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13uswntimagines · 2 months

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Rainbowfish (Leah X Alessia X child!r)

Request: R calls Leah mom for the first time.

Part of the Big Emotions universe- find more here.

Warnings: none. Cute Kid Fic.

Author's note: TBH I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this one, and the ending is a bit short, but I wanted to get it out. Also, I know in the UK it's Mum and not Mom, but that's a plot point I want to explore later Lol. Please enjoy and let me know what you think.

Your bedtime story was very important business in the Russo-Williamson household.

It was the one part of your routine that never ever changed. The one part that you would refuse to sleep without (aside from a few weeks during the World Cup).

It was your absolute favorite part of the day, being cuddled into your Mama’s side with Squirt as she read you the book of the night. She did all the little voices and gently scratched your back. it never failed to send you straight to sleep. Most of the time you didn’t even make it through the book.

Alessia treasured it.

No matter how busy your days were, she made sure she got to read you your story. In the days with Manchester United, it had been the only time she really got to spend with you regularly. Things were better with Arsenal and since you had moved in with Leah, but your routine had stuck, and Leah respected that it was your special time with your mama.

“‘Thank you! Thank you so much!’ The little blue fish bubbled playfully, as he tucked the shiny scale among his blue ones,” Alessia read, watching as your tiny fingers traced the tiny shimmering scale on the blue fish on the page, made of a different material than the rest.

It was your favorite part of The Rainbow Fish.

His scales were different from the pages, so they shimmered in the fairy lights around your room.

“Is Leah Rainbow Fish?” You asked, running your fingers over the fish.

Alessia’s eyebrows pulled together, a crinkle forming between them (identical to the one you always got). “What do you mean bug?”

“Is that why people always stop her?” You glanced up at your mama, meeting eyes that were identical to your own. “So she give them a shiny scale,”

You wondered how she hid them all under her clothes. Maybe that was why people always wanted her and your mama to take their shirts off, to see their shimmery scales.

Alessia hummed, rubbing her hand through your messy curls. “Leah is kind of like a Rainbowfish, but instead of giving away scales, she reminds people that they’re special too,”

A little crease appeared between your eyebrows as you processed the thought, and you dragged your little finger from the Rainbow fish towards the larger fish on the page. “Is Leah my mommy like Rainbow fish has mommy?”

Alessia eased another curl from in front of your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. “Do you want Leah to be your mommy?”

You nodded. “She does bath time, and plays with me, And never forgets the popcorn for movie night,”

“She does,” Alessia agreed, her lips turning into a fond smile.

“And she loves us,” You continued, meeting her eyes.

They shined in the fairy lights of your room, glimmering with an innocence that Alessia would protect until the day she died.

You mama hummed. “Very very much,”

“Then that means she’s mommy because she does all the mommy things,” You said, with a sense of finality, and understanding that was far beyond what Alessia thought a 2-and-a-half-year-old could understand.

“Hmm,” She paused, brushing a curl from in front of your eyes. Her and Leah had never fully discussed titles, but she could see that you were right. That the defender had slotted perfectly into the role. That Leah had earned it. “I think Leah would be happy with whatever you decide to call her,”

You nodded like it was a done deal. “Finish story now?”

Alessia swallowed, unable to stop the fond smile from curling across her lips. “Yeah bug, well finish the story,”

She would let you be the one to tell Leah about the discussion.

She was sure the defender would appreciate it more coming from you anyway.

******

“Come on bug, the sharks are this way,” Leah said softly, adjusting the ear defenders that accompanied you on most outings as you stared at the tank of Seahorses.

These were painted with tiger sharks, sea turtles, seahorses, and jellyfish, a perfect accomplishment to the atmosphere of the aquarium, and the reason Alessia had them made.

It was probably a toss-up between the aquarium and the zoo for your favorite one-on-one activities with Leah. The carefully selected outings that weren't too loud, or overstimulating that Leah could take you on to distract you while Alessia had an obligation you couldn’t accompany her on.

The seahorse tank was just inside the entrance to the building, small and lit with a variety of colorful LEDs. It never failed to catch your attention, and you could/would stand in front of it for hours if Leah let you, listening to her read off the information plaque several times.

She would usually let you, but she spotted a school group bustling through the coral-shaped entranceway. She didn’t fancy being shoved aside by a bunch of screaming schoolchildren, and she knew you wouldn’t either.

You didn’t enjoy crowds unless there was a barrier between you and them.

You dragged your eyes away from the tank to meet hers, your head tilting as you squeezed Squirt more tightly to you.“Turtle?”

“And the turtles,” Leah agreed, catching your hand. “We can’t go through without seeing Rocky, Bella, and Culver now can we,”

You nodded seriously at the names of your favorite turtles, holding her hand tightly as she guided you past the seahorses and to the next tank.

It was smaller, filled with 20 little fish milling about, their scales glinting off of the artificial light in the tank.

“Rainbow fish?” You asked, looking up at Leah for confirmation.

Leah squinted at the familiar plaque. “It says that these guys are Flame Angelfishes. They come from Hawaii, and they like to hang out on coral reefs,”

You frowned, turning back to the tanks as one of the smaller fish swam by.

You knew they weren’t called rainbowfishes, but you still asked Leah each time, hoping for a different answer.

“No rainbow fish?” You pouted, leaning closer to the tank, but not touching it.

You knew it was important not to bang on the glass so you didn’t scare the fish. They wouldn’t be your friend if you scared them.

“We can call it a rainbow fish,” Leah said, squatting down next to you. “I don’t think they’ll mind,”

You made a low sound, your fingers creeping their way past your lips.

“Hey, none of that,” She scolded gently, pulling your fingers from your mouth. “We don’t know where those little fingers have been,”

It was a bad habit her and your mama were fighting hard to break, how everything from your fingers to your shirt collars ended up in your mouth.

“Does rainbow fish give out his scales?” You asked, looking away from the tank to briefly meet her eyes.

“Hmm,” Leah hummed at the familiar question, glancing back at the little fish curiously swimming in front of you. “I think they would share their scales if one of their needed friends needed one,”

“Like you give out your scales?” You asked, your eyes never leaving the tank.

Leah frowned. “What do you mean bug?”

“You’re mama’s Rainbowfish,” You said earnestly, turning away from the fish to meet Leah’s eyes again.

“I’m your rainbow fish too,” She said with a very soft smile, running her hand through your messy curls.

You nodded, as though her words confirmed something for you. What, Leah wasn’t entirely sure.

Several fish swam by, and you watched in wonder as they did circles around each other, and Leah felt herself fall a little more in love with you.

In the beginning, she hadn’t been entirely sure how things would go when Alessia warned her that you two were a package deal. She always wanted kids, but she didn’t know if she was mother material now.

Then she met you, and you wrapped your little hand around her finger and she knew you had her hooked.

Now, she couldn’t imagine her life without you, or Alessia. She treasured getting to see your excitement and wonder at simple things, like fish swimming circles around a tank.

She would stand here all day if that’s what you wanted.

You did for a long second before you looked back up at her. “Turtles?”

She smiled down at you. “Yep, let’s go see the turtles,”

You looked back at the tank, waving to the fish.

One of the little fish swam across the face of the tank as though he was waving goodbye to you.

You waved back at him, and Leah refrained from telling you that he probably didn’t understand what bye-bye rainbow fish meant.

You took Leah’s hand and let her lead you deeper into the aquarium.

********

Leah could tell you were getting tired as you finally made it all the way through the shark tunnel. Your little legs were dragging, and your fingers kept trying to find their way past your lips with increasing frequency.

You had skipped your nap, and she knew you had a limited amount of time before you got grumpy, even if you were at one of your favorite places. It was always a balance of letting you experience the things you wanted and keeping you from getting overtired.

“How about we see the rays and then go get some lunch?” She asked you, wiggling your hand.

“Otay,” You mumbled, leaning into Leah and letting her pull you through the shark-shaped archway and into one of your favorite parts of the aquarium, the stingray touch tank.

“Hello miss Y/n!” The peppy blonde worker smiled widely at you as soon as you rounded the corner and sent a wave to Leah.

The two of you came here often enough that she knew you quite well.

You sent her a small wave, making sure Squirt didn’t slip from under your arm. “Ello Kara,”

“Do you want to feed the stingrays today?” She asked you, gesturing towards the touch tank that you always visited. “Rocky and Dibs are in a very friendly mood,”

She knew you well enough to know that there were days when you liked to pet the rays and ones when you just wanted to watch.

You perked up, nodding excitedly, turning to Leah and holding out your stuffed turtle. “Mommy, hold squirt so he no get wet?”

Leah blinked at you, making no move to take the turtle. “Say that again my darling?”

“You hold Squirt so I feed Rocky and Dibs?” You repeated, holding out the blue and green stuffed turtle.

Leah blinked again and squatted in front of you, bringing her hands up to cup your jaw.

“No bug, what did you call me?” She asked, her thumbs brushing your cheeks softly.

“Mommy,” You said, your eyebrows furrowing. “Mama said be ok cause you my Rainbow fish,”

Leah hummed.

Of course, you had talked it over with Alessia first. She would have been more surprised if you hadn’t.

“It’s very ok,” She assured you, swallowing away the lump in her throat, and pulling you close so she could kiss your forehead. “I’m your Mummy and your rainbow fish,”

You tolerated her lips against your hairline for a very long second before you pulled away, holding your turtle out for her. “Hold squirt so he no get wet?”

It amazed her how… casual you were about all of this. How you said it as if it just made sense. She swallowed down the swelling in her chest, knowing you wouldn’t react well if she started crying, even if the tears were happy.

“Sure, bug,” She smiled gently at you, taking the offered toy and holding him close as she released you. “Do you need help washing your hands?”

You shook your little head, turning back towards the blonde Stingray keeper. “No, Kara help me,”

She watched you as you toddled towards the sink, immediately talking to Kara about how the Rays were doing.

She would watch over you forever.

She was your Mum and your Rainbow fish.

#woso x reader #alessia russo x reader #woso imagines #alessia russo imagine #alessia russo x leah williamson x reader #leah williamson x reader #big emotions universe

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maryleclerc · 10 months

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𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞* — charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x model!reader

face claim: gigi hadid

summary: in which y/n and charles leclerc has been dated for several years, but they broke up and y/n find out she was pregnant but charles leclerc never it was his child.

warning: pregnancy, single mother, this is an social media au!, it’s just an imagination so please don’t take it seriously. before you read it, charles in this will be an arse so if you don’t like it you don’t have to read. i CHANGE alexandra username, just use as face-claim

i don’t own any of these images, also does not have any pregnancy experience

haven’t decide who will reader end up with so you can recom whoever reader should end up with OR maybe just like the title name, single mom. also don’t know which gender baby should be so im open up to you guys opinion!! 🤍 also please let me know what you think after read this au!. thank you!!

yournameupdates

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yournameupdates Y/n Y/l/n reportedly reveals to Glamour Magazine that she will take a break from Model Industry after this week fashion runway with Versace Winter Collection. In the interview, she quote “It’s a little too overwhelming for me, and after 8 long years working in the modeling industry, I think maybe this is the right time for me to get little rest and spend time with my parents, siblings and loves one.” she also quote “I’ll come back next year, so don’t forget who I am”

Also don’t forget to watch “Y/N Y/L/N Answers The Web Most Searched Question!”

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y/nthegurl It’s just too much for her, so many things happen this year from the break up with Charles 3 months ago to everything that lead to this, she deserve someone better than him!!! Just 3 months he already move on

loverfory/n We will wait for you!!

yourusername

Liked by carlossainz55, arthur_leclerc and others

yourusername at mama papa !! 🧸🤍

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georgiaorlandoo Haven’t seen you since the broke up between you with Charles. But anyway, how are you?

⤷ yourusername I’m doing great!!! 🤍

⤷ henrypatinston_ @georgiaorlando Why did they broke up?

⤷ georgiaorlando Out of love, oviously ☹️

forevercharlesandy/n I will wait for you to come back!!

charles_leclerc

Liked by pierregasly, megansaintmleux and 3,451,902 others

charles_leclerc LA with my beloved @megansaintmleux

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y/nsgoddess Do you get déjà vu when she's with you?

ginnag_ People say whatever they want but i know he’s happy with his new partner

spilltheteahere I miss Y/n and Charles era 😩 i cannot believe it’s GONE!!

deuxmoi

1,751,822 likes

deuxmoi The first pictures of Y/n after her announce of taking a “break”. Congratulation Y/n Y/l/n!!

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lannister122 What? she PREGNANT?

babessbos I’m not surprise, know this will happen, just sooner or later

jessicawreen I wonder if Charles knows anything? @ihavethebesst

⤷ ihavethebesst Idek, like he’s already move on so i don’t even want to talk about it

[ to be continue ]

#charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc blurb #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc smut

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narislvr · 8 months

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domestic!ellie who finds herself being completely smitten by you during your weekly movie night. ✧.*

a short and quick one-shot ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹

Palestine resources !!

DVD's litter the mahogany coffee table in messy arrays of colors and titles as you search for a specific disc for tonight's movie night. It wasn't a movie you and ellie had watched together yet, but you knew it was somewhere in your collection as you hunched over the edge, eyeing each and every disc the two of you owned.

"does it really take this long to pick a movie, babe?" ellie would tease, clicking her tongue as she set down two of your blankets on the couch behind you before crossing her forearms over the crown of your head and resting her chin on them. a huff leaves your lips at her comment as you tilt your head upwards, her playful gaze meeting yours through your lashes and her messy bangs.

"hey, you choose the same movie every week. You have absolutely no room to talk," you quip back, a fond look in your eyes as you watch her chuckle in amusement before glancing back down and finally spotting the DVD you had been searching for. "aha! found it!" you cheer, holding the disc up for ellie to see.

"...mama-mia? babe, I swear if this is one of those musicals you like.-"

"you'll love it. promise." you interrupt, a giddy chime in your voice as you carefully shake her off and get up to insert the beloved disc into the waiting dvd player. seeing your excitement, ellie only shook her head while letting out a playful overdramatic sigh.

"atleast pick up your mess first."

──

so maybe ellie did "love" it, but not because of the plot nor the abundance of ABBA classics. Instead it was because of the way it seemed to bring you so much joy as you smiled from ear to ear and you sang along to each and every song while commenting on little parts of the movie she otherwise wouldn't have picked up on. it was endearing, and although you were generally a rather bright person, she couldn't help but admire the genuine light in your eyes as you watched the film she had learned was your favorite.

her sketchbook was on her lap, her gaze flickering from you down to the page every so often as she scribbled down little doodles of you singing or mimicking certain actions from the characters on screen. you were too busy attempting to harmonize with "donna and the dynamites" to super trooper, that you didn't notice the way her attention was solely on you as she drew a portrait of your side profile. the light from the screen illuminated your features, accentuating the curves and edges of your face with a soft glow that she swore made you look almost ethereal. in the moment you were her muse, regardless of whether your voice cracked or went off key, and all she wanted to do was capture this moment and live in it forever.

"you're not paying attention, els." she hears you whine as your attention finally shifts back to ellie who was still sketching away in her sketchbook.

"Of course I am," she responds, looking up at the screen for a second and realizing she didn't actually know what was going on as she watched sophie help one of the three men crawl out of under a table. you raise a brow at her and she gives you a sheepish smile in return as she puts her sketchbook to the side and signals for you to lean closer to her to which you happily ablige.

"doesn't seem like it," you hum, sneaking a glance at the open book at ellies side before shifting slightly to rest your head against her chest. her arm wraps around your waist, her fingers gently resting on your stomach as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"but I am, promise." she responds, deciding to finally pay attention to the film despite her fingers itching to finish her drawing. It was a habit she had picked up during her time with Joel, always sketching little pictures of things she found interesting in the films and writing down quotes she would later recite to the older man whenever there was a chance to reference them. she found herself doing that less nowadays but it was still something she enjoyed doing, especially in special situations like these where it was you she was drawing instead.

as the movie neared it's end, she found that maybe she could appreciate the plot even if it was rather odd in her opinion. your singing had quieted down to small hums as you slowly began to drift off against ellie's chest, the rise and fall of her chest lulling you into a sense of comfort despite your attempts to stay awake until the end of the movie. she would definitely tease you about it tomorrow morning, especially after all the times you swore you'd stay up despite your track record of falling asleep. It was cute, a sweet moment she wouldn't replace with anything in the world.

she brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, a fond look in her eyes at her feather light touch before she carefully reaches for her sketchbook with the hand that wasn't holding you to her.

she flips it open to the page she had been drawing on before scribbling something down in messy handwriting under your portrait.

"Mamma mia, here I go again ,, My, my, how can I resist you?"

it was dumb, and the song didn't necessarily fit the situation, but she knew you'd get a kick out of it the day she'd finally show you the sketchbook filled with pictures of you.

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #tlou #ellie the last of us #ellie x fem reader #oneshot #the last of us fluff #the last of us #mama mia is one of my favorite musicals #so its a little self indulgent #not proofread </3

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pickingupmymercedes · 5 months

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Whispered fairytale - Lewis Hamilton

request: "hi can i have a request about moments of fluff when reader's pregnant? with lewis of course <3" - anon

pairing: Dad!Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: fluff, like a lot of it

wordcount: +2K

a/n: I am not sorry for the sighs I was letting out as I was writting this. You guys have been warned, it's dad Lewis after all.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

Monaco shimmered beneath the fading sunlight, a familiar scenery for Lewis and Y/N. This time, however, the champagne flowed with a bittersweet undercurrent as nestled in a drawer, a positive pregnancy test hummed with a quiet revolution. No elaborate pronouncements, just a single pink line etching a new chapter onto their shared story.

Their path to parenthood hadn't been meticulously expected. Discussions about starting a family had danced between them, unspoken agreements carried on the wind of their non-stop lives. Lewis, now an eight-time champion, a feat achieved under the scarlet banner of Ferrari, still felt the fire to chase another title. Yet, amidst the celebrations at the end of season, a quiet voice whispered that perhaps, the timing might have been just right.

As the celebratory roar began to fade, replaced by the clinking of abandoned champagne flutes, Lewis found himself gazing at Y/N, her smile hesitant yet imbued with a radiant joy, although the reason behind it hadn’t been revealed.

Their planned racetrack of a future had morphed into a sprawling unknown, but as Y/N's hand met his, a quiet certainty bloomed within him. This unplanned detour wasn't a wrong turn. It was a victory lap of a different kind, perhaps the starting grid for their greatest adventure.

A Dream

Sunlight speared through the sliver of uncovered window, painting a warm stripe across Lewis's features. Y/N stirred beside him, the weight of sleep clinging to her eyelids. Disoriented for a moment, she blinked, the room slowly coming into focus. Lewis, sprawled on the plush white chaise lounge next to his driver’s room sofa, was the first thing that registered.

Except, he wasn't really by himself, not mentally anyway.

His gaze was fixed on a spot above her stomach, a soft, almost reverent smile playing on his lips. He spoke, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down Y/N's spine.

"Alright, little one," he was saying, "I know you can't hear me yet, but listen up. This whole thing...it's a bit overwhelming, you know?" He chuckled, a nervous sound that tugged at Y/N's heart. "Honestly, I don't have a clue what I'm doing. But your mama here," he glanced at Y/N, his eyes warm, "she's a trooper. We'll figure it out, together. As a team."

The sight of Lewis, ever the composed champion, confessing his anxieties about fatherhood sent a wave of tenderness over Y/N. Carefully, she reached out, her fingertips brushing against the dark braids of his hair.

"Lewis," she croaked, her voice thick with sleep.

He turned, his smile widening as he met her gaze. "Hey there, beautiful.”

"Just getting to know the newest member of the team," he continued, his eyes flickering back to her stomach. "We were having a little chat."

Y/N couldn't help but laugh, a soft sound that echoed in the quiet room. "It can’t really hear you" she said, her smile fading slightly. "It's still early days, remember?"

Lewis's smile softened. He reached out, his hand hovering just above her stomach. "I know," he said, his voice gentle. "But that doesn't mean I can't try, does it?"

Lewis, ever the believer in manifestation, ever the optimist. She scooted closer, making room for him on the sofa. He settled beside her, his arm wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her close.

"How was your nap?" he asked, his lips brushing against her temple.

"Good," she mumbled, nuzzling closer to him. "But you woke me up with your…pep talk."

"Just some heart-to-heart, you know?!" he said with a wink. "With the little one, of course."

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully, but a smile tugged at her lips. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind. The surprise of the positive test, the initial shock, the overwhelming joy – it had all been a blur. Lewis, ever the supportive partner, had taken it all in stride. Sure, there were moments of worry, of panicked glances exchanged in stolen moments, but mostly, there was a quiet excitement that simmered between the couple.

Out of the blue, as it tended to be, a loud growl echoed in the quiet room. She winced, covering her eyes in shame. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he soothed, his voice laced with concern. "This little one needs some food, right?"

Y/N nodded, the growling easing down "Yeah," she mumbled, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Sorry, I..."

"Don't apologize," he said firmly. "This is all part of the journey. We're in this together."

His words held a quiet strength, a comforting confidence that calmed the churning in her stomach. It was more than just constantly being hungry; it was a reminder of the tiny miracle growing inside her.

They lay in silence for a moment, the only sound the rhythmic rise and fall of their breathing. Outside, the world buzzed with activity, the roar of the racetrack a distant rumble. But here, in this quiet haven, a different kind of race was about to begin – a race against time, against uncertainty, but most importantly, a race towards a future filled with the promise of a tiny miracle. And that little one, even though they were still just a whisper of a dream, was already so loved. More than Y/N could ever imagine.

Your scent

The crisp scent of Lewis's signature cologne, a heady mix of citrus and spice, usually sent a wave of warmth through Y/N. Today, however, it was the trigger for a rebellion in her stomach. A wave of nausea crashed over her, sending her scrambling out of bed towards the bathroom.

Lewis, stirred by the commotion, sat up, blinking away the remnants of sleep. "Y/N? You alright?" he called out, concern etching lines on his forehead.

Y/N emerged from the bathroom, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Yeah," she mumbled, her voice weak. "Just a little…" she trailed off, the metallic tang of bile rising in her throat.

Lewis was by her side in an instant, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. "Morning sickness again?" he asked gently.

Y/N shook her head, forcing a weak smile. "Second trimester was supposed to be smooth sailing, they said" Her voice held a hint of sarcasm, even to her own ears.

Lewis chuckled softly. "Maybe smooth sailing is a bit optimistic," he admitted. "But hey, at least you're keeping food down" Y/N grimaced. That particular phase had been brutal. She rinsed her mouth in the sink, the minty freshness a welcome relief.

"Actually," she started hesitantly, Lewis's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

Y/N hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Your cologne," she began, gesturing vaguely towards the bottle on the dresser "it's making me sick."

The surprise on Lewis's face was comical. He stared at the bottle, then back at Y/N, as if trying to process the information. This was the cologne he'd worn for years, his signature scent. It was practically an extension of him.

"My cologne?" he finally managed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "But it's…" he trailed off, searching for the right words. "It's me, Y/N. You love me, right?"

Y/N couldn't help but laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. "Of course, I love you, silly," she said, reaching out to cup his face. "But right now, your child doesn’t really enjoy your 'you-ness'”

A slow grin spread across his face. "Alright, then” he declared, picking up the cologne bottle. "Operation: Find a pregnancy-safe scent it is."

Y/N watched, a smile playing on her lips, as Lewis rummaged through his extensive collection of grooming products. "How about this one?" Lewis asked, holding up a small, unassuming bottle with a label that read "Lavender Serenity."

Y/N wrinkled her nose playfully. "A bit too…serene for you, wouldn't you say?"

Lewis chuckled, tossing the bottle back onto the dresser. "Maybe. But hey, at least it won't make you puke."

Whoever they are

The air crackled with anticipation as Y/N's mother hoisted a heavy bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter. Lewis's dad, Anthony, hovered beside her, peering inside with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Alright" Anthony announced, brandishing a head of cabbage, "let's settle this once and for all. Boy or girl?"

Y/N chuckled, her belly, now a prominent dome beneath her maternity clothes, bouncing with laughter. "Lewis and I have already agreed, no peeking!"

Across the room, Lewis, ever the competitor, mirrored Y/N's amusement. "Besides," he added, winking at Anthony, "I have a feeling your cabbage test is about to be proven wildly inaccurate."

Anthony scoffed playfully. "Don't underestimate the power of tradition. Now, hand me that measuring tape."

As the pregnancy had unfolded everyone had made the bump a target to old wives' tales and lighthearted debate.

Y/N's mother, a firm believer in the "pregnancy glow" theory, insisted the baby was a girl based on Y/N's radiant complexion. Anthony, armed with his cabbage test (apparently, a high, round shape indicated a boy), remained stubbornly convinced otherwise.

Lewis, however, held a quiet confidence in his prediction of a girl. He couldn't explain it; it was just a feeling, a deep one that resonated within him.

The rest of the family, friends, and even Ferrari staff, seemed convinced it was a boy. The sheer volume of blue onesies and miniature race car toys accumulating in the nursery was a testament to that.

Despite the overwhelming "boy" camp, Y/N found herself drawn to Lewis's quiet certainty, her mother's unwavering belief and Leclerc’s claim that Lewis was a girl dad and he wouldn’t believe in anything else. There was a subtle shift in their preferences, a secret language of pink frilly socks and delicate stuffed animals tucked away in the corner of the nursery.

As the due date came ever closer the playful arguments gave way to a more sentimental atmosphere.

Anthony surprised everyone one evening by pulling Y/N into a tight embrace. "Girl or boy," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "you're going to be incredible parents. And that little one," he patted Y/N's stomach gently, "they're already so loved."

A tear escaped Y/N's eye, mirroring the glistening in Lewis's. The truth was, the gender didn't matter. They were about to embark on the greatest adventure of their lives.

As Y/N snuggled against Lewis on the couch, just days before their little one arrived, her hand resting on her swollen belly, a wave of peace washed over her.

"You know," she whispered, "maybe the whole point isn't about knowing the gender."

Lewis turned to her, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lamp. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe," Y/N continued, a smile gracing her lips, "the point is in the surprise. The joy of meeting them, whoever they are, for the very first time."

Lewis's smile mirrored hers. He squeezed her hand gently. "We're ready, whatever comes." he said, his voice filled with an unshakeable certainty.

Their shared ritual

Exhaustion clung to Y/N like a second skin. The past three months had been a parade of sleepless nights, endless diaper changes, and the constant, gnawing worry that comes with being a new parent.

But nestled in the crook of her arm, a tiny miracle slept soundly. Her daughter, in a quiet moment of shared hope, was a testament to the love that bloomed amidst the chaos.

She was a symphony of soft sighs and the occasional gurgle, her tiny fists clenched in a peaceful slumber. However, the moment Lewis's voice cut through the quiet of the room, her whole world seemed to shift.

"Hey there, my little champion," Lewis cooed, his voice a low murmur as he entered the nursery. The infant’s eyes, a pitch perfect copy of her dad’s brown ones, snapped open. A wide, gummy grin split her face, and a high-pitched squeal erupted from her tiny lungs.

Y/N watched the scene unfold with warmth washing over her. Lewis, ever the prodigy, had taken to parenthood like a natural. The same gentle persuasion he used on the racetrack was now employed to coax a smile from their daughter, his voice a soothing melody that calmed her fussy cries.

The transformation was remarkable. Y/N vividly recalled the first trimester, Lewis sheepishly confessing his anxieties about fatherhood to their unborn child. And throught the months a routine was created as every evening, he'd spend a quiet moment by Y/N's side, whispering words of encouragement and promises of love to the tiny bump.

"Alright, little one," Lewis would say, his voice barely above a whisper, "we're going to face whatever comes our way, as a team, okay?"

Those nightly pep talks, once a source of amusement for Y/N, now seemed almost prophetic. The kid, it seemed, recognized Lewis's voice as a source of comfort, a familiar sound that echoed the evenings spent nestled safely inside Y/N, bathed in the sound of his love.

Lewis, oblivious to the internal monologue playing in Y/N's head, scooped the baby into his arms, his face alight with a radiant joy. He bounced her gently, singing a silly, made-up song about a race car driver and a tiny princess. Captivated by her father's performance, the infant cooed and gurgled in response, her tiny hand reaching out to grab a lock of Lewis's dark braids.

Watching them together, a lump formed in Y/N's throat. The exhaustion that had threatened to consume her throughout the day had faded away, replaced by a fierce and overwhelming love. There, in the quiet sanctuary of the nursery, their team flourished – united by an invisible thread of shared love, a love story whispered before their daughter ever entered the world.

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1

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mynnthia · 5 months

Text

compiling my headcanons for what video games dungeon meshi characters would like, if they were gamers in modern day

some taken from this post and my reblog additions there. added more characters, with some suggestions by friends/mutuals (marked by *asterisk ).

this can also be a games recommendation list based on your fav/most relatable characters too, if you want

characters that are not are included are bc i dont have ideas for them. if i only list the genre name but not any specific titles, its bc im not familiar enough with the character/genre to pick a specific game.

this list is, of course, biased towards games im more familiar with. feel free to ask me to elaborate on my choices or make suggestions in the comments

Laios' party:

Laios: plays lots of Monster Hunter. loves Spore but he doesnt often play past the tribal stage. likes Pokemon but he's more focused on catching the pokemon than following the story. played WolfQuest and DragonFable back in the day. enjoyed the concept of Bugsnax but wasn't interested in dealing with the NPCs

Marcille: mainly Dwarf Fortress, RTS games, some colony sims. but also sometimes The Sims, and dollmaker dress-up games. i could see her also enjoying Rollercoaster Tycoon and making elaborately-themed parks. might also occasionally indulge in some visual novels if she's in the mood for narrative she has Stardew Valley so she can have something to play co-op with falin, but its not a game she plays a lot of otherwise. when playing with falin, marcille micromanages the farm to maximize productivity, and does the decorations

Chilchuck: puzzle games and hidden object/escape room games as a video game-equivalent to finding/dismantling traps and lockpicking. i think he'd also enjoy Bejeweled.

Senshi: mainly Wii games and Cooking Mama. occasionally plays Snake on his 15-year-old nokia phone. i dont think he would enjoy games like Overcooked or restaurant manager games, because he likes to take his time making food, not stressing about customer service

Falin: some *Legend of Zelda games – she likes the exploration aspect in Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom, maybe also some of the toon zelda games like Minish Cap or Wind Waker she also plays Pokemon (*Pokemon Go when she's traveling), and i think she would enjoy some indie games, like Penko Park or Chicory: A Colorful Tale. plays Stardew Valley co-op with marcille – falin mainly takes care of the animals, mining, and picking the crops. occasionally makes improvement suggestions that marcille didnt think of

Izutsumi: i could see her enjoying games with parkour mechanics, like *Assassin's Creed, or Mirror's Edge. or maybe something simple but requiring cat-like swipes, like Fruit Ninja. despite her impatience, i think she could also enjoy action games with interesting longer narratives, as evidenced by [this omake] (relevant portion pictured below), so maybe *Final Fantasy 7 – my friend who's familiar with the game said "she’d find Cloud and Vincent relatable"

[ID: a dungeon meshi omake, where laios' party watches a nightmare monster manifest marcille's dream. there are snippets of dramatic soap opera-like dialogue. the rest of the party are initially enthusiastic but get bored over time, meanwhile izutsumi remains enthralled]

Kabru's party

Kabru: definitely Crusader Kings. maybe also some rpgs with relationship/faction mechanics, such as *Fire Emblem (one of the older ones or FE:3H) or Fallout: New Vegas (hes maxing out the speech stat asap) i think he would also enjoy mystery games like Pentiment and Return of the Obra Dinn – he would love the process of getting familiar with the many characters and deducing "who did what" in both games.

Rin: she takes pride in being an indie gamer (translating her disdain for upper class magic academy mages -> disdain for AAA games). given her chain-lightning magic in canon, i think she'd enjoy games with AOE-type magic, so maybe games such as Vampire Survivors. my mutual also suggested she might enjoy indie mystery visual novels like *Paranormasight, and that her AAA guilty-pleasure would be *Final Fantasy 14 – that rin is "a hardcore ff14 raider. would join PUGs and shot-call every week. #holm and diya might also play ff14 casually with rin but holm would be fishing mainly"

Mickbell: mainly Bethesda games like Fallout and Skyrim– enjoys the bootstrapper power fantasy in them. the type to go out of his way to pick up all the loot he can, to later sell

Kuro: enjoys the same games as Mickbell, but for the open-world exploration and investigation factors

Toshiro and Tansu's party:

Namari: her interest in fighting and weapons could translate to brawler/fighting games and action games with a focus on weapon stats – so maybe *Street Fighter, *God of War, and/or *Dark Souls. might play *Monster Hunter with laios but for the weapons. i could also see her occasionally enjoying truck simulators

Toshiro (Shuro): has the perseverance for soulslikes and other high-difficulty action and/or metroidvania games, but would take his time overthinking item/weapon synergies sometimes. given [his fondness for bugs], i could also see him enjoying Hollow Knight

Tade: would enjoy the cute aesthetics and lighthearted gameplay of Animal Crossing and Katamari. would also like idol anime rhythm games

Kiki: i think she would enjoy horror games such as Resident Evil, but would play it while super chill. i dont have much reasoning for this aside from vibes

Canaries:

Mithrun: plays Doom. got into Hollow Knight but still hasn't finished it because he keeps getting lost. senshi introduces him to Cooking Mama later on, which he finds surprisingly therapeutic

Cithis: plays Hitman and enjoys staging elaborate accident kills. i think she'd also enjoy The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood, with her background as a devious fortune-teller

Fleki: surreal indie games like Hylics. also plays Team Fortress 2, and is a scout main. occasionally joins lycion in Animal Jam

Lycion: active WolfQuest and Animal Jam player. occasionally joins fleki in tf2

Pattadol: plays Stardew Valley – shes comparatively a normie, but on the meticulous side. she would enjoy perfecting her in-game farm

Otta: plays Genshin Impact. the serious reasoning is because of her (earth) elemental magic and how genshin has an elemental magic system (from my understanding. ive never played it). the joke reasoning is how some genshin players play to collect "waifus", and how otta goes through a lot of women in her dating life

Other:

Leed: runs her own guild in World of Warcraft

Winged Lion: god-games like WorldBox or Simmiland. and Darkest Dungeon (this ones mostly a joke)

Thistle: plays the original Plants VS. Zombies. also plays Minecraft and is very serious about it, but hasn't updated his game in years (translating the fact hes a 1000-year-old kid frozen in time -> playing "slightly old" games popular in the early 2010s)

[ID: tweet reply by twitter user ranchuppi – "thistle calls it lord delgal's server but he is the only mod. whole royal family is locked in spectator mode. Hell. living hell on earth."]

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #its not that spoilery but just in case anyone needs it #ive never owned any game consoles except a laptop so i watch a lot of lets plays/game showcases. and a fair amount of those are indie games #so this is probably a somewhat biased selection. i wanted to give several indie shout outs tho esp if they matched the character well #dungeon meshi spoilers #delicious in dungeon spoilers #mynn.txt #dm meta #yes this goes in my dunmeshi meta tag. this is character analysis to me

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d-targaryenshoe · 9 months

Text

The Arrival Of A Miracle - Anthony Bridgerton

Word count: 1666

Summary: Oh how wonderful it is when new life joins us in this adventure called life, is it not?

The chamber is elegantly decorated with antique furniture and delicate china tea sets. Violet Bridgerton, an elegant and wise woman in her seated on a comfortable armchair.

And Eloise, a spirited and intelligent young woman joins the both of you with a cup of tea.

"It's so lovely to have this moment of peace amidst all the chaos, isn't it?" Violet chuckled, taking a sip from the hot liquid in her teacup. "At least for the time being."

"Yes, indeed. I can't believe this little one will be joining us shortly." You smiled, placing a hand upon your bump covered by your green gown.

"Time flies, my dear. It feels like just yesterday when Anthony was a baby himself." The mother sighed, slightly lost in memories, smiling at you.

"Speaking of babies, it seems like everyone else in London is busy with their own affairs." Eloise joked, making you chuckle as well. "I hardly see anyone these days."

"Well, Eloise, life does tend to get busy, especially when there's a new addition to the family on the way." Violet silenced her daughter, pointing at your bump.

"I must admit, it's quite overwhelming at times. But having tea with all of you brings such joy and comfort." You said, looking at both the women in the room. "Truly."

"My dear, you're doing wonderfully. We're all here to support you every step of the way." Violet assured, placing her hand on yours.

"Absolutely! And once the baby arrives, we'll have even more reasons to celebrate." Eloise laughed, taking a biscuit from the table.

"Indeed, Eloise. Our family will grow, and our love will only deepen." Violet agreed. "Could I ask something?"

"Oh, most definitely, what's the matter?" You asked.

"I've been searching for this specific book for weeks, and I can't seem to locate it anywhere." Eloise almost begged. "My brothers are no help at all. One of them is always painting and the other is making sure a nursery is completed."

"Eloise, y/n is close to birthing a child, how could you ask such a thing?" Violet scolded her daughter.

"It's okay, I'd be happy to help you out." You answered, getting up from the couch with some difficulty. "We can go to the library together and search for it."

"Really? You would do that for me?" She asked, eyes wide with happiness. "Thank you so much. Let's go right now."

And with that, the younger Bridgerton took a hold of your hand and pulled you towards the library.

Entering the library, you're greeted by the smell of old books and the sound of pages being turned.

"Wow, this library is impressive. Do you have any leads on where we should start?" You asked, placing a hand on your back as you felt some subtle pain.

"Well, I've already checked the history section, the adventure section, and even the rare books collection. But no luck so far." Eloise sighed, randomly reading some titles of books.

Eloise is meticulously going through books about unsolved mysteries and hidden secrets. "... It must be here somewhere."

You walk a little further into the library, reading some book titles as well, hoping you'd find the book, at least to help Eloise out.

Suddenly, Eloise's hand brushes against a book that feels slightly different from the others.

But at a sudden moment your face twists in pain. As Eloise walks towards you with a book in her hand.

"Y/n, are you alright? Shall I get Mama or Anthony?" She asked worriedly, placing the book on the shelf, and placing her hand on your back.

You took a deep breath, placing your hands on the shelf, trying to steady yourself. "It's too soon. The baby isn't due for another two weeks, El."

"I don't know much about this but this child is coming," Eloise said, looking around her if there was anyone that could help her out "We must get you to your room."

"I... I can't wait any longer. The baby is coming." You panted, cradling your bump with one hand, feeling how the pain got worse.

"We'll do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of our child," Eloise assured, taking hold of your hand, and leading you out of the library.

You smiled weakly, grateful for the support of your sister-in-law.

Eloise smiles back, determination etched on her face. She took your arm and supported you as you both started to make your way up the grand staircase.

Eloise and you slowly walk up the staircase, each step becoming more challenging for you. Eloise whispers words of encouragement, trying to keep you calm.

"You're doing wonderful, y/n. Just a few more steps and we'll be in your chamber." Eloise encouraged, breathing along with you.

Your grip tightens on Eloise's arm as another contraction hits. You wince in pain, but bravely soldier on. "I can't do this, El."

"You're stronger than you assume, y/n Bridgerton. Remember, soon you'll be holding your beautiful babe in your arms." Eloise smiled, rubbing the lower of your back, hoping to soothe some of the pain.

You reach the top of the staircase and continue down the hallway towards your room.

Eloise helps you into the room and guides you towards the bed. You collapse onto the bed, your face pale and sweaty.

"You, try to stay calm, I'll get Mama and make sure that wicked brother of mine, returns home," Eloise said, kissing your cheek one last time.

Descending the grand staircase with purpose. She spots her mother, across the room. "Mother, we must act fast! Send the midwives to y/n's room and fetch Anthony immediately. She has begun the labor upstairs in their room!"

Anthony Bridgerton bursts through the doors of the Bridgerton residency. Noticing the stares his mother and sister are giving in his direction.

"It's your wife, dearest." Violet began.

"Where? Where is my wife? What's the matter?" He asked, noticing Eloise nodding her head subtly towards the hallway upstairs.

"Anthony, my dear, there's no need to worry. Y/n is in good hands. She's in your room." Violet explained, placing a hand on her son's shoulder. "Preparing for the arrival of your child."

"I just want to be there for her, Mother. I want to hold her hand and support her through this."He answered, looking down at the wedding ring on his hand.

"And you will be. Y/n knows how much you adore her. She knows you'll be by her side every step of the way." She smiled as Anthony's eyes lit up with determination.

"Yes, I will. I'll be the best father and husband I can be." Anthony nodded his head.

"I have no doubt about that, my son. You will be a wonderful father, just like your own father was." Violet spoke with tearful eyes.

"Thank you, Mother. I won't let her down."

"I know you won't, my dear. Now, go to her. Your wife needs you." Violet insisted, motioning her hand toward the staircase.

Anthony nervously enters the room, his heart pounding with anticipation. He glances around, noticing the midwife preparing the birthing supplies. The room is filled with an air of both excitement and trepidation.

"Is everything alright?" Anthony asked the midwife who was taking some sheets for the bed.

"Yes, Mr. Bridgerton. everything is going well, soon you'll child will be here." The woman answered.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He walks over to your side, are you're lying on the bed, your face flushed with pain.

"You're doing amazing, my love. Just a little longer." Anthony whispered against your forehead, softly smiling. .

" Oh, the pain! I can't bear it any longer!" You cried, leaning back into the pillow.

"Just a little while longer, my lady. You're doing wonderfully." One of the midwives reassures, adjusting the gloves on her hands. "Just a few more pushes and we'll have the baby in your arms."

"Don't leave me, Anthony. I need you." You sighed, squeezing his hand.

"Alright, my lady. On the count of three, give me one more big push." The midwive said as you we're pushing the best you could.

"Come on, my love. You can do this." Anthony encouraged, placing his hand on the back of your neck.

The birthing room is filled with a team of midwives bustling around, preparing for the imminent arrival of the baby.

"Just breathe, my lady. You're doing great." The midwife said as she saw sweat beads on your forehead as you clutched Anthony's hand tightly.

You gritted your teeth, leaning back in your bed. "I can't... I can't do this anymore."

"Yes, you can, my love. Just a little longer." Anthony said, removing the strands of hair on your sweaty forehead.

You gather all your strength and push with all your might. The room fills with the sound of your pains.

Anthony's face breaks into a fragile smile as he hears the cry of a babe. "It's... it's a miracle."

"Mr. Bridgerton, It's time for you to cut the umbilical cord. Are you ready?" The midwife said, holding out the scissors towards Anthony.

"I mostly am" The woman hands him the pair of sterilized scissors. He takes a deep breath and approaches the baby, who is in the hands of the midwife.

"Here we go, little one." Anthony carefully cuts the umbilical cord, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. The baby lets out a soft cry, signaling its arrival into the world.

"It's a beautiful and healthy baby boy!" The midwife said as she took the baby and gently placed him on your chest. Your eyes filled with tears of joy as you held your newborn close.

"Welcome to the world, my son. We will love and protect you always." Anthony spoke as his eyes were filled with tears.

"Our little miracle. Our family is complete." As you both gaze at your newborn son, the room is filled with a sense of pure bliss and the promise of a bright future.

#anthony bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagines #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton netflix #colin bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #anthony x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x y/n #x reader

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murdockparker · 6 months

Text

Roses and Regrets - Part 1

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Freshly out of mourning, Lady Barlow, née (Y/L/N), makes her re-debut in society. If only she could simply ignore a certain viscount...

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: none. enemies to lovers!!

A/N: I didn't expect this lil requested fic to turn into such an event, let alone a multi-part story! so, you're welcome or I'm sorry?

next part

She was perfectly happy.

Well, supposedly right now she wasn’t.

Her husband, Lord Barlow, had passed away ten months ago, leaving her with an empty estate, a shiny title and more money than she knew what to do with. Lord Barlow was an old viscount, desperate for an heir and willing to do anything to get one.

In came Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

Young, beautiful and well-bred, she was the perfect choice for any man of the ton. If only her father hadn’t a penchant for gambling. Perhaps she’d be married to a man more suited for her rather than the oaf of a dustbin she was forced to be with. She was no fool in believing in a love match for herself, rare and far between as they were, no, but she did have half a mind to imagine a kinder man as her husband. A man who perhaps cared even a little bit for her wellbeing.

No matter.

A dead man cannot care for her wellbeing either.

“Lady Barlow,” a maid knocked, entering the ornate drawing room.

“Yes?” (Y/N) did not look up from her reading—the newest edition of Whistledown had just been delivered. While she herself was never one to gossip terribly, it was quite fun to keep up with the circus of the season.

“Do you plan on attending the Danbury ball this eve?”

“I do not see the point,” she scoffed playfully, “after all, Meg, I am but a widow in mourning.”

“Perhaps her ladyship should reconsider?” Meg asked gently, placing a new pot of tea next to her lady. “I rather think it has been a socially acceptable amount of time since your husband’s passing.”

“If I am not to enjoy the perks of being a widow,” (Y/N) sighed, finally looking up at her favorite lady’s maid, “whatever is the point?”

“Perks that Viscount Barlow has graciously allowed you to use during your time of mourning—”

“The current viscount is all but twelve,” (Y/N) reminded. “He has no use for this estate in Mayfair until he himself becomes an adult, in which, I am sure he and his mother will come to make use of it. I believe if my maths are correct, that leaves me all of six years or so to use this home.”

“Forgive me my lady, but should you not be looking for a new husband, then?”

(Y/N) smiled at Meg. She enjoyed their friendship, her maid being only a handful of years older than herself, it made for a likely pair. “No one wishes to marry a widow,” she said simply, “widows are damaged goods. Every sensible man of the ton will be wanting a pretty little virgin instead.”

“My lady!”

“What?” She barked a laugh. “You know it to be true.”

“Regardless,” Meg said, clearing her throat. “Lord Barlow passed nearly a year ago, the period of mourning is rightfully over. You are expected to rejoin society.”

“Dreadful.”

“It is expected,” Meg repeated.

“It does not make it any less dreadful,” (Y/N) said. “Very well. Pull a dress and prepare a bath, it seems the ton gets to see my dreary face once again.”

—

Anthony Bridgerton was a man scorned.

Particularly by his own mother in this very instance. How foolish he had been to share his intentions of marriage this season with her—for now she spread the news like a wildfire. Every desperate mama and her equally desperate daughter came flocking to him like bees to honey.

It was only now, in the dark corner of the ballroom, that he found a respite.

“Looking a bit green, Lord Bridgerton,” a voice beside him called out.

“I am not—” Anthony had huffed a reply before even knowing whom he was speaking to. “Lady Barlow.”

“I am shocked you can recall my name,” (Y/N) laughed over her champagne flute. “Considering how many new ones you’ve had thrown at you this eve.”

“You are out of mourning.”

“Is that a question?”

“It was an observation,” Anthony corrected.

“What gave it away? My bright dress? No tear stains left on my cheeks?”

“You are here, out and about,” Anthony said. “And, forgive me for not playing along with your delusions, but I do not think you cried much at all for Lord Barlow’s passing.”

“How dare you assume such a thing,” (Y/N) faux gasped. She had intended on pressing a hand to her chest. Intended, anyway. Somehow she forgot all about the champagne currently residing it her grasp. “Damn… this was a new dress too.”

“Good God,” he laughed. “First you are spilling all over yourself like a child and now you are cursing—tell me, do all married ladies act like you?”

“I am a widow,” (Y/N) had found a cloth and begun dabbing up the spill. It had only dribbled at most, but still, it was a new dress. “I rather think I can act the way I please.”

“Like a drunkard?”

“Like a free woman,” she said, fighting every childish urge to stick her tongue out at the viscount. “I am only here to show my face, prove I am still alive and I shall go about my merry way.”

“Lady Danbury is a widow,” Anthony noted. “Yet she still mingles with society.”

“I am not Lady Danbury.”

“You are not.”

“Do you not have young misses to go and woo?” (Y/N)’s eyes hardened. “Take your pick from the litter, Lord Bridgerton, any of them would be pleased to spend such valuable time with you.”

“Are you insinuating you are not?”

“I rather thought it was a statement, yes,” (Y/N) said.

Anthony’s eyes went only a fraction wider, nostrils flaring. “Well, if that is what you wish—”

“It is not a mean of wishing,” she laughed, “but really a necessity.”

“Good evening, Lady Barlow,” Anthony sneered, smoke practically coming out of his ears. If (Y/N) had half a mind she’d call for the authorities to put that fire out, instead, she simply finished her drink and smiled wistfully at the dancing ballroom, feeling fulfilled.

—

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The season is in full swing thanks to the mark of Lady Agatha Danbury’s ball, a notable and traditional first event of the London scene. Eligible young ladies now on the Marriage Mart were enjoying their first taste at what fine society has to offer, however taxing or daunting it may be.

Our resident Capital ‘R’ Rake, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is finally deciding on a wife, surely making him the finest catch of the season. Matchmaking mamas and their young ladies alike were seen flocking to him like petulant children asking their parents for pin money, thanks to his own mother, Lady Bridgerton’s declaration of such an idea last night. The viscount seemingly had enough of the attention, taking like a wallflower and hiding away in the back of the ballroom near the end of the evening.

His company? None other than Lady Barlow, evidently out of mourning as of last night. While the this Author is under good authority that the match between Lady Barlow and the late Lord Barlow was not a love match, given their fourty or fifty year age difference, it has taken the new dowager viscountess longer than most anticipated for her to get back into the season. A woman as young as Lady Barlow would be eager to find another husband to support her, but something tells me that she is quite enjoying her time as a widow and will not easily give that up.

While this Author has very little idea of the actual nature of the relationship between Lord Bridgerton and Lady Barlow, it is only to be assumed that it is simply not a favorable one. The two were seen making a scene by the refreshment table, a scene that went unnoticed by many prying eyes of the ton, leaving Lord Bridgerton storming away and Lady Barlow with the winning hand.

Good show, Lady Barlow.

Lady Whistledown Society Papers

—

“Brother! You are in Whistledown!” Eloise sang to no one in particular.

“I have no care that I am in that gossip rag,” Anthony ground out, rustling his newspaper. “I can only imagine it is just another advertisement of my search for a wife this season.”

“Er, yes, however—”

“However?” Anthony’s attention immediately shot up to his sister, newspaper be damned.

“Who is Lady Barlow?” Eloise asked.

“No one of importance,” Anthony could feel his temperature rising.

“Lady Barlow?” Benedict laughed. “Is that who you were talking to last night dear Brother? Is she not still in mourning?”

“No.”

“No it is not who you were talking to, or no she is not still in mourning?” Benedict gave his brother an amusing glance.

“Oh, according to Whistledown—”

“Sister—”

“Eloise, you may not recall Lady Barlow, given you only just came out this season,” Benedict began, deciding that this conversation was very much worth his time this morning. “But she used to go by Miss (Y/L/N) before her marriage to the late viscount.”

“(Y/L/N)…” Eloise looked to the ceiling, finding nothing in particular. “Oh! Is she not the woman who—”

“I am taking my leave,” Anthony said abruptly, newspaper all but forgotten.

“Escaping, Brother?” Benedict asked.

“I have calls to make,” Anthony sneered, ignoring the pleased face his brother was making. “Excuse me.”

“It seems Lady Barlow is a touchy subject,” Eloise noted as her eldest brother left the drawing room. Benedict snorted. “What?”

“You do not even know the half of it, dear Sister.”

Anthony Bridgerton, did not in fact, have any calls to make. He had no impressionable interactions last night to warrant such a visit to anyone—the Queen was still in need of naming her diamond, after all—but he had no desire to stay and be berated by his family this morning. He truly had no plan, no thought in his head on where he was going, he just simply was.

Apparently he was going to the park.

It was still early in the day, few people graced the park at such an hour. The few who did, however, were too busy reading the latest Whistledown to even notice him. Anthony saw a handful of post boys running opposite of his direction on his way here, it was only natural they scoped out this location. He knew it was going to be a problem the minute they finished reading—if Lady Whistledown truly wrote about him, which he had no reason to believe his sister was lying about, all eyes would be on him.

“Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet for now,” Anthony exhaled. He took a quick glance at his watch—half past eight. Hardly could he recall a time he took a turn about the park on his own, usually he was in the company of his family or holed away in his study worrying about expenses and the like, never did he take a moment to actually enjoy the grand weather such as the kind today. Determined to enjoy it, he sat down on a favorable bench and watched the birds swim across the pond.

“Unbelievable.”

He turned his head, only to find Lady Barlow dressed in a rather pleasantly pink dress and matching hat, a look of distaste on her face.

“I didn’t take you as the park-going type, Lord Bridgerton,” she nodded, folding her hands. She had been carrying a small red book in one of them. “Especially at such an early hour, too.”

“Lady Barlow,” he nearly sneered. “Can a man not enjoy the park?”

“Oh surely a man can,” (Y/N) agreed. “But you? You are no man.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It seems to me that you’re sitting in my spot,” she ignored his quip, readjusting her stance in annoyance. “This is where I come to read.”

“Can you not read elsewhere?” Anthony asked. “There is an entire park at your disposal.”

“No,” she hummed. “Afraid not.”

“No?” He laughed. “Surely out of the entire park you can find a suitable spot to read your—let me guess—romantically inclined fodder?”

“Poetry,” she corrected, “and no, I cannot simply read elsewhere. The shade is just right under this tree and I rather like overlooking the pond between my chapters.”

“Shame I got here first, then,” Anthony clicked.

“You…!” (Y/N) scoffed, fighting every urge in her body to stomp her foot. “You are an impossible man, surely you know that?”

“I thought you said I was no man?” Anthony’s brow quirked. “Or perhaps I misheard?”

She scowled. “You are not amusing.”

“On the contrary,” Anthony leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms and taking his claim. “I find myself very amusing.”

A duck quacked from the pond, either laughing at the viscount or agreeing with him—it was hard to tell.

“You leave me no choice,” (Y/N) said sternly, taking a seat on the other end of the bench—feeling worlds apart from the man on the far side. In actuality, it couldn’t have been more than two feet, three at most.

“Truly?” Anthony laughed humorlessly. “You cannot be serious.”

“Hush,” (Y/N) said, opening her book in earnest. “I am trying to read.”

While there had been no guns drawn, this was a duel, in every sense of the word. Both parties sitting still as statues, Anthony’s gaze trained on the pond, (Y/N)’s on her book. Occasionally, she’d flip her page to the next, huffing every time Anthony still did not get up and move on.

Stubborn. Both of them.

“Will you be quiet?” Anthony said, growing exasperated. “I cannot think when you are breathing so loud—”

“You wish for me not to breathe?” She shut her book. “I never anticipated you’d wish me dead—”

“Please,” Anthony said. “You know that is not what I mean at all.”

“I never know with you. You, Anthony Bridgerton, are an enigma and I hope I never have the pleasure of truly understanding you,” (Y/N) said, fingers whiting from her grip on her book.

“So you admit it would be pleasurable?”

She wanted to wipe that grin off of his face, how, she was unsure. Idly, she thought about how a good smack to his cheek would feel. Painful in the moment but oh-so wonderful after, cathartic, probably. “I am not getting up.”

“Neither am I.”

“I am willing to die on this bench,” (Y/N) spat.

“Funnily enough,” Anthony’s voice dropped, “so am I.”

“How are you to find your viscountess on this bench?” She asked, angling her body towards the torturous man. “Surely you do not expect her to just walk past?”

“I am sure I can manage,” Anthony said calmly. “Many young ladies will walk this way when they see me sitting here."

“Even with another woman sitting beside you?”

“I rather think they’ll find you easy to ignore, I know I do.”

“Ha! You are truly something else, Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) sat straighter. “Insulting a polite woman in public?”

“You are the furthest thing from polite,” Anthony leaned in. “Rude, ostentatious, quite full of herself—”

“Might I offer you a mirror?” The grip on her book tightened, cover bending from the force. “Or are you afraid you’ll see horns?”

“Oh, do they match yours?” He nearly sang.

“Funny,” she clicked, finally setting her book down, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “You should run a comedy act at the circus, seeing as you are a right clown.”

Anthony stood up, whether by the force of his breath or sheer spite he will never know. “You are the most ridiculous woman I have ever met.”

(Y/N) met his height, now standing as well. “And you are the most irritating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”

“I am going to walk this way,” Anthony said, forcefully pointing to his right, eyes not leaving hers. She did have the most remarkable eyes.

“And I will walk this way,” she pointed to her left, less force in her action but seething all the same. “Have the day you deserve, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Why you little…!”

She had already turned and stomped away, a fuming smudge of pink against the greenery of the park, growing further away with every step.

“What a wretched woman,” he mumbled, looking down at his watch again—nine on-the-dot. In the corner of his eye, something bright red caught his attention. Her book. She had left it behind.

Perhaps he would burn it.

Perhaps he would just put it in his pocket and carry about his day.

In the pocket it went. For now.

#anthony bridgerton #bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagines #enemies to lovers #multi-part fic #reader insert #whoops i didn't expect this request to turn into a multiple part thing but here we are #unsure of how many parts but probably no more than 4-5?#idk

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i23kazu · 1 year

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THEY WON'T STOP CALLING ME PAPA

characters. neuvillette x gn!reader genre. domestic romantic fluff. an. MORE melusine daddy content. please send help | please reblog!! im getting back into writing and reblogs with tags and comments will make me want to write more :D

the first time the melusines meet neuvillette, they're all overly formal.

"monsieur neuvillette! monsieur neuvillette!" "how may i assist you?"

over time, as the bond between the sweet melusines and neuvillette became stronger, neuvillette started helping the melusines more! they got more casual and it went from monsieur neuvillette, to neuvillette, to sir, and, well... to papa.

needless to say, neuvillette was taken aback. yes! it was adorably cute! so, so cute – that the innermost part of him wanted to squish the little melusine's cheeks.

it took him a while to get used to the melusine's addressing him with a parental title, though. after all.. they looked nothing like him. like funky little adopted alien children.

when he does get used to it, though – the melusines are so happy, they want to weep and cry of joy!

iara, a younger melusine, had run into trouble with treasure hoarders. the little girl was in tears, holding her bundles of bread – when a big strong man came to save her! blades of water whooshed around her, cocooning her in its arms, and gently setting her back down on the ground.

it was papa! papa was there to fight the bad guys for her, and all she could do was stand and watch in awe as neuvillette swiftly took down the bad guys, sending them scrambling in the direction they came.

"it's alright... papa's here. you're safe now, mon rayon de soleil." neuvillette picks her up, bread and all. iara settles down into papa's arms, her little heart bursting with joy when she hears him address himself with that.

when you first started dating neuvillette, the melusines addressed you by mama / papa / baba ( depending on your preference! )

at first you were confused. they were definitely not your children. you meant, you wouldn't mind, but you had known them for basically less than half a day and they were already forming parental attachments ??

but you didn't mind it after all, and even started rolling with it. guess you're now the parent of 300 melusines. congrats! achievement: first-time parent unlocked.

reblogs w/ tags & comments appreciated !!!

taglist: @tiredsleep @loptido @raincxtter @chichikoi @ladyadii @soulsanta @sheiiths @genshinparty @eowinthetraveler @moonbyunniee @legitnoi @lemontum @manager-of-the-pudding-bank @starz222 @ilyuu @cherry-colored-petals @mondaymelon @tartaglia-apologist @soleillunne @softcosmixs @m1shapanda @aimynx @smokipoki (send ask to be added to taglist)

#[📝 stewardess' notepad!]#astronetwrk #genshin x reader #neuvillette x reader #genshin x gn reader #genshin impact x gn reader #genshin impact x reader #neuvillette x gn reader #genshin fluff #neuvillette fluff #genshin x reader sfw #neuvillette x reader sfw #melusines #genshin melusines #dad!neuvillette #found family

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 6: I'm The Resident Leader Of The Lost And Found]

A/N: Be sure to vote in the poll pinned to the top of my blog AFTER you finish reading! It will be available for 1 week 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, RIP Jace...unless...??

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “St. Jimmy” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.2k (she's a little chonky)

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

What happens to the people who turn? You know because you saw it back at Saratoga Springs, an EO from Oklahoma named Greg Flurry—Equipment Operator, he spent his days driving a forklift, everyone called him Snowflake—who returned from weekend liberty with a bite on his left wrist that he said was a gift from some drunk girl who attacked him outside of a 7-Eleven. You had all laughed and taken turns poking at the wound, making him wince: a ring of tiny bruises, not deep at all, the skin only punctured in a few spots, corporeal gemstones of trapped-blood amethysts and sapphires and rubies. Snowflake rubbed it down with a splash of Grey Goose vodka—the same kind your Mama always drank—and didn’t think of it again for the rest of the day.

On Tuesday, he felt fine; but the bite mark, paradoxically, was not healing. On the contrary, it was turning dark and angry, maroon trails along the paths of veins that shuttle blood back to the heart. Snowflake got a shot of antibiotics at the med clinic and was back in the driver’s seat of his forklift before lunch.

On Wednesday, he had a headache and nausea that wouldn’t go away. Snowflake attributed this to particularly questionable chicken fried steak from the chow hall. At night he tossed and turned in his bunk, and when Rio went to check on him, Snowflake was burning up with fever, sweating through his sheets, staring blankly through pupils like pinpricks. You, Rio, and Parker carried him to the med clinic.

On Thursday, in the early hours of the morning, Snowflake began to decompose. But he was still alive. His skin turned grey and sloughed off, his body purged itself: vomit from his throat, diarrhea from his intestines, blood beading out of his pores like sweat. His corneas went cloudy. His lungs flooded with decay-dark mucus. Snowflake sobbed and shrieked as you and Rio sat with him and held his disintegrating hands, as the corpsmen phoned every hospital they could to try to get him transported. All the ambulances were unavailable. All the hospitals were already overwhelmed. They gave the corpsmen peculiar guidance: Palliative care. Prepare to restrain him if he becomes a danger to others. The virus appears to be transmitted via bite wounds.

“Virus?” Rio had said, dropping Snowflake’s hand. “What the fuck kind of virus does this to someone?”

The corpsmen had shaken their heads—We don’t know—and attempted to administer narcotics intravenously. Snowflake received no relief. His blood vessels were collapsing, dissolving, turning to a noxious soup beneath what was left of his skin. Becoming a zombie is not unlike radiation sickness. It rots you from the inside out, and you can feel everything.

As the sun was rising, Snowflake died. And by then you were glad; it was the most merciful outcome. The corpsmen covered him with a sheet and called around for a morgue. They were full too. As you all stood in an exam room trying to understand what had just happened to Snowflake here, what was going on in the world outside Saratoga Springs, the fresh corpse sat up on the table. You had screamed and clutched for Rio; he shoved you behind him. The corpse, still covered with the sheet stained with black and brown and red, followed the noise of your voice and staggered towards you, snarling and groaning, arms outstretched, teeth clicking as they gnashed beneath the sheet. The corpsmen tried to grab him, then shrank away when the ghoul clawed at them, putrefied fingers peeking out from beneath the linen. The zombie lurched closer, and Rio struck out: colossal knuckles to a soft skull, the monster sent hurtling headfirst into a wall. The body plunged to the floor and, enveloped by a puddle of its own bodily fluids, died for the second time.

And Rio had glanced down at where Snowflake had been bitten—now indecipherable on his black, gangrenous wrist that jutted out from beneath the sheet—then turned to you and said: I guess it only takes once.

~~~~~~~~~~

You doze against Aemond’s shoulder as Baela drives the Honda Odessey across Indiana, goldenrods and dogwood trees, green weeds growing tall and wild, red bloodstains on pavement. Visions of the past come to you in spider-thread thin fragments of dreams.

Building dams of sticks and pebbles in the swamp-colored creek that runs along Kentucky State Route 1087. Balancing atop rusted railroad lines that once connected coal mines like ligaments link bones, bare feet, box turtles and milk snakes, autum leaves falling into your hair. Scratching black-ink battleships into the pages of your fifty-cent Walmart notebook as teachers drone on about things that mean nothing to you, things that will not take you away from here, Shakespeare, the Krebs cycle, the Tet Offensive, Spanish words for colors and animals. Mama glancing up at you as she scrubs dishes in a sink nearly overflowing with bubbles, too nonchalant to intend to be cruel: You’re lucky you ain’t too beautiful. Do you know what happens to beautiful women? Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy, Natalie Wood, Anna Nicole Smith? Horrible, horrible things. And then they die.

Once in a while you pass a car or truck or SUV coasting east as you roll west, strangers who wave and give you nods of grim, transient greeting. Good luck. I’m sorry you’ve lost people. I hope you live. At a Speedway outside of Kokomo, Aemond, Aegon, Rio, and Luke draw Uno cards to see who will attempt to siphon gas from the three vehicles you find there with closed fuel caps. Aegon loses with a blue four. The Kia and Toyota are empty; there’s almost a full tank left in the Ford. You refuel the Honda Odessey and scrounge through the convenience store for supplies. Helaena seems to have developed a sort of fixation with pain pills, hoarding Advil and Tylenol. Aegon finds a few more packs of Marlboro Golds. He puffs on them, windows down and breeze blowing, neon green plastic sunglasses shielding his eyes, as Baela skirts around Indianapolis. Even from fifteen miles away, you can see the billowing smoke from the fires, hear the manmade thunder of explosions.

“Bet people are having a great time there,” Aegon murmurs as he takes a drag, embers glowing and blonde hair thrashing in the wind.

Baela follows the course he plotted, swinging just south of Peoria, Illinois to avoid the nuclear power plants between there and Chicago. You cross the Mississippi River and into the southern tip of Iowa over the Fort Madison Bridge, the toll booth occupied only by a carcass that buzzards are pecking apart, a zombie that someone else already put a bullet in…or perhaps the man did it to himself. Maybe he didn’t see a point in sticking around to watch the dead inherit the earth. You cannot agree. Each day you find more reasons to stay alive in this treacherous new world. It’s like when you were back in Soft Shell, Kentucky. You can’t give up, you can’t surrender. The only way out is through.

The black Honda Odessey—a good soldier, having taken you six hundred miles and into the vast flat vacancy of the Midwest—at last runs out of gas as you are approaching Bonaparte, founded in the 1830s as a lumber mill on the banks of the Des Moines River. You unload the minivan and trek into town; you will find somewhere to spend the night and then in the morning head south to Route 2, which you will follow all the way across Iowa to the Nebraska border.

The first house you try is at the edge of town, eggshell-colored vinyl siding and an empty gravel driveway. Rio tries the front door—locked—then tells everyone to back up. He kicks it once, no dice, gets ready to try again. Then the door opens. A woman with wide fearful eyes stands there with two boys cowering behind her, maybe ten and twelve.

“Please don’t break the lock,” the woman says softly. “We need it. Sometimes they try to get in.”

“Oh hey, lady, I’m sorry about that. We didn’t know anyone was home. You okay in there?”

Her voice is so quiet you can barely hear her. “Please leave us alone.”

Aemond climbs the steps of the front porch, taps Rio’s shoulder to tell him to back up, and kneels in the doorway so he isn’t so tall. He asks the woman: “Do you need supplies? Food, medicine?”

“Please leave us alone,” she says again.

“My name is Aemond, and those two are my brothers Aegon and Daeron, and that’s my sister Helaena, my cousin Luke, and then Rhaena and Baela. The big guy is Rio, and the girl over there…” He smiles as he gestures to you. “We like to call her Chips. Everyone is healthy, and everyone is here by choice. We’re going to the West Coast, Oregon and California. Do you want to come with us?”

But the woman shakes her head almost violently. “We’re safe in the house. We have to stay. My husband is a long-haul trucker, but he’s on his way back to us.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“Go away. Please just go away. Before they see you.”

The woman shuts the door and you hear her throw the deadbolt. You leave like she asks you to; but not before Aemond collects an armful of supplies you can spare and places them in a pile on the porch for them to take inside once you��ve vanished.

The sun is sinking into the west as Helaena lights candles in Bonaparte Baptist Church and Rhaena shakes out dusty, mothball-smelling tablecloths to use as blankets. Luke finds gallons of grape juice and bags full of tiny flat bread wafers in the cabinets of the kitchenette, once used for sinless communions. It’s Daeron’s turn to stay awake for first watch. If Jace was still alive, it would be his too; instead, Aemond takes his place and refuses all offers of relief. You lie down on a pew with thin violet cushions and are thinking that you’ll never get comfortable enough to fall asleep when you are abruptly swallowed by omnipotent, black nothingness.

You jolt awake sometime in the middle of the night, a bad dream you don’t remember and don’t want to. Daeron is perched on the altar and using a hunting knife from the cellar back in Distant, Pennsylvania to sharpen the sticks he’s gathered into arrows. Baela is sitting with Aemond, their backs against the wall and voices hushed so as not to wake the others. Aemond is telling her that everything is going to be okay, that he’s still here, that Jace is gone but he’s not going anywhere, and candlelight is flickering across his scarred face, and he’s afraid but he doesn’t show it. He can’t. Too many people need him.

Oh, you realize; and it doesn’t feel awful at all, doomed or apocalyptic, a curse or a plague. It feels better than anything you knew existed. I might fall in love with him after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aemond, take a look at this,” Luke says, offering him the binoculars. You have walked several miles on Iowa State Route 2, an asphalt atoll in an ocean of emerald green flora, buffalograss and prairie roses, ash trees growing over defunct power lines.

Aemond peers through the binoculars. It’s a small farmhouse about a quarter mile off the road, rugged and weatherworn, besieged by a flock of zombies. There is something large and rectangular flapping in the wind like a white flag of surrender. “Hm,” Aemond hums sympathetically. “It’s a shame. Poor guy.”

“What do you see?” you ask, and he gives you the binoculars. The zombies, approximately thirty of them, do not appear to have breached the interior; they shuffle through the yard and up and down the steps of the porch, smack their palms against the wood siding, leave stains of gore on the boarded-up windows. None appear to be aware of you yet. The bedsheet that hangs from the attic window has a message painted on it in something dark and viscous, perhaps motor oil:

One alive inside

I can hunt, fish, and fix things

Please help me

God bless you!!!

“We should be able to get to Cantril before dark, it’s about twelve more miles,” Aegon mutters, pondering his map. “Boner-party. Who names a town something like that?”

Aemond stares at him. “Bonaparte. Like Napoleon.”

“Who?”

You pass Rio the binoculars, then say to Aemond: “We’re going to help him, right?”

“We sure as hell aren’t,” Rio replies as he studies the farmhouse. “You want to risk our lives killing all those bastards? I don’t.”

You turn to Aemond, incredulous, but he concurs with Rio. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What’s going on?” Baela says testily from where she’s sprawled on the pavement sipping a half-full plastic gallon of bruise-colored grape juice. She’s already exhausted, but you have no way of transporting her.

Rio points across the field. “There’s a sign saying someone’s trapped inside that house. Tough fucking luck, ain’t it?”

Baela stares at the farmhouse uneasily, her brow furrowed. Rhaena fans her with a paperback copy of Catching Fire. Daeron has wandered off the road to collect more sticks to sharpen and fill his quiver; Helaena is with him picking wildflowers.

“That was us,” you tell Rio. “We were stranded on that transmission tower and we would have died if we’d been left there. But we weren’t. Someone saved us.”

“Things were different then,” Aemond says, unemotional, uncompromising. “We had the Tahoe. Now we’re on foot, and we’d have to kill each of them individually. And there’s no way to make a fast escape if something goes wrong.”

“So we’re just going to leave him?” Aegon says doubtfully, his large ocean-blue eyes flicking between you and Aemond. He stuffs his map back into his shorts pocket and scratches at the tattoo on his forearm: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

Rio groans. “Come on, man, we don’t even know if anyone’s still alive in there! What if he’s dead already? What if he got bit or starved to death or fell down the steps and snapped his neck or something?”

“What if he’s not a good guy?” Aemond adds.

“There’s a Trump 2024 sign in the front yard,” Luke says. He has the binoculars again. Aemond opens his hands, an I told you so sort of gesture. Luke amends: “Not that anyone deserves to get eaten alive or transformed into a walking corpse. But, you know. I figured I’d mention it.”

You are not swayed. Had you stayed in Soft Shell, Kentucky, you might have believed the same things. “People deserve to have the chance to start over.”

Aemond’s eye is on you, narrow and seeking, desperate to understand. “Why are you so fixated on this stranger?”

“He hunts, he fishes. What are we going to do when we get out into Wyoming and Nevada where towns are fifty miles apart and there’s hardly anywhere to scavenge for food? What are we going to eat when the beef jerky and Skittles run out?”

“You said everyone hunts where you’re from.”

“Not literally everyone. I don’t hunt.”

“You can shoot.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how to track animals. And even if I killed a deer, I wouldn’t know how to dress it.”

Aegon blinks at you. “To what?”

“To remove the skin and organs and everything.”

“Oh. Okay. That makes more sense.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Aemond repeats. Rio is nodding in agreement. Baela’s lips are pressed into a thin, thoughtful, rigid line. Daeron and Helaena have returned to the road to see how the discussion unfolds.

“There are about thirty zombies out there,” you say. “I can take fifteen. I just need you guys to do the rest.”

“Everyone here is my responsibility.” Aemond is severe, but he isn’t angry.

“Then you’re responsible for their humanity as well.”

“I can’t justify risking our lives for this.”

“I’ve killed people, living people, and I didn’t like how that felt. Make no mistake, this is killing too, just by omission instead of with bullets. We’ll all have to carry that weight. The man in that farmhouse hasn’t threatened us. He’s helpless, and he’s trapped, and if we don’t save him, who else is going to do it? What if it was you in there? What if it was me?”

Aemond, frowning, contemplates the house that has become a prison. Rio looks at you, one eyebrow raised. You gaze stoically back. He sighs. “Okay, what the hell, let’s rock,” Rio says.

Baela holds up her Ruger in one hand, slips her hammer out of a belt loop of her shorts with the other. “I’m on board.”

“You shouldn’t be on anything except bedrest,” Aemond tells her.

“I can take fifteen of the zombies myself,” you say again. “I have two M9s, thirty bullets total. I won’t need more than that.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron says.

“Shut up,” Aegon replies, though his tone is gentle. “You can’t even donate blood.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron insists, clutching his compound bow. “At least ten.”

Aegon swings his golf club around. “I can take…like…probably approximately three.”

Rio grabs his face and squeezes his sunburned cheeks as Aegon giggles and slaps at him. “You won’t get the opportunity, Honey Bun. Stay in the kitchen and bake apple pies until Daddy comes home from work.”

“You really think this is the right thing to do?” Aemond asks you. It’s not a challenge, only a question. He’s at war with himself, you can tell. He’s trying very hard to treat you like someone he’s not terrified to lose.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

He pulls his Glock out of its holster. “The gunfire will attract more of them.”

“Then we’ll have to move quickly.”

Aemond turns to Baela, still wilted on the pavement. “You, Rhaena, and Helaena will follow behind us with Luke and finish off any zombies we missed.”

Baela gives him a weak, acquiescent thumbs up, breathing heavily. “Got it.”

“Helaena, you still have your Ruger, right?”

“I won’t need it,” she murmurs, wildflowers tucked into her long blonde hair, watching a ladybug skitter across her knuckles. Aemond is exasperated.

“I’ll make sure she’s okay,” Luke promises. He’s using his binoculars to scout for any threats on the horizon, additional zombies or approaching strangers. Evidently, there are none.

“The grass,” Helaena says. “It makes it hard to see the snakes. Watch your step.”

Aemond replies distractedly: “I think we have bigger worries at the moment, babe.” As Rio pumps his Remington and Luke fumbles nervously with his Marlin .22 to make sure it’s fully loaded, Aemond walks a few yards away from the others and gestures for you to follow him. Aemond’s voice is low, the blue of his eye river-clear and blade-sharp. “I want you to stay near Rio.”

You give him a small, teasing smile. “So you won’t worry about me?”

“So I’ll worry slightly less.” He brushes a piece of buffalograss from your hair, his fingers lingering there longer than they need to. “Rio’s the biggest, he’s the best fighter. And if one of those things catches you by surprise, he’ll be able to crack its skull no problem. So keep close.”

“I’ll try, but sometimes it’s more complicated than that.”

“Please work with me. I’m giving you what you want.”

To be useful, to be merciful. “Thank you, Aemond.”

“Thank me by not letting anything bite you. Not today, not ever.”

“Well, except you of course.”

He laughs, the tension in his face breaking; he skates his thumbprint over your cheek and kisses your forehead, swift like a reflex, unthinking, instinctive.

“Good to go?” Rio asks with a grin, holding his Remington with both hands.

Aegon’s golf club is resting across his shoulders, and you have a sudden vision of Jace doing the same thing with a baseball bat, a vengeful ghost peering out from beneath his curls with cunning dark eyes and a smirk. “Yeah, Chipotle, you’re leading the charge here.”

“No she’s not,” Aemond says, striding to the edge of the road. Across the field is the farmhouse, the white bedsheet S.O.S. still whipping in the wind. “I’m in front. Everyone else is behind me.”

“Oh yeah? Then who’s gonna watch your blind side, huh?” Aegon jogs over and whacks Aemond’s left shoulder with an open palm, beaming up at him. “Don’t worry. You’ll still get to be the hero. I was born talentless.”

“You have talents, Aegon,” you say. “You can sing.”

“Not relevant in a zombie-riddled apocalyptic hellscape, Cow Chip.” He and Aemond start across the field, then you and Rio, then Daeron, darting around in your peripheral vision, nocking sharpened sticks like arrows. Luke, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena trail at a distance.

You have closed half of the gap between the road and the farmhouse—and Daeron has already felled several zombies—before the beasts begin to turn around and notice you. They do not understand danger; they only understand hunger, and they lurch towards you with teeth gnashing and claws outstretched, strips of decaying flesh hanging like sleeves from their arms. You hate the way they move, like they’re trying to imitate life, like they are receiving some sinister transmission that reverberates inside them, like they are soulless vessels to be used in the darkest ways.

You stop, plant your feet in the earth, and raise one of your Beretta M9s. Your eyes find the sights; your finger settles on the trigger. You are rusty at first: a miss, a bullet in a rotting shoulder instead of a skull. Then you click into a rhythm and the zombies drop as they stumble towards you, infected dark blood spewing, brains pouring out onto the soil. When your clip is empty, you shove the first M9 back into its holster and pull out the other.

Daeron is putting his makeshift arrows through eye sockets, Aemond is firing his Glock, Rio is erasing entire heads with the grotesque power of his Remington. Aegon is swinging his golf club around wildly. His Marlin .22 hangs from its strap across his back, but he’s hopeless with it; his aim quite literally could not be worse. You hear other gunshots too, maybe Luke. A stranger appears from the front door of the farmhouse: red flannel shirt, roomy jeans, tan work boots, long messy russet hair pulled back in a man bun, almost as big as Rio. He is carrying an axe and begins helping to cut down the remaining zombies. Rio realizes you’re no longer with him and turns around to find you.

“I’m good!” you shout, waving him forward. “Go, go!” Rio nods and takes off again towards the farmhouse, blasting his Remington 12 gauge like a cannon.

Your ankle snags on something, a gnarled root, an old piece of farm machinery. You fall hard, hitting the ground and knocking the air out of your lungs. Your M9 is flung from your grasp. You roll onto your back and sit up to see what you’re caught on. It’s the grasping hand of a zombie, an old man, long white hair and dead milky eyes, only a torso, nothing below the ribcage except a tangle of dirt-coated intestines. It is scrambling towards your legs, jaws rattling, teeth covered in the blood of the other people it has eaten.

You shriek and try to kick it away. You reach for the empty M9, rip it out of its holster, and hold it by the barrel so you can use the grip, the heaviest part of a pistol, to bash the zombie’s skull in. But you aren’t Rio; when you strike the zombie’s head, it keeps hissing and scrabbling towards your flesh that sings to it like a siren, irresistible, divine.

I can’t let it bite me, I can’t let it bite me—

There is a boom and the zombie drops face-down to the earth. You are saved; you are free. You turn to see Rhaena standing beside you, clutching her tiny Ruger in trembling hands…but her eyes are closed. Slowly, petrified, they come open, one after the other.

You gape up at her. “Did you aim?!”

Rhaena shrugs guiltily. “I don’t remember how.”

“Jesus Christ. Well thanks, I guess. Glad you missed my pelvis.”

She laughs shakily. “Yeah. Me too.” Rhaena holsters her Ruger and helps you to your feet. By now, everyone else has realized you’re in trouble and are sprinting over, including the new guy.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say, holding up your arms and skimming your palms down your bare legs to show them you haven’t been bitten. “No need to despair. Rhaena rescued me.”

Aemond gets to you first. “Can I see?” he asks breathlessly. You give him your hands and with his fingertips, he reads you like Braille: palms, forearms, throat, jaw, gingerly turning your face away from him and then back again. He exhales, relieved. “Good job, Rhaena,” Aemond says, and she smiles. Baela uses her hammer to smash the skull of a zombie that’s still squirming. Aegon yanks a snarling toddler to its feet—Pokémon t-shirt, left leg missing, wearing one of those child leashes—and swings his golf club so hard its whole head pops off and rolls away into the buffalograss with sick wet thumps.

“I thought you couldn’t kill the kids,” you say.

Aegon spits on the corpse’s collapsed, headless body. “It’s different now. These monsters ate Jace. Fuck ‘em all.”

“I can’t thank y’all enough,” the axe-wielding stranger says. “I was sure I was going to die in there like a rat in a trap. There’s a hog farm on the property behind mine, and I think the…you know…all the meat attracts zombies. A pack of them saw me in the yard and followed me to the house, and when they’re in a group like that, they seem…well, I just couldn’t get rid of them. Alone they wander wherever, but a hoard has structure, it has a mission, and they were waiting me out. I didn’t have my guns, I didn’t have my truck…”

“What happened to them?” Rio asks.

“I got robbed, that’s what happened.”

“No!” Baela says. “Really?”

“A week ago, five men I’d never seen before broke in while I was sleeping. They must have drugged my dog, who knows with what—she slept for twenty hours, have you ever heard of something like that?—and locked me in my bedroom. By the time I kicked the door down they were gone, and so were quite a few of my earthly possessions. It was nice of them not to murder us, I guess. I have a couple boxes of ammo left, but that’s all. Mostly 9mm.”

“That’s exactly what I need,” you say.

The stranger gives you a curious, appraising glance. “I’m very glad to be able to assist you, ma’am.” Then he finally gets a good look at Aemond, who is glaring at him. “Lord almighty, what the hell happened to your face?”

“A piece of sheet metal fell on me.”

“He stitched it up himself,” Luke says. “I watched. It was wild.”

The man is impressed. “You’re a doctor?”

“No, no, no,” Aemond amends. “Just an intern.”

“He’s basically a doctor,” Baela says.

“Well, you’ll be useful to have around, I expect.” The stranger offers his hand and Aemond, somewhat unenthusiastically, shakes it. “I’m Cregan Stark.”

“Aemond Targaryen.”

“Targaryen?! That’s a heck of a name, sir.”

“It’s Greek,” Aegon says.

“Where are y’all headed? Not all the way back to Greece, I hope. That’d be a hike. And a swim too, I guess.”

Aemond smiles tightly, polite but guarded. “Not that far away. We’re on our way to the West Coast, California and Oregon.”

“And you’re on foot?! You need horses.”

“We haven’t come across any that are still alive.”

“Do you want to travel with us, Cregan?” Luke asks amiably.

“I reckon I would, for now at least. I got nowhere else to be and no one to care for.” Cregan looks to Aemond. “That alright with you, doc?”

“Sure,” Aemond replies ungenerously.

“My folks got a trailer over towards Cantril, and a truck parked out back too if nobody’s stolen it yet. We can stay the night there if you want and then drive west in the morning.”

“Cantril! That’s on our route!” Aegon exclaims, he of the map and the gel pens.

Aemond narrows his eye at Cregan, suspicious. “If your parents are so close, why aren’t you staying with them? Why didn’t they swing by to check on you and see you were in trouble here?”

“Well, ‘cause they’re dead,” Cregan says, and Aemond is abruptly remorseful. “When all this started, I went over to get them and they were out in the front yard, just bones. All the flesh was chewed right off. But I found their wedding rings in the grass, and Mama’s pearl necklace that her Grammie gave her when she got married, Mama never took it off as long as she lived. It looked like a string of rubies.”

Aemond swallows noisily. “I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothing I can do about it now,” Cregan says, staring out over the field and biting his lips so they don’t quiver.

“Did your parents have guns?” Rio asks hopefully.

Cregan chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that’d be swell, wouldn’t it? Daddy got all his guns taken away when I was in high school.”

“Taken away…?” Baela echoes.

“Yeah,” Cregan says casually. “After the methamphetamine conviction.” He whistles, and a dog comes loping out of the front door of the farmhouse. It’s huge and mean-looking, fur the color of ashes or smoke. It goes directly to Cregan and noses his hands; you are reminded of how Aemond searched you fearfully for injuries. “She’s half-German Shepherd, half-grey wolf. Her name’s Ice.”

“Does she bite?” Aemond asks tentatively.

“My little princess?! Hell no! I wish she did, then maybe those robbers wouldn’t have gotten what they wanted. But she knows when those things are around.”

Aegon pats her angular, steel-colored head. Ice puts back her pointy ears and closes her eyes, basking in the attention. “Hey, fuzzball. I’m going to call you Blue Raspberry Icee.”

“You can call her whatever you want to as long as she’s allowed to come with us.”

“She’s welcome if she sniffs out zombies,” Aemond says.

Baela is struck by a thought. “Cregan, what kind of truck did your parents have? I hope it’s big. We’re a lot of people.” She’s resting her hands on her belly. And we’re about to add one more.

“A Chevy Tahoe,” Cregan says. You all begin chattering excitedly, then have to explain why.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Y’all like fishing?” Cregan asks. He’s cooking dinner for everyone with his dead parents’ Coleman butane camping stove, only one burner, each course prepared individually. You are all seated around him on the living room floor, sipping cans of Coke and Sprite—what Cregan calls “pop”—and eating turkey-flavored instant stuffing that came out of a cardboard box. Now Cregan is working on Hungry Jack mashed potatoes, tiny white flakes like snow that puff up in boiling water. Rhaena is staring at the pot with horror. Baela scarfs down her stuffing like she’s been starving to death. Flashlights illuminate the room in dim ocher like a setting sun, the roof vents open to let in cool night air. The trailer smells like cigarette smoke and dust and mildew. Piled haphazardly in corners are old newspapers, mounds of unfolded clothes, empty boxes and plastic bags, VHS tapes—Star Wars, 80s rock concerts, Clint Eastwood movies—and unwashed cups.

Aemond chuckles like it’s preposterous. “No.”

“Garth Brooks?”

“No.”

“NASCAR?”

“Who watches NASCAR?!” Aegon says.

You smile. “Everyone’s got a driver where I’m from.”

Cregan, vindicated, thumps a closed fist against his chest. “I was a Jeff Gordon guy. His car reminded me of a box of Froot Loops or something.”

“My brother Denver covered the inside of the garage with Dale Earnhardt Jr. stuff. I got obsessed with Juan Pablo Montoya for a while, he was cute.”

“So you chase the dark-haired fellas,” Cregan says, grinning, still stirring the potatoes. Everyone else’s wide, perplexed gazes fly between you and Cregan as they eat their Stove Top stuffing from Styrofoam bowls.

You titter nervously. “I don’t usually chase anyone.”

Aegon notices a taxidermied largemouth bass mounted on the wall, approximately fifteen pounds. “What the fuck,” he whispers, dismayed.

“WWE?” Cregan asks you.

“Oh, Rey Mysterio, no question. He was cute too.”

Cregan snorts. “He literally never took off his mask!”

“He was cute underneath it. I could tell, I have a sense for these things.”

“I’ll let you live in delusion.”

“I thought wrestling was real back then. When he’d get beat up and covered in fake blood, I’d start crying because I figured he’d die. Who was your favorite?”

“John Cena.” Cregan waves an open hand back and forth in front of his face. “You can’t see me!” You both burst out laughing. No one else gets it.

“It’s John Cena’s signature move,” you explain.

“Hm,” Aemond says, but he’s watching you and Cregan with deep grooves in his forehead and a solemnness in his lone blue eye, tapping his chin restlessly.

“Now, we might not have any butter…” Cregan picks up one of the containers scattered around him, a plastic jug of Great Value powdered coffee creamer. “But this makes for the best potatoes on the planet.” The others watch, stunned, appalled, as he adds several heaping spoonfuls to the pot.

You smile wistfully. How is it possible to be so nostalgic for a place you once believed was killing you, wringing you dry until all your blood dripped onto the floor and you were left a husk, a ghost, a myth? “My Mama always did that. She put it in mac and cheese too.”

Cregan serves you first, taking your empty stuffing bowl and returning it nearly overflowing with Hungry Jack instant potatoes. “Here’s a taste of home.”

And he’s right; you take a bite—hot enough to burn your tongue, smooth, rich, soupy in texture—and it’s just like being five or ten or fifteen again, when this was your idea of luxury, a good day, lounging on a sagging couch torn to hell by the cats and watching The Simpsons or Malcolm In The Middle with your brothers. Cregan scoops Hungry Jack into all the bowls. Baela digs in enthusiastically. The others, following your lead, take cautious tastes, shrug, and decide it’s tolerable for one night. Cregan grabs a new pot and dumps a box of Rice-A-Roni into it, along with the packet of seasoning, a bottle of water, and a single spoonful of coffee creamer for good measure. As the rice cooks, he distributes one can of barbeque-flavored Vienna sausages to each guest. Rhaena pops hers open and immediately begins retching. Aegon feeds his to Ice.

After dinner, Cregan compiles all the extra blankets and pillows he can find, then supplements with bath towels and bedsheets from the closet in the hallway. The trailer is small, only one bedroom; you all agree Baela should get it. She will share with Rhaena and Luke, as she always does now. She doesn’t like sleeping alone. Cregan offers to take first watch, a gift in return for being rescued from a slow death by deprivation. Aemond agrees, but only because Rio—with a wink and a knowing smirk—volunteers to stay up too. Rio will keep tabs on this almost-stranger; Rio is the only one big enough to knock Cregan around if such an occasion ever arose. Aemond tells them to wake him up halfway through the night so he can take over and let them rest. You say you want to do the second watch too, and this time Aemond doesn’t argue.

Helaena gets the couch and Daeron curls up on the olive green carpet beside her, Aegon claims the tattered old recliner, you arrange your pillow and blanket—thin, scratchy, a weak blue mottled with dark stains you can’t identify—against the wall on the other side of the living room. Rio is teaching Cregan how to play Uno on the small plastic folding table by the kitchen, only spacious enough for two. Ice is stretched out beneath the table with her grey muzzle resting on her paws. At the moment, Aemond is supervising; he’s still trying to decide how much he can trust Cregan.

Aegon wanders over to you then bends down, his hands on his knees. “This place is revolting,” he whispers.

“It’s alright.”

“Where did you grow up? Alcatraz?” You laugh, and Aegon gives you his pink CD player, Ava still written across the top in rhinestones. “Just in case you need to get away for a while. It’s wasted on me. I’m going to be unconscious about two seconds after my head hits the pillow.”

“I’ll take good care of it.”

“If you see any meth lying around, you let me know. I’m always in the market for new ways to shorten my life expectancy.”

“I’ll keep any such discoveries to myself. I enjoy you too much.”

Aegon recoils, lets that sink in, then beams as he saunters back to his creaking recliner.

“Hey, Chips?” Luke says, approaching you shyly. He’s holding his Marlin .22. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but my rifle was shooting way to the left today, and I don’t think my aim’s that awful.”

“No problem.” You take it and remove the remaining bullets so there’s no chance the gun will accidentally fire, then examine the sights. “Can you get me Baela’s hammer?”

“Sure.” Luke dashes off and then returns with it moments later.

“You said it was skewed to the left?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

You take the hammer and tap the rear sight a few times. Luke watches you, fascinated, troubled. When he speaks, his voice is soft and miserable.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at everything.”

“You know, this is the only possible scenario in which someone like you is worth less than me.” You give him an encouraging smile. “I didn’t go to a fancy school. I work with my hands.”

“But you’re smart, Chips. You could have gone to college if you wanted to.”

How would I have paid for application fees, or to take the SAT? How would I have gotten Mama to fill out the FAFSA? What school would have given me a scholarship with my mediocre grades in standard-level classes? Who would have driven me to school and helped me move in? How would I have bought books, shampoo, tampons, a laptop? Where would I have gone if I had trouble finding a job after graduation? What if the people there saw through me? What if they shrank away from the frayed threads I’m built of? There is no point in saying these things. The gulf between you is too great; it will only confuse Luke and hurt you. “I wouldn’t have known where to start.” You reload the Marlin .22 and pass both the gun and the hammer back to him. “I think it’ll work better now.”

“I bet you wish Jace was here instead of me,” Luke says, and it shocks you. “Everyone does, except maybe Rhaena.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jace was a good fighter, and he was smart, and brave, and capable, and I’m just this…this weak scared loser who only knows how to write screenplays. And what goddamn use is that? Hollywood doesn’t even exist anymore! Scraps of Tom Cruise are probably stuck in some zombie’s teeth right now!”

“Luke, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I shouldn’t have left Jace,” he whispers, distraught. “I betrayed him. He was always protecting me and I couldn’t even save him once.”

“We did everything we could. And we all left Jace, not just you. It was me and Rio who said it first. You haven’t earned the blame.” If Jace’s ghost comes knocking, it won’t be your door he opens, Luke.

“Okay,” Luke replies softly.

“Baela is very, very grateful to still have you and Rhaena, Luke. She told me.”

Luke stares at you, doubtful, hopeful, wanting to believe. “Really?”

“I swear she did. I think you two are keeping her sane. The world, the baby, Jace…sometimes what’s most valuable to people are simple things, kindness, gentleness, compassion, support. I can kill zombies, sure, but I’ve never been good at knowing the right thing to say. You are.”

“Okay,” Luke says again, but he seems more at peace now; perhaps even the tiniest bit proud. “I guess I should go make sure Baela has everything she needs before I go to sleep.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

Luke walks a few steps, then turns back towards you, smiling. “I think you know the right thing to say once in a while.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Luke insists, then disappears down the shadowy hallway and into the bedroom.

Aemond arrives at last with his blanket and pillow, arranges them beside yours, then joins you where you sit cross-legged on the floor. “You didn’t stay with Rio today when we rescued Cregan,” he says; not an accusation, a statement, a surrender of sorts.

“No. I didn’t.”

You must be visibly preoccupied. Aemond asks: “What are you thinking about?”

You decide to tell the truth. “How you were never supposed to meet me.”

“What do you mean?”

You point to him. “Rich boy with a beach house on a cliff.” Then you tap your own heart. “Poor girl who grew up playing with sticks and box turtles.”

“And that’s why you like Cregan so much.”

“It’s nice to have someone around who speaks the same language, sure. It’s nice to not have to explain things or think up lies so I can fit into other people’s idea of what the world is. But I don’t like Cregan more than I like you. Not even close.”

Aemond smiles, a warm glow like fire from under his scarred skin. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even if it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I’m sorry I’m not…” Someone sophisticated, seductive, experienced, bewitching. “I’m sorry I don’t already know how to do everything.”

“I don’t care. I would have liked you however you were when I found you.”

You look up at him skeptically. “Really?”

“Yes. Zero boyfriends or ten or twenty, I would want you the same way I do now.”

It hits you so suddenly you can’t stop the tremor in your voice, the shimmering tears in your eyes. “Aemond, please don’t die.”

“I’ll do my best.” He lifts the CD player from your lap and offers you an earbud. You accept it and slip it into your right ear as he puts the other into his left, then clicks the play button on Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman. What you hear are the opening ukelele plucks of Riptide, and you are spirited back to 2013: middle school, oversized hoodies and ripped jeans, hair you have no idea what to do with, the librarian letting you browse music videos on YouTube during lunch because you never cause any trouble, taking bites of your sandwich—one piece of Wonder Bread folded in half, a glob of Skippy peanut butter—and chewing slowly to make it last longer.

Aemond lies down and you rest your head on his chest as he covers you both with his blanket, circles his arms around you and pulls you in closer; and through the music you hear him mutter: “I wish this disgusting Hoarders trailer had two bedrooms.”

You laugh, burrow deeper into him, let his warmth and the drumming of his heartbeat lull you into darkness, still and serene, a place that exists beyond the world and the fear that it is ending.

When you open your eyes again, Aemond is up and speaking in hushed voices with Cregan and Rio in the kitchen, but he hasn’t tried to rouse you yet. I shouldn’t be awake, why am I awake?

Because someone is shining a flashlight directly into your face. You blink and swat at the blinding yellow-white gleam, your eyes aching, your vision hazy and distorted.

“He must check below the racks,” Helaena says. She is on her hands and knees and peering down at you like a bird of prey, like a goddess on Mount Olympus.

“What…?”

“He’s tall, so he won’t look, but that’s where it is. Below the racks. He must see it. Promise me you’ll make him see it.”

“Who’s tall…?” Aemond, Rio, Cregan?

“Promise me!” she hisses fiercely.

“Okay, Helaena! Okay. I promise.”

She crawls away without another word, climbs onto the couch, clicks off the flashlight, and tumbles back into the abyss of sleep with her back to you.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Chevy Tahoe—2001 instead of 2023, a dull rusty red instead of glossy dark blue—barrels down Route 2 past fields of soybeans ravaged by deer and rabbits, high feral weeds, tree branches entombing power lines and houses and barns, leaves freckled with cicadas and caterpillars, hay bales and archaic churches, life in shades of peridot and malachite and bloodstone and jade. Baela is driving, Ice has her big shaggy head hanging out of an open window, Cregan is examining Aegon’s map…and meanwhile, Aegon and Rio are singing along to the Enrique Iglesias song blasting through the speakers as one of the mixtapes spins in the Tahoe’s CD player, pretending to serenade and propose marriage to each other.

“Bailamos, let the rhythm take you over, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, bailamos

Gonna live this night forever, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, te quiero!”

Up ahead there is something in the middle of the road. No, not something; someone, parked across the double yellow lines on a small black motorcycle. As you approach, this person—made blurry by the distance—removes their helmet and seems to wait for you.

“What’s up with that?” Baela asks apprehensively, slowing down from her previously brisk eighty miles per hour.

Aemond frowns at the figure and then scans the fields on either side of the road. “I don’t know. Luke?”

Luke stands up through the sunroof to get a better look with his binoculars. “Oh my God, it’s…it’s…”

“Jace!” Baela screams, and slams on the brakes. She bolts out of the Tahoe before remembering to put it in park; the SUV rolls along sluggishly until Rhaena yanks the gear lever into the proper position. Now everyone is pouring out of the doors and rushing to him. Jace is laughing; he embraces Baela as she crashes into him and sobs into the curve of his neck. Jace is wearing jeans and a leather jacket despite the heat, safety precautions for the motorcycle. If he were to fall off, he’d keep most of his skin.

“I was hoping I’d run into you guys. I didn’t know if I was too far ahead or falling behind.”

Aegon gawks at him, sputtering. “How did…? How are you…?”

“You showed me your map, idiot,” Jace says; but he sounds relieved. “Route 2 all the way across Iowa, that part was pretty easy to remember. I figured if I could get here, I might be able to find you. If not, I’d just surprise you in California.” He grins, huge and teasing, ecstatic tears glittering in his eyes.

“The river,” Luke says, thunderstruck. “We thought you were dead…we left you…Jace, I’m…I’m so sorry we left you…”

“Hey, I get it. The bridge situation was fucked, there was no way you guys could fish me out. The river washed me miles downstream, way too fast for the zombies to keep up. I eventually got dumped on the shore near where some people had set up camp for the night. They were living out of a school bus, about fifteen of them. They heard me coughing and moaning, hunted me down, and dragged me back to the bus. Super nice, right? I told them about the zombies, and we relocated in a hurry. They were headed for a town up near Chicago, Rockville or something, so they took me with them and then one guy gave me his bike and taught me to ride it so I could go west. It’s a Honda Rebel 300. It can get 70 miles to the gallon. I’ve barely had to siphon any gas! And the siphoning hose my new friends gave me is the kind with a pump. No more Uno roulette, bitches!”

“I can’t believe you’re okay,” Baela whispers, tears flooding down her face.

“Don’t cry, I’m here, I’m back, everything’s the way it should be again. Now how’s my baby doing…?”

You, Aemond, and Rio exchange astonished glances. Luke snaps out of his shock and runs to hug Jace and Baela, and Rhaena follows him. Daeron searches the horizon for movement, for danger. Helaena rips the pristine white petals off a bloodroot blossom one by one.

For the first time, Jace notices Cregan. Ice stands beside the flannel-wearing Iowan on the pavement, wagging her long grey tail. She barks at Jace uncertainly. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Oh yeah, that’s Cregan Man Bun Stark,” Aegon says. “And his anti-zombie wolf Blue Raspberry Icee.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fic #hotd fanfic

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atlabeth · 3 months

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can i request a bridgerton au fic with nikolai? (i was reading not so simple earlier and was thinking about nikolai and now i can’t get the idea out of my head lol) maybe the reader isn’t the diamond of the season, so she has no idea why nikolai (A PRINCE!!) wants to court her

sweet relief

pairing: nikolai lantsov x fem!reader (bridgerton au!!!)

summary: you meet a striking stranger at your first ball, only to discover he is not a stranger at all.

a/n: thank you so much for requesting this man it was so much fun to write i got carried away!!! i hate nikolai and his charming self so much

wc: 3k

warning(s): none that i can think of ??

Nikolai is bored.

In truth, he does not fully know why he is here. Vasily has already been declared as the catch of the season, and the heir to the throne is much more valuable than the second son. But he is back in London after years spent traveling—not in search of a wife, he might add, to the chagrin of his mother—and he supposes that is cause for some interest.

In the most basic sense of the word, Nikolai is also a prince, though he hardly has claim to the title. Not with the rumors of his true parentage floating about.

If he was lucky, he figured he’d find some fun around Mayfair. If he was unlucky, he will be forced to deal with swarms of eager debutantes and even more eager mamas.

And at this ball, Nikolai has realized that he is unlucky.

He’s already had to fight off a horde of eligible ladies and their mothers, and explain ten times over that he is not here to participate in the season, he is just here to visit family. He doesn’t think they’ve heard a single word he’s said. They only see the lack of a ring on his finger.

It is why he has found himself in some corner of the ball, a glass of champagne—that he wished was brandy—held loosely in his hand as he tuned out the idle musings of the men he’d somehow ended up around. His eyes dart around the ballroom, looking for anything even remotely interesting to get him through this night.

He catches a glimpse of a pair walking through the doors, a mother and a daughter that he recognizes as a debutante from earlier in the day, but before he is granted the chance for further inquisition, his thoughts are interrupted.

“Your Highness,” someone says, and his attention is drawn from his glass to not just one, but three pairs of mothers and mares, surely trying to vye for his hand. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“I was unaware of my popularity,” Nikolai says wryly, looking at each of the women in turn. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The pleasure is all ours,” another mother says brightly, and he sees her nudge her daughter. “If I may introduce my daughter, Miss Eleanor Woodbridge?”

Nikolai bows his head in greeting, and she curtsies. When Miss Woodbridge speaks, her head is still bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”

“So I’ve already heard,” he remarks.

Her cheeks flush bright red as she stands back up, and the next mother begins to introduce her daughter, and then the next—a Miss Evelyn Frances and a Miss Anna Huntsbury.

Nikolai ends up in a dance with Miss Huntsbury at the nudging of her mother, and though it is perfectly pleasant, he can’t fully enjoy it with all of the eyes on him.

It is not as if he doesn’t enjoy attention. He is perfectly fine with being the center of attention, with being adored by women, with dancing and balls and all sorts of revelry.

But this— especially after his travels to other countries, away from good society and the expectations of nobles— is so unbelievably predictable. All of these mothers attempting to find their daughter a husband, only interested in Nikolai because of a title he likely won’t earn. He doubts a single one cares of the man behind the Lantsov brand.

But a second prince is better than no prince at all, and thus the moment he is off the dance floor, he is once again swarmed by women.

He allows an inward sigh as he plasters on a smile.

It is going to be a very long night.

You are inexplicably nervous.

You’ve just debuted and you are already in attendance of a ball. God, why must they hold the season’s first ball the night of all the debuts? You haven’t even had the afternoon to soak everything in—to truly absorb the fact that you must search for a husband—as your mother and lady’s maid spent every moment ensuring you were the image of perfection for tonight.

In your mother’s opinion, they succeeded. But you already feel as if you are suffocating in your gown.

You are not the diamond, but in truth, you are thankful for it. There is already a huge weight on your shoulders to make a match—you could not imagine having the queen’s eye on you the entire time. You wished luck to Miss Jasmine, both that she could avoid horrendous suitors and the queen’s ire.

Your mother says your name softly as you cross the threshold into the ballroom, immediately overtaken by the dancing and the musicians and glittering jewels. “Are you alright?”

You shake your head rapidly. “No, Mother, I do not think I am alright. I am at my first ball of the season and I believe I may pass out.”

She breathes a loose laugh as she shakes her head as well. “You’ve nothing to be nervous about. You will shine just as you always have, my love. I’ve no doubt that a suitor will see that.”

“That is what I am afraid of,” you huff. “I’ve equal fear both of finding a husband and not finding one. How is one meant to dread both of their options?”

“You’ve nothing to be nervous about, and nothing to be afraid of,” she repeats, “and certainly nothing to dread. I’m sure by the end of the night, you will have suitors lining up for a chance at your affections.”

You truly doubt that, but you do not voice anymore of your concerns. Your mother has already done you a favor working through so many of them with you—the least you can do is smile prettily and dance a time or two.

And you do. More than you imagined—your mother sends you away to fetch glasses of lemonade after a few minutes of idle chatter, and after you’ve poured the first glass you are approached by your first suitor.

Lord Kenneth Barham, son of the Earl Pritchard. You’ve no idea what a man of title is doing around you, but he is agreeable and kind throughout your first dance. Had you the ability, you would have stayed by his side for the rest of the night only so you could avoid the rest of your expected debutante duties.

But you do not, and so after a respectful if not slightly boring conversation between the two of you and your mother, he parts ways with the promise to call on you. You are not granted reprieve, to your mother’s delight, and it is not until a near full hour of dancing that you are able to get away.

You slip away while your mother is busy discussing things with the Baron Ashford and his son, and you have never been so thankful for the outdoors when the cool air hits your skin.

You let out a long, deep breath as you attempt to calm yourself. Things are going well, much better than you expected—you are already expecting five gentlemen to call on you by the morrow, three of which are titled.

But you are not even halfway through the ball, and you are already exhausted. Your feet ache and you’ve grown weary of the weight of jewelry on your head and wrists and neck. You’ve truly no idea how you are meant to make it through the entirety of the season, if it is like this.

“I apologize, my lady. I was unaware there was another out here.”

You turn around and hold back a sigh. Even in your attempts to be alone, men still find you.

“I do not have a claim to these gardens,” you say wryly. “You are free to roam.”

He chuckles as he nods, and he takes another few steps towards you. “I wish not to roam—just to take after you and wrestle out a moment for myself in this schedule.”

“Then you have picked a wonderful spot,” you say with a nod. “I will give you time to enjoy it on your own.”

You start on your way, but he steps in your way. “There is no need, my lady. I already rather enjoy your company.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You have been in it for but a moment.”

“And what a lovely moment it has been,” he says.

Normally, irritation would have won over by now. You should not be out here with a man unchaperoned, and you truly just want to be alone for a moment—you’ve a myriad of reasons to stick to your bearings and leave.

But you have to admit, he is agreeable. His blonde hair is artfully styled, he’s dressed rather finely, and his hazel eyes seem to twinkle as he looks at you with a smile.

“...Alright,” you say, and you decide to stay in place for now. “Have you a name, good sir?”

“You can call me Lord Sturmhond,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “I apologize, my lord. I’ve not yet heard of you.”

“That just means I am all the more able to make a good impression,” he says, his smile only growing. “Which is rather imperative with a lady such as yourself.”

You feel your cheeks grow warm, and you bite back a smile of your own. “You are quite the charmer. It could be quite scandalous for us to be found alone.”

“You needn’t worry,” Lord Sturmhond says. “I doubt anyone will leave the ballroom. They are all too focused on the visiting princes.”

Your eyes widen. “There are princes here?”

“The Lantsovs,” he nods, and this time his eyebrows rise. “Had you not heard?”

“...My mother may have told me, but it would not come as a shock if I neglected to listen,” you say sheepishly. You let out a deep sigh as you wring your gloved hands together. “I should be all the more thankful to be out here with you, then. The only thing to come of my meeting a prince would be disaster.”

“Oh, I surely doubt it,” Lord Sturmhond says. “I enjoy your presence, and I enjoy your conversation. I believe the princes would feel the same.”

“You flatter me, my lord, but I am in doubt.” Your gaze drifts off to the sky as you take a moment to appreciate the stars. “Truthfully, I am out here because I am overwhelmed. I’ve spent the hour dancing and in conversation with various men, and already I have had to venture out here for reprieve.”

“All of this takes practice,” he says. “It is an unreasonable expectation for debutantes to be thrust into the season and perform perfectly. None of this is a light matter, and yet it is treated as one.”

You sigh. “I just cannot imagine doing this for so many more months. It is going to be a very long season.”

Lord Sturmhond chuckles. “I have thought the exact same thing tonight, my lady.”

You find yourself smiling, freer and more genuine than anything you’d mustered earlier in the night. The other men you’d met were fortunately kind, but you just felt… different out here, with him.

There were no eyes on you, meaning you did not need to act the pinnacle of propriety. That must have been the difference—not the man himself.

In the distance, you can hear the changing melody of the strings, signaling the start of a new dance. Your eyes fall to your dance card, and as you read the last few names, you remember you still owe three more dances. You bite back a very unladylike curse.

“I apologize, my lord,” you say, hurrying through a curtsy as you begin to back your way towards the ball. “I really must be going. My mother will have my head should I stay out here any longer.”

“I understand.” Lord Sturmhond catches up to you in a few quick strides and he takes your hand, stopping you in your tracks. Your breath catches as he presses a kiss to the back of your hand, and your heart hammers in your chest even with the barrier of your glove.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” His hazel eyes are nothing less than enchanting as they focus entirely on you, and had you any less sense, you could easily find yourself talking away the hours of the night with him. “Have confidence. I am sure this night will go your way should you wish it.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you as well, my lord,” you say. “I hope it is not too forward of me to wish on our meeting again.”

“Do not worry,” he says. “We will.”

You open your mouth to ask him how he can be so sure, but the strings grow louder and you huff a sigh. In lieu of another goodbye, you nod and grin at the lord before you rush back indoors.

Your mother doesn’t berate you when you appear by her side again, so you were not gone for too long. You get through your next three dances, and your last suitor is just leaving when your mother jabs you in the side.

“Darling, the queen is coming our way,” she whispers. “And she has the Lantsov princes with her.”

You nearly collapse just at that combination of words, but you hold fast—quite literally, as your hold tightens on your mother’s arm. You are thankful to the Lord Sturmhond for alerting you to the presence of princes tonight, for your shock would be exponential without it.

“Why are they coming our way?” you ask.

“They have been making the rounds together,” she says. “Straighten your back.”

You do, and then you nearly collapse yet again when your eyes meet those of one prince.

Those gorgeous hazel eyes stare back at yours—you know yours are as wide as dinner plates, despite your attempts to hold back—and he gives you that same damned smile, bowing his head ever so slightly as if to acknowledge your meeting.

You met the prince.

You told the prince of all your worries.

You were kissed on the hand by the prince.

You only hear your mother saying your name when she nudges your shoulder, snapping you out of your reverie. You blink and look at her, then to the queen.

“Your Majesty,” you rush out, ducking into your best bow, “Your Highnesses. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

The queen greets you and your mother with your surname, and though all your attention is on her, you can still feel the prince looking at you.

“Have you met my sons, Vasily and Nikolai?” she asks.

Vasily bows politely, respectful but reserved. “A pleasure, my lady.”

You curtsy in return, and your Lord Sturmhond steps forward. You are thankful, at least, to put a name to the lying face.

“It is a pleasure to meet such a beauty,” Nikolai says. He takes your hand and bows down to press a kiss to it, and your skin burns from his touch just as it did out in the gardens. He does not let go when he straightens, instead looking to your mother. “I do not wish to end our meeting prematurely, but I would love to have this dance.”

“Of course!” your mother exclaims. “It would be her honor, Your Highness.”

Nikolai nods and smiles, looking back to you for your permission. You nod as well through your haze, and he leads you out to the dance floor. It takes a moment for you to fully come back into yourself, and it only occurs once he has laid his hands in the correct position. His feather light touch is like lightning.

“I did tell you we would meet again,” Prince Nikolai says, that sure smile on his lips yet again. Had it not been for your years of dance lessons, your weakened knees would not be enough to carry you through this waltz. “Did I not?”

“...You did,” you say. “But you did not tell me you were a prince.”

“I find it invites unnecessary pressure,” he says. “Did you not enjoy our time together?”

“...I did,” you say again, unsure of your words.

“And I am proven right in your manner,” the prince says. “You spoke so easily in the gardens, and now you seem to be putting thought into each syllable.”

“You— you are a prince,” you repeat, your still-lingering shock making you speak plainer than you intend. “Of course I am putting thought into my words.”

“You needn’t worry around me,” Nikolai says. “I am just another man in London.”

“You are a prince.”

“As we have established,” he nods, and when you let out a light huff he grins. “You have a lovely smile.”

“As do you,” you say, and you shake your head. “I cannot believe you allowed me to make a fool of myself out there.”

Nikolai frowns. “However did you make yourself a fool?”

“You allowed me to ramble!” you exclaim. “I told you of my worries, of being overwhelmed, of all my thoughts—”

“And what is the problem with that?” he asks.

“It is unseemly to complain to a prince,” you insist.

“We see our meeting quite differently, then,” he says. “For I left it with a most favorable image of you, and a wish to see you again.” He cocks his head. “Did you not leave with the same?”

“...I did,” you say after a moment.

Your conversation stalls for a moment as you part from each other, following the steps of the dance, before joining back again. His hand is sure in yours, startling but welcome warmth.

“Then I do not see the issue,” the prince says.

“You have made this night all the longer,” you intone. “Your attention makes me something of a target among the ladies of the ton.”

“Do not worry,” he says, that irritatingly pretty smile aimed at you yet again. “I believe we can get through it together.”

“Together?” you ask.

“You wished to meet again,” Nikolai says. “I plan to grant that wish several times over.”

“...I would like that,” you admit, feeling your cheeks heat under his gaze.

“And just to think,” he says, amused, “you said your meeting with a prince would be a disaster.”

#nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov x y/n #nikolai lantsov fic #nikolai lantsov fluff #bridgerton au #grishaverse x reader #shadow and bone x reader #sadie’s 3k celebration #sadie writes

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