. You tried to stand up, slowly, with uncertainty tainting every move. First you scooted further away from the dragon’s snout, careful not to touch it and startle it, then you pushed you against the sand to try and stand.

Unfortunately you overestimated your own strength, because as soon as you stood you could feel the unsteadiness of your legs. In a matter of seconds you feel them give out. Out of instinct you reached for something to hold onto.

Callused hands met rough, burning scales. The heat beneath your fingers felt like touching a warm bowl of soup, hot enough to startle but not enough to burn. You let out a shaky breath when you realised what you had done, leaning on the snout of the dragon.

Once again the beast let out a loud snort, much like a horse would make. It startled you, making you release its snout the moment its hot breath engulfed your body.

Your cold body felt cold no more, heating up just from being close to the dragon. Your brows furrowed, confusion settling in your mind. What had happened to the intense fear and terror you were feeling mere minutes prior, yet now you felt a strange comfort wash over you. As if this creature would never hurt you, as if they liked you.

Something primal hidden within you took over, as if centuries of dragon riders that had come before you took your hand and put it on the dragon's snout. First it burned, seared beneath your finger and then it shifted. Fear ebbed away from your being, slowly being replaced with a feeling much like veneration and somehow, you knew what it meant. There, in the dragon’s emerald eyes glistening in the late afternoon sun, you saw yourself.

A bastard with silver hair.

A dragonseed.

A dragon rider.

Beneath your fingers the heat had dissipated, yet there was still power beneath them. You were able to feel it's breathing, knew that with one wrong move your life would be forfeit. Power reverberated beneath the scales, dragon fire of unknown heat was now yours to command.

The longer you held the dragon into submission, the more you felt yours souls intertwine. A rumble resonated from deep within its chest as if acknowledging this newfound bond. Your feelings became more than your own, the paranoia from growing up in Flea bottom became shared with a fear of being hunted by other dragons. Everything you once felt now held a dragon counterpart. You were no longer your own. You were one half of a whole.

And for the first time since gods knows how long,

you were not alone.

The moment did not last, for soon you heard a distant roar much softer, and higher pitch than the one that came from the dragon before you. You whipped your head around towards the direction of Dragonstone castle. There beyond the sand dunes that covered much of the castle from view, you saw a dragon flying towards. Although a much smaller dragon, it was a dragon nonetheless. Behind you your dragon rumbled, raising its head and standing tall behind you. You were but a mere speck in comparison once it stood to its full height.

The dragon roared loud, a warning or a threat, you did not know. The other dragon landed in the distance, far enough not to be immediately eaten and far enough that it would not be consumed by fire.

To see that far you squinted your eyes, the afternoon sun low and bright making it difficult to discern what the dragon looked like or who the figure was walking towards you. As the figure got closer, you readied yourself, hand near your dragon in an attempt to keep it calm.

“Who are you?!” you screamed, your dragon let out a loud snort, dipping its head. The figure did not reply, instead they kept walking closer, their features becoming clearer the closer they got. You saw some hesitation as they got closer, their head turned towards to dragon’s snout. Gauging whether they could get closer or not. You looked to the dragon, “stay calm,” you said, turning back to the man in front of you.

“He won’t understand you,” the man said, his face not an unfamiliar sight. His brown curls were more ruffled than how they had been hours prior, the wind most have messed them up. His hands were once again crossed over the pommel of his sword and his tunic still the same black and red. Jacaerys Velaryon stood there just as arrogant as before, yet there was a fear within his stance.

“what do you want?” He cocked his head to you, perhaps not used to such a blunt way of speaking, “Her grace wishes to speak to you about your”- his eyes went from you to the black scaled beast-”dragon.” He spat the word dragon out as if it was a curse, as if it was something he did not want to say. “What does her grace want with us?” “The queen does not need to explain herself.”

His tone was clipped and you watched as he tightened his grip on the sword. You let out a snort, at the same time your dragon did. Eliciting a most lethal stare from the crown prince. There was no point in arguing you found, he did not like you and he would come to like you any day soon. Besides, you were fatigued, hungry and in pain.

You could not return home to Flea Bottom with a dragon in tow, nor could you stay here on the beach. “Apologies, my prince” you smiled an overtly polite smile as you empathised the words. “I shall gladly speak to the queen.” Sacarsm dripping with every word, even if there was some sincerty in them. His sour expression did not change, he only nodded in response.

“Follow me then,” he said and turned around. You bit your lip to keep laughter a bay, for some reason, you were terribly amused by the sour mood of the prince. “What of the dragon?” you asked as you looked back at the magnificent beast, a part of you already feeling wistful at the notion of parting from it. “Leave it,” the young prince said, “it can fend for itself.” He did not await a response, instead taking off to the same place he came for. “I will see you soon,” you whispered to the dragon, hand reaching out to caress the part of its torso that was closest to you.

The dragon let out a rumble, and in your mind you felt that it was trying to reassure you. With one last pet, you took off to join to prince who had already walked quite far. “Wait for me!” you shouted, and you only got a look of utter annoyance in response.

The prince had walked with you all the way to castle, his dragon flying above you both. His sour disposition did not change, even as you tried to engage him in conversation his replies would be short and clipped which irritated as much as it amused you. “So... what did you mean earlier?” he looked at you with cocked brows, “when you said my dragon could not understand me?” He rolled his eyes as if the answer was as obvious as saying the sky was blue.

“Dragons don’t understand the common tongue.” “Then what do they understand?” you asked, genuinely curious, yet you were able to see that it annoyed him from the way his jaw was set, “They only understand Valyrian.” “That old language?” “Yes," he gritted out.

You hummed in response, “can I learn Valyrian?” He looked sideways as if pondering it before saying, “Perhaps,-” he looked to you, looking over your frame, scrutinising you no doubt-” in due time.” You nodded slowly, not knowing how to respond.

The conversation ended like that, and although you were brimming with questions, you knew that he was not likely to entertain him. Instead you opted to continue forth in silence. Dragonstone grew larger and closer with every step you took. Soon enough you would have others who might be able to answer your questions answers.

Upon entering Dragonstone various guards had flocked to the young prince, awaiting commands, yet the prince turned them all away. He declared that he must escort you himself as the queen wished. You had to restrain yourself from rolling your eyes, all this pompousness was not something you were fond of.

This constrained way of talking, hiding all that you really felt behind petty facades and poisonous words. In Flea Bottom things were brutal, harsh, dangerous, yet when someone disliked you, they made it known. Here it felt as though every step you took was a tender balance between chaos and peace. One wrong word, and you would be ousted from the castle forever. You knew that within these walls you would need to be careful. Play the game, or die.

Your second time walking through Dragonstone felt much different than the first, now you knew what happened underneath the stone floors, knew the bodies that laid in the Dragonpits, perhaps not by name but you had seen their faces. Hope, fear, pride, all human, all mortal and most were now dead.

You wondered how to prince seemed to unaffected, knowing the lives taken. One more reason to add onto your list of “royalty sucks.” The prince walked in front of you which allowed you some leeway to openly gawk at the tapestries and statues you were not allowed to gawk at previously. Death payed well you thought.

Candles illuminated the hallways, casting shadows that danced around your feet as the wind blew the flames into every direction. A storm was brewing the young prince had muttered under his breathe, not meant for your ears to hear.

Storms didn’t scare you, not when you found yourself sheltered between ancient stones that had withered centuries of storms, yet anxiety was a funny feeling. It started clawing its way from the back of your mind all the way to the front. Haunting your mind with the most horrific of scenarios, from the castle collapsing in on itself to a deluge bursting through the heavy doors, drowning all within.

As you passed the occasional window you saw the weather worsen, at first the sky clouded over, the next window you passed had already been stained by drops of rain, and at last window you could no longer clearly see the outside, the rain pouring down hard enough to obscure everything.

Soon the prince came to a standstill in front of large oak doors, opening it with little effort, and you see now how much strength the young prince had. He stood there, in silence, looking at you. Beyond the doors were long, spiralling stairs, the end of them you were able to see from where you stood. You stepped forward with some hesitation, eyes looking up a head to see where the stairs led.

“You are expected on the top floor,” he said, closing the door behind you both. Here within this tower, you could clearly hear the thunder and rain raging outside, adding to the terrifying nature of this place in particular. The prince stepped around you and made his ascent, not bothering to look back to see if you were following. After the prince turned around the first round corner, you snapped out of you slight reverie, quickly hurrying after him.

The walls of the tower were bare, no tapestries or intricate carved design, the only thing you saw were old stones. It was a long ascent, occasionally the stairs would halt and change into even floor and on those small patches of floor there would be two heavy doors. The prince told you those led to private quarters, the higher up the more important the inhabitants.

“Where do I sleep ?” you asked as you passed what you assumed to be the fourth floor, the prince looked to you, down his nose and truly looking down on you., “the queen shall decide that.”

You hummed in response, a part of you not to keen on the prospect of residing in this looming tower, with the way the thunder roared here in a way you had never heard thunder roar.

Soon the stairs came to an end in front of a small door, leading into a hallway with only candles to light your way, the hallway was not long and at the end of you were once again faced with a set of doors. Two Queensguards, silver armour shimmering in the candlelight, stood on either side of it. As the prince moved forward, the guards rushed to open the door. The doors creaked and groaned, alerting all behind them of the impending intrusion.

A grand chamber was revealed to you as the doors opened. In the middle of it stood a large table in an unusual shape, candles were scattered on top of, coating parts of the table in wax. It was a marvellous piece of craftsmanship, with intricate lines and drawings carved into it in way that allowed for them to be illuminated by placing candles underneath it.

The prince stepped forward, “I have brought her, your grace,” he said before making his way towards his mother’s side. Sparing a single glace to you which you replied to with a smile, something the young prince seemingly did not appreciate for all you got in return was a scowl.

The queen extended a soft smile to her son as he made his way to stand closer to her, bypassing all the other lords in the chamber. The mother and son pair whispered briefly amongst themselves, eyes occasionally glancing to you while you pretended you didn’t see it.

Their eyes weren’t the only ones on you, the entire room had made you their object of intrest. Some wore scowls of displeasure, others regarded you with intrigue. After growing up in Flea Bottom where shadows were you best friend, being this visible was unsettling. They looked over your entire garb, your entire being. Examined you silver-blond here, unruly and no longer in the shape of a braid, they scrutinised your lack of violet eyes and most of all, detested that you were not of high born blood. They did not need to speak it aloud, their gazes were enough.

“My lords,” the queen raised her head, her quiet conversation with her son over, “I kindly ask that you leave this chamber.” The words left the room abuzz, some muttered protests under their breaths, other had no such shame. “We shall reconvene on the morrow,” she smiled once again, but it was not a smile of affection, but a smile that screamed not to oppose her, “enjoy your evenings.”

You stepped away from the doors as the hoard of lords approached, talking amongst themselves while glancing at you and the queen. No doubt they felt spurned for not being allowed to be present for the upcoming conversation.

The queen approached you, as her son stood back, eyes watching your every move. “Please sit,” the queen motioned to one of the chairs scattered around the weird table. “My son told me something quite fascinating,” you furrowed your brows, sparing a quick look to the man in question. “He told me that The Cannibal approached you,” as she spoke she filled two goblets with a ruby red liquid, most likely a very expensive sort of wine.

She placed one goblet in front of you, afterwards, taking a sip of her own. All the while her lilac eyes observed you. You had never found yourself in such a scenario and were admittedly at a loss. Before uttering any words, you decided to take a sip of the wine, you couldn’t remember the last time you had any beverage that was not sea water. It tasted sweet, thick and sweet, unlike any other wine you had ever tasted.

As the wine warmed your body, and softened the aches of your bones you spoke up, “If by The Cannibal you mean the black dragon I met, then yes, it did approach me.” The queen looked at you, nodding and taking another sip, then placing her goblet on the table. Her son still boring holes in your figure from where he stood.

“What was the encounter like?” She eventually asked, her eyes brimming with curiosity. Her kindness and patience were unusual to you, for her, the queen, to speak to you with even the tiniest bit of respect was unheard of. It is no wonder she commanded the other lords to take their leave, they would not stand for this familiar sort of talk.

They would pass out to know that you sat on their honourable chairs, imagine what they would think if they knew you had the opportunity to partake of their wine. They might die on the spot. You had to keep yourself from letting out a chuckle at the imagine your mind conjured, instead bringing yourself back to conversation at hand. You looked towards the queen, the awkwardness palatable as she looked at you with expectation.

“The encounter was life altering,” in the distance you heard the prince clear his throat, commanding your attentions. You raised your brow at him, as did his mother. “you are to address the queen by her rightful title,” he said, looking at you as if you had committed the greatest of offence, which you suppose, you kind off did. You huffed out a breath, “Apologies your graces I am not used to the manners of court.” The queen nodded in response, “It is alright,” she picked her goblet back up and drank of it once more.

God you hated this, the silence, the awkwardness, the forced politeness. It made you feel stifled, trapped. However you persisted, there was something they wanted, you could feel it hanging in the air like you could feel the heat from the heart. “So,” the queen continued, “we are to understand that you claimed that dragon?”

You gulped, and nodded, “I suppose that is what happened your grace,” you chuckled lightly after having said it, the notion of having claimed a dragon was still a bit foreign. The queen nodded, as she casted a look towards her son. You looked to her and saw that she was clearly mulling something over in her head, debating and weighing the options in front of her. As she thought, you took another sip of the wine, letting the liquid further ease your mind and buddy. The queen’s eyes soon turned back to you, her mind made up,

“You understand that we are fighting a war,” she asked, looking at you with a gaze full of expectations and a lingering hurt,”we need fighters.” You nodded slowly, knowing where the conversation was going.

“I want to you to fight for my claim with your dragon.”

The words were spoken, the proposition laid bare on the table. You took another sip of the wine, the sweetness of it had faded, coating your tongue in bitterness. Placing the goblet on the table, the thud echoing in the empty room as the queen and her son looked at you, one with expectation, the other with a dull fury.

“What would be in it for me your grace?”

The queen smiled.

Night had come early, partly thanks to the storm that still raged outside your rooms. Rooms that were placed two floors down from those of the royal family, in the middle of the tall tower. A show of gratitude from the queen, you were far enough up in the tower to be respected but not too far up that it would be deemed inappropriate. It suited you perfectly.

The goose-feathered bed was a comfort to your sore, aching and bruised body. The medicinal oils the maids had used for your bath had helped, but now it was up to you to heal yourself.

Being aided in your bath was a most unusual experience, hands different from yours rubbing and scrubbing the dirt off. You soon excused them, feeling to exposed for you liking and although they did an excellent job, you were not one who particularly enjoyed the lavish attention. By now the maids had already come to empty the bath and put it to the side, before asking you whether you desired anything else.

You had sheepishly asked for some food, and they happily obliged. Some moments later you were laying on your bed, with a tray of food placed on your nightstand; bread, cheese, grapes, a goblet and small carafe of water were there to fill your very empty stomach. As you laid there munching on a piece of bread, the events of the day truly dawned on you. What you had done, what you witnessed, the promise you had made.

You closed your eyes, savouring the piece of bread, remembering a time where the only bread you ate was either stale or partly mouldy, gods things have changed. The moon shone throught

With your old dagger you cut through the hard bread, trying your hardest to cut off the part of it that had been tainted by mould. The boy at your table eager to finally have something other than gruel for food. “How were you able to get bread?” he asked as you put a plate in front of him, alongside a bowl of bland soup that was more lukewarm water than anything of sustenance.

You weren’t too keen on replying, knowing that what you did wasn’t exactly lawful. “The baker no longer wanted it,” you replied clipped, as you dipped the bread in the soup. The boy didn’t reply, to busy devouring his bread. Hunger was a nasty feeling, and he had known too much of it. You smiled softly at him, and although the bread wasn’t procured honourable, it was able to feed him which is all that mattered to you.

“The madam has another job for me,” he said in between bites, causing you to pause your eating. “Really?” you furrowed your brows,” she was happy then? With your performance?” He nodded proudly, “very happy.” You smiled at him again, this job would surely put more money in both of your pockets. Money you desperately needed.

“She asked if you considered her offer,” he looked at you, soft lilac eyes filled with expectation. Eyes you never could resist. “I did,”- you took another bite-”I think I’m going to accept.”

You awoke the next morning with knocking at your door, the maids from the previous night entered your room. They carried clothing, fresh water to fill a small basin, and tray of food. First they helped you out of your bed, in your tired state you didn’t say anything as they helped you out of you night shift and into what they described as riding clothes.

They sat you down at the table in front of the hearth, the food to break your fast that was on the tray now laid spread out before you. As you ate, one maid started to straighten your bed, as another cleaned up the tray you had requested the night before. Soon you were left alone, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you took a bit from a piece of bread with jam.

It tasted amazing. You had seen jams in the homes of others, had even been able to taste it years ago yet you never had the luxury of affording it for yourself. Even the juice that accompanied your breakfast tasted expensive, especially due to the fact that the goblet you drank it from seemed to have gold embellishments. If you took one of those goblets and sold it, you would be set for life.

Your mind flashed to the little boy with lilac eyes, how much he would have loved all of this. You took a deep breath and tried to change your train of thought, a difficult tasks but one you had to undergo if you wished to leave the room with your sanity in tact. You grasped at the necklace you found yesterday, tracing over in an effort to soothe yourself and it proved effective. Soon you were out of your room, headed off to chamber of the painted table as the queen had requested last night.

It did not take you long to reach said chamber, having memorised the path when you were traversing it with the prince yesterday. Guards opened the door for you once more, and inside you were met not with councillors, but with three man of various age, the queen, the prince, a knight and men you remembered from the dragonpit. You were the last to arrive.

“My apologies for my later arrival,” you bowed your head, eyes darting up to meet ones of a soft brown. ”your grace.” you added as you saw the fiery glare form, he looked away with you with anger set in his jaw and you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes. The queen nodded, “Apologies accepted.”

you hurried to join the other three, standing next to who you thought to be the youngest. He was a handsome young man, tall with ebony hair and dark hair, and with a beautiful smile he extended towards you as you stood next to him. “Now that you are all gathered here, I thought it imperative we discussed some things.” The man furthest from you with hair half up and a messy beard nodded dutifully, while the one next to him looked bored out of his mind.

The prince standing next to his mothers looked at the man as though he wished to have him burned with his gaze. “You are to train with your dragons, learn the commands so that soon you will be ready to fight.” You gulped, a sliver of anxiety settling in on the bottom of your stomach.

“Y/n,” lilac eyes looked at you, “you will train outside with prince Jacaerys, a dragonkeeper and a few knights. I trust my son will be a great teacher to you,”she smiled as she continued to discuss and divide the roles of the others, however you’re attention was taking. The brown haired prince stared at you, his attention equally diverted. His gaze on you made you want to thwart your own, however your pride would not let you.

Instead of averting your eyes, you looked him in his beautiful brown eyes and smiled. An action that angered him for he immediately looked away, back to his mother. Anger rolled off him in waves, hands clenched on top of the pommel of his sword, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. A small victory for you, but a victory nonetheless. The meeting concluded shortly thereafter.

;With some words of caution and well wishes you were dismissed. Your anxiety had momentarily settled thanks due to your little staring contest, but now it was back tenfold as you followed the prince. “Where are we training?” you asked as you tried to keep up with his fast pace, “somewhere far away from the castle with enough space.” You nodded, “will you be the one to teach my Valyrian?” He looked at you with an annoyed expression, his new role as teacher must not have been one he accepted with much happiness.

“Only the most basic commands.” he looked you up and down,” I doubt you will have much use for more.” At his words you scoffed, “Perhaps I wish to write Valyrian poetry, I can’t very well do that with only basic words” you spat at him in rebuttal, causing him to laugh in disbelief, “Someone like you is not capable of that.” Your nostrils flared at that, “And what is that suppose to mean?!” “It means that you are not a Targaryen” he spat the words out, looking at you as if you were a stain on his shoe. “So what?! You think the non Targaryens don’t write poetry?” “Perhaps they do, but it certainly isn’t in Valyrian.” he stated as though it was a fact,

“And how would you know that my prince?” you asked sarcastically, “I doubt you spent enough time with any non Targaryens to know.” At that he tutted his lips in response, angry at your response. “I don’t need to spend time with them to know,” he said and it made you laugh. “You people have no education. What would you know of poetry, let alone Valyrian poetry?!” You stepped closer to him as a challenge, “And who’s fault is that,” you looked him straight in the eyes, “My prince.”

He did not reply, stunned at your actions. He retreated, seething and walked away from you. What a waste of a gorgeous face, you thought, for it to be wasted on such a personality. You looked to him and saw the distance he had already put between you, anger was a great motivator apparently. You took a deep breath to calm yourself before following in his direction.

“Drakares!” you shouted with full confidence, and the prince tsk’ed at you once again. “Wrong. it’s Drakarys, it has a y sound not an e,” he was annoyed as he tried to teach you the commands, growing more impatient with every mistake you made yet you tried again.

“Draakarys!” He sighed and tsk’ed again, “wrong again, your first a vowel should be shorter, listen closely,” he looked towards where Vermax stood, a safe distance away from you both “Drakarys!”

He said it with great confidence and you both watch as Vermax released fire upon the ground, burning away the grass and insects. The prince looked towards with a smug smile, before saying you should try again. You turned towards where your dragon stood, even further away from you both and also a safe distance from Vermax. You took a deep breath and readied yourself,

“Drakarys!” you commanded, and you watched with pride as the cannibal unleashed a large fire onto the field, you had not felt the heat of Vermax’s flame but the heat of the cannibal’s was unavoidable. You let out a gleeful laugh, proud to have finally done it.

“Did you see that?” you looked at him with happiness and pride, “It worked!” he only spared you a small glance before saying, “it took you long enough.” In an instant, your happiness and pride were trampled upon, and anger surged within you.

“Well fuck you,” you said, walking away towards your dragon, eager to be away from the prince. He stormed after you, “How dare you?!” he shouted as he neared you, “Need I remind you that I am a prince of the realm?!”

You turned to face him, rolling your eyes. “Do not roll your eyes at me!” He shouted, eyes filled with a burning fury. “Why not?” you asked as you stepped closer to him, so close that you were nearly touching his nose with your own, breaths becoming mingled. Your heart beating ferociously due to the proximity, “Will you chop off my head? Feed me to your dragon?” You knew it was reckless, to taunt him so, but this man brought out the worst within you. He did not reply. “Thought so,” you said, ignoring your racing heart.

Breaths uneven as you stood there so close to him, looking into his eyes. His beautiful brown eyes, framed by gorgeous brown curls. Gods, he was unfairly beautiful. It made your heart race and your mind desire things it should not. You almost reached out to tuck away a stray piece of his hair that had blown in his face. The moment broke however when he cleared his throat and took a step back, “perhaps we should take a break for now.” You dropped your hand, hoping he hadn’t noticed what you were thinking of doing.

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” you agreed and walked towards your dragon, as did he. You patted the part of the Cannibal you were able to touch, cooing to him as you felt him growing restless. He was unused to this, the sitting stil, being commanded, everything. It had been a great challenge to get him saddled, it had almost ended with one of the dragonkeepers dying. Yet the bond you shared, however short, was strong. You felt the fear that he held within, and knew it well.

“Just a bit longer big guy,” you smiled up at him, but couldn’t not look him in the eye “I’ll ask if we can try flying now. ” You could almost swear that he responded when he let out a few clicking sounds and rumble from within his chest, near your hand, “Good boy,” you whispered as you gave him one last pat before making your way to the prince who was in deep conversation with his own dragon. “ziry amīvindī nykēla Vermax.”

The language he was speaking sounded strange in your ears, and you knew it must by High Valyrian because he spoke it to his dragon. His tone sounded annoyed, and you thought that whatever he was talking probably pertained to you. “ugh Issa kesīr,” he muttered as he noticed your approaching.

“The Cannibal wants to fly,” Jacaerys looked at you and sighed, ”Very well, let’s try flying.”He walked with you to your dragon and he was even so kind as to stabilise the netting you had climb up. Before you had started training the commands, you had practised sitting on the dragon, when the saddle was still on the ground. He had showed you how to strap in, how to use your buckles and the best way to hold your reigns, even if it was often with annoyance, he still did it.

He had told you to wait for him to fly to you before you were to even attempt the fly command, but you couldn’t wait. Anticipation bloomed within you alongside anxiety and you could feel the dragon brimming with a fiery energy. He wanted to fly, did not even wait for a command before reading himself. As he stretched out his winds you exclaimed “Sōvēs!”

You felt your heart hammer within your chest as the beast moved beneath you, breathing in and out at a rapid pace. It almost felt as though your heart would move so fast as to rip out of your chest. It was exhilarating. The moment your dragon set off, you let out a loud shriek before falling into a fit of hysterical giggles. Soon you were above the sky, holding onto the reigns for dear life as your mighty beast flew through clouds.

A smile was plastered on your face, your heart still beating miles per second. You felt invincible. With a few deep breaths you tried to steady your heartbeat, but it didn’t help much. Adrenaline filled your body and you could feel your hands shake slightly because of it. This ride you let yourself be guided by the cannibal, forgetting the young prince who had just saddled himself.

He was hurrying to get himself in the air, and although he didn’t personally mind if you fell to your death. His mother certainly would. Soon he was chasing after you, his small, young dragon much faster than yours, but you didn’t care. He saw you as he rose above the clouds. Beautiful silver blond hair shimmering in the sun with a wide smile unlike any he had ever seen.

For a moment he allowed himself to look at you unashamed, no other eyes observed him. There in the sky on top of the mighty beast, with the sun shining on you, you looked ethereal. There on his own dragon, he could momentarily shed the burdens on his shoulders. He could almost see all his worries and duties drift away in the wind. His eyes were focused on you, your gleeful laughter, your beauty, and for a moment you were not a bastard and he was not a prince.

You were dragonriders.

Yet reality never waited long to crash back down, he saw your head turn towards him but was not fast enough to turn his own. You were looking at him, and it felt like he was falling through the sky. Your smile fell and you waved at him awkwardly, which he reciprocated equally before turning to face forward, hiding the small hue of pink now dusting his cheeks.

Both dragons flew relatively close to the other, not too close you would be touching on another, but close enough that the riders could see each other. Your heartbeat had calmed down quite a bit, but you could still feel it beating furiously. Never had you ever been so free. If you so desired you could take your mount and fly away, away from this war, away from the arrogant prince. You could fly to Braavos, or Pentos. Anywhere and everywhere was now within your reach.

You looked back to the castle and knew that those thoughts were pretty dreams, you had made a promise. A promise that you would fight in this war, that you would fight for the queen and you knew you couldn’t not break it for it was a promise made to more than Rhaenyra Targaryen, it was also a secret promise you made to him.

“I wonder if you were looking at me now,” you whispered as you looked up further into the sky, hands tight on the reigns, “what would you say?”

No response came.

You had underestimated the strength that dragonriding demanded. The moment your feet touched solid ground, your legs started wobbling whether because of the leftover adrenaline or the simple fact they used more muscle than expected. Jacaerys Velaryon had descended with every grace expected of a prince, and made his way over to you.

No doubt to scold you over your disregard of his direction, or because you didn’t fly as pretty as he did. Whatever it may have been, it didn’t matter. The moment he reached you, your legs gave out and simple fell to the ground with a loud thud. All the scolding he was going to do was forgotten as he tried (and failed) to surpass a laugh at the scene.

“Ha Ha very funny,” you said as you looked up to him, slightly embarrassed at your predicament. “Could you help me up?” you asked, extending your hands to him. He nodded while trying to suppress a smile. He looked pretty like that you thought, he had looked prettiest in the sky with his curls flowing in the wind, the sun casting a glow around him like a halo.

He helped you up quickly, even holding your hands as you steadied yourself. Although both your hands were hidden beneath leather, you could’ve sworn you could feel their warmth. The moment the thought crossed your mind, you pulled them back. “Thank you,” you said, turning away to look at The Cannibal, as he was being unsaddled by a few dragonkeepers, with great effort on their part. They were terrified of the beast, and he was equally as terrified of them.

You could feel it, and even hear it in the tone of his shrieks. “Where will he go now,” you asked to the prince, eyes focused on your beast. “If he wants he can follow us to the caves, but most likely he has his own cave somewhere,” he looked at the beast briefly before turning his eyes to the back of your head, “perhaps he will take you to his lair someday. “

You turned to him, catching his eyes. “I hope so.” He was about to say something when a loud gurgling interrupted him, embarrassment crossed over your features when your realised that it was your stomach. Whatever he was going to say was lost as he laughed once more. “Don’t laugh,” you say, hardly able to suppress your own smile, “Dragon riding is hungry business!” A sentiment that caused him to laugh even harder.

For a moment, all previous hiccups were forgotten and only laughter remained. However the moment did not last long, a knight came from the castle summoning the both of you for supper. Perfect for your gurgling stomach, less perfect for what you thought was a budding friendship between you both. His laughter and smile faded, leaving behind the stoic prince from before. “

We should get going,” he said, “the queen does not like to be kept waiting.” You nodded and followed after him, his shoulders were tense and from the way his lips pursed you could assumed his jaw was equally as tense.

Dinner with the queen was a grand affair. The moment you set foot in your chambers the maids pounced on you to get you ready, your riding garb was thrown off and replaced with hot bath water. They did not give you time to protest, as they scrubbed your body clean and replaced the smell of dragon with the smell of lavender. They then dressed you in a fine dress of dark red fabric, with small dragon details around the cuffs and neckline.

“Curtsy from princess Baela,” one of the maids had said, before starting on your hair. By the end of the full makeover you looked unlike yourself. Dressed in such fine clothing, your hair was let half up and half down, a small braid in the back keeping long tresses out of your eyes. They tried to adorn you with a beautiful necklace made of small rubies, but you refused in favour of the silver necklace you brought from home. A reminder of your humbler beginnings, yet also a harbinger of the new things that came.

Soon you were seated at a grand table, not remember how you even got here with how fast it all went. On your right the seat was empty, on your left was the tall handsome man from this morning. In front of him was another dragonseed, with his hair in a half up ponytail and in front of you was the man with the beard.

“Good evening,” you muttered as you looked to them, your fellow dragonseeds. “Good evening,” the man on your left said, smiling brightly. The man in front of you smiled as well, “Good evening.” However the other man was too occupied with his cup to ever pay attention to the other. The man to your left leaned in closer to you, “my name is Addam,” he said, then motioning towards the man in front of him, “That’s Ulf, and the one next to him is Hugh,” You nodded, “I’m Y/N,” nice to meet you,” Addam smiled even brighter at you, “You’re the one that claimed The Cannibal right? We’ve all been very eager to meet you.”

You nodded at that, “Indeed. And what about you? Who did you claim?” “Seasmoke,” he said, his voice filled with pride, you looked towards Ulf, who now had tuned into the conversation. “I claimed Silverwing! Fast little thing she is,” he smiled smugly at you.

You turned to Hugh who had looked at Ulf with annoyance, before turning to meet your eyes. “Vermithor,” he spoke and he saw as your eyes widened. “The bronze one in the dragonpit?” You asked, bewildered that someone managed to claim that ferocious beast. He smiled a little shyly and nodded, “Yeah that’s the one.”

The conversation came to standstil as the doors opened to reveal the queen herself, wearing her golden crown. Behind her were her son and a young girl you didn’t know, with white curls and dark skin. She was pretty and as she walked you could tell she was a princess. You, Addam and Hugh immediately rose to your feet, whereas Ulf was still to busy examining his cups.

You gave him a pointed look as Hugh muttered “get up.” With clumsy feet he rose from the chair, almost knocking it over. All bowed before the queen and her entourage, although it was with little grace and wobbling knees.

As the queen was seated you were all allowed to sit down once more, servants delivered plates of food. Fruits and vegetables you never had to opportunity to taste, there were even these little bird like things. You had seen them before, but no longer remembered the name.

Ulf was quick to dig in, not waiting for anyone, or for a prayer. A part of you felt slightly annoyed at his rudeness, another part of you wanted to follow his lead. Never in your whole life had you seen this much food. He ate messily, yet you could not really blame him. It was not as though there were schools of etiquette back in Flea Bottom.

Due to Ulf’s impatience the order of things had been slightly altered and you noticed how it didn’t go over well with the royals at the table. The prince looked as though he would rather be dead, and the princess in front of him tried her hardest to remain neutral. The queen smiled tensely as she asked everyone to please dig in. On your plate you had stacked a variety of food, a little bird, beans, some potatoes. You wished to have a taste of everything, to savour every piece, because you knew that this opportunity was a rare one.

“You’ve got to taste the fish,” the man next to you excitedly said with a warm smile. You smiled back at him, “I will,-” you motioned towards your small bird-”but first this.” He nodded, before nudging your shoulders, “Look’s like Ulf is enjoying them,” he laughed along with you as you both watched Ulf absolutely devour the birds. Your laughter drew the stare of the prince, his big brown eyes focused on you and Addam as you conversed with one another.

The staring resulted in a nudge to the foot by the princess in front of him who looked at him with puzzled brows. “More wine here!” Ulf proclaimed, interrupting the conversation between Addam and you, “taming a dragon is thirsty work.” As he said that you rolled your eyes, but you soon regained your composure as you saw the queen grab her cup and stand. Your eyes turned to her, but not for long for Ulf once more spoke up “Oh, and some of these little bird.”

You looked at Addam who was looking at his food, head bowed slightly letting out a sigh. You could tell his was embarrassed in Ulf’s place. You eyes then went back to the queen who looked most displeased.

“A toast,” the queen spoke, “to our new riders.” The whole room fell silent at her words, eyes upon her, cutlery laid to rest. “The four of you are not of noble birth but you have done a thing never dreamed of before now,” All at the table rose their cups, some more enthusiastically then others you noticed as you finally dared to sneak a glance at the prince.

The queen sat back down, and drank the wine, a silent permission of all to do the same. She was however not done with her speech, “I have entrusted you with a power only few have known. And I charge you to take it up with fealty and respect,” she smiled at the four of you, “Serve me well and I will you knights and lady of the realm.” All eyes were on her, before Ulf opened his mouth, much to everyone’s annoyance. “Huh? What do you think of that, boys?” he asked in a slightly mocking manner, “We’ll be knights…just like that.”

The smile on his face made you uncomfortable, the food visible in his mouth. Hugh and Addam did not respond to his words, the later responding only to the queen, “we will not fail you, my queen,” he said, looking away from Ulf and instead towards her.

After Addam, Hugh also spoke up, “What must we do?” He asked nervously. The queen darted her eyes to the side, thinking over her words before responding, “I had thought that the mere fact of you might stay the enemy’s hand.” Her eyes roamed over you all, a slight tone of regret seeping into her voice, “but lord Corlys is right. We must strike while we have the advantage,” she looked briefly towards her son, before returning her gaze to the other, ”and end this war.”

You nodded at her words, knowing that she was right. The enemy might be deterred for but they won’t be for long. If you didn’t strike now, they will. You looked to others, saw as the princess leaner forward slightly in her chair. Her features were covered in slight surprise as the queen continued, “learn your beasts and your commands. You will fly in two days time.”

You took a deep breathe in, gnawing at your bottom teeth. The appetite you had suddenly disappeared with growing anxiety taking its place but she was not done speaking yet. “The strongholds of the usurper, Oldtown and Lannisport, and their armies, all must be subdued,” she put great emphasis on the last words, as she looked each of you in the eyes.

“Alone, without allies, he will have no choice but to surrender.” You understood her reasoning, yet her words implied you would be putting to death hundreds, thousands of people. Innocent people. A thought you apparently shared with the princess, “you wish for us to kill innocents.” “And so many,” Hugh added, a look of disbelief on his face. “It is hard,” the prince interjected,”but it cannot be helped.” The way he spoke about it so calmly made you mimic’s Hugh’s look.

You were no stranger to death, nor to what causes death, yet to have such a responsibility upon your shoulders. It was nauseating. You didn’t speak up, you knew this was expected, you had made a deal after all. In the background you could hear Ulf grunt as the prince and queen exchanged a look. “We must break the will of our enemy,” the queen spoke, “or more will die in a struggle that stretches on without end.” What she said was true, but didn’t ease the guilt that was already weighing on you.

“What about Vhagar?” Addam asked, knowing that none of your dragons were a match for her, safe for maybe The Cannibal but he was not battle trained, not in a way that Vhagar was. The queen leaned forward a slight smile on her lips in an effort to reassure him, “she is fearsome… but she is one dragon. The prince regent cannot defend against all of us.” You wanted to say something, ask about who should face her. You were readying yourself to speak up, but were too late. “I’ll take him on myself,” Ulf said, drunk on wine and good food, “Silverwing’s a goer, she is.”

He waved around his finger to mimic a dragon flying, “we’re afraid of nothing.” Addam looked at him disapprovingly, but Ulf continued, “even if you are.” A sentence that you knew agitated Addam, you could see it in his posture as he spoke, “there will be time enough,”- he turned his head to look Ulf directly in the eye-”to see which one of us is a coward.” Ulf only smiled in response, before turning towards where the servants stood, raising his cups and demanding once more that they bring him more little birds. An act that greatly displeased all the others at the table. The queen tried to reprimand him softly by stating, “A knight will comport himself with grace at the queen’s table.” It didn’t work on Ulf however, who responded, “best make me a knight, then.” A statement that earned him sharp glares from the princess.

“You forget yourself,” the prince stated, “friend.” It was said in a tone that indicated he did not want to be messed with, his jaw was set once more. However the statement had another emotiong to it, as if it was a follow up to a conversation none of you were aware of excpet the prince and Ulf.

Ulf scoffed in response, grabbing his goblet. “ Sense of humour would do you all good,” he said before taking a big swig. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife, and you hoped that the dinner would soon come to an end. A prayer that was answered quickly when the maester entered to room to whisper something into the ear of the queen.

The queen rose from her seat once more, but this time it was not to give a toast. You glanced towards the prince who was staring at his mother, for the first time this evening you really looked at him. His curls had been styled, his tunic a different one from before. This time he had no cape nor any red embellishments.

He looked handsome you thought, and as soon as the thought crossed your mind you looked a way. In the meantime the queen was in deep conversation with the maester and you could only pray that the new was good, but from the looks on either faces, that did not seem the case.

The queen soon turned back to the table, “Addam,” she called, the man looked startled upon hearing his name, “come with me.” In silence Addam followed after her, and you watched them both leave. Ulf finally received his birds, yet your appetite was long gone.

You pushed yourself off your chair, and bowed to the prince and princess, you knew was expected. “I wish to retire to my room,” you said, watching the both of them exchange glances before they nodded. The princess smiled at you, “you may go,” she said and you nodded to her in response.

You walked towards your rooms, your stomach twisted and turned as you mulled over all that had just happened. The inevitable was soon to come. Westeros was at war, a war in which you swore you would participate. A promise you had perhaps made too quickly, yet could not take back.

Blood was already on your hands, were you truly ready to add more?

Tagslist (open)

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(A dash after the @ sign means that I wasn't able to tag your blog for some reason. Sorry💔)

[lucielmars]

Why I think Geto's "meaning" is love and why Gojo failed to really understand him.

As I was writing the last chapter for my fic, I thought a lot about what Geto meant when he talked about "meaning" in the infamous KFC break-up scene. "You can kill me, there would be meaning in that."

Here is my theory : First of all, we know that as a teenager, he thought that being a sorcerer was meaningful because "the strong must protect the weak." I saw a lot of people interpret that as him meaning that the strong are responsible for the weak, due to their strength.

While I don't think that's what Geto meant by it, I do think that's how Gojo interpreted it.

See, Gojo was raised to become a sorcerer because he is strong. His strength is the justification for his exploitation since birth (the recent Gojo interview having confirmed that he was working even as a child.) He's also been brainwashed into thinking he tipped the balance of the universe and has to set it straight. So to him, although he's initially pissed off that he has to bear this responsibility, he interprets what Suguru says this way because it makes sense to him.

Gojo's moral compass will, inspired by Geto (but not properly understood), be focused on this idea of responsibility. That's why he kills Toji before he becomes dangerous, and that's why he takes Megumi and Tsumiki in not long after. That's why he became a teacher, because he felt responsible to make sure what happened to Geto doesn't happen again. That's Gojo's strength, but also his weakness. He doesn't really question the dangers his students face for most of the manga because he believes that they are also responsible for the weak (he's morally grey partly because of that).

However, what Geto actually means by it is that a society in which the strong don't protect the weak is a failing society because it is a society without love. It means we let the weak die just because they can't fight for themselves. He is correct, as many historians believe the first sign of civilization is a healed femur, a proof that we cared enough to protect someone until they healed.

When Gojo and Geto are friends, this difference in 'reason for being sorcerers' doesn't impact them negatively. When they protect Riko together, Gojo thinks he has a responsibility to let her make her own choice and help her, since she is weak compared to him. Geto, on the other hand, does it because he's grown attached to Riko. It works out. (Initially he agrees to it because he loves Gojo and wants to please him, he's the biggest simp fr.)

However when Riko dies and the cult claps they consequently analyze the situation very differently. Gojo asks Geto : Should I kill them ? (Meaning, I'm the strongest, it is my responsibility to kill curses and dangerous people). Geto tells him there would be no meaning in that, which means no love. Gojo would only be doing it because he has to, but it wouldn't save Riko, it wouldn't help anyone at the moment.

But then, while Gojo goes on thinking of this as his failure (he didn't protect someone he was responsible for), to Geto this event is life-altering. To someone who does things because of love, the idea that there could be people who clap for a kid's death, that Gojo almost died because Toji needed money, it's a brutal realization that they are being used. (Geto is kinda innocent for not realizing that sooner, Gojo isn't as naive.)

I think the whole "monkey" thing, refers to his understanding that non-sorcerers have a utilitarian relationship to sorcerers. They use them, they let them die. Even if most of them are unaware of that fact. To Geto, that makes them inferiors (unloving).

It also ties to Geto's deep-rooted feeling of being unloved (from his childhood I imagine, although we don't know that for sure, the fact that he killed his parents can't be random.) That's why when Gojo distances himself from him, he's deeply hurt by that.

Then Haibara dies and Geto, I think, gets even deeper into this spiral of anxiety that he will die unloved. At this point he's already suicidal, having lost what he thinks is his reason to live (+ his bff, who he doesn't understand anymore). But to know that two kids younger than him died as mere tools makes him realize that he will die like that too.

Then he finds Nanako and Mimiko, and he decides to love them. Since it's his way of functioning, it works for him. He can finally kill the people he hates, it is justified. There is a reason and a meaning to it (his daughters / the young sorcerers that he would save.)

He leaves Satoru with a last piece of philosophy, in two parts.

"Are you Satoru Gojo because you are the strongest, or are you the strongest because you are Satoru Gojo ?" To him Gojo is by definition associated with love. So what he's asking him is, is love driving you to become strong, or are you just willing to let them use you for your strength like a tool, give their meaning to your life ? Gojo has the wrong answer to this question (still does until the end)

"You could kill me, there would be meaning to that." Love, he means there would be love in that. Geto is willing to be killed by Satoru. He wants to die by his hand, because that would mean his life has meaning, and that he was killed for love (because Gojo didn't want to let him become a monster.)

That brings us to JJK0, when Suguru is acting all insane and attacks Gojo's student. I think he expected to die by Gojo's hand long ago, and he hates himself more and more with each passing days. There is no real love in what he's doing, it doesn't work for him and the system remains the same.

So he declares war and attacks Gojo's students, hoping Gojo will kill him (unconsciously.)

In the end, he gets to give his life "meaning" by dying by Gojo's hand. The person he loves preventing him from becoming a monster. It is love, and it is a curse.

As soon as he sees Gojo he is relieved. He is so ready to die by his hand. That's what he's been waiting for all along.

Gojo still believes he has to do it because it's his responsibility. He doesn't get it. He thinks he's giving justice, when in fact, he's giving mercy.

Which is also why I think Gojo says some version of "I love you" in that scene. I just know Geto got exactly what he wanted before he died, reassurance in every way, "meaning."

I could go on as to why it's also these differences in philosophy that made them love each other, but this is about to become a book SO.

[cellophaine]

Chapter V: BACKCOURT

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Warnings: Toxic family dynamic, toxic parents, mild abuse.

Author's Note: Woo this is a longer one (a little over 5k 😬). In this chapter, we dive deep into Reader's background to see how she became the way she is now. Art is not in this chapter much, but I promise he'll be back and his appearance will be delicious.

GIF Source: @/roranicuspond

2021. San Francisco.

4 AM. Two hours felt endless in your sleepless state. You sat up and, after a moment of contemplation, left the bed.

You settled on the couch with a glass of water and turned the TV on. Flipping through the channels, your eyes unfocused over the flashing images. A familiar face appeared for a brief second before vanishing. Your body went still, and your finger rested atop the forward button before reluctantly pressing backward. The image changed again, and Art's face filled your screen once more. His lips moved, but you didn't hear a thing. From the close-up, you could see the small changes in the face you had missed so much. His hair looked longer, and as he dipped his head slightly to hear the interviewer's question better, the movement pulled a strand of dirty blond out of the neat slicked back and drew it over his forehead. He looked much happier than you saw him last. You increased the volume to hear him better.

"I've been busy with the foundation. It's a lot of work, but I find it very fulfilling. I might be retired, but tennis is still an important part of my life, you know? And, of course, spending time with my family–"

The screen turned to black, leaving you to confront yourself. You stared at the empty screen, where Art was seconds ago, at your guilty conscience. After all that time, you were still stupefied at the mere sight of him. Your heart ached in your chest, and you felt a new kind of exhaustion taking over your body. Your loneliness crept along the edge of that guilt as you looked away from your own reflection. This empty apartment used to harbour the presence of another, but that was long gone. It took a while for this place to feel like it belonged to only you again.

A muffled sound of an incoming text came from the bedroom. You rose from the couch and went to retrieve it. The text was from your sister.

Call me when you can.

You opened her contact info and called. Two rings later, she picked up.

"Hey Soph. Is everything okay?"

"Everything is fine. Isn't it early for you?"

"It is, but I wasn't sleeping anyway. What's up?"

There was a brief silence on her end. You had a feeling what her call was about before she said it.

"Dad called me. He asked about you, and if you were planning on coming home this Thanksgiving this year."

"And?"

You could hear your sister's soft sigh on the other end.

"He wants to follow up with you on his cut from your second book."

The Dollhouse was partly autobiographical. It took inspiration from your childhood, grew a solid root and allowed the fictional elements to take shape and become the story it was. It spent ten consecutive weeks as number one on the New York Times best sellers list, but the aftermath dulled the achievement. Your parents picked it up, and so did some people they knew, and for a while after that, they sent you texts doused in anger and emails with thinly veiled threats. Most of them came from your dad, all of them explicitly expressed indignation and wrath, and none of them received a response from you.

"He's not getting a penny. The Dollhouse was fictional."

"I told him that, but he wouldn't listen."

"He can take it up to my lawyer."

After a moment, you asked.

"Did mom say anything?"

Your sister fell silent again. Before the release of The Dollhouse, things were already strained between you and your mom, and after, the contact slowed until it ceased to exist. You hadn't talked in a few years, and to you, it was for the best.

2006. Your hometown.

Despite school ending on the 16th, you booked the train ticket home for the 22nd. The early train was quiet as most people in this cabin retreated to their own bubbles. Some read, some slept, and some listened to music with their earbuds. The nerves in your lower abdomen seized, and all of a sudden, the cookie Grace made two days ago became so sickeningly sweet that you had to put it back in the wrapper. You sighed as you looked out into the passing scenery. Home had always been a tough subject for you, and it involved complicated feelings that you couldn't put into words. How could you confide in someone that the idea of going home filled you with a sense of dread?

Standing in front of the door to your childhood home, you took a deep breath and straightened your posture. You rang the doorbell and listened for its muffled echo from the inside. You could see that the TV was on from the bay window with the curtain swept to the side. Your dad was in his usual seat, watching a game. After a moment, you rang again. You watched as your father took a sip of his beer and placed the bottle back on the small table before reclining further into the chair. You heard hurried footsteps making their way to you, and the door opened to reveal Sophie. She excitedly called out your name and pulled you into a tight hug.

"I'm so happy you're here! How was your trip?"

"It was fine. How are you doing?"

"Hanging in there."

Your sister looked relieved now that you were here.

"How are … Mom and Dad?"

You asked, and Sophie caught onto the underlying message.

"Mom is grumpy because Dad's not helping. She's stressed out about the Christmas dinner. She hasn't decided on what to make for dessert."

"Oh, no."

Usually, by this time of Christmas, she already had a detailed plan for the big family dinner on the 25th, from appetizers to desserts to finger food before the dinner started. She prided herself on the Christmas feast, which was hosted by your family every year.

"Yep. Also, the tree hasn't been decorated."

"It's… the 22nd."

"I know. That's why Mom has been in rare form the whole week."

You grimaced. Your sister ran her hands up and down your arms reassuringly.

"You've got this. I'll be here with you."

You nodded, and the two of you headed inside. You dragged your suitcase with you as Sophie announced your arrival, but you were only met with silence. You stopped at the door to the kitchen and took in the chaos. Not a lot of free counter space was spared from the various pots and pans and unfinished dishes. Your mom was standing with her back to you, chopping vegetables and dropping them into the big pot.

"Hi, Mom."

She didn't turn around to acknowledge you, but she addressed you as she took a break from the vegetables to stir a smaller pot.

"I thought your exams were done on the 13th?"

"They were, Mom."

"Then why didn't you come home earlier?"

"I had work."

"I highly doubt that they were so busy that they needed you there."

"But … they were. It's Christmas."

"Almost Christmas. I don't see why you couldn't come home earlier and help me with the housework."

The enunciation in her words was hard to miss. She went back to the cutting board, her movement more precise now, and riddled with more force.

"I booked the train as soon as I was able to."

"My life would have been so much easier if you were a little more thoughtful than that."

"I'm sorry, Mom. I–"

She finally turned to look at you.

"Why are you still standing there? Put your suitcase away before someone trips on it and help me."

Sophie gave you a look of sympathy. You obeyed your mother's dismissal and took your suitcase upstairs to your old bedroom. Your parents made you repaint and fill in the screw marks before you left, and now it had turned into a workspace of some sort. On one side, there was a computer setup with a wooden cabinet filled with files, paper and books. The other side was your bed, with a blue sheet covering the whole bed. You pulled it off and found your old bed sheet, just like how you left it a few months ago. You wheeled the suitcase over to the old dresser, your eyes roaming over the fine layer of dust on its surface. You lowered yourself to the bed, allowing yourself a moment of seclusion away from your parents. You wanted to lay down, to close your eyes, and to escape for a while. Being here for less than ten minutes had left you with a taste of dejection. It'd started to gather in your throat, but you didn't want it to win. You were stronger than this. So you swallowed it down and buried it deep, putting on a smile before heading downstairs to join Sophie and your mother.

Your effort and helping hand in the kitchen didn't improve your mom's mood. She complained about your hair, telling you how much it irritated her eyes and making you put it up with a hair tie. She was there to criticize the ratio of the marinade and the meat, the way you prepared the rolls of grilled beef, and the piping on the cupcakes. It was exhausting, but you kept the smile on your face and did as she said. About two hours later, the fridge was filled with food and prepared ingredients for Christmas day. You went to the washroom to catch a quick break from your mother's nagging and checked your phone. There was a missed call, along with a text from Art.

I hope your trip home was good :). I wanted to call to see how you were doing.

– I'm home now. Sorry I couldn't talk. Maybe later?

He responded within the minute.

Promise?

– Promise.

A short while after that, dinner was served. The preparation was paused for the day. During dinner, you told your parents about Stanford. Your dad was silent for the most part, only responding with a grumble here and there. Your mom, on the other hand, was very inquisitive in a way that made dread grow in the pit of your stomach.

"Did you know you could also take English here? At Lawrence?"

"Yes, I know, but the program is so much better in Stanford."

"So you're telling me Lawrence is not good enough for you? I went to Lawrence."

"I'm not saying that, Mom. At Stanford, the program is really detailed, and they have so much more to offer."

Your dad decided to chime in.

"It's a useless degree anyway. You were born and raised here with English as your first language."

"There's so much more than that, Dad."

He snorted.

"So much more of my money. It's a waste."

"I promised you I'll pay you back. Besides, your money is for the rent for my first year, not tuition."

If it wasn't for the scholarship, you would have never left this place.

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have a place to live."

Your father's friend from college owned the building, so you got the shared apartment at a much cheaper price. Your rent was covered by your dad since you didn't have a lot of money when you started college.

"No, I wouldn't have. I'm really grateful for your help."

"Thank you. Wasn't that so hard?"

Your sister tried to dissolve the tension in the air, and your parents went with it. The attention was taken off of your shoulders, and you were grateful for it.

/

You went to your sister's bedroom that night to catch up. You sat next to her on the bed while she lay down with her feet propped up against the wall. Grade 11 was proven to be dull and unexciting in the small town. The conversation eventually reared its head back to your parents.

"How do they treat you here?"

You asked, and Sophie sighed.

"They're not too awful most days."

She looked at you, and you could see the empathy in her eyes.

"I don't understand why they're so hard on you."

You shrugged, looking down at your socks.

"I do. Mom has said it so many times. I'm stubborn; I don't listen to them; I wasn't a good kid growing up …"

"So what? It doesn't mean they get to treat you like this."

"Maybe they do. They just want what's best for me."

"The way they show it is not okay. It shouldn't be like that."

A part of you wanted to agree. You wanted, so badly, to believe that you were a good person. Because a good person deserved good things. And if you were the person your parents had made you think you were, then you deserved nothing at all. You gave your sister a reassuring smile despite the doubt in your head.

"I know."

"I'm sorry. It's unfair."

You brushed it off.

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault that they prefer you to me. One of us has to be the favourite."

Sophie gave you an incredulous look, and you shared a laugh. You missed this, talking to your sister about anything. She turned to the side, facing you, and braced herself on her elbow.

"So, tell me about Stanford."

By the arch of her eyebrow, you could tell the conversation was going in the direction you weren't exactly thrilled about.

"It's … good. The campus looks nice, but the course work is a lot."

She rolled her eyes.

"That's not what I'm talking about. Has anyone caught your eye yet?"

Your mind went to Art, and you felt a gentle warmth that felt like a ray of sunshine enveloped your heart. You looked away from your sister briefly before uttering one single word.

"No."

Sophie sat up, pushing into your space.

"I can see right through you. You're such a terrible liar."

You kept your lips sealed.

"Come on, tell me."

There truly was no way of denying Sophie's pleading eyes, so you ended up telling her about Art after a few moments of resistance. You watched her expression change as you wrapped up the story.

"Is he your boyfriend now?"

You realized you had never had that talk.

"We … haven't talked about that yet."

"You obviously like him. Why haven't you asked?"

You shrugged noncomittally.

"I don't know. I think a label is unnecessary."

"What if someone swoops in and takes him from you?"

Sophie snapped her fingers, demonstrating the snatching of Art. You held out a hand.

"Okay, first of all, he's not an object that anyone can take. He doesn't belong to me and vice versa. Second of all, if he is so easily … taken away like that, then he never really likes me to begin with, and I'll be better off without him."

It was an upsetting thought, allowing a tendril of doubt to slither in. Sophie shook her head.

"I don't understand you."

"I just feel like we're not there yet, you know? Whenever I'm with him, I feel … seen. There's no expectation that I have to meet. That's enough for me."

"He'd better appreciate you. You're amazing."

You hugged your sister. She had always seen the best in you despite the doubts you had. You weren't entirely sure you were this amazing person your sister seemed to think you were. Breaking away from the hug, you said.

"Speaking of Art, I promised that I would call him earlier."

"Call him here."

"No."

You shook your head vehemently.

"I want to hear his voice at the very least. You don't even have a picture of him."

"No."

You jumped down from her bed, your finger pressed call on his number. Sophie blocked the door while the phone rang. To your luck, Art picked up after the third ring.

"Hey. I thought you wouldn't call."

Your sister squealed, and you had to put a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"Who was that?"

You harshly whispered, asking Sophie to shut up. She enjoyed teasing you so much that she left an opening to the door. You slipped past her, but not before she sneaked the last words in.

"He sounds hot."

"Shush."

You held your phone against your chest as you went back to your room.

"Hey, sorry. That was my sister."

"Ahh. How many siblings do you have?"

"Just the one."

Art sounded sleepy on the other end.

"You sound tired."

"It's– uh … 2 AM here."

You remembered the time difference.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry. It's only 11 PM where I am right now."

"That's okay. I like hearing your voice."

The honest confession sounded like a dream in the slow drawl of his words. Warmth dusted your cheeks, and at that moment, you wanted to ask Art to be exclusive with you. But it was a question better asked in person, you thought. So you held your tongue.

"I like hearing yours too."

His soft, drowsy sighs caressed your ear, and you couldn't contain your smile.

"But seriously, though, you should go to bed."

Art exhaled again, slow and languid, as if he didn't want the call to end. At last, he said with resignation.

"Alright, I'll talk to you later."

"Later. Good night, Art."

/

The next two days went by so quickly, with even more preparations and decorations for the 25th. Christmas Day finally came, burdened with anticipation. Uncle Eddie arrived with his wife, and Aunt Donna came by herself. The day was long, but it went by smoothly, and you hoped that it would stay like this for the rest of your time here.

Dinner came, everyone settled down, and the twenty questions game began with your uncle leading it.

"How's Stanford?"

"It's good. I'm really enjoying it."

"What is it that you're studying again?"

"English."

Aunt Donna chimed in.

"Oh. Aren't we all speaking English? Why are you taking it?"

"It's so much more than that. I'm learning the history of American literature, how it'll be shaped, and the cultural intersectionality in liberal arts. Uhm, to name a few."

Your dad decided to weigh in with his opinion.

"In other words, fancy school for useless things."

Uncle Eddie picked up from where he left off.

"What do you want to do after school?"

"I want to be a published author."

Your dad sneered.

"Great, another jobless career."

You were taken aback by your dad's downright brash statement, but you maintained the pleasant attitude you'd practiced.

"It'll be hard, but I want to do it. Or give it a try, at least."

"Writing books is not going to pay your bills. When you fail, you're going to run back here and ask me for more money."

"I'm not there yet, so we shall see, huh?"

Your father fixed his angry gaze on you. His nostrils flared, and you knew you had really pissed him off.

"You went to Stanford for one semester, and you already think you can talk back to your own father? You've forgotten your place. You can be ignorant now, but you'll see that I'm right. You'll regret not studying something that's actually useful."

"I'm not talking back to you. I just want to say that it's my life, and I should be able to live it the way I want to. And I'm very grateful that you even gave me the money for rent."

Your mom cut in.

"Grateful? You sure don't show it. And who do you think gave you that life? I did. I gave birth to you. You wouldn't be here arguing with the very people who care about you if it wasn't for me."

You had heard this argument before. Your mother continued.

"The least you can do is listen to me and take my goddamn advice so you won't end up a useless brat."

Sophie's timid voice pulled at the tension.

"Can we just get back–"

But your mother didn't allow her to finish.

"Do you know how much you cost? How much did we spend on your tutors? Private dance and piano lessons so you would have at least some skills for your future self, just for you to skip classes?"

You tried to defend yourself.

"I was 11. I didn't ask for any of it."

Your mom pressed on.

"Everything we've done is for you. But you never showed us gratitude, not even a thank you. And now, you're off to California on the way to a useless job. You will fail, and when you do, don't come to me or your father, for support."

"I will not ask you."

Your quick remark came with the bitterness that could burst at any moment, and you weren't sure if you could contain it.

"I will not take responsibilities for your failure."

At that, you lost it. Your composure, your calmness, your pleasant attitude. All were sucked out of your body, and the only thing left inside was the aggravated animosity. Its rot was spreading through you like wildfire, and you unleashed your anger. Your voice was booming, reverberating through the dining room.

"I'm not asking you to. I've never asked for any of this!"

"Shut up!"

Your dad roared. You barely dodged the gravy boat he threw at you. The ceramic bowl hit your shoulder, splashing what was left of the gravy onto your arm. The sauce wasn't as hot as it was ten minutes ago, only left a dull burn on your skin, soaking through the holes in your sweater. You sat still, not daring to move, as your body became paralyzed by what had just happened. Your sister immediately got up, only to be shut down by your dad.

"Sit down, Sophie! It's what she gets for being disrespectful."

Your mom added.

"Eat your food, Sophie. Let her think about what she's done. She's ruined dinner. She just had to make everything about her."

Aunt Donna patted your hand where the gravy didn't reach, a patronizing tone dripped in her voice.

"We're just very concerned about your future, dear. No need to yell."

Your mom and dad's voices started to blend together as they continued.

"When you crawl back from California because your dream doesn't work out, don't expect a penny from us."

"How is it that you find our life so beneath you?"

You stared at your plate, willing your tears not to fall. The conversation around you continued in apprehension, with everyone ignoring you. Your sister grabbed your hand under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. But you didn't have the strength to squeeze back.

You half listened to your surroundings as everything your parents said kept regurgitating like a fire alarm that wouldn't stop screeching long after the fire was gone. Your body went numb, and exhaustion draped over you like a weighted blanket. You only stood up after the adults had left the dining room with their dishes on the table, understandably for you to clean up. Sophie helped you with the task.

"Are you okay? Does it burn?"

You shook your head.

"I'll be fine. It's not that bad."

"It doesn't look fine."

You stopped dead in your movement, and without looking at your sister, you said.

"Sophie. I just want to do the dishes, and then head upstairs. Okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"You don't deserve it."

But what if you did? You received exactly what you needed, a punishment that reminded you of the facts: you were worthless, and your future was bleak and aimless. You avoided answering Sophie, instead directing all of your attention to the dirty dishes.

/

Later on that evening, after your aunt and uncle had left, you headed to the living room, where your parents were, with an envelope in hand. You held it out to them.

"Here's my actual gift for you."

Your dad reached for it without a word. He opened and counted the bills. Your mom got up and retrieved a familiar notebook before settling down next to your dad.

"$1,227."

Your mom wrote the number into the accounting book. After setting it aside, she stared at you for a long time before finally breaking the silence.

"You embarrassed us today."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For … talking back, and disrespecting you in front of aunt Donna and uncle Eddie."

Your mom thought about it for a moment. You hated this feeling. You knew she knew that she had the advantage, and she was making this as painful as possible.

"Hm. Have you learned nothing?"

"No, I have–"

"Do you know remember what I told you in high school? About our method of discipline?"

"Yes, I do."

"Remind me again?"

You swallowed thickly.

"You said– you said you stopped hitting me because … I was old enough to know better."

"Right. But it seems like you haven't learned anything. You still don't know better. You've always done whatever you want, you don't care about anyone, not even your own parents. Who took care of you whenever you were sick, huh? Who worked tirelessly so that you could have a roof over your head, clothes on your body, food in your stomach? And this is how you repay us?"

Your head dipped in shame.

"I'm sorry. I will do better. What can I do to show you that?"

Your dad hadn't said a word, but the disapproving glare he gave you said everything you already knew.

"You always say that you're sorry but nothing has ever changed. Get out of my sight. You're making my eyes itch."

You retreated to your room, and a moment later, Sophie knocked on your door. Her comforting presence was much needed as you drew into yourself on the bed and tried your hardest not to cry.

"I can't stay here."

"I can ask Shelly–"

You shook your head.

"No, they'll know. I can't stay here. I don't want to. I want to leave."

Sophie slid in next to you and pulled you into her arms.

"Okay, okay. I'll take you to the train station tomorrow."

After putting your clothes back into the suitcase, you sat there in your childhood bedroom, not knowing what else to do. You felt hollow, as if your insides were carved and gutted empty, and you were left with only this shell of a body. The skin where the gravy touched didn't throb as much anymore, leaving only a dull pain. Your heart was aching as if someone had taken hold and crushed it in between their palm. You wanted this feeling to go away, to disappear, so you could forget about it, so it would stop hurting. Overcame with the thought of needing some comfort, you didn't stop to think twice as you reached for your phone and dialled Art's number. You needed to hear his voice, to be reminded of what would be waiting for you when the next semester started. The ring went on and on, and when you thought he wouldn't pick up, he did. You sat up straighter.

"Art. Hi. Merry … Christmas."

The background on his end was noisy. You could hear his name being called.

"Merry Christmas."

It seemed like you had called him at the wrong time.

"Are you … are you at a party?"

"It's not really a party, just a get-together at my house. Patrick is here, and we're drinking this thing that we stole from my dad's liquor cabinet …"

He trailed off as a hiccup filled in the gap.

"It's making my head spin a little, I'm not gonna lie."

"Oh. I'm glad you're having fun."

Your voice dropped, and Art caught onto it even in his inebriated state.

"Are you okay? You sound … sad."

You didn't even realize how obvious it was, so you cleared your throat and responded in a more cheerful tone.

"I'm okay."

Art called your name softly.

"You don't sound okay. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry for bothering you. Bye."

You hung up the phone. Seconds later, Art's call came by, and you watched as it rang and ended. Then, a text message came through.

I'm sorry, I'm a little tipsy to talk right now. I'll call you tomorrow.

You tucked your phone under the pillow, not wanting to look at it anymore. You tried to clear your head and think about something else. Still, your mind insisted on reliving the mistakes after mistakes you had made today. Exhaustion eventually took over, easing you into a fitful sleep.

/

You left without saying goodbye to your parents the next day. Sophie gave you a ride to the station, and by 5 PM, you were on the train back to Palo Alto. You received a call from Art. Just the sight of his name raised a storm of conflicting emotions in you, but the side that craved his affection overturned the other. You picked up after several rings.

"Hey. Sorry about last night. I didn't know my limit."

"That's okay. I shouldn't have called anyway."

"No, no, I'm glad you called. How was your Christmas?"

"It was fine. Are you preparing to go to the ski resort?"

You kept your voice level, hoping that you didn't give away anything like you did last night.

"Yep. We're heading there tomorrow."

The crackle of the announcement system broke out over your head, notifying you of your final stop. You were about to wish him a good trip, but Art spoke before you could get it out.

"Wait, where are you right now?"

You couldn't bring yourself to answer, but Art was determined to get it from you.

"Are you going back to Stanford?"

"Sorry, I have to go."

You ended the call. Almost immediately, Art's name appeared on the screen. You declined. Seconds later, he sent you a text.

Pick up. Please.

After shutting down his third call, you turned off your device. You went back to your apartment. It was empty. Your roommates wouldn't be here until school started, so you'd have the whole place to yourself. You felt an immense relief as you finally got to be alone, and you would be for at least another week. You didn't bother unpacking; instead, you headed for your room. After changing into something more comfortable, you crawled under the cover and pulled it to cover your head. Only then you allowed yourself to cry until you couldn't anymore, until the sobs that came out of you were reduced to soundless whimpers. Sleep came easier this time.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

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[hanckocks-dagger]

Well fed

masterlist

John Hancock x trans masc!Reader

Description: After a scuffle on the road involving his knife, Hancock takes care of you.

Word count: 3.4K

Tags: smut!, oral (m recieving), knife play, praise kink, no pronouns used for reader but masculine nicknames (brother, good boy), no y/n, service top Hancock (or at least adjacent to it). He's whipped, bros

Warnings: Canon typical violence, mentions of blood

Words used for reader's genitals: core, cunt, entrance

Requested by: @kin-of-kin

Crossposted on my ao3

Notes: I went for a bit more of a service top Hancock in this one. I do think he’s down for whatever, living life the way he does, but I also think he’a s big softie who just wants to take care of u and shower you with all the love he has. Smut starts right after the cut!

Also just because we’re all ghoul girlies (gn) here, I do want to let y’all know this was partly inspired by a pretty good blowbjob I gave, which was going fantastically until I suddenly got the worst bloody nose of my life, right in the middle. Ruined the mood a bit, but a funny story in hindsight. 

"So perfect for me, hmm?" Hancock's words came out half strangled, one hand trailing over to tangle in the hair at the back of your neck, still matted with blood and sweat.

You breathed through your nose, sinking further down his cock. Slick with saliva, the back and forth bob of your head was easy, the sure glide of him in your mouth. You felt him hit the back of your throat, hollowed your cheeks in an attempt to take it down better, desperate to pull as many sighs and moans as you can from him.

Down on your knees, on a leaf covered forest floor, the edges of your armor digging into your skin. It was easy to ignore, over the hum of your blood, the electricity that seemed to flow through you, the shocks of pleasure you felt every time Hancock uttered some breathless words.

Your hands itched to get a good grip on him, but you settled for holding onto his bare thighs, pants and underwear pulled down to his knees, letting you grab onto scarred skin every time he pushed your down just a bit further, digging your nails in as you choked,

You went down just a bit too far, having to pull back to gasp and retch, panting as your oxygen deprived brain tried to take what it needed. Hancock's hand grasped your hair hard, pulling you until your chin rose, so you were staring up at him, dark eyes meeting your own. Your chest heaved, you could feel the slick texture of spit on your lips and cheeks as you nuzzled his cock, shining in the low light, covered in your saliva.

Your hand moved to grasp him, but Hancock swatted your hand away gently, instead taking the opportunity to grab you by the chin, "Such a good boy for me, aren't you?"

You nodded at him through heavy lidded eyes, desperate to regain your composure and get him back inside you, whether it be your mouth or further south. His hand moved to cup your cheek, a moment so sickeningly sweet you had to swallow a lump in your throat. You tucked your wet face into his palm, pressing a soft kiss there.

"You look so handsome down there, hmm?”

It seemed ridiculous to blush at such innocuous phrasing, but blush you did, face heating up to the tips of your ears. The eye contact made you shy, so you dropped your head back down to get him back in your mouth, his hands moving to grasp at your hair again.

You groaned against him when his fingers tugged, gentle pressure against your scalp shooting pleasure down your spine. His hands eased you forward, taking him gently further into your mouth, inch by inch.

You hollowed your cheeks, finding the right amount of pressure. It didn't take long to have him groaning against you again, whispering your name between swears and grunts, fingers occasionally slipping from your hair to caress your cheek.

"Shit- baby I'm gonna–"

You felt his hands back in your hair, tugging gently in an attempt to get you off, but you did the opposite, pressing down just that little bit deeper, fingernails pinching down into the meat of his thigh.

He came with a groan, shooting into your mouth. His cock alone had made you feel full, but as your mouth filled even more you found yourself gagging again. You pulled off with a slick pop, tilting your head to the side to spit into the grass, feeling it dribble over your lips as you did.

You took a moment, hands clutching at dead leaves and dirt, breathing through the slight wave of nausea that accompanied the metallic taste that settled in the back of your mouth, the uncomfortable electric tingling of your tongue.

Behind you, you could hear the shifting of clothes, the clinking of metal. Hancock's hands on your back, that ever present worry, never able to put your welfare away.

"You alright, brother?" He asked, voice soft, his hand sliding across your lower back, skin smooth against the fabric of the shirt you wore.

"I'm good," You breathed, wiping off your mouth with the back of your hand, "Just– You know how it is. Always forget just how bad it tastes."

He snorted, hand slipping momentarily down to your ass for a gentle squeeze, "Well, you did a fantastic job, as always."

The praise, lightly tossed out there, settled in your core, spreading heat out like a struck match. Suddenly, his touch was electrifying. "Could we–" You started, but were interrupted by the rustle of trees in the distance, the hoof beats of a radstag rushing past you. In a moment, the two of you went from loose limbed and giggly to standing and alert. You dove for your gun, reloading and cocking it, lining up your sights with the noises.

Hancock was beside you, one hand held up in front of your chest, like he was protecting you, his knife in his other hand, held in a tight grasp.

You went still, deadly silent, tracking the distant shape, tucked between curtains of trees. You struggled to make out what it was, whether human or a sluggish Yao Guai, maybe even just a startled Radstag.

According to your mapping, this was unclaimed territory, avoided even by the enclave, hours from the next checkpoint. You held your breath, chasing the shape with your scope as it traveled behind trees, stumbling unnaturally, unrecognizable movements.

"Can you tell what it is?" Hancock murmured, posed to strike but waiting for your signal.

"No," You whispered back, trying to tell if the movements looked like a feral ghoul, a straggler fallen out of his group, woken by the movements in the forests. "I think we should get a closer look. You ready?"

"Always," he replied, falling into step besides you. You set a slow, creeping pace, rifle still firm in your grip, hand itching on the trigger, prepared for a sudden attack.

You weaved through trees, distancing yourself from the little camp you'd made. Its movements were still erratic, but it didn't seem to have noticed you, bouncing from tree to tree. Sure enough, as you closed in, you recognized those familiar snarls, saw the flash of red, angry, exposed flesh. A lone ghoul, clad in a dark black cloak, stumbling around, looking for who knows what.

Finally, about ten paces away from it, it reared its head, snarling. You raised your rifle, finger on the trigger, but before you could even line up the gun Hancock was in action, knife striking the ghoul's heart, torso, then with a powerful thrust, the blade pierced its skull. Dead.

You backed yourself up against a tree, scanning the ground for any other threats.

"Poor guy," Hancock mused, examining the corpse as it bled out, dampening the ground. "Do you have any winter clothes?" He asked, tugging at the cloak the ghoul was wearing, flapping the spare fabric.

Sure enough, it looked like thick, well insulated fabric.

"Mmm, maybe," You said, raising your pip-boy to check your inventory. The pair of you were on a smaller run, only two nights on the road. You had yet to make it to where you were heading, you had a parcel to deliver, some buildings to clear on the way for the Minutemen.

"Let's store it somewhere. If we spot it on the way back, I'll take it."

You watched as Hancock examined his knife, scarred fingers following the blade, cleaning the blood off it as he went. The adrenaline in your blood slowly faded, replaced by the gentle thrumming of electricity in your veins.

He yanked the cloak off the dead ghoul in a smooth move, bundling it up in his arms as he fell back in step with you, heading back towards the camp you'd made.

The campfire crackled, sending bright sparks up into the darkened sky. It was overcast, only a few of the brightest stars peaking through, the waxing moon disappearing behind gray clouds. You dropped down onto your bedroll, going through the motions of unloading your rifle, tucking the bullets back into your bandolier.

Hancock settled next to you, his shoulder bumping into yours, setting his hat onto his knee. 

He pulled the knife back out, running his nimble fingers over the sharp edge, testing the blade for dullness. You watched him through half lidded eyes, mouth salivating despite yourself. Something about seeing him throw himself in front of you without thought, even knowing how well you could defend yourself. Putting your well being ahead of his own.

He flipped the knife in his hand, the blade glinting silver in the firelight. You could almost pinpoint the moment your blood flow changed course, sending a thrum to your core, the momentary distraction quickly forgotten. You leaned your head on your palm, eyes following the blades motion as Hancock fidgeted, nails picking at a dried speck of blood. You pictured the tip of it pressed to your skin, mapping out a scratched path. Catching on your chest, your neck, maybe even delving further downwards.

"Someone in there?" Hancock asked, cutting through your reverie, having clearly been trying to speak to you.

"Hmm?" You asked, struggling to move your gaze from the knife, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

He gave a snort, a grin stretching over his face, "Never mind. What's got you so distracted?"

You puffed your cheeks out. You'd never hinted at an interest in bringing weapons into your sex life, seeing as it was plenty exciting as is, but something about the image of that knife in his hands...

"How would you feel about using that knife... on me?"

His eyes flickered downwards to where he was still fiddling with the knife, then back up at you, "Why? You thinking about going feral on me?"

You could, if he wanted you to, but, "Not exactly," You raised yourself, crawling over on your knees to climb into his lap. You nipped at that spot behind his ear, the one that always made him shudder. "Maybe you could..." You brought your hands under the hem of his shirt, fingers running over his warm stomach, "Cut off my clothes," You kissed at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, "or run the blade over my skin," you rutted against his hips, feeling the hardening bulge in his pants, "I'm sure you could find something to do with the handle."

He cleared his throat, pliant under your touch. His free hand came up to squeeze your ass, push your hips even closer together.

"You sure about this?" His voice was calm, not nervous, just a casual check in.

"Of course. I know how good you are with that blade. I know what those hands can do. Seems a shame I've never gotten a demonstration, is all." You trusted him implicitly, not only with your heart, but with your life. He could tie you up and leave you blindfolded right here in these woods and you'd trust him to keep you safe.

You bit down on his earlobe, just enough to elicit a hiss, before he turned his head and captured your mouth in a kiss. You reveled in it, the warmth of him against you, the taste of cigarettes and grape mentats.

He pulled away with a grin, said: "Well, that I can provide," the rumble of his words passing through your sternum. Then, with a quick movement, he had you on the ground, back to your bedroll, his arms bracketing your head. From the corner of your eye, you could see the glint of the blade, inches away from your skin.

Then the dull edge of it was pressed into your cheek, cold metal making you give a little shiver. Your eyes stayed on Hancock, watching his focused gaze as the knife traveled lower, pausing over the arteries in your neck, the sharp point of it digging into the underside of your jaw. When you swallowed you felt it dig just a bit deeper, not enough to break the skin but enough to feel the threat of it.

"So good for me, hmm?" Hancock's whisper was a ghost across your skin, so close you could almost reach up and kiss him. "Trusting me like this."

You were sure the wetness in your underwear had spread to your pants, could feel your heartbeat in your clit. Your fingers twitched, desperate to relieve the pressure, to rut against something while Hancock had his fun. He was on his knees, his hips just out of reach, but you thought... maybe if you shifted, you could trap one of his thighs between your legs.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I've been neglecting you," In a flash, the knife was gone from your throat, the hilt of it pressed right against where you needed it most.

You let out a little whine, hands coming up to grasp at Hancock's arms to try to give yourself some leverage, pressing your clothed cunt against the knife for some added pressure.

His smile was wicked, knowing exactly what he was doing to you, reducing you to a pliant mess in his hands, content to let him do as he pleased.

He sat up onto his knees, knife gone for a moment as he shrugged out of his coat, then made quick work of the buttons on his vest before that followed too.

The knife's hilt returned to where it had been pressing, leaving you to grind down against it, trying to find that perfect angle through your clothes. Hancock brought his free hand to your mouth, hooking two fingers into your bottom lip, "Open up for me, that's a good boy."

You did as you were asked, went about sucking them without needing instruction, tongue running along and between the digits. Once he was satisfied, Hancock pulled them out, a strand of saliva following.

The knife was laid flat to rest on your stomach as he undid the button on your jeans. It wobbled with every inhale, cool steel sending goosebumps up past your navel. Gentle hands pulled your pants down, pausing in a moment to shuck off your boots as well, the whole of it adding to the pile of his clothes.

He pulled your underwear to the side, pausing just a moment to stare, that truly reverential expression on his face that you'd never seen with any other partners.

"John," You whined, deciding he was getting a touch too distracted, rolling your hips up towards his face in an attempt to get him back on track. Sure enough, those wet fingers were quick to dip beneath your folds, teasingly dipping into that wet, tight, heat before retracting, moving up to rub at your clit.

You gasped at the contact, back arching right up off the ground, breath turning to a soft moan as he found his pace. He leant right over you, pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen into your eyes, before capturing your lips again. Some added pressure from his fingers had you groaning into his mouth, one hand reaching up to grab him by the back of the neck, pulling him closer as his tongue flitted into your mouth.

He licked into you, greedily swallowing any noises that escaped, his free hand slowly crawling under your shirt, sliding over your stomach and your chest, coming to a pause to pinch a nipple between his fingers.

"Always so wet for me," He breathed against your mouth, fingers vanishing off your clit again to dip inside you, "Hard to believe you're mine sometimes, sunshine."

"I am," You panted against him, "All yours."

You whined again as he crooked his fingers inside you, his other hand moving to play with your neglected nipple for just a moment before he removed his hand from under your shirt.

The knife, momentarily forgotten, had tilted off your stomach and fallen beside you in the dirt. Hancock picked it up, wiping it quickly off on the sleeve of his shirt before placing the tip of it right onto your sternum, held with gentle pressure.

It caught on the fabric of your shirt, your gentle rocking against his fingers, your heaving chest. The first tear made you gasp, the steel suddenly against bare skin. You watched Hancock's eyes follow the blade, could see the glint of it reflected in his black eyes. It traced down your chest, tearing through more fabric on the way down, until the entire thing came apart, exposing the entirety of your torso.

It traveled over your hip bone, catching on the seam of your panties. A quick slash, blade singing, and you're exposed to the world.

Hancock bent over you again to take a nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing ever so gently against the nub on it, tugged on it with just enough pressure to meld pleasure and pain, until you're pushing your chest out to follow his mouth.

He pulls off with a pop, running his tongue along your sternum, up your neck, your jaw, right up to meet your lips again.

His fingers stilled inside you and you bucked against them, desperate to keep him going.

He pulled away from your lips to whisper against them, "Let me take care of you, sunshine?" You nodded against him, as if there were any other answer, mewling when you felt his fingers pull out. You hear the familiar sound of his belt buckle, the shifting of fabrics, and then he was pushing against your entrance, head bowed low as you gave way, the first inch of him sliding in.

You moaned against the intrusion, bringing one leg up to hook around the back of his thigh, encouraging him to keep going. Slowly, he did, sinking in with his usual care, eyes taking in every micro-expression on your face, always looking for signs of discomfort.

You had to tap him on the shoulder to encourage him to move, slowly at first, but quickly picking up speed, encouraged by your moans. It wasn't long until you had both legs hooked around his waist, crying out as he found that perfect spot inside you, hands fisting the back of his shirt as he whispered words of praise.

"Taking me so well, baby, feelin' so perfect around my cock–" He gasped as you squeezed down around him, hiding his face in your shoulder.

"God, fuck, John–" You moaned as his fingers find their way back to your clit, rubbing in time to the snap of his hips, each thrust somehow feeling deeper, the slick drag of him heavenly as your orgasm approached fast, ramming into you with the force of a pre-war train car, leaving you clawing at his back, seconds away from ripping through his shirt as well.

Hancock is hot on your heels, hips stuttering, thrusts going sloppy. You barely have the sense of mind to release your legs, letting them fall to the side just in time for him to pull out and come all over your bare stomach with a deep groan.

He collapsed on top of you, heedless of the sticky come now smeared over your skin and his shirt. You brought him up for a kiss, rolling the two of you over so that you could pull the tatters of your shirt off and use it to mop off the mess on your skin.

After more lazy kisses, Hancock leant down and pulled his heavy coat over the two of you, too spent to bother with the rest of your clothes. Your chests are still heaving as you settle into the crook of his neck, buzzing pleasantly, warm with the fire on one side and Hancock pressed against you.

Through heavy breaths, Hancock managed to pause long enough to ask, "Hey, you do have a spare shirt, right?"

You snickered, hiding your face in the collar of his coat, "Yeah, I've got one in my bag."

"Hate to have seen what you'd've done to me tomorrow if you'd let me ruin your only one."

"Mm, nothing too bad," You poked your head out to press a kiss to his cheek, "Too soft on you for that."

Notes:

My first request!!! So much fun to do, thank u for requesting and feel free to shoot me any ideas you have.

Thanks for reading! Please leave me a comment, or request something, or just come chat with me!

[orangeinecstasy]

cherry cola, pt. two ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟcalum hood

paring: calum hood x clifford sister reader (fem implication)

summary: it's once again time for the yearly clifford beach house stay, but things are different. working on their new album the rest of the guys join, hoping the change in scenery will spark some inspiration. will the work get done? or will a forbidden romance blossom?

an: hello beautiful people! i'm so sorry the second part too so long for me to get to you. i hope you enjoy!

cw: smoking, drinking, cursing, age gap, smut

wc: 877

taglist: @riya-kaur @percysaidnever

tuesday

“Y/N got help, Calum, with the dishes.” Your mom nods toward the kitchen as she cleans off the dining table. You hum a response, grabbing your plate before you make your way into the kitchen. 

“I’ve come to the rescue.” Calum chuckles at your words, glancing in your direction with a smile. “My savior” 

You smile, setting your dishes in the sink. “You can go ahead and start drying them, love.” you nod, taking a dish cloth and drying the clean culturally, the metal cool in your hands. 

You stand in silence for a moment. It’s not uncomfortable, but something indescribable builds in the air between you two. He can sense that you’re thinking about something. His hip nudges yours as his hands scrub pasta sauce off of a plate, his arms flexing as the veins in his hand become more propionate. “What are you thinking about? I can partly hear the wheels in your head turn.” 

It’s a simple question, but you can feel your skin heat up and your core throb as you press your legs together. 

I’m thinking of you. You bending me over the countertop as your wet hands kneed my skin. Calloused fingertips pushing past the hem of my panties with ease. The feeling of your five-o’clock shadow against my inner thigh. Fucking into me, hot and slow. 

You shake your head, shrugging, and bite back a smile, “Nothing.” 

The house is quiet as you move through it. Cold hardwood pressing to the balls of your feet, soon met with concrete as you walk outside. The moon cast a bright glow on your skin, filling you with calm and energy as you walked towards the pool. 

Tossing your towel onto one of the pool chairs, you strip the clothes from your body. Nipples pebble, goosebumps spreading along your skin as you step into the water. You hummed, letting the warm water consume you as you lazily swam through it. 

You heard the deck door open and shut up with a loud click. You quickly swam to the pool’s edge, trying to hide your bare body as you blinked the water from your eyes, the figure still blurry in the distance. 

“What are you doing out here? It’s one in the morning.” Cal’s voice settles familiar in your ears, causing a wave of embarrassment mixed with euphoria down your spine. 

“Just a late night swim,” You rest your chin against the edge of the pool, concert rough against the skin. 

He cocks his brow, sitting on the edge of one of the pool chairs. “You always were a weirdo.” He shakes his head, tapping his pack of cigarettes against his thigh before pulling one out and placing it between his lips. “But you love me.” You smile, pushing yourself off the edge of the pool. 

“Could you throw me the towel?” He tosses it to you before cupping his hand to cover the cig as he lights it, the small flame casting a warm glow onto his skin. 

You say a small thank you, grabbing the towel as you make your way to the steps of the pool, wrapping it around you as you make your way out of the water. You wrap the towel tighter around your bare body, fully realizing the situation that you’re in. Naked. In front of the guy, you’ve been in love with your whole life. 

He takes a long drag off his cigarette, dark eyes landing on yours. You clear your throat, skin prickling with heat under his gaze. “Can I have one?” 

“You?” he chuckles, smoke slipping between his lips. “Have you ever even smoked before?” 

You shift in your seat, the cold plastic sticking slightly to your wet thighs. “No, but what does that matter? God, stop acting like my brother.” You shove his arm gently, biting back a smile.

He laughs gently. “Sorry, sorry.” taking another drag. “Why don’t you shotgun it first?”

“Okay.” your words are quite as Calum moves next to you, warmth radiating off his body as he takes another long pull off the cig, letting it settle in his chest for a moment before he cups your face. Calloused hands on your skin, making your hair stand on edge. Your lips part as smoke slips past Calum’s, the queue for you to slowly inhale. 

The warmth of his body, mixed with the unfamiliar menthol feeling, makes you feel light-headed. Your arms wrap around Calum’s neck, closing the gap between your bodies. “Y/N..” he breathes out before you connect your lips. It’s soft and hesitant until he slowly melts into you. Strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you even closer. 

He tastes like smoke and mint, consuming all your senses as your hand slips up his shirt. He quickly pulls away, breath hitched and lips slightly plump from friction. “Y/N, I, we… We can’t do this. I’m sorry.” 

He stands quickly, shaky hands stubbing out the cig. His mouth opens, trying to find the right thing to say, but nothing comes out. He briefly looks at you, eyes dark, before walking back into the house. 

The familiar click of the deck door settled the reality of it all. You’re an idiot, and he doesn’t feel the same. 

[aeridigital]

Frio - BangChan

pairing ex!chan x fem!reader

genere angst w happy(? ending

warnings brakeup, unconfirmed infidelity

w.count 0.3k

synopsis after what was a warm love, you feel like Chan freezes your heart and everything around you, only to then find that summer season you longed for so much to arrive.

note okay so... this is my first time writing a drabble so Idk how well or badly I did, but it's worth mentioning that I was inspired by the song 'Frio' by Nicki Nicole to write this. I hope you like it.

It's been 3 months and I still don't understand how you could forget all the promises you made to me. I still can't believe that all the sweet words you said to me were nothing but empty words.

"I would give my life for you."

Why would you tell me that if at the end of the day it was someone else you preferred?

"But what about all the promises you made to me, Christopher? What about all the I love you's you said to me on those winter nights we spent together?"

"I'm sorry... I wish I could have kept all those promises, but I simply can't anymore. I can't continue pretending all my feelings towards you."

I can't help but repeat your words in my head over and over again, being alone with myself in what used to be our room, but now it's just a cold room, like any other.

It's been 5 months since you left, summer never returned, you took the summer with you and left me in eternal winter. My days are all the same, my friends keep telling me it's time for me to forget about you, and partly they're right because it's not fair for me to still be here suffering for what we once were while you're already in another woman's arms, giving her your warmth and making her forget about the cold outside.

"Oh my god, how can it be that even under the blankets I'm still cold?!"

"That's because you're not here cuddled up with me."

I still remember those beautiful moments, and I wonder if you'll say the same to her, will you give her that same smile you gave me when you said those words? I hate the fact that you're no longer near me but still hurting me, I wish I could erase all those memories or at least not cry every time they come to my mind. I hope that day comes soon.

It's been 7 months and today for the first time the memories I had of you were not of your sweet words or your false promises, but I remembered all the times you came home late, the times you said you were with your friends or that you were at work.

"It's 5 in the morning, Christopher, why are you coming home at this hour?"

"Oh please, you know work always keeps me busy."

"Well, at least a message letting me know that you weren't going to make it to the dinner we planned two weeks ago with our families would have been nice."

I still remember that you didn't even say "I'm sorry" that day, you couldn't even apologize to your parents, but now I know that work was just an excuse to no longer be by my side, you just wanted an excuse to spend your time with her and away from me. But now I can say that I would prefer to live in this winter a thousand times over than in the hell I lived with you.

I don't count the months anymore, my life is no longer a routine and I finally managed to leave those four walls that made me feel so suffocated. I went out after a long time and I met your mom, and even though for a moment I thought I was going to hate her and not want to talk to her again, I understood that it's not her fault that you were so bad to me.

Now I can move on with my life and leave you in the past, now I can look at myself in the mirror and smile at seeing myself in it, now I can be alone with myself and think only of me and the summer that awaits me.

[slasher-male-wife]

Slashers with an airhead s/o part two

What inspired me to write this is me finding out almost 17 years into my life that New England is not a state. I've had so many airhead moments lately that I kind of needed to write this.

Includes: Jason Voorhees, The Grabber, Mark Hoffman and Amanda Young

Warnings: Talk of manipulation, mentions of kidnapping, slashers being a little mean at times, readers air headedness is played up a bit

Jason Voorhees

Y/n, he loves you so much, but he's also so worried to leave you alone in case you forget to turn off the oven and burn the cabin down. He knows you're not completely stupid but, you're a little dumb.

He gets frustrated sometimes when he has to explain to you for the third time that day how to hold something the right way while helping him with yard work.

Will have to write you lots of instructions on how to do things so you don't mess it up. He'll be more confident when he leaves you alone if you have a list of things to get done and how to do them.

He's not letting you leave the house alone. He's coming with you while you're going on your walks or doing tasks. He trusts you not to run he just doesn't trust that you won't try to pet a raccoon.

The Grabber

He's been stalking you for a bit before he actually kidnaps you and he's just so surprised at how air headed you are at times. He watched you pour yourself a glass and try to drink butter milk because you thought it was just normal milk but richer.

Actually kidnapping you is surprisingly easy. You ignore your instincts to run away from him and actually try to help him with whatever he's using to lure you in. Then it takes you a good few days to realize he's The Grabber if he doesn't outright tell you.

He knows you're not like super dumb but it's just enough that you won't notice him manipulating you into trusting him. He's a little shocked at how fast you'll warm up to him. Partly because he's the only human contact you've had in weeks, partly because you're just kinda dumb.

He feels like he's doing the right thing in a way by keeping you with him. He thinks that other people would try to hurt you or manipulate you if he wasn't "keeping you safe" even though he's doing the same thing.

Mark Hoffman

He gets annoyed very quickly with how air headed you are. He still loves you don't get me wrong, but after having a 10 minute talk with you about why you can't just adopt a random stray cat you found he needs a drink.

He'll lie to you at times if it's going to keep his identity as a jigsaw apprentice safe. He knows you won't really come up with that on your own unless he actually spells it out for you but he thinks it's just safer to say that he had to work late or something.

He's somewhat relived when he learns that you're not totally dumb. He'll listen to you talk about a topic you know a lot about because it makes him feel better about your intelligence

He'll be a little mean at times if he gets frustrated with you but the most he'll do is say you're pretty dumb or call you an airhead, he'll always apologize after however. But if anyone else is mean to you for being dumb he's not letting that slide.

Amanda Young

She's going to laugh at all of your airhead moments, but not in a mean way, in a 'that's adorable' kind of way. Like if you ask her where your sunglasses are and they're on the top of your head she'll laugh and tell you.

She's also not worried about you finding out that she's working for Jigsaw. She could legit come home covered in someone else's blood with a pig mask in hand and you'll think she was at a costume party.

She's going to keep you far away from Hoffman. She already hates him but she knows that he's going to be a real dick to you. But she'll probably introduce you to John on the condition that you don't get put into a trap because you're a little dumb.

She'll be more understanding than other people I think. You're not a harmful type of dumb you're just more of a "Why can't you just use vegetable oil for your car?" kind of dumb.

[no-where-new-hero]

Chapter 31: Emily's Great Moment

I cannot believe we made it to the end of the book club! Thanks a million to @batrachised for hosting, @the-piper-and-the-lion for the memes, @bewareofitalics and @moonlightredfern for reblogging and sharing all the posts, and everyone who participated for offering metas and reactions and enriching the fandom of this oft-overlooked book! I enjoyed it quite a bit :)

This chapter's thoughts, feat. some spoilers, below:

I ONLY noticed this time around that Dean's habit of accompanying Emily through near-death convalescence is established from here, yet its outcome is totally contrasted to its outcome in Emily's Quest. Here, he leaves her to Teddy. There...

LMM is also very fond of these kind of...loaded benedictions following Emily's interactions with her prominent male mentor figures, each of which underscore this inevitability that Emily will have to give something up to have the life she wants. It started with Douglas and his "she will love deeply, suffer terribly, and have glorious moments to compensate." The sacrificial element isn't here, but still that notion of balance, of something being taken away for her glorious moments. Then Dean's "one pays a penalty when one reaches out for something beyond the ordinary." This is the reverse, overtly sacrificial, applicable to a number of areas in her life: her ambition, her desires, her freedom. It also comes up in his mentioning of paying the piper the price for an exciting life. He may have his ulterior motives for the insistence with which he talks about it, but it becomes part of a theme. And finally Mr. Carpenter talking about the gods and their debts and that Emily will need to pay, which is basically what Dean was saying (but no one ever faults Mr. Carpenter for his dire outlook, it seems).

This all feels very much like LMM's own attitude to her writing seeping through; later on in the series, Emily talks about her muse as a jealous goddess in a way that sounds lifted from Maud's own journals, and the theme of Emily as an inveterate journal-keeper is also established here. But it also makes a strong stance on this idea of being a woman and being a writer: it demands sacrifice, almost deprivation. We've seen it already in Emily burning her account book. I wonder if this is partly why people are skeptical that Emily continues writing after she marries Teddy; Maud has so thoroughly insisted that Emily cannot have her cake and eat it too. I personally don't agree with this conclusion, in my opinion Teddy is the only way that Emily doesn't have to sacrifice, because he's partially her muse and inspiration himself; but the fact stands that Emily is portrayed so often as having writing and nothing else that it's hard to imagine her being able to avoid these debts that everyone has been piling on her throughout this novel.

Final note is that, in the physical copy of the book I own, the final line--in complete and utter bathos--has a misprint of "diary" as "dairy," which has always annoyed me to no end.

[meraki-yao]

RWRB Thoughts: Happy One-Year Anniversary ❤️🤍💙

I think it’s safe to say my life changed because of this movie.

I didn’t buy the book with the thought of it being this significant, but the moment I started reading and followed the promo leading up to movie, I could tell this was something different. Something bigger.

For one, because of this movie, I was happier than I ever was since Form 6 Farewell in January 2022. Waking up happy to check out what updates there were, counting down the days to the movie’s release.

I cannot pin point what in particular made this so different, so much more to me. Whether that be seeing characters similar to me, even in age navigate a strange and wild world, or the delight of watching my book come to life on my screen brought, or finding comfort in seeing Alex and Henry come together and end up being the one pair in all of the historical queer couples they quoted in their email to announce their relationship, no hiding anymore, just being themselves, and being accepted.

And this is the first time I ever joined a fan community. Partly because I think I’m finally at the age where I know how to handle my online presence, partly because I was just bursting with excitement from the movie I needed a place to scream about it and be heard, be responded to, I joined Tumblr, and made so many now personal friends through the fandom. Friendship with different backgrounds, from different countries, all united by this love for this little movie, all sustained with a deeper connection.

I found people to turn to when things for me were getting too much, or when I needed advice but didn’t know where to turn to. I went to sleep crying from a big family argument and woke up to ten messages checking on me. I found another place to belong. A sanctuary.

The movie saved me. I was drowning and suffocating for most of the last quarter of 2023, and the one thing that kept me from sinking into the void was RWRB and the community I found.

On the day of my calculus exam, we got a sequel, and I felt such a burst of euphoria that I, someone who’s been terrified of maths exam and has never passed an advanced math exam, went into the venue feeling like I could conquer the world. This was the best I’ve ever done in Math since primary 6. I went from an F to a B+ in this course.

After sobbing my eyes out at Alex’s telling Henry “Nothing will ever happen to you” and being afraid that the same would apply to me, and asking advice from a lot, a lot of people, and reading about Alex’s story of finding a new dream, turning from politics to law, and Taylor’s story of giving up what his parents wanted from him (funnily enough, biochem) to pursue what he wanted, I gathered up my courage and applied for a program transfer, and got into the program I wanted in the first place. I think I’m gonna be a lot happier and more motivated now, and hopefully the demons will pop up a little less.

I could not have had the bravery to take my life into my own hands and break out of the path I was stuck on without RWRB, Alex and Henry, Taylor and Nicholas, and my many new friends inspiring and encouraging me to do so.

My life is better because of this movie. That’s insane, but it’s also the truth.

So happy anniversary to our little movie that’s not so little anymore. Happy one year to our Emmy-nominated, sequel-in-progress queer rom-com. I love you, I love you all. Thank you for all the wonders and salvation you brought me.

And I’m so excited for what comes next for us.

(yes that is me singing the birthday song to a movie)

[chrisgotitall]

Hi can you do one where reader and Mike share a moment on stage or smt? I just want to give you a canvas for inspiration so you can use your inventiveness :))

girl you read my mind, i already had this idea in my drafts

So reader is a musical actress, she acts, dances and sings. She was offered the chance to do a mini tour in theaters and auditoriums. So she was now traveling around North America, Canada and the UK. She was so excited to do this, she was having the time of her life and she was also having the chance to have her pop-star moment even if she was singing Broadway hits.

She already did 9 shows, she’s been in Atlanta, Nashville, San Diego, Los Angeles, Boston, Salt Lake City, New York, Seattle, Austin and now it was Columbus’ turn. 

Mike had come to 6 of her shows and he didn’t make it to the other three for work. She decided to call him. 

“Ehi, love” he greeted her.

“Hi, baby” she said back, smiling widely just by hearing his voice.

“What’s up? Is everything going well on the tour?” he said, he was clearly eating while speaking. 

“Yes, absolutely, everything is super great. It’s been the best thing really” she explained to him.

“Oh so… the best thing is the tour?” he said, sounding extremely disappointed but also sarcastic.

“Oh shut it. You know you’re my best thing above everything. Plus, I told you to come with me on tour but you took some extra work instead” 

She was actually grateful he was working and enjoying the projects he was in but she also thought he was putting too much pressure on himself and apart from that, she really missed him.

“You know I would have died if I had nothing to do,” he said, chuckling. She chuckled too knowing it was completely true.

“I need to ask you something and I would love for you to accept this, so say you’ll accept this even if you don’t want to do it” she had this idea in mind for weeks now and she was finally going to ask him now that the Columbus date was so close.

“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice, does it?” 

She could hear the smile in his response.

“I’m coming to Ohio this weekend…” she said, lingering on the word “weekend”. 

“Mmh mmh” he said.

“And you’re there… so I was thinking.. you could come…” she was really stalling on the request. 

“I already told you I’ll be there in Columbus,” he said, reminding her. He did, in fact, tell her he was going to come to her show that week.

“Yeah, but I was thinking you could come and be my guest for this show…” she finally let it out, waiting for his answer even if she told him there was no refusing this.

“Baby…” 

But he was trying anyway to tell her no. And she tried everything to make it possible, she couldn’t wait to share the stage with him. It’s been a long time since their first job together and she thought it was time for a revival.

“Mike, please, it’s going to be so amazing! I want to sing with you!” 

She finally made him give in and she was so proud of herself but also happy that she was finally going to perform with him on stage after a long time.

“You know I love you like crazy, right?”

“You better, girlie” 

“You didn’t say it back!”

“I love you… not so crazy tho” 

“I’ll make it up to you”

She hung up the phone.

Saturday arrived and so did Mike. He showed up at her door with flowers and dinner, which they had very early before the show. 

“It’s gonna be fun” she told him when he stood there looking at her while chewing his burger. He responded with a not so convinced nod of his head. She sat on his lap and hugged his neck with her arms. 

“Told you I’d make it up to you” she said, kissing him sweetly. He hugged her waist and got lost in the kiss because he missed her so much. A knock on the door and a voice signaled them that the show was about to start. She kissed his cheek and got up.

On stage, she sang some songs alone first and then it was finally time to introduce him.

“Okay everybody, for this night I wanted to do something special… partly because this is already the 10th show…” 

A roar of applause welcomed her words.

“And partly because this is the hometown of someone really special to me”

This roar was way greater and louder than the one before. She smiled widely because she knew they already knew who she was talking about.

“Everybody please welcome on stage the talented… exceptional… remarkable… and outstanding… Mike Faist” 

The crowd did indeed welcome him warmly. He got on stage smiling politely at everyone. She took his hand and gave him a microphone.

They sang some songs together, mostly from Dear Evan Hansen or Hadestown. People enjoyed it so much, seeing them together on stage felt so intimate, it was their moment and they were amazing.

After their set of songs, she hugged him tightly causing another roar of applause from the crowd. She was happy she got him to sing with her on stage.

And as promised, when they got home, she made it up to him.