#Bloom the thesis | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

meowdei · 3 months ago

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like a lotus in spring, you are mine to bloom — ft. alhaitham

synopsis: at twenty one, you’re just a girl he meets as he trains for the role of scribe. at twenty four, you’ve become everything he loves in this world. after three years of knowing you and nearly two and a half decades of life, alhaitham finally realizes why his father left letters for his mother instead of just saying the words outloud

word count. ❤︎ 7.7k words — we find ourselves here in the same old situation again, i see LOL pls give it a chance though!! plssss

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; 18+ content — not suitable for minors ; not proof read ; strangers to friends to lovers ; mutual pining but not at the same time for a bit (he falls first <3) ; jealous alhaitham ; hinted drunk sex ; getting together + love confessions ; alhaitham character story spoilers + references to his grandmother and parents ; semi-clothed unprotected sex ; no prep ; some nipple play ; creampie ; the cringiest love letter at the end LOL

commentary. ❤︎ guys every time i write alhaitham it’s so corny and cheesy but . he is my fav genshin guy of all time i deserve to be allowed this okay

TWENTY ONE.

You’re still a student when you first meet Alhaitham. (Not a student for much longer, but a student all the same. With a little luck on your side and good graces from your darshan’s sage on your thesis, you’re expected to graduate in just a few short months.)

You don’t have the best first meet. In fact, your impression of Alhaitham starts off entirely on the wrong foot.

He’s newly graduated, just freshly rewarded a degree for his (impressive) efforts, and is now well on his way to training for the role of scribe—you heard he was offered far more prestigious roles, but for some reason, a genius like him settled for a role like that. You try not to judge. People have their passions, after all, and if that’s what he wants to do, well…who are you to make comments? (But amongst a school that only houses the brilliant, Alhaitham is, very undoubtedly, a standout. It’s hard to stand out in a school filled with only the best minds, but he manages to do so with ease. Sometimes, you’re almost jealous. You can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t aim a little higher than he does.)

He trains in the house of Daena. His first order of training is to fact-check ordinance drafts using books so he can better get the hang of drafting them himself in the future. You’re also in the House of Daena to find the last book for your thesis—after weeks of begging, you’re finally granted access to the restricted section to find it.

And you do. Except your palm meets warm skin instead of the cold leather cover of a book. You pause, glancing up as sharp, teal eyes meet your gaze, staring at you expectantly as if you should be the one letting go. But you need this book. It’s the final research element to finish your thesis, and you’d like to be done with it. End of story. No matter how devastatingly handsome the man (because he is handsome, you’ll admit at least that much), you will not be handing over the last, final key to your academic freedom.

“Um, excuse me,” you say politely, “I was kind of reaching for that.”

“As was I,” he says, staring at you with a bored, almost uncaring expression. Your eyes narrow. “Now, if you’d please kindly take your hand off of mine.”

“I believe it should be you taking your hand off of mine,” you correct, huffing as you add stubbornly, “I reached for it first.”

He blinks at you, bland and a little irritated, as he points out, “Your hand is on top of mine, which means I reached the book first.”

Well.

Maybe if you were feeling particularly patient, you’d be inclined to admit that, yes, he does have a point. But stubbornness, combined with pure exhaustion, has you at your wit's end, and if you have to play the role of a difficult student, then so be it. You’re pretty sure you need it more, and you’re probably a much speedier reader anyway. You’ll have it done and returned in no time.

This guy, on the other hand…he doesn’t look too bright. You’re not willing to take your chances and let him walk off with a book that you might never see again.

“I started reaching for it first,” you scowl, “you just sped up your hand once you saw me. I should get it.”

“Unlikely,” he scoffs, “I didn’t even see you. Although,” he gives you a once over with his eyes, making you feel uncomfortably seen under his judging gaze, “I suppose you were a bit easy to miss.”

You gape at him. “Just what does that mean?”

“It means,” he smirks, taking the opportunity to grab the book as you stand in shock, “that I got here first.”

“Hey!” You glare at him, seeing red for a moment. What a perfectly good waste of a perfectly handsome face—and such an awful attitude coupled with his ridiculously smug grin couldn’t make for a worse combination. But, before you can even say anything, the book is being pressed back into your hands.

“You seem like you want it more than I do, though,” he hums, “I suppose I can let you have it. It’s a bit outdated for this ordinance, anyway.” With that, he saunters off. You push down the soft flutter in your heart for a moment and force yourself to hope you’ll never see him again. (Faintly, you hope your wishes don’t come true—but you refuse to admit it to yourself.)

Unfortunately (and fortunately at the same time) for you, you do see him again. Many, many times, in fact. When he works in the House of Daena as often as he does, and you like to spend all your free time there to study if you can, you’re both bound to run into each other often. Very often.

And sometimes, it’s quite literally running into him.

“Oof,” you hiss, staggering backward and hitting your head against the bookshelf behind you as you bump into a sturdy figure. You drop the books in your hand, blinking before reaching to rub your read as you start to apologize. “Sorry, I didn’t see you—oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” he says, looking mildly entertained. Alhaitham is everywhere. Everywhere. You can’t escape him if you try, and now, you can’t even avoid him in your own personal space. “Although, I think I should be the one apologizing this time. I was too busy reading to pay attention. This section is usually empty at this time.”

“How often are you in here to know what section is empty at what time?” You raise a brow.

“Too often to be considered good for my well-being,” he says dryly, sighing in misery. You crack a smile at that. Oddly enough, so does he—you don’t think you’ve ever heard someone say they’ve seen Alhaitham smile. It must be a rare sight that only you, and perhaps a very few others, can say they’ve witnessed. “I was just about to take a break to buy a coffee—I’ll bring one back for you, too, to make up for the cranial damage I’ve supplied.”

“A most wonderful idea,” you perk up instantly, “I love when I get to drain the wallet of a man.”

He gives you an amused look at that. And somehow, bringing you a coffee along with his own during his breaks is a habit that seems to stick for a long, long while after that.

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TWENTY TWO.

Alhaitham’s feelings are hurt. Not a lot of words tend to do that—he’s been blessed with thick skin and an unbothered attitude to a fault, sometimes. But something about today, for some odd reason, hurts his feelings.

Your words to the waiter who took your order keep ringing in his head.

Oh goodness, no, we are definitely not dating!

Most people mistake you and Alhaitham for a pair of lovers rather than a pair of friends. It’s just the way things go when a man and a woman are seen together for extended periods of time over and over. It doesn’t help that Alhaitham doesn’t really have any friends. He had one before you, but…well, things are complicated now. Far too complicated to think about it more than necessary. He has you, and that’s enough. But the matter still stands that most people tend to assume that something blossoms between the two of you that isn’t just friendly.

He was starting to think it was true himself, too. He knows it’s true from his end, at least. But you say those words with such a sure, definitive tone that it almost sounds like you’re offended by the notion of being seen as his girlfriend. And sure, he would be disappointed—he’s no liar—if you didn’t feel romantically for him, but he’d understand. It’s not something you can help. But you brush off the idea like it’s an anomaly of sorts in the universe for someone like you and someone like Alhaitham to be a couple. It hurts his feelings. More than it should.

(He knows deep down, in the depths of his heart, that you don’t mean it that way. You never would. But irrationality is but one of many feelings that bloom when it comes to romance.)

Alhaitham knows from a young age he’s different than most kids his age. This fact doesn’t change as he gets older. He’s brighter than most of his peers—which is certainly saying something because Sumeru is a nation filled with enough sharp minds, it’s as though brilliance were the average trait. People don’t typically like Alhaitham (which is fine by him, he doesn’t like most of them, either. They mostly don’t meet his standards). The kids don’t play with him in the parks that Grandmother would leave him at while she shopped around at the market, and they don’t sit with him on his one and only day at the Akademiya when he is but an elementary scholar. It never bothered him. He preferred reading under the trees and self-learning at home, anyway. When he’s older and enrolled in the Akademiya full-time, they don’t prefer to partner with him for projects for any other reason than simply being guaranteed a good grade, and they don’t spare him a glance when they all converse in groups outside of class. He never cared for freeloaders, anyway—he only trusts himself for projects, and he is at the Akademiya to learn, not make friends.

It’s not until he meets Kaveh does he consider the idea that friendships are meaningful enough to spare some effort into. But the end result of that only solidifies that he is best when in solitude.

But then he meets you. Some part of Alhaitham knows very early on that you would never be just a friend to him. If it was friendship that he craved, he would have looked for it elsewhere before running into you. Something about you from the very beginning makes him yearn for things much deeper than that. Things that remind him of his parents.

Friendship is fleeting. People at the Akademiya go their separate ways and meet new people. They fall out and have arguments. They grow up and grow apart and become different. But love blooms like the Kalpalata lotuses on a vine, timeless as time itself. It starts and never ends, one root stemming into more and more vines until they never stop growing.

Alhaitham has fallen in love with you. Logic tells him it’s only a recent development, but his heart has known this outcome would be brought about for a long, long time. And, in all truthfulness, your words have hurt his feelings.

And yet, he still loves you through it. He thinks that even if you crushed his feelings with a cold, indifferent smile, he would still love you through it.

A hand waves in front of his face, pulling him from his thoughts as you take a sip from your coffee. Puspa Cafe is not as busy at this hour, most people are in the middle of a work day, but Alhaitham is allowed to pick his lunch hour, and yours happens to be earlier than most.

“Sorry, I just have to ask—are…are you upset?” you ask gently, making him pause.

Yes.

“No,” he says simply, “why would I be?”

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You were fine up until…I don’t know, a few minutes ago. Is something on your mind?”

You know him so well, he thinks. How could you not see how perfect the two of you are together?

“I’m simply concerned about your sugar intake is all,” he eyes the cold, iced drink in your hands with more syrups than he deems necessary. You always have a penchant for choosing the sweetest drink off the menu, and Alhaitham will never understand how your teeth don’t rot.

“Well, that’s very funny,” you roll your eyes, “because I was just thinking about how low on vitamin D you must be—do you ever leave your study to see the sun?”

He spares you a soft chuckle at that, shaking his head before taking a sip of his own coffee—hot and black and with two spoons of sugar. Simple, like how he prefers. You make a face at his drink as he sets it down.

“Have you ever thought about what you look for in a partner?” he asks suddenly, making you blink in shock for a moment. He flinches at his own forwardness just a tad.

“Umm, I suppose a little here and there…why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he shrugs, “just curious what your type was, that’s all. You’re painfully single, so I figured your taste was rather distinct.”

“Rude,” you scoff, rolling your eyes enough that he thinks it’s safe to assume you’re not suspicious. “Are you here just to poke fun at my choices today?”

Alhaitham should not be asking you this. Not when the answer so clearly is going to hurt his already very bruised feelings. Of course, your type won’t be him. And, of course, he is going to mourn your answer the second you give it, which is his own fault considering he’s the one who asked. (He has to wonder, for a moment, if this constitutes as an undiscovered hidden kink of his and whether or not he really just gets off on some unnecessary pain. Why else would he willingly subject himself to this?)

But, he’s caught off guard when you shrug and simply say, “I suppose someone who’s intelligent. I’d appreciate some good discussions. And…and maybe someone who’s kind, y’know? I would be rather sad if they were mean,” you pretend to sniffle dramatically.

“That’s…that’s it?” He tilts his head in equal parts shock and equal parts confusion.

“What did you expect me to look for in a partner?” You snort, “A three-story mansion? A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on?”

“Well, no,” he rolls his eyes, “Maybe something a bit less generic to narrow down your pool, I suppose, but if that’s your bar, so be it. There are far too many men who are intelligent and kind, you know.”

“Yes, but none of them show me any signs of interest,” you pout, “I must be undesirable or something.”

I desire you, he wants to say. He can’t quite find the courage to get the words out, though—and as if the universe has it completely out for him, the same waiter from earlier who is responsible for asking you the question that kills Alhaitham’s mood for the day comes back with the bill. And something else, too.

Something that kills his mood for the week.

His jaw clenches a tad when you flush at the note scribbled on a napkin for you, eyeing your flustered reaction while you read over the words: I get off at eight if you’d like to find me. You stare for a moment before you murmur, “Well, look at that. A sign of interest—it must be the Dendro Archon’s divine power.”

“The Divine have no say over who you fall for,” he insists.

“You don’t know that,” you hum thoughtfully, “The God of Wisdom knows her people better than anyone else, you know. I’d like to think she knows when love is bound for two people.”

You fold the napkin carefully and keep it in your pocket, and Alhaitham fishes out his mora pouch with stiff fingers. He leaves a very shoddy tip on the table before he exits after you.

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TWENTY THREE.

You wake up in his bed.

It’s a foggy memory, but you know you fucked Alhaitham after more sips of wine than you can count and one flirty comment too many. It happened in a blur last night, and you can’t say you’re surprised that it finally happened at all. Alhaitham is a man just like any other, and mingling pleasure with friendship is a normal thing to do. Falling under him on his mattress is not something you never had daydreams of—but the truth of the matter is that your daydreams don’t just stop with the bed.

They end with a toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. A mug next to his in the kitchen. Your shoes kicked off along with his at the entrance of a home. Your laughter and his bouncing off of the walls. A ring, maybe. One on your hand and one on his.

In your imagination, it starts with pleasure, but it ends with love.

Falling in love with Alhaitham is a peaceful ordeal. He’s dependable and inherently kind. Strong and impressively capable. Intelligent and objectively handsome. You’d bring him home to your mother and father, and they’d thank Lord Kusanali for smiling down upon their humble little family and their darling little daughter by sending such a divine man your way.

You don’t think you can pinpoint when exactly it is you started to love this boy, but you know loving him became as simple as breathing. You never thought about it. Never learned to do it. Never questioned it, even. You inhale the scent of his spicy, woody cologne and exhale the warm breath of your affections stored in your lungs. He lives somewhere nestled so deep in your ribcage that you think you’d have to crack each of them one after the other before you could pry him out.

You love Alhaitham. You think you know everything there is to know about loving him. You think you’d do it right—better than anyone else.

He only drinks his coffee when it’s piping hot, and his wine can never be one degree less than iced. He has dry hands, but he hates the feeling of lotion. He doesn’t like raw onions but he doesn’t mind them cooked. When the sun is in his eyes, he’s in a foul mood, but he enjoys napping under the warm rays, much like a cat. He laughs surprisingly boyishly from his belly if you manage to deliver a dry yet clever enough joke, and he clears his throat and gets a bit shy once he’s realized he’s let it out. He twirls his pen in his hand when he’s bored, and he only uses the kind with gel ink because they write smoother.

You love Alhaitham. For you, it’s always been him.

When you wake up to his bare, warm body next to yours, breathing peacefully with an arm thrown over your waist, you can’t help but selfishly wish he’d stay asleep all day. Just for a day. Just for the amount of time you get in between the sun’s departure and the moon’s arrival. Just so you can watch him exist in this moment where it’s you, him, and the liminal space between friends and lovers. Just so you can admire how beautiful he is without worrying about his eyes opening and the inevitable conversation of what you’re both doing is brought up.

People (like Kaveh, or Dehya, or Tighnari, or…anyone) tend to insist that Alhaitham loves you. It’s obvious, they say, just as obvious as your love for him. You never believe it. It’s not because he’s bad at love or because you’re bad for him. You think he’d make a good lover—contrary to popular belief, you don’t think Alhaitham is uninterested in intimacy or affection. And you think you’d make a good girlfriend—unlike other people, you understand him and like what you see.

But he doesn’t love you. That much is a fact you’ve long accepted. It’s not because you’re bad for him or because he’s incapable of feeling—but rather, it’s just that bitter, soul-crushing reality that you can’t help who you love and who you don’t. Alhaitham doesn’t love you—it’s not something either of you can really change. Because if he did, he’d waste no time. He’d get to the heart of the matter and quit dancing around the issue.

It’s just the kind of guy that he is.

So, because this is your first and likely last time seeing him this way, you slowly reach over and brush a few strands of messy, unruly bedhead from his forehead before cupping his cheek in your hand. His skin is soft and warm under your palm, much more delicate to the touch than you anticipated from how chiseled his features are. Your thumb gently brushes along the slant of his cheekbone, eyes softening at how he lets out a puff of air as he sleeps.

“Morning,” he says hoarsely, eyes still closed and making you jolt in surprise. He lets out a quiet, sleepy chuckle that would make you melt if not for the way your heart still pounds from the shock.

“You’re awake?”

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding before finally cracking an eye open. “For a while now.”

“Why pretend to sleep then, you creep?” You scoff, glaring at him as he sits up slightly and glances at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. No part of him seems to be shocked about you being nude in his bed. Or the fact that you’re even in his bed at all, nude or not.

“You’re the creep if we’re being technical here. It’s undoubtedly a little on the creepy side to study someone with such careful touches while they sleep.”

“That’s your main concern…?” You stare at him—and for lack of better words, you’re dumbfounded. You and Alhaitham have been friends for two years and counting. You’ve never once crossed the line or even toed at it to step beyond the border of anything more. And, yet, here you are. In his bed. Completely nude. He was lying there and felt your delicate touch along his skin, felt you act like a lover and not a friend on a quiet, intimate morning when in fact, you both should be shamefully avoiding each other’s eyes in a moment that’s anything but intimate as you leave.

He makes no move to ask you to leave or even question why you’re still here. You make no move to really leave—it’s not like you want to.

“What should my main concern be, then?” he looks at you expectantly, like he really doesn’t know.

“Oh, I don’t know, Alhaitham—shouldn’t you be a little more panicked by the idea that I’ve trespassed into your bed and seen you…bare?”

“Well, to be fair, you didn’t trespass. I let you in—and also, to be fair, I saw the same for you, too, so we’re even.”

“You’re oddly calm about this,” you hiss. “This doesn’t bother you even a little? That things might change?”

He looks at you funny—like you’ve just told him a joke that hardly makes sense but makes him want to laugh anyway. “You’re too brilliant to be this dense,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’m quite open to the idea of change.”

You take offense to the first part enough to completely miss the second part of his statement.

“I am not dense,” you huff, “I’m incredibly bright. I’ll have to send you my thesis sometime.”

“No need,” he responds through a low hum. He pulls you closer, flush against his chest. Bare skin on skin. Intimate skin, at that. You shiver for a moment as his warm, large hand wanders lower and lower before stopping just at the small of your back, rubbing slow circles at the dimple where your spine ends. “I’ve read it plenty of times. It was very insightful.”

“Well, in that case, you should know not to insult my intelligence—”

“If you don’t notice my affection for you, I’m afraid you might not be as observant as I initially thought.”

You pause. Your heart flutters. Then it feels like it decays. Your eyes widen a fraction. Then they feel like they need to be squeezed shut for fear of tears. You feel your fingers twitch to reach for him. And yet they stiffen in distrust.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you whisper. Because you don’t.

You really fucking don’t. You thought you knew. His feelings and how to read them. His thoughts and how his mind works. Every little quirk of his and how he approaches every damn thing in this world. You thought you knew.

Now you feel like you don’t know much of anything, especially not what he means right in this moment.

“You don’t?” He whispers, hand moving to grab your wrist and bring it to his cheek so his lips can brush along the delicate lines of your palm prints. (If he was brave, he’d tell you that his destiny and yours are written in those very lines. Maybe someday he’ll build the courage.)

“No,” you say through a shaky whisper. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you. Just like you love me.” He says it so plainly, that you almost feel like it's a dry, cruel joke. (You know him a little better than that, though, to know he’d never.)

“How do you know I love you?” you challenge just because it’s all you have left to cling to—easy, instant denial.

He laughs. Soft. Quiet. Melodic. So fucking sweet. “I’m too smart to act dense,” Alhaitham teases. And then, for a moment, his eyes soften enough that they almost look vulnerable. “And only someone who loves me could deal with my… peculiarities. Though, I will admit, it took me quite a while to reach this conclusion. You made me work for it.”

“If you’ve known all along—”

“Not all along,” he corrects, “like I said, it took me a while to come to this conclusion. But once I did, it was rather obvious.”

You scowl with a finger prodding into his chest, eyes misty with relief and the faintest traces of agitation, “Well, regardless, why haven’t you said something all this time? Obviously, I wasn’t as aware as you seem to be, so the least you could have done is spared me the pining and heartbreak of wondering if you’d ever look at me—”

“I wanted to make sure I could offer you a peaceful life first,” he says gently. You blink. He smiles, eyeing something in the distance—you don’t quite catch it, but you think it might be the old, worn-out stack of envelopes sitting on his desk.

“What?”

“When you’re with me,” he whispers, leaning in so that his lips brush over yours, “I can lead a peaceful life. I wanted to make sure I could give you the same.”

“And what does that consist of?” you raise a brow.

“Well,” he murmurs, pecking the corner of your mouth, “A stable job with a generous income, which I now have. A fixed schedule, which I have also negotiated. A proper home to house the both of us, which you are comfortably laying in. And…” he grabs your hand, bringing it to his chest where his heart is beating erratically, “A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on, which I have dedicatedly worked to add to my physique for you.”

“Haitham!” you squeal, shoving him away with a horrified shriek as he laughs with a wide grin. You don’t even know why he still remembers that comment to poke fun at it, but you suppose that is the tragedy of falling for a prodigious scholar. His mind is sharp. And so is his memory. “Enough!”

“Okay, okay,” he grins smugly. “I want us to lead a peaceful life.”

“There’s not a lot of peace I am counting on with you.”

“I will elect to ignore that statement,” he says dryly, “But that’s why I waited this long,” he buries his face into your neck, nose pressing into the skin as he inhales, “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, though. Won’t you accept my frugal attempt at a serene life with you?”

“Perhaps I can make do,” you fight back a stupid grin.

He smiles into your neck. You can feel it. You can practically see it. You hope you’ll grow old with it, too.

“Then I suppose I’m forever indebted to your graciousness, my love.”

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TWENTY FOUR.

When Alhaitham was eight, Grandmother told him the story of how his parents had fallen in love. It was a typical love story, he thought at the time—nothing overly special or unique. A simple, sweet bond between two people who became friends and something more along the way.

What stood out were the letters. Not very much at first, but with time, he’d realized how special they were.

Grandmother handed him the letters with a soft, melancholy look in her eyes that made him realize he hadn’t just lost his father and mother. She had lost her son and daughter-in-law. Alhaitham felt the absence of his parents often. It was hard not to at that age—he didn’t have a father to throw a ball to or tag along with to the market. He didn’t have a mother to hum him a melody or make his favorite dish for dinner. But Grandmother filled the gaps in those places well enough that even if his heart bled, not too much blood spilled between the cracks.

But he was no son. Not a proper one for her at her age, anyway. She raised him like he was her own, but she grew older every day, and he didn’t grow fast enough to keep up. He couldn’t take care of her in her old age the way his father would have. He couldn’t do much besides bring the vegetables for her to cut or set the table while she cooked. He couldn’t offer her the mora when she went to the market or carry too many of the heavy bags while they walked home. He couldn’t let her rest in her old age too much because, regardless of how mature and bright he was for his age, Alhaitham was just a child. Her child, nonetheless—Grandmother didn’t let him forget that fact. But a child.

When she died, he arranged the funeral alone. He didn’t cry throughout the whole ordeal. Her old colleagues from way back in her Akademiya days came, as did some of his parents’ old acquaintances. No one he knew too familiarly, though—no one who really mattered when they clasped his shoulder and told him to hang in there.

She was a good woman. He knew that already.

She was very intelligent. A very obvious fact.

She was exceptionally kind. A rather unsurprising observation.

She loved very deeply. Well. That one stung—as true as it might have been.

He remembers it so vividly still. How he had walked home alone after it all. How he had taken off his tie (a very poorly tied tie, at that—Grandmother had always helped him before) and silently entered his room.

It wasn’t until he had eyed his desk that finally, it all sank in. The notes—the ones his father had so carefully written his mother while they were still just starting to fall in love, sat there as if waiting for him. He read them one by one, just like he had so many times before. He didn’t realize he’d started crying until a rivulet of his sorrow landed from his cheek to the page, staining the paper a darker shade of heartache.

Alone.

That’s all Alhaitham had ever been since the tender age of four. At least, that’s what people had always thought—but he’d never felt the sorrow people tended to feel for him. Not having a father and mother was okay. Hard at times, but okay. Grandmother had been everything he needed. More than what he needed, in fact.

Grandmother was everything. And she had left him just the same way his parents had. He’d cried that night—alone in a house that was nothing more than just a house. Not a home, not a place where he could return to and look forward to it. Not a place where love was waiting for him to shelter him as soon as he came back from the cruel, outside world.

Grandmother was gone. Mother and father had left so long ago. But they all had each other—in whatever world they’d crossed to, they’d had each other.

He remembers it all so vividly still. How he’d read his father’s words, and for the first time in all his life, he’d craved it. What his parents had.

To my love, my soul, my heart. I am yours, always.

He wondered that night, through teary and blurry eyes, if love like that would ever find him. If he’d one day be able to call someone his love, soul, and heart.

He thinks now, as you laugh with your head tilted forward and a tweezer in hand while sitting on his lap, that he can.

“Hold still, you,” comes your teasing remark, “you said this would be nothing. Now look at you.”

“You’re being too harsh,” he grumbles, pouting slightly. With a smile, you bend your neck down and press a soft kiss to his jutted lips, humming before pressing an extra one to the corner of his mouth for good measure. (And yes, the grand sage—acting, you can almost hear him correct in your own head—can pout. He is rather frequent at curling those lips of his in your presence when he wants something, in fact. Or when he is teased too much. Something about you brings about a side of him that is much less stoic and far more dramatized.)

“You can just admit it hurts, you know,” you say through an amused snort.

“It won’t hurt if you just do it right.”

“I’m an expert at tweezing eyebrows,” you huff, “I do mine all the time. And I would know that it hurts.”

“It can’t be that painful,” he clicks his teeth, “just be gentle.”

“I cannot gently pull out a hair from your follicle, Haitham—I don’t know what you want me to—hey!”

He grabs the tweezers from your hand and pulls you close, hugging you tight enough that his nose digs into your skin a bit as he buries it into your neck. It’s Saturday. His first out of two days off for the week—standard scribe work weeks are nine to five on weekdays, and he very much appreciates his weekends away from the bustling, lively Akademiya nonsense.

Saturday happens to be your day off, too.

“Where is Kaveh?” you ask quietly, playing with the hem of his shirt. He raises a brow, eyeing the suspicious movement of your fingers.

“Working with a client in Aaru Village. He won’t be back until tomorrow evening. Why am I not enough company for you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” you roll your eyes, and this time, your hands wander under his shirt, palms slowly dragging along his chiseled, planed abdomen while he shivers slightly under your touch. “I was just asking if…”

“If…?” he urges you to continue.

You know he knows. But, for the sake of indulging his smug, teasing little game, you huff and push his shirt up to expose his chest before murmuring, “If we would be interrupted or not. I don’t fancy such awkward run-ins with your roommate.”

“Our roommate,” he corrects, “this is your home, too.”

“Yes,” you smile, brushing your palms over his pectorals, watching as he stiffens when you graze along his nipples, “I suppose it is.”

“Well, he’s not here. And he won’t be, so kiss me,” he demands through a breathy whisper. You do. You kiss him instantly—because kissing Alhaitham is what you do best. When he’s happy, sad, angry, distressed, or just plain tired, kissing him is how you know him the most. When your breaths exchange and your life force and his mingle to become one, singular unit.

You sigh into his mouth, letting his hands cradle your jaw and tilt your head to better meet his mouth, all while your hands still explore his upper half. He moans under your touch, cock springing to life slowly below you through his pants. You angle your hips forward, inching higher up his lap to drag your crotch along his and help the erection grow against the friction.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hard and heavy between his legs in no time.

“Haitham,” you breathe, feeling that familiar ache build between your own thighs.

You kiss him like that for a bit. Messy, deep, sloppy, and so, so slow. With all the time in the world. Languid strokes of your tongue against his as he rolls his hips up from underneath you, dragging his clothed, bulging cock against your dripping cunt. The fabric separates you, rudely so, and it’s not long until you both grow tired of it.

“Off,” you whine, tugging at his pants, “off, off, off!”

“So demanding,” he chuckles, pecking your nose sweetly before he lifts his hips, letting you slide off his sweatpants. “Satisfied?”

“Yes,” you beam, “You always give me what I want. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

His gaze darkens at that—not for any other reason than it makes him so incredibly filled with lust when you speak to him like that. So spoiled and happy about it because it’s him. Him. You’re happy that it’s him. And he’s happy that it’s you.

You don’t even bother undressing yourselves fully—he pulls down your own pants just enough to expose your pretty, leaking folds, and his hands wander under your shirt, where he almost short-circuits for a moment. Braless. Because you just love to drive him mad, he thinks. This much easy access to your soft, delicate breasts and the pert nipples that decorate them is enough to make him curse under his breath as his thumbs tease over them.

“You’re a tease.”

“For simply existing?” you gasp, making him crack a small grin.

“Yes,” he hums, “Your existence on its own teases me at all times. I’m afraid it drives me mad.”

You hum, reaching forward to gently take his hard, leaking cock into your hand and give a light, teasing squeeze. “Maybe my goal is to turn you completely into a lost cause.”

“Then,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch cushions while he breathes harshly, “then you’re definitely succeeding. Is that what you wished to hear?”

“Yes,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, “It is, actually.”

It doesn’t take long at all before Alhaitham has tossed you back against the couch, laughing as you shriek at the sudden change of position. You glare at him, fighting back your own chorus of giggles as he moves to hover over you, kissing and biting playfully along your cheeks.

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“Aw, so sweet,” you coo, “say that again.”

He rolls his eyes. His lips curl into the brightest grin at the same time. My love, my soul, my heart—the words are ingrained in his memory always. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” you whisper.

He leans in for a soft, slow kiss as the tip of his leaking cock slides against your folds, tapping against your clit before rubbing along your entrance. You gasp, shuddering against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I could get used to this.”

“Sex on the couch? We can do that any time—”

“A weekend with just the two of us,” he groans, dropping his head to your neck as you laugh loudly. Bright. Airy. A sound the wind carries to him in his subconscious. He hears you even when you’re not there—even when you aren’t around, he searches for you.

“Oh,” you say playfully, “Yeah, I guess that’s nice too, isn’t it?”

“I’ll show you just how nice it’s about to be,” he hums. The tip of his thick, blunt head is pressed against your folds—you’re leaking just as much as he is. You slick, and his pre cum mix for a messy collision of arousal as he presses into you slowly, so carefully, you feel like you could break at any second with how he handles you.

He’s patient. When Alhaitham fucks you, he’s patient enough that you feel like his other half and not his means of pleasure. Like he fucks you for you and not for himself.

“More,” you insist, impatient as you add, “I can take it.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he clicks his teeth, “I want to take my time feeling you.”

And he does. He rolls his hips slowly. So slowly, you feel delirious. It’s a painful, gradual build-up of pleasure that has you trying to roll your hips into him to meet him halfway, a pathetic attempt when he’s on top of you to press his weight down on you to keep you in place.

“Please, Haitham,” you whine, sweat shining across your sweet, pleasure-hazed face as he stares down at you, “Please more. I need it—need you. Need all of you.”

“You have all of me,” he groans, feeling the tight walls of your cunt squeeze around him, the squelching noise of his thick girth bullying into your folds in and out, in and out, in and out, driving him to the brink of insanity. “You’ve always had every piece of me.”

“I want more,” you hiss.

He lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a soft moan. “If that’s what you want.”

The next thing you know, two strong, muscled arms are grabbing your thighs and bringing them around his torso to wrap around him, and his large hands grab your hips and pull, practically manhandling you deeper onto his cock. You shudder, letting out a shrill, high-pitched gasp as he intrudes further into your cunt, nudging the head of his cock against your sweetest of spots and making your body tremble.

“Haitham,” you gasp, “Haitham, fuck—fuck, you feel so good. So deep—love when you fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, kissing in between your pretty little scrunched-up eyebrows, “I love fucking you like this, too. When you take me so well, squeeze so tight, and let me feel you like the good girl you are.”

His words make your folds squeeze around him, and fuck—he’s close. So fucking close, the pad of his rough, callused thumb meets your clit as he rubs circles, trying to bring you to the edge before he goes plummeting himself.

“‘M close—almost…almost there,” you pant.

“Me too, baby,” he groans. He slams into you, skin slapping against skin and the glistening sheen of it mixing your sweat together. His mouth parts with pretty, low sounds of his pleasure, and your face twists with the devastating rush of yours.

Once. Twice. A third time, and you fall apart as he thrusts into you and presses the tip of his thick length against the spongey spot in the back of your walls.

“Haitham,” you gasp, legs tightening around him as your nails press crescent shapes into his back. “Fuck, I’m c-cumming…oh, Gods.”

“Good,” he gasps, and with one last roll of his desperate hips, he spills into you, too. A thick, sticky, familiar rush of heat fills your cunt, ropes of cum painting you white within with every twitch of his aching cock. “Fuck—you feel so good. So perfect—you were made for me. Me.”

“You,” you whisper, breathless.

You let him shudder over you, fingers running through his hair as he finishes releasing his load into you before he slumps his weight over your body. It’s a small couch—decorative more than functional. (All thanks to Kaveh, of course.) But you don’t particularly care when you’re under him. It feels right all the same.

“We have the house to ourselves this weekend,” he reminds you after some time of catching your breaths. “So…so we can do this all you want.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes as you poke his forehead. “You’re obscene.”

“I’m romantic,” he corrects, “I just want to be with you and nothing else. Can’t blame a man when he’s been gifted such a beautiful sight before him.”

“And cheesy, too,” you huff.

He smiles. My love, my soul, my heart.

——————————

You wake up Monday morning to Alhaitham already gone—it’s rare that he’s ever up before you. He leaves the house just in time to make it to work exactly on the dot and not a moment sooner or a moment later. But, as is with any Akademiya position, there are quarterly meetings that even the scribe can’t avoid. You giggle at the image in your head of a grumpy Alhaitham carefully tiptoeing around the room as he miserably gets ready for an early morning of extra work, all while making sure he doesn’t wake you.

You yawn, sitting up to start your morning for your own day of work ahead—but it catches your eye before you can fully rise from bed, making you pause.

A note? No, you realize almost instantly. Not just a note—a letter:

To my love, my soul, my heart: Kalpalata lotuses will bloom soon. I forget how beautiful the world is sometimes, and I suppose it’s because I am always distracted by your beauty alone. Will you laugh as you read this? I suppose you might because even I must admit, it is a rather cliche thing to say. I can just picture your smile now, and I am certain I will have it memorized until my last breath. It’s easy to remember it so well when it’s all I see in my dreams. Have I told you how often I see you in them? It’s difficult to think that there was once a time in Sumeru when we did not dream. It seems like sleeping beside your body is no longer enough—your presence is required even in my slumber for me to truly be at peace. Perhaps when the lotuses bloom, we can take a trip to the deeper parts of the rainforest to catch a glimpse of a few. They say the vines are blessed by The Lord herself. I was never one to seek out the divine, but perhaps with a gift as sacred as you, I should take the time to thank Lady Kusanali for granting such brilliance to take bloom in my presence. Only, the difference is that here with you, there are no cliffs to climb or seasons to await. You are mine to bloom, always—my precious, beautiful lotus. Forever yours, Haitham ♡

ITS DONE. HAPPY LATE BDAY TO MY FIRST AND LONGEST LOVE. YOU MEAN EVERYTHING AND MORE TO MEEEEE

#alhaitham x reader #meowdei.longfics #alhaitham x you #alhaitham smut #alhaitham x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin smut #genshin fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact fluff #meowdei.writing

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exuvianen · 1 year ago

Text

dating hc's with dr. ratio, aventurine + blade!

headcanons about what these hsr men do in a relationship witth you <3

cw: x reader, gn! reader (no physical descriptions), mostly fluff, sfw, headcanon style

notes: hsr brainrot… ahahaha... i hope i have a fairly good grasp on these characters and wrote them well.

wc: ~1050 words, around 350 words per character. all under the cut!

feel free to drop an ask or to add on to my thoughts! likes + rbs are appreciated <3

✎ Dr. Ratio:

He likes parallel play, or being alone together with you. He works on his own projects, like grading papers or writing a new thesis while you’re doing your own thing, like playing video games or reading. Occasionally, he might ask you for your input, such as ideas about his next thesis or what pose he should sculpt himself into next.

He has a spare desk and chair for you in his office. You can choose to do work or entertain yourself there when you visit him and he’s still teaching a lecture, but feel free to take a nap on the plush sofa he bought just for you.

He will nag you about your health but in an annoyingly endearing way. He fusses over you, telling you about appropriate attire for today’s weather, offering you an umbrella, and reminding you to drink water.

He entertains all your ideas, no matter how silly or illogical. He’ll hear you out on anything you say, though he might have some very strong disagreements or objections to your ideas, especially if they are silly or completely nonsensical. However, he never turns you away when you bound up to him with a mischievous gleam in your eyes - he just sighs and prepares himself mentally to hear whatever goofiness comes out of your mouth.

He’s your biggest cheerleader, supporter, and advocate. Though he may come off as intimidating, he is always willing to help advance your career or work. He has many connections and vast knowledge of the universe after all - why not utilize them for his beloved?

He’s very good at dispelling any irrational thoughts in your head. If you’re panicking and your mind is disoriented, he’ll sit next to you and hold your hand gently, but firmly to ground you. He doesn’t speak at all when you vent out all your frustration, confusion, or anger - rather, he’s silently contemplative and then asks questions when you finish talking. He’ll indirectly guide you to a solution while gently calming you down as he dispels those pesky thoughts from your head.

He makes a custom alabaster head for you.

♤ Aventurine:

A big fan of matching accessories and clothing. You don’t need to wear the exact same outfit, but he likes wearing complementary colors and jewelry to yours.

If you’d like, he’d be more than happy to bring you to casinos and public events with him. He wants to show off to you and let you witness his wit, talent, and skill like a peacock presenting its colorful feathers.

He likes it a lot when you trace his skin through the spade-shaped hole in his outfit.

He hates the feeling of being vulnerable, but he likes being around you. This creates conflicting emotions inside of him. Oftentimes, he doesn’t know how to deal with it and just lurks by you. Pull him into a hug to quiet the voices in his head.

He will send you packages or luxury items from the planets he’s visiting. You’ll be greeting a disgruntled Topaz or IPC soldiers at your door as they hand you various gifts ranging from limited-edition jewelry to flowers that bloom only once every 200 amber eras. He gifts extremely grand things, but he always knows how to find things that suit your tastes.

He’s a big spender on you. If you’re unused to the amount of money he’s willing to throw at you, he’s going to give you a lot of “exposure therapy” with his generosity. He’ll invite you to private auctions, lavish galas, luxury boutiques, and high-end jewelry stores. He’ll start filling your wardrobe with tailor-made clothes with the excuse that you should match his outfits when you attend formal events together, but his clothing contributions eventually infiltrate your closet pretty deeply.

He enjoys being pampered and pampering you. Self-care nights are a must - as a representative of the IPC and one of the ten Stonehearts, he has to keep himself presentable and looking sharp, and that goes for his partner too! He’s more than happy to spend money to fund your trips to the salon or buy you any beauty products to use at home. He’d love to put on face masks together and share a drink or two with you.

☠︎︎ Blade:

If you want to, and Elio’s script permits, he will bring you along on missions to safer planets. He’ll drop you off at a commercial district - feel free to go shopping or try out some novelty food while he wraps up his Stellaron Hunter business.

He likes getting his hair brushed. One of his favorite activities is sitting down and letting you comb through his hair after he cleans up from a mission. It’s an activity that leaves him vulnerable, but he doesn’t mind if it’s with you.

He’s an acts of service kind of guy. He moves to take your bags before you even say anything, holds open doors, and pulls out chairs for you. Brings you a cup of water and some fruit when you’ve been working for too long, and silently drapes his jacket over you when you shiver.

Tell him you like a certain pastry and he’ll show up every day and bring some. Show him a picture of a pretty flower and he’s boarding a spaceship to bring the flower to you personally. If you want something, he’ll do his best to get it.

He’s pretty quiet, but he’ll remember everything you say, what your preferences are, and what you like. He secretly writes it down in case his memory gets murky, and he’ll often reread his notes to remind himself.

He gives simple but traditional gifts to you, such as jade bracelets and pendants, and combs and hairpins if you have longer hair to wear or use them.*

He’ll treasure anything you gift to him. If you make an accessory for him, he wears it at all times. If your gift is small enough, he’ll stow it safely in his pockets and take it everywhere with him.

If family is important to you, he’ll send funds their way and ensure that they’re taken care of.

As someone who’s often dead and then undead, his body can get stiff. He’ll enjoy it immensely if you massage him, and accompany him for his daily stretches and calisthenics. Even if you just hold him for a while, he finds that his muscles will relax from the warmth emitting from your body. Therefore, he quite appreciates having you physically near him.

* Combs, hairpins, Jade bracelets, and pendants were given as tokens of love and affection in Ancient China. These gifts have a deeper meaning/symbolism, but for the sake of post length, I did not write them all out.

#exuvia works #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x you #aventurine x reader #dr.ratio x reader #hsr headcanons #blade x reader #honkai star rail headcanons #hsr blade #hsr aventurine #hsr dr.ratio #ratio x reader #veritas x reader #veritas ratio x reader

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cbeargyu · 2 days ago

Text

what you want

summary: you and taeyong have been best friends since college, sharing your adult lives side by side—your flower shop, his branding firm, countless shared memories. but as you near your 30s, the yearning to become a mother grows unbearable. during a reunion trip to jeju island, a tipsy conversation turns into something tender, raw, and irreversible. what begins as comfort and shared vulnerability becomes something deeper—intimate confessions, unspoken love, and the beginning of a quiet forever.

pairing: bestfriend taeyong x fem!reader

genre: slow-burn, friends to lovers, emotional smut, soft romance, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, eventual pregnancy.

warnings: breeding kink, unprotected sex (consensual, emotional context), impregnatio, pregnancy mention, emotional vulnerability, suggestive adult themes (18+), heavy romantic tension with soft resolution.

wc: 4,5K

notes: hi hiiii, okay so i've been dying to read smutty taeyong fics lately and it's been ALMOST impossible to find 😭 like 90% are mxm and there's barely any tae x reader content out there... if anyone has recs pls drop them in the comments ily. alsooo it's probably painfully obvious by now that i'm obsessed with the whole breeding kink + domestic fluff combo BYE that's literally my favorite thing ever 😩🫠💗

you’ve always been close to taeyong.

since college, really—when you met in that ridiculously stuffy marketing class during your second year. he was late that day, hair still damp from a rushed shower, a printed branding portfolio tucked under one arm, and somehow, he still managed to slide into the seat beside you with an easy smile and that soft voice.

you became inseparable after that. group projects, late-night convenience store runs, silent study sessions that turned into hours of talking about everything and nothing. you built a quiet rhythm with him, one that never required a label or explanation.

you opened your flower shop right after graduation. taeyong built his own creative agency, specializing in branding and design—sleek, intentional, always poetic in its aesthetic. you sent him flowers for his launch day; he designed the logo for your storefront for free. "it’s a gift," he said when you tried to pay him, his voice warm over the phone. "besides, i owe you for all the coffee you bought me during thesis week."

now in your late twenties, things feel stable. solid. your dreams are real. you run a blooming business. taeyong’s agency is doing well. life, on the surface, is soft and good. but there’s one thing that sits heavily in your chest.

you want a baby.

you’ve wanted one for years. even when you were young, you imagined yourself as a mother before anything else—before being a florist, a business owner, a woman navigating city streets with earbuds in and a tote bag full of errands. you crave that connection, the physicality of pregnancy, the quiet intimacy of raising someone who came from you.

but dating? nonexistent. your schedule is tight, your circle small, and the men you do meet are more interested in weekend flings than parenting plans. you’ve been obsessively reading about IVF, sperm donors, even traditional remedies your grandmother used to whisper about. you bring it up to taeyong one night, half-laughing as you scroll through forums.

“i don’t know what to do,” you admit, looking over the rim of your mug at him. “i’m not seeing anyone. i don’t want to wait until i’m forty. and i want to carry them. i want to feel them growing inside me.”

taeyong goes quiet.

he doesn’t have the answers, but he listens. tells you that you’d make an amazing mother. suggests maybe you could consider adoption, but you shake your head gently.

“i want to be pregnant,” you whisper. “i want them to be mine from the start.”

he nods.

he doesn’t push.

a few days later, he messages you.

taeyonggie👺 [11:13am]: remember our old classmates? they’re planning a reunion trip to jeju. want to go? they said you’re welcome too.

you hesitate, then say yes. maybe a change of scenery is what you need. something about the sea and the quiet and the way jeju always smells like citrus and wind.

you don’t expect to feel so at ease.

you arrive together, him beside you on the plane, headphones shared between you as you both doze off mid-flight. you’re staying at a cozy hotel not far from the beach—modern but warm, all wood accents and soft lighting.

there’s a mix-up at check-in.

“two rooms for y/n and taeyong?” the clerk asks.

“no, just one,” taeyong corrects, glancing at you. “two beds, please.”

you nod. it’s nothing new. you’ve stayed over at each other’s apartments before. this is the same. right?

your room has two full-size beds, a window view of the ocean, and barely enough space for both your suitcases. you joke about how you’ll end up tripping over each other, and taeyong just grins, tossing his duffel onto the bed by the wall.

the first two days are calm.

nakamoto yuta—now a travel content creator, all sun-kissed skin and open laughter—is the life of the group. seulgi, working as a creative director for a fashion label, is effortlessly elegant, always with a camera around her neck. also in the group: kwon eunbi, a vocal coach; hwang minhyun, managing a production company; kim seolhyun, running a podcast on pop culture; and kim hanbin, now a choreographer.

you spend your days exploring the island.

taeyong helps you pick tangerines from the orchard. you braid small wildflowers into your hair, and he snaps a photo when you’re not looking. he buys you honey ice cream and insists on carrying your bag when your shoulder starts to ache.

it feels like nothing’s changed.

but there’s a moment.

you’re inside the hotel lounge, grabbing drinks. yuta and taeyong sit near the back, shoulders low, conversation soft between them.

“you still in love with her?” yuta asks, voice easy but not teasing.

taeyong chokes on his drink. coughs. blushes.

“no,” he says, eyes flickering. “i mean, not anymore. that was...college. i’m over it.”

yuta raises a brow. “you sure?”

taeyong doesn’t answer right away. his fingers tap against the glass, slow. thoughtful.

“she wants a baby,” he says eventually. “that’s all she talks about now.”

“so give her one,” yuta shrugs.

taeyong laughs quietly. like it’s ridiculous. like it’s tempting.

he doesn’t bring it up again.

but something shifts.

you notice him watching you a little longer than usual when you laugh. his gaze lingers on the curve of your jaw, the line of your collarbone, the way you absentmindedly rest a hand over your stomach when you’re lost in thought.

you don’t say anything either.

you’re still just friends.

sharing a room.

sharing a life.

almost.

dinner that night is golden.

the kind that stretches out with laughter, grilled seafood, tangerine wine, and flickering lanterns strung up between pine trees. the restaurant is open-air, tucked near the cliffside with a view of the ocean glowing beneath the full moon.

everyone's a little tipsy by the time dessert comes around. yuta’s telling stories about backpacking in morocco and the time he accidentally ended up at a wedding. seulgi keeps taking pictures of everyone's reactions, cheeks flushed from wine. hanbin and seolhyun are arguing about the best era of k-pop choreography. eunbi sings a soft verse of something nostalgic, and minhyun smiles so softly you wonder if he's thinking of someone he left behind.

taeyong is beside you. always beside you. refilling your glass with something citrusy. resting his arm along the back of your chair. letting his knee bump into yours and not pulling away. the heat from him is steady. familiar. almost too much.

later, the drinks keep flowing back at the hotel. minhyun brings out a bottle of plum soju he brought from seoul, and that’s when it really starts. shots. dares. flushed cheeks and slurred memories.

you’re warm. glowing. a little too honest.

“i mean it,” you say, your voice low, shoulders loose as you sit with taeyong on the floor by the balcony door, away from the noise. “i think about it every night. sometimes i dream about it.”

he looks at you, gentle. “dream about what?”

you lean your head against the windowpane, watching the wind rustle the curtain.

“having a baby,” you murmur. “being pregnant. the little kicks. the soft cries. the weight of them on my chest. it’s so clear in my mind. like… i can almost feel it already.”

taeyong swallows.

you’re drunk. not sloppy, just vulnerable in a way you rarely let yourself be.

“i’ve tried not to obsess over it,” you continue, voice quieter now. “but it’s hard. i want it so much. and i know it’s selfish to want the whole experience—the belly, the pain, the birth. i just… i don’t want to feel like i missed it, like i missed the chance to be the kind of mother i’ve always seen myself becoming.”

taeyong doesn’t know what to say. you can feel it in the silence. his fingers curl slightly, brushing the edge of your sweater.

“you’d be such a good dad, you know,” you say suddenly, eyes half-lidded, smiling gently now as the alcohol softens your words. “like… annoyingly good.”

taeyong blinks.

“you’d be the kind that warms up the milk just right. that kisses tiny foreheads. that always carries extra snacks. that reads the bedtime story even when he’s tired. you'd probably cry when they take their first step.”

he laughs under his breath, a little shaky. your words are melting something in him.

“and your baby would have your eyes,” you add, like it’s nothing. “those pretty lashes. and maybe your laugh. and you’d panic the first time they got sick. and hold them all night until they stopped crying.”

he’s staring at you now. full-on. wide-eyed, a little undone.

“you’d be so gentle,” you whisper. “you already are.”

taeyong shifts. swallows again. his voice is rough when he finally speaks. “don’t say that.”

you tilt your head, confused. “why not? it’s true.”

“because,” he breathes, gaze flicking down to your lips for half a second before pulling back to the ceiling. “you’re drunk. and i’m trying really hard not to do something i’ll regret.”

you blink slowly, the alcohol making everything feel suspended.

you’re suddenly aware of how close you are. how intimate this has always been. not the words. not the night. just you and him.

taeyong stands. runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“i’m gonna get some water,” he mumbles, stepping away from the room.

you stay behind, heartbeat thudding, his warmth still lingering beside you.

you meant every word.

but you don’t know if he’ll ever believe that.

taeyong returns to the table with your glass of water clutched between his fingers like it’s something to hold himself together. his pulse is still uneven, the weight of your words clinging to him like sea salt in the air—soft but undeniable.

you’re laughing at something when he returns. yuta’s grinning, telling a story about a disastrous photoshoot in cambodia that involved a monkey, a drone, and his own foolish confidence. your cheeks are still flushed, but your expression dims a little when your eyes catch his, like you can feel the shift. like you remember what you said.

taeyong sets the glass in front of you gently, and you whisper a quiet “thanks” without looking up.

he doesn’t sit down again. instead, he hovers, letting the chatter of the group wash over him, standing on the edge of it all. seulgi pulls hanbin into a debate about concept staging in idol tours, seolhyun’s already half-asleep on the couch, and minhyun is texting someone with a small smile. the night has thinned out. the fire outside has died, leaving only the dim golden lights strung overhead and the soft hum of a playlist playing someone’s nostalgic mix of late 2010s ballads.

by the time the clock hits nearly two in the morning, someone mumbles about calling it a night.

you blink blearily, your words slurring just a bit now, your weight leaning more and more toward the backrest of the couch. taeyong’s already there before anyone else moves, slipping a hand beneath your elbow and helping you to your feet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“come on,” he says quietly, warm breath by your temple. “let’s get you to bed.”

you nod sleepily, your body soft, trusting. your fingers find the edge of his jacket sleeve as he steadies you, and he doesn’t pull away. the walk to the room is silent, the hallways dim and muffled. your steps are clumsy, and he catches you more than once, his hand curling around your waist like second nature.

inside the room, it’s dim and warm. the faint scent of saltwater and clean cotton lingers in the air from earlier. you collapse on the edge of the bed you claimed the night before, one of two queen mattresses sitting side by side with a single nightstand in between. the tension returns with the silence, thick and cloying. he walks to the dresser and grabs a bottle of water, offering it to you.

you drink half of it. then sit there. watching him.

he avoids your gaze at first. fiddles with the hem of his shirt. looks out the window like he might say something—then stops himself.

but you’re still drunk. and honest. and maybe a little bold in the way you never let yourself be.

“you know,” you start, voice quiet, “i wasn’t drunk when i said you’d make a good dad.”

taeyong turns slowly. you meet his eyes.

you swallow thickly, fingers wringing the edge of your pajama top. “i’ve thought about it before.”

he blinks, lips parting like he wants to ask but isn’t sure if he should.

you continue.

"not just in the abstract. not just... you as someone’s dad. but you as my—" you stop, heat blooming up your neck. you exhale. “sometimes, i think about what it’d be like if you were the one.”

he says nothing, but his expression crumbles—something tender and wounded flickering behind his eyes.

“i mean, we’ve been in each other’s lives forever,” you say, softer now. “we grew up together in every way that matters. you’ve seen me fail and get back up and fall apart again. you’ve never walked away. not once. not even when i was unbearable. i trust you with everything. i always have.”

taeyong doesn’t breathe.

you keep going.

“so yeah. i think about it sometimes. about what it’d be like to have your kid. to raise them with you. to wake up to you and a messy little human with sleepy eyes and your stupid laugh. and maybe i’m insane, maybe it’s just my hormones or my loneliness or whatever—but the thought doesn’t scare me. it grounds me.”

you laugh, a little bitterly, wiping at the corner of your eye. “and that’s the worst part. because i know you don’t see me that way. or if you did once, it’s long gone. and i shouldn’t be saying this—i know that. but there’s something about tonight that makes me feel like i’ll burst if i don’t.”

taeyong moves before you can finish.

quiet. careful.

he kneels in front of you. not touching you. not yet. just there, looking up at you like he’s memorizing every curve of your face.

his voice is raw.

“don’t say i don’t see you.”

you meet his eyes.

“i’ve always seen you.”

your breath hitches.

taeyong lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. “you talk about me being a dad like i wouldn’t spend every second wondering how the hell i got so lucky to build a life with you. like i haven’t already imagined it too. maybe not with words. maybe not out loud. but… i have.”

you whisper, “you have?”

he nods.

“every time you smile like that. every time you bring me coffee with your name scribbled next to mine. every time you hug me like home. yes. i have.”

you don’t move.

he reaches for your hand—slow, reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“but i never let myself say it,” he murmurs. “because i didn’t want to mess this up. not with us. not with you. and definitely not like this. but if i’m being honest… the thought of you carrying my child?” he swallows. “that doesn’t scare me either.”

the room is silent.

you stare at him, your fingers trembling in his grip.

you whisper, “then kiss me.”

he does.

not rushed. not heated.

just true.

the kind of kiss that feels like coming home after years of wandering.

like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t crazy after all.

the kiss deepens slowly.

taeyong’s hands are warm on your cheeks, cradling you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. you melt under his touch, your fingers sliding up his neck, into his hair, pulling him closer, closer still—like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

he’s the one who gasps first when your lips part just enough to whisper his name. it falls from your mouth like a secret you’ve kept buried for too long, and he swallows it whole.

he pulls back slightly, forehead resting against yours, his thumbs brushing over your flushed skin. you can feel his heart racing beneath his shirt.

“y/n…” his voice is hoarse. “are you sure?”

you nod, soft and breathless. “i’ve never been more sure.”

and there’s something in your voice—something so certain, so full of quiet longing—that makes taeyong inhale like he’s taking you in for the first time.

his lips find yours again, slower now, more deliberate. his touch trails from your face to your waist, pulling you gently into his lap, like he needs you close enough to feel everything—the way your body trembles against his, the way your thighs tighten around his hips, the way your breath stutters when his mouth moves down your neck.

he tastes your skin like a prayer, like something he’s dreamt about in the quiet hours of the night when your voice was the only thing that could calm him down.

you whisper into the space between kisses, into the curve of his jaw, “i want it to be you.”

his breath hitches.

“i want your baby,” you murmur, your hand pressing over his chest, right where his heart is pounding. “i want to carry your child. someone small and perfect and warm, someone who has your eyes… your smile.”

taeyong lets out the softest sound, almost like a whimper, and you feel his fingers tighten on your hips, his body tensing like he’s trying to hold himself back.

you lean into his ear and say it again—this time slower, your voice shaking. “i want your baby inside me, tae.”

his hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, reverent and gentle. “god,” he breathes. “you have no idea what that does to me.”

“tell me.”

he leans back just enough to look at you—really look at you. his pupils are blown wide, his cheeks flushed, lips swollen and parted.

“i think about it all the time,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “what you’d look like with my baby growing inside you. your belly round and soft, your body glowing. coming home to you with your shirt stretched over the bump, your hands cradling it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

he presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another, lower. “i want to see you like that. i want to wake up and run my hands over your belly, feel it kick. talk to it. kiss it.”

you whimper, your fingers knotting in his hair. “tae…”

his hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, thumbs brushing over your hipbones like they belong there. “i want to fill you up,” he murmurs, voice thick and trembling. “not just for tonight. not just for the fantasy. i want this to meansomething. it does mean something.”

you nod, cupping his face. “i know. it does to me too.”

he kisses you again, deeper now, one hand at the small of your back, guiding you down onto the mattress. the room is quiet, lit only by the moonlight spilling through the window, and everything feels soft. intimate. warm.

he undresses you slowly, carefully, as if every piece of clothing he removes reveals another piece of your heart. your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer until there’s no space between you, nothing but breath and bare skin and whispered names.

when he enters you, it’s slow and deep, like he’s savoring every inch, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him. your back arches, and he moans into your neck, your name a broken sound on his lips.

you’re both trembling—emotion thick in your chests, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. because it’s not just sex. not just lust. it’s home. it’s years of friendship and quiet yearning finally coming undone in the safest way possible.

taeyong presses a kiss to your temple and whispers, “you’re perfect. you’re mine.”

you cradle his face in your hands, smiling through the tears. “give me everything, tae. i want to feel you. all of you. i want to feel you stay.”

his rhythm falters, just for a second, overcome by the weight of it all. “i’ll give you everything. i’ll give you a family.”

you tighten around him at the words, gasping.

“i want to make you a mom,” he whispers. “tonight.”

you nod frantically, lips parting, “do it. please. i want to feel it—i want to feel you—when you fill me.”

taeyong groans, hips stuttering, burying his face in your neck. “fuck. y/n…”

you whisper, “put a baby in me, tae.”

he thrusts deeper, harder now, the restraint beginning to crumble. your bodies are slick with sweat, moving together with a kind of desperation that feels like both a beginning and a promise.

when he finishes—inside, just like you wanted—it’s with a gasp, his arms locked around you tight, like he’s scared to let go. and for a long moment, neither of you move.

“i want you full of me,” he says against your mouth, already hardening again. “i want to make sure.”

you nod, dazed. open. warm.

“don’t stop,” you whisper. “please don’t stop.”

and he doesn’t.

he makes love to you over and over again, slow and focused, like each time is another chance to seal your wish into reality. sometimes he holds your hips, watching your face as you fall apart for him. other times he lays you on your side, kissing your shoulder while whispering how beautiful you are, how perfect you’d be with his child inside you.

when dawn breaks, you’re tangled together in silence. your body aches, sweet and sated. your thighs sticky, your heart full. his hand rests on your stomach again, like he’s already waiting.

he is groaning your name, whispering over and over, “mine. you’re mine. our baby. our future.”

you’re crying. he is too.

and when the trembling stops and the world is still again, he kisses your lips, then your cheeks, then your stomach.

“i can’t wait to see you grow,” he whispers, resting his head just below your ribs.

you run your fingers through his hair, heart pounding.

you whisper back, “i hope it has your eyes.”

the sunlight pours through the thin curtains like a slow, golden confession. the air smells like salt and lemon shampoo. taeyong wakes up first this time, his arm heavy over your waist, your back pressed flush against his chest. sunlight filters through the cream-colored curtains, warming the bare skin of your shoulder.

it kisses your bare shoulder first, then the soft curve of your waist, then the scattered marks taeyong left across your chest like constellations only he could read.

you’re the first to stir, eyelids fluttering open to the unfamiliar ceiling of the hotel room. for a second, you forget where you are. but then you shift slightly and feel the weight of an arm draped across your stomach, the steady rise and fall of a chest pressed into your back, and the unmistakable warmth of taeyong’s body, still wrapped around you like a second skin.

his breath ghosts against your nape, slow and deep, and you realize he hasn’t let go of you all night. not once.

you smile.

when you turn your head just enough to see his face, it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. he’s peaceful like this—softer, younger somehow. his lashes rest against his cheeks, and his mouth is parted slightly, lips still swollen from all the kisses you gave him. his hand, large and warm, is splayed gently across your lower belly, protective and possessive in the same breath.

you reach down and lace your fingers with his.

as if he feels it, he stirs, humming sleepily against your skin. his nose nuzzles into your shoulder. “mmm… morning,” he mumbles, voice thick and low, still soaked in sleep.

you twist around slowly in his hold so you’re facing him. he blinks a few times, eyes still heavy, but when they focus on you, they soften in that way they always have—like you’re the center of his world and he’s been waiting all night just to see you again.

“you stayed,” you whisper, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

he smiles lazily, eyes fluttering shut again. “of course i did. where else would i go?”

you tuck yourself into his chest, your nose against his collarbone. “you feel so warm…”

his arms tighten around you instantly, drawing you closer until there’s no space between you. “you kept me warm first,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “i didn’t want to let go.”

you stay like that for a while. breathing together. existing.

and then you feel him shift, one hand still resting over your belly, thumb drawing lazy, absent-minded circles over the skin there. he hums, low in his throat. “do you think… do you think it worked?”

your breath catches.

you look up at him, searching his face. he’s watching you carefully now, no longer groggy, eyes wide open and impossibly tender.

“i don’t know,” you whisper. “maybe.”

he leans in, kisses your forehead. then your temple. then the spot just below your eye. “i kind of hope it did.”

you feel your throat tighten with emotion.

“you do?”

“mmhm,” he nods, nudging his nose against yours. “i kept thinking about it last night… the way you’d look months from now. the way i’d get to take care of you. rub your back. cook for you. kiss your belly every morning.”

you let out a small laugh, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“i’d be so annoying,” you murmur. “always crying. craving weird stuff. complaining about everything.”

he smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you’d be perfect. i’d love you more every day. and our baby… our baby would be lucky.”

you bury your face in his chest, overwhelmed by the sweetness of it. the certainty.

he strokes your back gently. “and if it didn’t happen this time… we try again,” he says softly. “no rush. no pressure. just us. just love.”

you pull back, tearful and smiling all at once. “you want to try again already?”

he grins, lips brushing your cheek. “i want to make love to you every morning for the rest of my life. but yes… also for the baby.”

you laugh, breathless, and he kisses the sound right out of you.

his hands start to wander again—slow, exploring, remembering. he murmurs against your lips, “can i stay inside you today too? just like this… all day?”

you nod, whispering, “don’t leave me empty.”

and he doesn’t.

he makes love to you again—this time slow and languid, under the weight of sunlight and morning warmth. he kisses your face like you’re already glowing. like you’re already carrying a part of him.

when he comes again, deep inside you, he doesn’t look away. he holds you through it. kisses your tears. whispers your name like a promise.

afterward, he pulls the blanket over your bodies, still tangled. still joined. he keeps his hand on your belly, and you both stay quiet, smiling softly.

as if the future is already there.

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bibli0thecary · 11 days ago

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i gave so many signs ౨ৎ

pairing: baker! joel miller x reader

In a world with no outbreak, Joel Miller runs a popular bakery—grumpy, flour-dusted, and way too serious about sourdough. His daughters, Sarah and Ellie, are either helping or causing chaos behind the counter.

Then there’s you—a stressed-out grad student who starts doing your thesis in his cozy café. You only came for the pastries… and the baker.

read more: baker! joller miller series

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

The car was quiet for exactly nineteen seconds after the bakery closed.

Then Sarah sighed—that kind of sigh, the long-suffering, dramatic kind she must’ve learned from him and said, “So. When are you going to ask her out?”

Joel grunted. “Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” Ellie chimed in from the backseat. “We’re tired of watching a love story that’s all soft looks and tragic longing. It’s giving sad divorced dad. You’re killin’ me.”

“I’m not—” he cut himself off, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “It ain’t like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” Sarah said. “Dad, come on. You made soup. For a girl. Who wasn’t even conscious enough to taste it.”

“I was worried,” he muttered.

“You closed the bakery.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“You cleaned her apartment.”

He sighed.

“You fluffed her pillows!”

“That’s just—decent,” he grumbled, turning the blinker on a little too aggressively. “What do you want from me?”

“We want you to stop acting like she’s just someone who sometimes buys scones.” Sarah crossed her arms. “You stare at her like she is everything. But you won’t do anything.”

Joel rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m too old for her.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ellie said. “You’re not eighty.”

“I’m forty-eight.”

“And she’s what? Late twenties? Big deal.” Sarah leaned forward, voice softening. “She doesn’t look at you like you’re old. She looks at you like you hung her moon.”

Joel’s jaw tightened.

“I got baggage,” he said. “You two. The bakery. My whole life is rooted. She’s just… passin’ through. Studyin’. Young. Got a future.”

“Maybe she wants that future to include you,” Sarah said, voice gentle.

“She deserves someone who ain’t so… tired.”

“You’re not tired when she’s around,” Ellie pointed out, kicking the back of his seat. “You smile more. You let me make cinnamon rolls without swearing.”

Joel looked at the road. Said nothing.

Because they weren’t wrong.

────୨ৎ────

One week later, things fall apart.

Joel was in the kitchen when it happened.

He heard your laugh first.

That easy, open laugh—the one you never used when you were sick or stressed or too deep in thesis mode. It was the kind you used when you were relaxed.

The kind that made him pause whatever he was doing.

He peeked through the kitchen window. Saw you near the pastry case, chatting with someone. A guy. Tall, younger than him, smiling wide. A stranger.

And then he saw it.

The man held out his phone.

You laughed again, a little flustered—but typed something in.

Joel’s chest went tight. Tight in a way that had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with fear.

You gave him your number.

In his bakery.

In the place where he made you scones without asking. Where you left your scarf last week and he kept it for you because it still smelled like your perfume. Where you once said, “This place feels like a second home.”

And now?

You were giving pieces of yourself to someone else.

His hands clenched around the edge of the counter.

He didn’t even realize Sarah had come into the kitchen until she said quietly, “You saw, didn’t you?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Ellie appeared too. “You okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, already scrubbing the counter too hard. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

Sarah sighed. “Because you waited too long.”

Ellie added, “Because you let her think you didn’t want her.”

Joel stared at the flour-streaked surface in front of him, white dust clinging to his knuckles.

And in his chest—where warmth used to bloom when you walked in, where laughter used to echo when you teased him, where quiet comfort used to sit soft and sacred—there was only silence.

He should’ve said something.

He should’ve asked you.

Now?

He might have to watch someone else do it.

In his damn bakery.

₊˚⊹♡

thank you for reading!

taglist: @lcvespedro @katwriteshardy @h3mm3tt @elizabeth4th @libraryofneith @mystickittytaco

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller au #the last of us #tlou #joel the last of us

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arabellasleopardcoat · 20 days ago

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One Thousand Ships (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: Epithets have a funny way of growing out of control. Thankfully, your husband has a way of seeing you for what you are, and not the myth attached to your name. Or, the nightmare of being coveted by a Targaryen Prince skips a generation or two, but you are never safe from it. Thank the Gods Cregan is more sensible.

A/N: Requested. In which you get to play Helen of Troy while being completely normal. Enjoy. (Blame my thesis advisor, who called me Molly Bloom. I am in a classic's mood)

Warnings: Mature language, period typical repression, mature themes. Canon typical violence. Lots of Cregan fluff.

YOU REMEMBER A story you had been told once, about a girl. A girl so beautiful, her father had made all those who vied for her hand promise they would aid her future husband in a possible war if they were not fortunate enough to marry her.

A girl whose beauty was enough to start a war, for come a few years later, a cruel, wicked man, had taken her from her home. And the bannermen had answered the call from the husband, and started a war so terrible, it must have lasted thirty years.

You had never been that girl. You weren’t beautiful enough to start a war, no, but you were beautiful enough to end it. Or perhaps, it had been the fact you had not been in the room when the terrible thing happened. Maybe that was enough for Aemond.

Your betrothal to him had come after weeks of tense negotiations, screaming matches, and near maiming between the two warring mothers. In the end, it had been your grandsire’s pleas for unity among the family what had settled the matter, deciding the two of you would wed before your next nameday.

For a few blessed days, it had seemed like war would be avoided. Your marriage to Aemond would sideline the biggest weapons of the Blacks and the Greens. Verminthor would not be able to go against Vhagar, the Greens had thought, when his rider was married to hers. The same logic had prompted the Blacks to agree to the betrothal.

In hindsight, it had been a doomed effort from the very start. Both sides had celebrated, thinking they were winning a hostage, yet who was winning in truth, only the Gods knew.

Not you, you now knew. You had been getting the shortest stick from the deal. You just hadn’t known.

It had all come crumbling down when your grandsire died.

You hadn’t been in the Red Keep, nor had Aemond been in Dragonstone when it happened. That had been the first mistake of the plan. The second? Aemond had grown too attached to the thought of wedding you.

As soon as your mother heard of Aegon’s coronation, the betrothal went out in flames. Secretly, you were relieved. Aemond had unnerved you when you had visited the capital. He was not the shy, kind boy you remembered, but a vicious man.

When you heard you were instead to go North, and wed Cregan Stark, your first thought had been that at least, if you had to choose, you preferred him. He was much kinder.

It was, of course, not the first thing anyone would think of Cregan Stark. Some would call him honorable, and some would call him cold. A truer King of Winter there had never been, for he had executed his uncle and sent his cousins to the Wall. Nor was there a man as oath bound as he, who had rallied his banners for your mother’s cause for a promise that hadn’t even been his.

So who was Cregan Stark? Honorable or cold and cruel? To your four-and-ten-year-old self, he was kind and brave when no one else had dared to be.

It had been your nameday and you had been terrified. You had never been one for being the center of attention, too self-conscious of your head of dark hair and brown eyes for it. When you were little, you had been the kind of girl who hid in her mother’s skirts, and was called adorable. You had grown up aware of everyone’s eyes on you, and did not like it, so you had learned all your curtsies and managed to behave politely enough to blend in with the crowd.

But there was a man who had never overlooked you. You were his favorite, much as Jace was Harwin’s and Luke was mother’s and Joff was Laenor’s. You were Viserys’.

So for your four and ten nameday, to mark your transition into womanhood, your grandsire had chosen to celebrate by throwing a ball with every single highborn in the realm in attendance.

No expense was spared. Your grandsire commissioned a beautiful blue gown for you, supposedly in the Velaryon colors. But the fabric is Arryn blue, and it looks suspiciously like one of the late Queen Aemma’s dresses. It was the most grown up dress you had ever owned.

Your mother had cried when she had seen you in it. Your grandfather had praised your beauty.

Despite how young you had been, you were already aware of the schism inside your family. You had grown up surrounded by cruel japes about your hair color and eyes, and how strong of a lady you were. And even if you had been blind to it, you also had the dubious pleasure of overhearing a row between Alicent and Viserys about this very feast.

You had been at the first fitting of the beautiful gown, and eager to show your grandfather, when you had heard them arguing about the prices of the silk.

“I will have no expense spared! It’s her four and ten nameday. She is blossoming into a young woman, she deserves to have a special celebration. Rhaenyra had one just like..”

“What about your other daughter, Viserys?” Alicent’s words, harsh and cold, had cut even you, who were eavesdropping from the hallway. Suddenly, it felt as if you had swallowed a block of ice. That intense was your dread.

Helaena had turned four and ten the year before, and her nameday had passed without any sort of celebration. An older you would think of this moment, and realize this was a pivotal moment for Alicent.

But at the moment, the only consequence that had mattered to you had been that Alicent had been spitting mad, and that she had forbidden either of her sons from asking you to dance. Or even approaching you.

She had let her displeasure be known, loudly, during the whole week leading up to your nameday, and when the music started playing during your feast, both Aegon and Aemond had remained firmly seated by their mother’s side.

No one else dared to ask you to dance. Not when you were sat at the right of the King, crowned by a circlet more proper for his heir than the second born of the Princess. You were too high ranked for a simple lord to come ask you for a dance, and the only men who were close to you remained either willfully sitting or blissfully oblivious.

You remained seated, feeling the minutes drag by, and so did everyone else in the hall. No one could take to the dance floor if the hostess herself did not open the dance. You betted that your mother had not had this sort of trouble in her youth. You didn’t even want to look at her, worried she might order your brother or her husband to take you for a spin. How embarrassing would that be!

Your face began to heat up, but you forced yourself to relax the tense line of your shoulders. The song was coming to an end. Jace looked at you, from across the table, and you resigned yourself to the embarrassment of dancing with your brother, for it would surely be worse to remain seated.

Yet, as he was starting to stand up, someone intervened. A boy appeared by your side, offering you a hand.

“A dance, my princess?” He was very tall, and surprisingly good-looking. His eyes were a deep, dark gray that looked almost black, and his jaw square. Despite being around your age, he had already shed all the awkwardness of adolescence, shoulders broad, and the barest hint of scruff in his cheeks, though he kept himself cleanly shaved.

He was dressed in less elaborate clothes than the rest of the guests, though no less expensive. A direwolf was embroidered on his doublet. Stark. A future Lord Paramount was nothing to scoff at, and by the superior look your mother was giving Alicent, she knew it.

“Of course.” You beamed at him, taking his hand. His was warm against yours, and slightly rough. Calloused.

“You look very beautiful tonight.” He offered, politely, as he led you around the room. “I like the color of your dress.”

“Velaryon blue.” Though that was being generous. The color was more of a faded light blue, closer to gray, that matched much more the Arryn’s coat of arms.

“We match.” And when he spins you, he lifts his arm, showing you his sleeve, in Stark gray.

“So it seems, my lord.” Then, more quietly, as he lifts you, making something flutter in your stomach, you whisper. “Thank you.”

“There is nothing to thank me for.” The boy smiles, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It makes an embarrassed flush come to your cheeks.

“You know there is. For the compliment and…” You lower your head, not wanting anyone to read your lips from a distance. But before you can voice anything more intimidating, the boy cups your jaw in his hand and softly tilts your face up, so you meet his eyes.

“There is no need to thank me for taking the chance to dance with a beautiful maid.” He says, no hint of dishonesty in his voice. “If any, I am thankful.”

“You are? Why?” You say, confused.

“That all these southrons are too cowardly to approach you.” You laugh, and he joins you, loud and clear. This is the memory you hold on to, when you begin your ride north, heart in your throat, and terrified of what Aemond might do next.

WHAT CREGAN REMEMBERS about you is not how good of a dancer you are, or how beautiful you had looked in your pale blue gown.

He remembers, instead, the day before, when his father and him had arrived to the capital. They had ridden hard and fast, racing each other with reckless abandon. They had left Winterfell with plenty of time to spare, but both of them loved horses and could never resist the thrill of a good hunt, or in this case, race.

Too much wolf’s blood, his mother had said when she still lived. Too much to keep still, too much for settling down.

Cregan doesn’t know it yet, but this is the last time he will get to have this sort of fun with his father. But currently, he is young, and wild, and still free of the burdens of lordship. So they race, and he runs, and they make it to the capital with two full days to spare.

On the second day, Cregan decides to go exploring. He has always been curious about dragons, having grown on the stories about Good Queen Alysanne, and her visit to the Wall. Of her beautiful dragon, Silverwing, and how she had refused to fly over it, fearful of what laid beyond it.

Being a Stark, and knowing the secret he knows, Cregan is convinced the dragons have to have some sort of superior intelligence. Or a way to sense magic. As a boy, he believed them to be able to sense evilness, but at the more mature age of four and ten, he now realizes they can stand evilness, otherwise Maegor would have never ridden Balerion.

So, he decides he must visit the dragonpit. It isn’t as straightforward as just walking up to it. The dragonkeepers won’t allow him to stay or visit the dragons if not authorized by some Targaryen.

“Ah, young Lord Stark.” The King says, when Cregan finally catches him, near the small council. He seems rather harried, what with overseeing the preparations for the feast, ruling, and his sickness. Cregan would feel bad about asking him, but he has seen neither hair nor hide from any other member of House Targaryen. The Queen and the Princess seem to be having a terrible row, and their respective households have wisely made themselves scarce. “I hear you wish to ask something of your King.”

“Your Grace,” Cregan bows, as straight as he can. His father has always said that poor posture makes one look like a sycophant instead of a man properly paying his respects. “If I may be so bold, yes. I wanted to see the dragonpit.”

“Most lords never wish to be near a dragon. Why, my own lady wife is terrified of them!” The King isn’t paying much attention, more preoccupied with deciding between two sets of cutlery that look nearly identical to Cregan. He gestures for a servant, and hands him one. “This one.”

“I… I have always enjoyed hearing stories about Good Queen Alyssane and my ancestor, Lord Alaric Stark.” And his words seem to be the right ones because King Viserys finally turns to look at him,

“Yes, stories about your ancestors. A noble pursuit for a young man. It will make you into a fine lord.” The King smiles at him. “You may visit Silverwing, if you so wish, from a distance. I wouldn’t have my granddaughter's nameday sullied by your death.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Cregan bows, and hurriedly exits the room, uncaring if his bow is a bit sloppy. He is meeting dragons today.

Cregan rides to the dragonpit. In there, the dragonkeepers eye them with suspicion, despite the guard that King Viserys had sent along with him to grant his permission. He is led to Silverwing’s enclosure, and the dragon is magnificent, honoring her name with wings made of a shimmering gray. He has heard she had once resided in the isle of Dragonstone, but it is no longer the case.

It unsettles him a bit, seeing her chained. It doesn’t seem right that a creature as regal as she is chained. Not when she blinks at him with what are clearly intelligent eyes.

Before he can have a stare-down with her, the dragonkeepers pull him back. Silverwing grows agitated, struggling with her chains. Has Cregan upset her?

“Worry not, Lord Stark. This happens every time….” One of the dragonkeepers yells, as they retreat into another cave and emerge in the center of the dragonpit once more.

“Every time? I read she was sweet-tempered.” At the look of disbelief in the dragonkeeper’s face, he quickly amends it. “For a dragon.”

“She is. But she worries when her mate parts from her.”

“Her mate?” The only response he gets is the dragonkeeper pointing towards a bronze dragon, as big as Silverwing, getting ready to take flight. Verminthor. The Bronze Fury.

Some other dragonkeepers are removing the chains from him, and he barely notices, enraptured by a small figure at his side. Cregan looks in their direction, curious. From this distance, he cannot tell if they are a her or a him. They wear riding leathers that render them almost shapeless. It is only when they get on the saddle, in an agile little jump, and their long braid sways, Cregan notices they are a woman.

A girl, more likely. Around his age, considering her lack of curves. She has to be strong, to be able to jump like that as if it were nothing. She looks impossibly tiny on her dragon’s back.

Cregan approaches slightly, as far as he dares. There is a barrier between him and the dragon, but he can still see clearly. When Verminthor takes flight, he expects to see a frightened expression on her face. He would be frightened if he were she.

Instead, her face only shows a fierce joy, teeth bared, braid whipping with the wind. Fearless, despite being only a tiny speck in the dragon’s back. Alight as she is, she is the most beautiful woman Cregan has ever seen.

Cregan will not think of you for many years, but when he does, Aemond’s obsession will seem reasonable. The girl atop the dragon, brave and fierce, is the sort to grow into a woman you start a war for.

THERE IS SOMETHING scary about a man’s obsession. Something scarier than deranged love letters, something that inches more into the realm of your husband’s lover murdered at your wedding. Something that begins with you liking the attention at first, and ends in nights spent looking at the ceiling, wondering if you had prompted him to do this terrible thing.

Your hands still shake when you think of it. You remember sitting with Daemon and your mother, through a tense meal after they quarreled during the council meeting, when the Maester had come rushing, face pale.

“A raven, for the Princess.” And you and your mother had attempted to rise, much to Daemon’s amusement. Then, your mother had remembered she was the Queen and sat back down. You had fought a smile then, unknowing of what was to come. “It’s… It’s a serious matter. I think all of you should read it.”

The three of you had sobered, and you had reached for the letter, confused when the Maester had passed you a small bag.

Then, you opened it, your mother reading over your shoulder, and both of you had stared at it in horror.

“What is it?” Daemon had said, impatiently opening the bag. Your mother fell to her knees. You howled.

On the floor, the pieces of one of Luke’s jerkins laid, bloodied.

“… I offer you the chance to finish this senseless quarrel. Come back to King’s Landing. Honor our betrothal. Swear fealty to the true King and make your mother… Bah!” Daemon had yelled, grabbing the letter and angrily throwing it to the hearth.

But instead of agreeing, your mother’s expression remained pensive. Daemon and you exchanged a glance.

“Nothing has changed.” You said, voice firm. Despite it, you could feel your nerves threatening to choke you. What if your mother was thinking of doing as Aemond said? You knew she would never allow him to live, not after Luke, but you also knew that now that she was Queen, and she was looking to preserve the decades of peace she had inherited from your grandfather. She had to think of more than just what would please her. Even if revenge would please her much more. “We knew this was a possibility, that Aemond would insist on honoring the betrothal. Was it not the very reason I did not ride out as my brothers did?”

It had been. Your mother and you had argued fiercely over it, but at last, she had convinced you of the dangers of capture and the need to keep Verminthor, the biggest dragon the Blacks had, close by.

“Nothing has changed.” Daemon agreed, his face showing how troubled he was at your mother’s blank expression. If he, who had known her since she was a little girl, couldn’t decipher her thoughts, there were reasons to worry. “Except for the fact that you might have to ride North sooner than expected.”

“Sooner?” Your mother echoes, hands turned into fists. You can tell she is burning with anger. You wonder if her tears have frozen, as yours seem to have. Your horror is too great. You do not dare look at the scraps of fabric laying on the floor.

Had Luke told Aemond the betrothal no longer stood? Used that fact to taunt him?

Had it been your fault?

“I do not wish to face Vhagar here. Nor brave the attempts to kidnap her. We need to move her out of his sphere of influence. Right now, as she is, she is useless. A liability. As long as she is here, they will keep trying to get in. We cannot risk it.”

At that, your mother begins to cry in earnest.

You would never know the answer to your questions. They had died with Luke, and you didn’t intend to be around to ask them to Aemond.

“It’s decided, then. I ride North in the morrow.”

“I’ll toast to that.” Daemon agrees, lifting a goblet. “May you win us a full army, with that face of yours. Whatever enchantment you put on that Targtower, let us hope it works on wolves too.”

Your mother laughs. It echoes, a hollow sound in the dining room.

THE EVENING THE princess is supposed to arrive, Cregan is miserable. He has spent the last two days placating his lords, and is in no mood to placate you. Yet, he knows someone has to tell you, and no one is better suited for the job than your betrothed.

You make your entrance in the back of Verminthor, the myth of your beauty leaving Cregan wholly unprepared for the woman who rides him. You are not a Valyrian Empress come to life, nor are you closer to a goddess than a woman. Instead, on his gardens stands a normal woman, dressed in beautiful finery, and riding a dragon, but normal nonetheless.

It isn’t what he had pictured at all, and it throws him a bit off balance. It is probably why he dares approach Verminthor, slowly, and help you dismount.

Cregan feels a vague amount of fear, like one does when faced with staring down a cliff’s edge, or at seeing knights joust. He is too numb and underwhelmed to feel anything more. His mind is slow, still stuck on the fact that you are not some otherworldly beauty that leads men into madness, and hence, perceives you as a normal lady needing help to dismount.

“There has been a decree.” He starts, without even introducing himself. Cregan might still be shocked by how normal you look, but he is not dumb enough to startle the dragon, so he reaches slowly for your waist. It is good that he rids himself from this fear, he rationalizes. If he is about to live with a dragon, he cannot eat him, “From Prince Aegon.”

You smile at him, not out of genuine happiness, but politely enough. One of your hands goes to his shoulder, steadying yourself. Cregan can smell the subtlest hint of the perfume you have applied to your wrists, and it makes him wish he could bury his nose against your pulse point. By the Gods, you smell divine. Good enough to eat.

“What does it say?” You ask, and there is something in your manner, something so unique, so bewitching, Cregan understands why this mythos has grown around you, making you into a figure larger than life.

“That you are betrothed to Prince Aemond, his heir.” Cregan cannot help himself, his lips begin to form a smirk against his will. There is no humor in it, only bared teeth and wolf. He hates when someone dares stake a claim on something that is his. He hates even more being made to look the fool.

One only has to look at what happened to Bennard Stark to know it.

Your face, kind and sweet, takes a sharp dive towards confusion. There is some rage against Aemond in your expression, but you mostly look puzzled, brows furrowed together, mouth half open.

“His heir?"

And telling you would be distasteful, yet again, so it is marrying another man’s betrothed. Cregan isn’t about to let it stop him.

“Apparently, your mother or stepfather ordered the murder of a child.” Cregan lifts you slightly, aiding you make your way down to the floor. Standing on the snow, you look surprisingly small.

“Ah.” You tilt your head to the side. You pat your dragon’s back, as if telling him to settle, and the great beast takes off. Your expression remains carefully blank.

“And there is more. The High Septon has said that any man who doesn’t marry under the light of the Seven will be excomulgated, the marriage null.” Cregan adds. That had been the truly enraging news for his lords, who despised any southern trying to tell them what to do.

At that, though, your demeanor changes. Your shoulders lower, as if protecting yourself, and you pull back. You remind him oddly of an animal caught in a hunter’s trap, ready to bite off its own leg to free himself.

“Alicent.” You mutter, rattled. “They knew where I was headed. A spy?”

“Or common sense. I am close to your age and far enough that they would never get you. I suppose we will be very happy being heathens together.” Cregan offers you his arm, and you take it, laughing a little. You still seem fearful, but it is a start.

“Daemon will love it.” You smile, as the both of you advance towards Winterfell. “He married my mother in the Valyrian tradition.”

“My lords are in an uproar. They intend to see the wedding through if only to spite those… cunts.” Cregan isn’t one to speak so crassly out loud, not to a lady he has just met, but he has an inkling that it might make you feel more at ease.

He is right. You tilt your head back and let out a loud laugh, attracting the eyes of all of those in the courtyard. When happy, you light up, going from ordinary girl to extraordinary. Suddenly, Cregan sees it. You are as beautiful as a woman as you were as a young maiden. And it was this beauty, this presence that would rally the northerns behind you, not the beauty of your physical vessel.

Men had loved King Viserys, because they had seen themselves in him. They, too, suffered from ailments, they too, had wives who never smiled and daughters that were the light of their lives. They felt his guilt, his fear, his hopes. They loved his beautiful daughter, the Realm’s Delight, and they loved his first granddaughter, the Winter Princess.

“Then we marry soon.” You decide, and Cregan smiles. He knows he can make this work. Your myth would launch a thousand ships, and your charisma would keep the northerns strong in their oaths.

“As my Princess commands.”

YOU HAD A complicated relationship with desire. As a young girl, free from the confines of your reputation as the most beautiful woman in the realm, you had thought it to be something not quite real. Something that the writers of the novels you were not supposed to read because they were not age appropriate, made up to add spice to them.

Desire, you thought to yourself, was something out of romance stories, and not something that happened in real life. Your early years had been spent looking at two people who loved each other, yet you never saw your mother and Ser Laenor exchange charged glances or anything more than friendly touches.

Then, Lady Laena and Ser Harwin had died. And you had discovered that desire was a destructive force, that consumed everything it touched. Not in a good way. In the most terrible one. Taking away fathers and mothers who dared want things. Then, Ser Laenor had died, and Daemon was wed to your mother, confirming you that desire was an evil, terrible force.

When you had flowered, you had forced yourself to avert your eyes from all the boys around you. You never dared look at any pages, nor to your uncles or any young lord, less that terrible feeling poisoned you from the inside out and led you into disgrace.

Disgrace, Alicent said, was the circumstance of your birth. You did well by not imitating the promiscuous ways of your mother, and not bringing dishonor to your name. Perhaps your obsession with never, ever, having a lustful or dishonorable thought had been what had caught her attention and made her argue so vehemently in favor of betrothing you to Aemond.

And yet, for all your avoidance, you could not beat nature forever. It was known that bastards were supposed to be treacherous, lustful creatures, and you weren’t foolish enough to believe your dark hair came from your non-existent Baratheon heritage.

The first time you had ever desired a man had been the day after your nameday feast. Most of the guests were too deep in their cups, or busy nursing the aftereffects of a night of revelry and indulgence, so you had decided it was the perfect time to go for a ride without anyone gawking at you.

If there was something you despised, it was to be gawked at. And lately, it happened way too often. You no longer were a child, who was by that very fact protected from the poisonous whispers at court. Now, you were a Lady, and hence, fair game for all the snakes residing in the Red Keep.

As you had been walking on the courtyard, you had seen him. Lord Stark. The kind boy who had danced with you when no one else would, and had turned what could have been a miserable night into one that had made you feel truly special.

His back was turned to you. He held a heavy practice sword, much bigger than the one Jace used when training. He was clearly proficient with it, his form much more precise than your brother’s. His tunic clung to his upper body thanks to the sweat, and highlighted his muscles.

Mesmerized, you stopped in your tracks, simply watching him run his drills. There was a strange feeling in your stomach, something warm and sirupy, that nestled there and set you alight, yet left you confused with how unfamiliar it was.

Then, he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, exposing his defined stomach and the trail of dark hair that led down to his breeches, and you could finally put a name to it. Your cheeks began to heat up, your eyes widened. And you stood there, as if struck by lighting, as the terrible, evil feeling bloomed in your chest. Desire.

You had not forgotten that memory. Not years after, when Aemond’s desire threatened your very life, and not right now, when you feel the eyes of Cregan’s lords on you, and hear them mutter about how they are about to find out soon enough why they called you the most beautiful woman in the realm.

THE DAMN SONG begins playing after the main course is served, and Cregan can feel you freeze next to him. You have eaten little to nothing since your arrival, face set into a grim determination that reminds him too much of himself after learning of his uncle’s betrayal. But when The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown begins playing, your spoon freezes on its way to your mouth.

His men are impatient. They had been told tales of your beauty ever since hearing of your betrothal to Cregan, the myth around you building and building with each desperate attempt made by the Kinslayer and his family to stop this very wedding. No man would go to such lengths for a woman unless he loved her madly. And why would a man love a woman such, if not for her otherworldly beauty?

When faced with the fact that you were comely enough, but common, they had decided there had to be something under all those clothes that had driven Prince Aemond to insanity. And they decided, apparently, to see for themselves.

Had you not been so frightened, Cregan would have allowed it to go on. When he had married Arra, she had gleefully partaken in the bedding, even joining the group of women tearing at his clothes. Arra… The thought of his first night as a wedded couple made Cregan’s heart ache. He shook his head, attempting to clear it.

There would be no such a thing happening tonight. For starters, the conditions of that night had been much different. Arra had been a northern woman, and had known most of those inside the hall her whole life. None would have dared disrespect her, and their interest had been vague, knowing she was to be the woman of their lord.

You were a stranger, and the guests were a mob waiting to pounce on you, far too interested in divesting you of your clothes. Arra would have punched anyone who dared touch her inappropriately. Because she could. Her station was different from yours. A Princess wasn’t afforded the liberties a woman from the mountain clans was.

As a foreigner, you didn’t have the respect from his lords that Arra had enjoyed. It didn't matter that your dowry was bigger than the one any other maiden could boast about, including a giant dragon sleeping just outside. Northerns distrusted outsiders, and you would have to earn their respect not by your prowess as a dragonrider, but as Lady of Winterfell.

Cregan knew if he allowed them to grope you now, they would never respect you. And you would never forgive him, frightened out of your mind as you were. You needed to feel safe, after spending the last moon feeling everything but.

He gets up from his seat, and raises a hand to silence the hall. His lords obey immediately, even the drunker ones. The minstrels take a bit longer, but they, too, fall into line.

“The Princess is in mourning.” Cregan says, voice firm. “There will be no bedding tonight. My wife and I will retire to our shared chambers, and that will be all.”

“But, my lord, the tradition…”

“Such tradition was born in the South. And we are not southrons.” Cregan glares at the man that dared speak. “We did not wed under their Faith, nor do their laws hold any sway here. I will not let them dictate what I do between the sheets either.”

And at that, there is some laughter and cheers. Cregan smiles to himself. Trust the northern pride to get him out of difficult situations.

He sits back down, and gestures for the music to resume, and for everyone to go back to eating. The musicians start again, with a much more appropriate rendition of The Winter Maid.

You look at him, dark eyes wide.

“Thank you.” You whisper to him, voice pitched low.

“There is no need to thank me. We do not frighten women here in the North.” A flash of pain crosses your face, perhaps thinking of the pain you have endured thanks to this blasted war. Carefully, giving you ample time to move away, he places his hand on top of yours. “No one will hurt you under my roof. No one. Much less me.”

You bow your head, half shy, half coy. When your gaze lifts to meet his, Cregan is struck once more by how beautiful you look when you smile.

When the time comes for both of you to retire, Cregan tucks you firmly by his side, an arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders. He keeps his steps hurried, avoiding the lords who have had too much to drink and glaring at the ones who are sober. He manages to reach his chambers without anyone attempting to grope you, though the cheers and vulgar remarks cannot be avoided.

Once inside, you let out a loud sigh, shoulders loosening, before you take one look at the bed and freeze again.

“I won’t take what isn’t freely given.” Cregan tells you, sitting down on it to take his boots off. “I have no need of it. I have my heir.”

“I… I want to.” You whisper, softly. Your face grows a deep, dark red. “But I can’t. Not tonight.”

And Cregan smiles at you.

“Not tonight.” He agrees, easily. Only fools live of hope, he thinks, but most men turn into fools when in your presence. He can forgive himself for it. “But someday.”

You blow the candle on your bedside, and Cregan does the same in his. In the absolute darkness of his chambers, he can hear the soft rustle of clothes as you undress, taking off the cloak he had wrapped you in and the wedding gown. As he works on taking off his tunic, he imagines how lovely you must look, flushed and shy as you remove your clothing, baring your soft skin to the night’s air.

The thought of getting into bed with you, half naked, makes his groin throb. He has to think of many unpleasant things to calm himself, as he lies down on the bed. The mattress dips, suddenly, and Cregan can hear your letting out a nervous sigh.

You begin struggling to find a comfortable position to lay on the bed, trying to touch him as little as you can. Occasionally, Cregan can feel the brush of a foot or an elbow. The bed is not so big, after all.

Yet, he remains laying still and silent for what feels like an eternity. Only when you settle, miles away from him, the sounds of merriment still coming from outside the chamber, does Cregan reach out.

“Wife.” He whispers, as one might whisper a prayer.

And your reply by reaching out a hand to touch his, a bit slick from your nerves, but soft and smooth in his calloused ones.

“Husband.” There is such want in your tone, that Cregan wonders who taught you to make yourself small, so others could feel big. Who taught you to hide who you were, what you yearned for. He wishes he could go meet them and punch them right on the mouth.

No one would ever dare utter an unkind word to you here. Cregan would make sure of it.

“It isn’t wrong to want.” He tells you, as he gathers you in his arms. You tense at first, but come morning, you are cuddling him back.

“A LETTER HAS arrived.” The Maester announces, his face grave. Your stomach twists. For a second, you are back in Dragonstone, dining with your mother and Daemon. Opening the letter that will tell you of Luke’s death in the worst possible manner.

It makes you sick. Sick enough that nausea blooms and you are forced to rush out of the hall and end up throwing up on an empty flowerpot. As you retch, you can hear footsteps after you. The Maester and Cregan, no doubt, have followed you outside after your hurried exit.

You feel a vague embarrassment over being seen in such a way, but it is quickly tempered by the relief of feeling a cold hand bracing your forehead and another holding your hair back. Cregan. You would weep with relief, were it not the fact you are too busy emptying your stomach.

When you finally cease your retching, Cregan hands you a handkerchief to wipe your mouth, polite as always.

“Are you alright?” He asks you, and when you nod, shakily, he takes your arm and turns towards the Maester.. “Come, join us. You can tell us of the letter while we take a walk through the gardens.”

You allow Cregan to steer you towards the exit. Perhaps he is right, and the cold air might do you good. Soothe your nerves. Besides, staying in the hall was only reminding you of that terrible night. A different setting might make it easier to bear.

The Maester looks startled. Spooked. It only confirms the acid brewing in your stomach that these are bad news. The bile threatens to overwhelm you and makes you gag again. You cover your mouth with your hand.

“If the Princess is pregnant, it would be best if she didn’t…” The Maester starts, yet he is sharply interrupted by Cregan.

“She isn’t. Now read the letter.” Both of you turn to stare at him, at the fury in his expression, so out of character for your husband. He has never been one for such displays of temper, his anger much colder and harder to provoke than with simple words.

You know you are not pregnant. Here is a secret: To this date, Cregan and you have yet to consummate your marriage. Not for a lack of desire on his part, or even in yours, but thanks to how fearful you are of your own wants. Cregan has been endlessly patient with you, never once pressuring you, and slowly, you had been conquering your fears.

Now, the two of you could kiss for hours, with clumsy devotion full of promises that couldn’t yet be fulfilled. No longer did you tremble out of inherited superstitions that told you that loving each other would be courting misfortune. Instead, you shook from desire and pleasure, from each of his attempts to approach you, hands searching and retreating like waves. Slowly, each of your anxieties was being replaced with unashamed wantonness, and each of your fears with soft caresses only Cregan could give you.

He often told you there was no hurry, that the two of you could love each other at the pace you needed. With one heir already, Cregan had the luxury of waiting. And he was such an honest man, each time he reassured you that he wasn’t mad at you and wished to only make you happy, you believed him.

Hence, he couldn’t be angry at what he perceived to be a dig at his manhood or his inability to bed you. What bothered him was something else.

“I am not pregnant, Maester.” You say, squeezing Cregan’s arm to comfort him. “Just, the last time I heard those words…”

“It is something similar, I am afraid.” The Maester offers the letter to you, and you grasp it. The first thing you notice is that it is addressed to you and not Cregan. The second is that you know this handwriting.

My dearest Princess,

It is with great concern I read of your union to that savage. But fear not. If you come South, and your mother surrenders, I shall forgive your transgression. To avoid sullying your reputation any further, I encourage you to not dare consummate it. Your marriage is not a marriage in truth, you have been deceived. The Faith of the Seven doesn’t recognize such a thing. I shall free you and restore your honor, wedding you under the true light of the gods.

If the brute that is holding you doesn’t let you go, I, Prince Aemond Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, rider to Vhagar….

“What a cunt.” Cregan says, reading over your shoulder the numerous threats made to his person. “I dare him to try.”

It startles a laugh out of you, even if a few tears run down your cheeks.

“Promise me to not go South?”

“My men shall march, but not I. Not without you.” Cregan whispers, brushing your tears away with his thumb. “I am not foolish enough to believe myself able to face Vhagar without a dragon by my side.”

“Good.” You smile at him. Suddenly, everything doesn’t seem as bad. You trust his ability to keep you safe, to keep his oaths. And it makes something delicate and warm fill your chest.

It doesn’t make you forget about his fit of temper, though. You ruminate on it all day, as you go through your tasks. When night comes and Cregan kisses you with more desperation than usual, you have your answer.

“I do not want to lose you.” He whispers, holding you tight against him as if you were about to turn into melted snow and slip between his fingers at any time. “I want you to stay here. Forever.”

You hug him back, tightly. It hadn’t been about masculinity, or a perceived slight. His first wife, Arra, had died in childbirth.

“I am not going anywhere.” You tell him. “Aemond will not get me, nor will childbirth. My mother has given birth seven times, six of them without any danger.”

“We don’t need more children.” Cregan grumbles, sounding like a whining child. You look up at him, splayed over his chest as you are, and smile.

“No, we don’t.” You agree. Once, you had thought you needed to have his child to secure a place at his side, but no longer do. Perhaps it would be good to have one in case Cregan dies, to ensure you do not get sent back south, yet you do not intend that to happen. You will protect him until your death.

Any man trying to kill him will find himself face to face with Verminthor. He has grown lazy here, the exercise might even do him good.

“You needn’t worry, husband.” You say, as you begin to kiss a path down his neck. “There is always moontea.”

And Cregan laughs, and it is the loveliest sound you have ever heard.

“TODAY’S LESSON…” The Septa braces herself, trying not to cry out at the sudden turn of the wheelhouse. Northern roads are like that, she will soon learn. Unfortunately, Arya thinks, she has yet to give up on educating them.

Arya hopes it happens soon. She is much more interested in playing with Needle, rather than listening to her prattle about proper behavior and ancient history.

“I know that story!” Sansa interrupts the Septa, excitedly. It makes Arya pay attention again because Sansa never interrupts their Septa. “It’s so romantic! The dance of the dragon started because they were fighting over her. The Winter Princess. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, betrothed to Prince Aemond by her evil relatives when everyone knew her true love was Lord Cregan!”

“That’s not how…” The Septa starts, and for what has to be the first time in her life, Arya agrees with her.

“Father!” Arya shrieks. “Tell her that is not how it happened.”

Her father doesn’t answer. It is a rare day in which he chooses to ride in the wheelhouse, and by the look on his face, he seems to be regretting it.

“All the songs say so!”

“That it started because of her?” Arya says, in an acid tone. She blows a raspberry in Sansa’s direction, loud and disrespectful. “You are a fool. I think her mother was more worried about the fact Aemond had murdered her son. And that the Greens were usurping her.”

“If she had married Prince Aemond, there would have been no Dance of the Dragons.” Sansa corrects, smugly. “They say Aunt Lyanna was her very image.”

“Nonsense! My aunt was a Stark, the Winter Princess a Targaryen.” Arya contradicts. “Besides, if I had a dragon, I wouldn’t want to marry some boorish prince either.”

“But Aunt Lyanna must have been the most beautiful woman in Westeros too.” Sansa protests, looking very upset by Arya’s words.

Her father flinches.

“Enough. I do not want to hear another word about the Winter Princess or dragons, or Cregan Stark.”

“But father, Lord Cregan and her were the most influential….”

“I said enough, Sansa!”

The wheelhouse falls silent after that. Even the Septa shuts up. Arya looks at the scenery pass her by and thinks it’s lovely to be right. She sends a few superior glances to Sansa, less she forgets it.

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ink-stained-clouds · 1 month ago

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Things coming up in life

Thesis prospectus draft due

Conference (scary! If anyone has tips pls share 🥺)

A quick visit home with family

Cherry blossoms in bloom! 🌸

Wishing everyone the gentlest of springs

#studyblr #studyspo #am studying #study motiviation #college studyblr #study inspiration #study inspo #grad studyblr #grad studies #gradblr

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samuelsdean · 1 year ago

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Stay With Me

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: "you’ve been shot countless times, huh?” “that sounded a bit more reassuring in my head.”

genre: angst & fluff

word count: 1.1k

author's notes: almost a year of no writing, but i'm finally home (i posted a new fic)! it's been one hectic year for me. uni was crazy & i started my clinical rotations. plus, i did my thesis & it even got a distinction mark so i'll be presenting it at a research congress pretty soon (yay!). with that, i'm really sorry for ghosting ao3 & tumblr. i couldn't find the time to insert it in between uni & breaking down lol. anyway, i'll be posting a lot more while i'm on break. i hope you'll enjoy reading my first fic after a year of zzz. have fun!

YOU CAN HEAR SIRENS AND PEOPLE SHOUTING.

They say when you are knocking on death’s door, hearing is the last of your senses you will lose. If you’re dying, you don’t know it. Nothing makes sense at the moment. It’s all just blurry hues of blues and reds and shouting—Stay with me—the smell of something metallic. The only thing you’re sure of right now is that your head hurts and it seemed like a van ran right through you with how achy your body feels right now.

Who’s that? You mused. Why are they yelling at me? I’m right here. You turned your head slightly and tried to open your eyes.

It’s quite the task.

“T-That’s it,” The person, whom you think was yelling at you, said. “Stay with me, Y/N. Don’t close your eyes.”

You groaned and gripped the person's hand tightly as if to stand up, but you couldn't. Everything ached. And the person holding you, just kept on talking, their voice a low murmur at first. But even through the haze of pain, it was starting to sound familiar. You recognized that dulcet tone, the rich, smooth sound that could captivate your attention with random facts or lull you to sleep with equal ease.

The voice, you realized with a flicker of a smile, belonged to Spencer, its familiar cadence a warm current cutting through the blossoming pain.

“Reid?” You croaked.

Your throat’s dryer than any other desert in existence right now. And you sound worse than you look—you think—you don’t know for sure, except the fact that you can’t move much.

“It’s me,” Spencer chuckled while sniffling. “I’m right here.”

“What’s going on?”

Even through the haze of pain, a new wave of discomfort bloomed in your shoulder, sharp and insistent. Before you could react and get up, Spencer's hand tightened on yours, his voice laced with a tremor you'd never heard before. "Don't move, Y/N. You've been shot."

He applied pressure on your wound—which you just noticed. The pain hit you in a delayed wave, a white-hot stab that stole your breath. You hissed a weak sound that did little to mask the spike in your heart rate.

"Stop moving or you're gonna bleed out even more!" Spencer's voice, usually so calm and collected, was laced with a raw panic you'd never heard before.

"Easy there, tiger," you tried to joke, your voice raspy. "I've been through worse. I’ve been shot countless times. W-why are you so worried?"

The question came out in a shaky whisper, the concern evident in his voice a stark contrast to the usual intellectual debates you shared.

Spencer's grip tightened, momentarily cutting off your circulation. "Because you could have died, Y/N!" he snapped, his voice cracking with a choked sob. "You… you were…"

He trailed off, unable to put into words the terrifying image that had flashed before him when he saw you collapse, after hearing the sound of a bullet whizzing by and hitting you.

The sight of your vulnerability stripped away his usual composure, leaving a raw fear he couldn't conceal. It took him a moment to regain his composure, his voice softening as he continued, "You shouldn't be so glib about this. It was a nasty shot, close to a major artery."

Despite the pain, a warmth bloomed in your chest. You'd never seen Spencer like this, so shaken and afraid.

"Okay," you murmured, forcing a weak snicker. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, at least I got you to patch me up, right, Dr.Reid?"

A ghost of a smile glinted across his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Hold still," he mumbled, amused but also bothered at your dreadful timing for jokes. He applied pressure more gently this time. "You’ve been shot countless times, huh?”

“That sounded a bit more reassuring in my head” You quipped.

A bit lightheaded from the pain, you clutched Spencer’s hand. The shriek of approaching sirens and the glare of headlights cut through the haze. You struggled to focus on the lifeline thrown in a storm of confusion.

"They're here," Spencer said, his voice tight. A sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead, a stark contrast to his usual cool composure.

"About time," you rasped, trying to lighten the mood. The effort cost you a fresh wave of dizziness, the world tilting slightly on its axis.

To which, Spencer shot you a look that was half-annoyed, half-worried. "Don't try to be a hero. You're losing a lot of blood. Any movement can dislodge the clot forming in your wound, renewing the bleeding. So, stop moving!"

"Just keeping things interesting," you mumbled, the words slurring slightly. “Wouldn’t want my last moments here on earth to be so grim…”

Spencer's jaw clenched for a moment, then he sighed, the sound heavy with relief. "You always were a pain," He muttered, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You’re going to be okay, he thought.

The sirens reached a fever pitch, pulling up right beside you. A flurry of activity erupted as paramedics swarmed, the rest of the team trying to make sure you were tended to and that you were going to be okay, their movements a bit panicked but practiced, and efficient. Relief washed over you, a sweet wave that threatened to pull you under.

"Hold on, Y/N," Spencer said, his voice desperate despite the composure of his words. He kept his hand pressed firmly on your wound, his touch a grounding anchor in the chaos. “Help is here. Everyone’s here. Just… stay with me, okay?"

"Going somewhere," you slurred, your eyelids drooping.

"No, you're not," he said fiercely, his voice barely a whisper above the shouts of the paramedics. "You're coming with us."

You coughed a sharp rasp that sent a jolt of pain through your shoulder. "Stats say shoulder wounds aren't usually fatal," you wheezed, trying to distract yourself from the ache.

Spencer's hand stilled for a moment, looking at you like you’ve grown a second head. "What?"

"Yeah," you continued, your voice weak but persistent. "L-look, I get it, you're scared. But statistically, shoulder wounds aren't as serious..." Your voice trailed off as a wave of nausea washed over you.

"Maybe you shouldn't be reciting medical statistics right now," Spencer said sharply, his voice laced with a hint of panic.

“S-shouldn’t that be my line, boy genius?” You continued to joke, as the world dissolved into a scramble of flashing lights and blurry faces.

The last thing you registered was the feel of Spencer's hand tightening around yours, his touch a silent promise that resonated louder than any siren.

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godblooded · 3 months ago

Text

“you might be the first person to listen to me when i talk. so that statement is both a first and deeply appreciated.” she’s absolutely too used to being brushed off by colleagues. it’s much more typical for her, after all, to being ignored or, her personal favorite, having all her victories ascribed to someone else. it’s maddening, but it’s become the status quo. and then there’s henley. she catches a wrist softly, drawing one of her gloved hands from a pocket, leather touching only to direct a palm to her lips for a kiss. she warms to it infinitely, and henley’s infectious joy touches her deeper than she can express. “that’s sweet of you. saccharine, honestly. i do my best.” she doesn’t know she’d ever call herself wonderful. her looks are of random consequence, but if she’s wonderful for being herself, she’ll take that. “i’m always happy to give you guys a lesson. before i ended up embroiled with the freakishly — and i mean freakishly — illegal, i was a professor. i had a little plaque with my name outside my office and everything.” it seems like a lifetime ago, but she wouldn’t go back to a world without henley, one routine and void of vibrance. it’s to return to being without purpose. “at least none of you will try to work in how to write your thesis on my ex. teenagers can be so charming.” youth, truly, she thinks, is wasted on the young.

“your looks are the only reason you are not easy to dunk on. but i think regardless of all things, there’s something magic about you that makes it a little more difficult.” and she can admit that. the good doctor isn’t one for pride — never has been. mama told her young and she always understood it would not keep her warm at night, pride doesn’t love you. she softly presses palm above a heart, leans to kiss ever so like it’s given and bestowed at once. “i’ve never been good at running. for one, the hip is a factor. have you ever tried to run with a cane you need? and a limp? “It might be an impulse, but it doesn’t suit me.” she only knows how to give her entire heart, whole. “the smartest move that you ever made was putting me in your pocket.” hands find spots in henley’s own pockets, comfortably. “and you in mine, honestly. But I’m not the con artist. just a profiler.”

#ic. dr. bloom.#threads. dr. bloom.#[yes yes yes and yes but thank you always for the refresh since it’s been a minute. i remember henley because I watched the movie FOR her #lmfao unironically my isla stan ass was SAT the second she got announced in that. heist flicks are my bread and butter. double if they #involve a quirky specialty team. we love this incredible duo so much. Alana’s so chill with Henley and I die at how flippant she is when #she’s comfortable. ‘a thesis on my ex’ (the ex she means is HANNIBAL THE CANNHBAL). but like how else do you cope??? lmfao. this poor old #grandpa alana truly is. every year she thinks the next generation is more and more inappropriate and a little more unstable.]#v: dr. bloom: 24 karat magic.

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cryptidghostgirl · 1 year ago

Note

Hey so uhh, it said requests are open so I'm gonna shoot my shot ig. I have this fic idea but I'm a shit writer so here it goes.

Alastor x reader but the concept is that the reader is Alastor's shadow.

Now, hear me out: Alastor is said to be a powerful demon since his manifestation in hell, we know that it takes demons quite some time to accumulate their power before they become overlords.

If "The Radio demon" was an alias was that operated between more that one person, then it would make sense as to why and how he rose to the top very quickly (assuming we ignore the fact he made a deal with someone).

That and Alastor's black appendages and shadows seem out of theme for a demon who's primary power is based on Radio.

As for how they met, it could go two ways. Either with Alastor, a man hungry for power, strikes his first deal with Shadow!Reader to get them to do his bidding. Or Shadow!Reader offering Alastor their services after realizing that he has a lot of potential. Either way, their partnership blooms into a sort of kinship between the two of them.

Do with this concept whatever you want with it, I just wanna get this concept out in the world in the hands of someone much more capable of writing than I am.

Enjoy!

A/N please always shoot your shot. this is such a fun idea,, thank you so much for entrusting it to me. I've decided just to write their meeting for now but may continue it later on. I hope you like it!!

The Thing (Alastor x Gn!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Mention of cannibalism and the Donner party. I think that is it.

Word Count: 1,752

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Click here and leave a comment if you want to be added to any taglists or send me an ask about it.

There was a secret, one that no one knew, one that would tear the demon realm apart at its edges if anyone found out. The illusive Radio Demon and his shadow were, in fact, just that: the illusive Radio Demon and his shadow.

Y/n was master of the immaterial, shifting forms and shedding skins the way others change their clothes. When Alastor arrived in Hell, they had long since been established as one of the many demons to be aware of.

Rumor runs rampant everywhere but especially in Hell where in controls, combines, and divides. Y/n was just that, a rumor. Never the same face twice, never in the same place twice. No one even knew their name, simply referring to them as the thing or the hunger. They snatched sinner's souls from their grasps and devoured them whole. An urban legend, a ghost story only here, all the ghosts were real.

Alastor was as observant in death as he had been in life, it didn't take him long to catch sight of the shadow. Though he had only been in Hell a few days when it had first appeared, he could tell it had nefarious intent.

The thing was a good actor, almost good enough to fool him. It lay in the reality of his own shadow, following his moves perfectly. However, no one is perfect and every once in a while, there would be a little slip. The first one which had caught Alastor's attention was when he had taken a step forward and it had gone the wrong way, quickly righting itself and following after the mistake.

Alastor pretended not to have noticed, but he remembered. He lay in wait for another such occurrence. It was not until two days later, when his shadow gave him four hands rather than two with no apparent explanation such as an odd angle to the sun or another body near him, that his thesis was confirmed. There was, in fact, something following him.

It stuck like glue to the heels of his shoes. Alastor was quiet, Alastor schemed. He had trapped it in a pure white room which he had fixed lightbulbs in from all sides. When he had turned on the lights, he had turned on them, arms crossed and foot tapping expectantly.

The shadow had looked this way and that, searching for a place to hide. When they realized it was no use, they had pulled themselves from the floor into three dimensions and faced him head on.

"Who are you?" Alastor had asked before quickly reevaluating his question, "What are you?"

It moved like liquid in the air, twisting and dissolving at its edges. Bubbles, or what was almost bubbles, what looked like bubbles, rose to the surface of it's body and as they popped, a demon began to take the shadow's place.

"I am everything."

They were many voiced. When they spoke, it sounded like a crowd of people saying the same thing in unison. Alastor stared at the demon, unamused. They were a full person now, about a head shorter than him and seemingly very calm considering he had them trapped. Then again, Alastor had only been in Hell a few weeks by this point, not nearly enough time to work up the sort of reputation he was hoping for.

"Is that a bad pickup line?" Alastor asked, "Am I supposed to ask what you mean and you'll say something like 'I could be everything to you?'"

The demon raised their eyebrows, shaking their head.

"It is the truth."

A tense silence fell between the pair. Alastor broke it with a sigh, rubbing his temples in irritation. He hadn't really known what to expect from this endeavor save an event to break up the monotony of his days. The demon was not delivering.

"Yeah, alright."

"Who are you?"

"You've been following me for what, two weeks? And you don't know?"

The demon shrugged.

"I was trying to be polite. It has been a while since I have spoken to anyone."

"Sure. Well," Alastor turned to the door, pulling a skeleton key from his pocket, "this has been interesting. Enjoy eternity alone in a well lit room."

Alastor opened the door. The demon made no move to follow him out of the room, no move to escape. They simply watched him in curiosity, their head tilted slightly to one side. Alastor hesitated, his body blocking the exit and his back towards them. He watched them over his shoulder as a thin black smoke seemed to emanate from the outline of their body.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

An empty threat, barley even a threat to be honest. Alastor stepped out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Once he was sure it was locked, he slipped the key back into his pocket. He made to leave, intending to go out on the town in a desperate attempt to find entertainment. Barley two steps forward, and shadows began to pool on the floor before his feet, blocking Alastor's path.

He watched in a mild interest as the demon pulled themselves from the shadows, taking on a different face than they had worn in the room. Now they were broader, taller, stronger. They looked mean.

"I told you."

"Is this what you meant when you said you were everything?"

The demon nodded once. Their wide eyes were unblinking, unchanging, as their form mutated again. A spider demon now with many arms and a lanky figure. Alastor raised his eyebrows.

"So, you let me catch you."

"I was bored. No one ever notices me until it is too late, except you."

"I find that hard to believe. You were easy to spot."

The demon's eyes widened slightly at this, something similar to surprise but halfway to fear.

"Like I said, Alastor the interesting." they mused after a moment.

Alastor bowed his head slightly in recognition of the title.

"I could take your soul, destroy you. Why were you so willing to risk all that? Surely a bit of entertainment can't be worth that much to you."

He was trying to get a gage on the creature, and he knew they could tell. It was a mild threat, one he couldn't follow through on even if he wanted to. Sure, he could maim the creature, cause it great pain, but beyond leaving them formless for a few days tops he was powerless. He knew that, but he didn't know if they did. Either way, the situation would play out to his advantage. It would either give him more information, or the upper hand.

They considered the situation for a moment before answering. Alastor couldn't figure out if it was because of their interest in him, for fear of him, or some third, other undefined motivation. No matter what it was, he didn't care. This was the most engaged he had felt in weeks.

"You aren't an overlord. You can't make a contract."

"And you are?"

"No."

"Too weak?" Alastor teased and the demon glared at him.

"Far from it. I don't like being seen."

"But you're letting me see you."

"I am allowing you to see a face. It is not mine."

Alastor fell silent. He had figured that the demon before him didn't have a true form, or if they did, that it was shadow. Things were becoming curiouser by the second. He was no longer regarding his attempts to trap the demon as a waste of time.

"So, you want power but anonymity. Those things don't go hand in hand."

"I know. You want fame and lack the power. Another unmatched set."

Alastor's ear twitched at that, displeasure running through his veins and clouding his sight. His hand tightened where he held his microphone.

"I have power enough."

"What use is a Radio Demon with nothing to broadcast?"

"Are you suggesting a deal?"

The demon smiled a smile that was too big for the face it wore. Alastor had to admit, they were unsettling. He understood the rumors.

"I've heard of your... reputation shall we say? But if you think I will trust someone who's face I have never even seen, you are dead wrong."

"Was that a joke?" the demon tentatively asked after a moment.

"Not on purpose but I supose so."

The thing seemed to roll the idea over in their mind as their form changed once again, this time becoming a demon with the body of a shark. They seemed not even to notice they were changing as their eyes flicked back to Alastor's.

"You want information. Then you will be open to the idea of a partnership."

"This was your goal all along, a partnership as you put it."

A statement, not a question. The demon smiled, their eyebrows slightly raised.

"Oh, was it now. At least I had an end goal to this little... situation."

Alastor scoffed, looking away. They were right. He had come up with no ideas past capturing the thing that had been following him. He was in the dark. They had everything figured out.

"Show me your real face. Then we can talk."

"Alastor Hartifelt. Died 1933. Louisiana famed radio host and serial killer cut down in his prime by a hunter who mistook him for a deer."

"Are you trying to intimidate me?"

"Not at all."

The demon shifted once again. It took them longer to find form this time, remaining as a black cloud for a few moments before at last settling on an almost human body. They were shorter than he had expected, smaller too and decked out in what seemed to be colonial dress. They held a hand out to him.

"Y/n L/n. Died 1846. Newly wed and member of the Donner party."

"Cannibalism." Alastor mused, gently taking their hand in his.

He had expected them to be cold, immaterial. He had expected his hand to slide right through theirs. Instead, the demon, Y/n, was warm and solid to the touch, just like anyone else. They smiled, mouth full of needles.

"We all take what we are given."

"I suppose."

Y/n dropped his hand and crossed their arms. Despite their stature, they radiated authority and poise. It was almost impressive.

"If you will be the face, I will be the force."

"No soul binding."

"I couldn't if I wanted to. Not an overlord."

Alastor looked them up and down. His smile grew.

"Not an overlord yet."

----

tags:

@willowshadenox @i-love-jafar @elfyeet @reader3 @lazygirlfanfic0-0

#hazbin hotel #x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x gn!reader #gn reader #gender neutral y/n #gender neutral reader #gender neutral pronouns #they/them reader #alastor x reader #the radio demon x reader #hazbin hotel x y/n #alastor hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x gn reader

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lavenderchqn · 13 days ago

Text

✧・| cecilia garden — venti

— you're on your way to try and help out venti who's down with his allergies. unfortunately by the time you're done, he won't be the only one with red eyes.

content warnings: ambiguous ending, reader referred to as [y/n], hurt/comfort, a fair share of angst, idiots-in-love, modern!au, sick!venti, scara as a roommate, also a singular mention of fucking

[note.] — am I done with my master thesis? hell no. do I crave writing something that isn't the thesis? for sure. enjoy the venti fic to celebrate us returning to mond in 5.6! specially dedicated to @belovedoftheanemoarchon my favourite venti reader here~

It feels too empty the moment you step outside. Sure, the lilacs are in full bloom already — making the neighbourhood smell simply divine, but it doesn’t fill the emptiness. In reality, it shouldn’t even feel this desolate. People are crowding, enjoying the sunshine and full of happiness. Oh, how you wish you could be a part of them.

Now, what were you supposed to do? Taking a step back, you double-check your bag. Tissues, some medicine, all the necessities… Oh, and a bag of freshly picked apples. That jogs your memory quickly. You were supposed to be meeting with Venti today, to enjoy a picnic of sorts… meet for the first time in quite a while. Alas, everything fell to pieces the second you received a message from his roommate this morning.

scara (8:39 A.M.): ig your meeting with venti is off. allergies or smth, idk.

[y/n] (8:40 A.M): 😭 😭 😭 does he need any help? I could drop by.

scara: dunno, don’t care. maybe? given how you’re eager to help the dumbass. as if it wasn’t obvious you’d show up.

[y/n]: fuck you kindly.

scara: I’m sure you’d rather do Venti than me.

scara: the house will be empty after 10. I’d rather not witness your lovesick self on top of his sniffy nose.

[y/n]: k.

It was no secret, you’ve had a crush on Venti for ages. There was something so… Venti about him, for the lack of a better word. Everything he’s ever done made you fall increasingly in love with him. Even when getting hit with the friend zone a few months back.

Unfortunately, your friend group never seemed to get the memo. They’d do their best to force the two of you together, regardless of how either of you felt about it. At first, it could be labelled as a coincidence… but as it went on, neither you nor Venti were pleased with what was happening. In all seriousness, one of the said setups is how you’ve come to realise you’re nothing but a friend to the guy.

You remember the situation as clear as day. The rest of the group fizzled out so quickly the second you got to the venue, leaving you — a common airhead with the even bigger silly alone to figure the route to your seats. The words of a random passerby calling the two of you cute… and the almost instant reply from Venti still echo when you can’t sleep. “No- we’re, we’re only friends.” His voice was empathetic, if not a little annoyed at the statement. The awkward exchange was soon forgotten by your friend group, soon replaced with how the greatness of the concert.

Not by you, though. Never by you. You swore you could hear him utter these words, and all the ice that wedged in them, the second you couldn’t sleep. Despite all the tries and encouragement your friends kept on giving you and kept on insisting you confess, you never did. Venti’s message was loud and clear, and as a good friend you upheld the boundary he created.

Regardless, you’ve never cut off contact. Despite better judgement and allowing yourself to lose feelings for him, you kept being close. Being the one to pick him up whenever he got too drunk or tending whenever he got sick. If just being friends was how you were going to keep Venti in your life, you’d just act as his friend… and nothing more.

“Cecilia Garden.” The robotic voice announces as it comes to a halt. The closest to the shared apartment of Venti and Scaramouche. You get up, checking for the last time if you have everything. Even if you’ve never taken anything, but your phone to purchase a ticket, it’s best to be absolutely sure. The second you step out, you’re hit with the floral scent of the trees in bloom. Heavens above, spring is absolutely the best.

You don’t even knock when you arrive. Most of the friend group have the key to Venti and Scara's apartment — much to the second one’s dismay. You’ve been given it ‘just in case’ something goes wrong… or when the need to bring back a drunkard home.

“Venti?” You call out, taking your shoes off. Even without one of the roommate's presence, you’d adhere to their rule of keeping the shoes off. Common courtesy and it saves you a stern talk. “You in here?” You ask, hoping that Venti isn’t asleep.

A faint groan echoes from the living room. “The couch…” He’s bundled in all different sorts of blankets, even those stolen from their bedrooms. Covered from head to toe, you can barely make out the messy locks and a sweaty forehead. He’s lying in the sole space not overtaken by the sea of used tissues… akin to a sailor, more than a performer.

“Hi,” The bag finds its place on the table. A pack of tissues quickly lands on top of his covered body, the second you hear the sniffles. Apples, bottles of water and multiple packs of medicine slowly find their place in the apartment, given your knowledge of how a certain someone likes the place to be organised. “Eaten anything today?”

Venti only murmurs something about a piece of bread. Arguably, not the best meal to have when you’re dying from allergies. “Okay, I’ll see what I can make,” You whisper to yourself, bending to ultimately reveal the floor. “An angel has… blessed me.” You giggle, sparing the man a look. It’s not the first time he compared you to one — usually reserved for whenever you saved him the moment he was overtaken by liquor. Gives your heart palpitations regardless.

You try to make yourself busy, anything to not think about how deep Venti’s words etched into your body. How are you to see him just as a friend, when all he does is call you words left solely for one’s partner. “Do you want some broth?” You ask, gently peeling off the layers of blankets. His hair untangled makes him look like an angel in return. Just as you’re about to make the decision yourself, his hand weekly reaches out to yours, not quite ready to let go.

“Don’t… leave,” He whimpers meekly, freezing you in place. Venti wasn’t sick, you reminded yourself. All he had was an allergic reaction. He… really shouldn’t be behaving in such a way. Your hand instantly moves itself on top of his forehead, checking for anything. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, besides it being a little damp. Well, that’s what laying under a mountain of warmth does to people.

“I won’t leave, Ven,” You sigh, locking your eyes with his hand on your sleeve. “I’ll just make you something to eat.” You hover slightly, finally seeing his eyes for the first time when you turn to his face. “I’ll be back the second food’s ready, okay?”

There are no words of protest. The grip on your hand? Yeah, that’s another story. “Ven…” He repeats. “Haven’t heard that since… the concert?” Venti ponders out loud, smiling slightly at the nickname. He’s right. You haven’t used a single nickname since that day… And the boundary he’s created. In your eyes, that was the first step to trying and manage your feelings. Even if it made it a little bit awkward.

Ultimately, you free your head from his hold, now in the kitchen preparing a warm meal. You can hear Venti’s murmurs of agony, upset at you leaving him alone… but you should ignore them. Lest you get any unwanted thoughts. A pot full of broth is on the stove when you look around the cabinets for anything else for him to eat. He’d be happy to have an apple, but you’d rather not make him any hungrier than necessary.

“…Why…” Venti’s voice is surprisingly loud, followed by placing himself — blankets and all, on you as he gives you a hug from behind. You barely manage to hold out from all the additional weight. You can see in the reflective metal that he’s pouting, hair even messier than you could’ve imagined.

“Why what?” You ask, stirring the soup. “Why no ‘Ven’…?” He rests his chin on your shoulder, overlooking the cooking process. A silence enters the room. Regardless of what you say, you feel like Venti knows. You can feel your teeth starting to chatter slightly. You inhale, in hopes that he doesn’t notice how your eyes get glossier by the second. Unfortunately, your hopes remain as hopes.

“Wait, wait,” Venti moves unexpectedly quickly for someone bedridden with allergies. He takes the spoon, as he turns you around. “What’s going on?” His hands move to cup your jaw the moment you turn away from him. “[Y/N]?” It’s weird. You don’t like it. It’s been so long since you’ve allowed yourself to be vulnerable with him… Every attempt you make at trying to turn around ends up unsuccessful. You repeatedly shake your head, not wanting to have him see you totally break down.

It’s useless. No matter how hard you try, it’s useless. Breathing gets harder. Your legs feel lighter than air. “I’m s-sorry…” You utter, tilting your head forward so that Venti won’t be forced to look at your face. “[Y/N],” His voice is so quiet, so gentle, as he slowly lowers both of you to the ground. He pulls you towards him, locking you in a hug tucked against his chest. “…shh, it’s okay, it’s okay…”

There’s no energy in your body left to fight him. You allow yourself to be wrapped in his embrace. Like your body against his is where you’re supposed to be. For the first time, in what seems to be a while, you allow yourself to wail. Your fingers grab onto one of the blankets — anything to try and ground yourself. Still, Venti doesn’t know, doesn’t understand why his question caused the sudden shift in your mood. All he can do is rub your back, in hopes of making it better.

Still, there’s this odd feeling bubbling in his chest. How much he hates seeing the tears run down your cheeks. How much it makes his own body ache to see yours jumping as you try and breathe. How much he dislikes that he’s lost his nickname. How much he…

“[Y/N], ” He whispers, finally getting a look at your face when you look up. Your cheeks are fully soaked with tears, your eyes slightly red from all the crying. And yet, he can’t stop himself. “I’m right here, okay?” His voice is steady like he’s stating the obvious. “You’ve… taken care of me so much already. Now I’ll— I’ll be the one to take care of you, okay?”

He moves his hands so that he can swipe your tears away. So that he can ultimately cradle your face in between his hands. You only nod, still too choked up to speak. You can, however, feel the pressure of his hands against your cheeks. His thumbs are brushing so gently under your eyes, that it’s almost enough to make you cry all over again.

Almost.

Instead, you breathe in shakily, feeling yourself finally starting to come down from the surge of emotions. In everything that just happened — neither of you realise how close your faces are. It’s only when Venti presses his forehead against yours that it comes into the picture. “I’ve missed you,” He whispers, so softly that you’re unsure if he meant for you to hear the words. “I’ve missed you for a long time now.”

You know what he means by that. How you’re there, but not really there. How despite being friends for many years now, you suddenly began keeping your distance. And yet, you know. Your heart skips and stutters — a painful, hopeful thing. “I don’t want you to cry because of me…” He utters, brushing some of your hair back.

“— Fucking hell, just kiss already. And turn off the burner you morons.”

date of posting — april 27th 2025

#lavv.writes #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact fanfics #genshin oneshots #genshin fanfic #genshin scenarios #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact fluff #venti x reader #venti x you #venti x y/n

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opbackgrounds · 4 months ago

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The Romanticism of One Piece V: Personal Freedom, The Idealized Child, and Monkey D Luffy

AO3 Part I Part IV

“God will not have his work be made manifest by cowards” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

In chapter 507, Oda writes his thesis for the entire series when he has Luffy state that the Pirate King is the freest man on the sea. It’s a simple statement said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, but it completely recontextualizes everything that’s come before it while setting the stage for everything to follow.

When making a close analysis of this entire scene, you’ll notice that Rayleigh spends much of the conversation not directly looking at the Straw Hats. He’s physically turned away from the people he’s talking to, and the framing Oda uses often puts an added layer of distance between the two parties.

It’s only when Luffy refuses to hear the secrets of the One Piece in favor of having his own adventure that Rayleigh turns around. He looks Luffy in the eye, and…he smiles. Rayleigh had already agreed to help coat the Straw Hat’s ship, but you get the impression that in this moment Luffy’s passed some sort of test, that Rayleigh finally sees in Luffy the same potential Shanks did all those years ago.

It’s impossible to say if this is the reason Rayleigh came out of hiding to save the Straw Hats later in the arc, but there’s no denying that he went above and beyond to ensure Luffy was strong enough to make it through the New World. After all, there’s no reason for him to spend two years training Luffy if he wasn’t rooting for him to become King.

It’s scenes like this that make Luffy a deceptively difficult character to write about. On the surface he seems like the perfect shonen archetype: simpleminded, glutinous, with a vague enough end goal to support a long-running manga series. But it’s as you dig into the specifics that he becomes increasingly difficult to define.

One reason for this is that Luffy remains amazingly consistent as a character over the course of the series. He is both the unstoppable force and the immovable object. He will not be denied once he sets his mind on something and remains unshakably sure in his own convictions. He starts the manga fully convinced in what he believes a pirate to be, spending much of the East Blue saga beating up rival pirate captains for not living up to his exacting standards. While he does go through character development, it is less a change in personality than a refinement of what was already there, like burning away the dross from a precious metal. By becoming a better leader and captain he becomes a better pirate, and at heart, Luffy has always been a pirate.

I’ve already mentioned the importance of Jean Jacques Rousseau’s The Social Contract to the Romantic movement, but he wrote a second work that was just as influential. In Emil, or Concerning Education, Rousseau lays out his theory of childhood education. He was very concerned with maintaining that which was natural, starting with the infant remaining unrestrained by the binding chains of swaddling clothes and continuing through adolescence with Robinson Crusoe as the only book his imagined student ever studies.

By the age of 15 his student would have learned nothing of history or ethics or metaphysics. In Rousseau’s own words, “You are probably alarmed at the number of subjects I have brought to his notice. You are afraid I will overwhelm his mind with all this knowledge. But I teach him rather not to know them than to know them” (emphasis mine).

It was during the Romantic era that childhood began to be understood at its own separate stage of development, rather than seeing children as very small adults. A veneration bloomed for the innocence of childhood, similar to the myth of the noble savage that was equally popular at this time.

My favorite example of this idea of childhood innocence I stumbled across in my reading was Percy Bysshe Shelly’s strange and unfinished poem "A Vision of the Sea". The poem rather gruesomely depicts a ship ravaged by a terrible storm that’s killed everyone on board except a mother and her small child. There are also a pair of tigers that fight a bunch of sea monsters to the death, but that’s mostly unrelated to the point here.

Shelly describes the child of the poem—again, surrounded on all sides by death and destruction—like this

She clasps a bright child on her upgathered knee; It laughs at the lightning, it mocks the mixed thunder Of the air and the sea, with desire and with wonder It is beckoning the tigers to rise and come near, It would play with those eyes where the radiance of fear Is outshining the meteors; its bosom beats high, The heart-fire of pleasure has kindled its eye,

The mother bemoans their fate and tells the child not to smile. She recognizes that death is near, understands the hopelessness of their situation. She mourns. But the child, still innocent and pure, just wants to play with the tigers.

Is there anything more Luffy-like than that?

Oda has said in multiple interviews, most recently when talking with Iñaki Godoy when he visited the set for season 2 of the live action, that he writes Luffy as an idealized child. He recognizes that as people enter society they lose personal freedom in exchange for social responsibility, so he created a character that truly has the freedom to do whatever he wants.

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But for as childlike as Luffy can be, he isn’t actually a child. He bears enormous responsibility as captain of the Straw Hat Pirates. But it’s a responsibility of his own choosing, because he wants to, and it’s not something that’s been forced on him by the world. Luffy’s continued rejection of his Grand Fleet shows how he eschews any attempts to add any additional responsibility he does not want.

To the Romantics, society and civilization were seen as corrupting forces, so anything that stood apart was by default pure. The solution was to be found in nature and the natural. After all, Adam and Eve only fell after eating of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. If one could separate themselves from this knowledge, they, too, could enjoy paradise.

This idea would eventually snake through Europe, developing as it went, until it landed on American shores, and in the 1830s the Transcendental movement began in the United States. It marked the first true American philosophy, and overlaps with American Romanticism. The central tenant is a focus on self-reliance and an inherent distrust of institutions, which they saw as corrupting of the spirit.

One of these early Transcendentalists was Henry David Thoreau, who famously spent two years living alone in the woods as a sort of experiment, building his own house and growing his own food, stretching the limits of his own self-reliance. His experience would become the basis for the book Walden It’s here he muses on a great many subjects, and was preoccupied with the artifice of modern society.

To Thoreau, too much stock was put into material things, with countless people working jobs they hated to support a living that the world told them was required before they could be accepted. The same man was judged completely differently depending on whether he’s dressed well or poor, or the size of their house, or by working a socially acceptable job. People enslaved themselves to the ever-changing whims of modernity and denied themselves the satisfaction of living exactly as they pleased. To quote Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thoreau’s close friend and fellow Transcendentalist, “To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment”. And to quote Emperio Ivankov when explaining how they managed to carve out a slice of paradise amidst the hells of Impel Down, “We have our freedom”.

Neither the veneration of childhood nor the self-reliance of the transcendentalists match exactly with what’s presented in One Piece, but in Luffy there’s an interesting mix between the two. While Luffy makes his reliance on his crew clear, he is beholden to no one but himself. He maintains a child-like innocence and wonder all throughout the series, but unlike many characters who follow this template, he isn’t naive.

Luffy has a unique ability to cut through bullshit. He relies on instinct and follows his heart above all else. During Alabasta when Vivi was worrying herself into knots over the enormity of the coming civil war, he maintained a laser focus on the root of the problem: Crocodile. For most of us, as we grow up our vision is clouded by the outside interests of the rich and the powerful. We get so tripped up trying to make our way through the complexities of modern life that we lose sight of what’s truly important. We worry in equal measures over the past and the future, and in doing so miss out on the beauty of the present. Contrast that to a character like Luffy, who is so committed to the present that no future scheme survives contact with his whims, and who remains so unconcerned about his past that he had no idea that he had a father.

Thoreau makes it clear that he spent two years living in the woods because he wanted to. During the early chapters of the book he says outright that he didn’t want or expect others to follow his path, but to find fulfillment in their own way. For some, this can be seen as selfish, and to an extent Thoreau agreed. He, for example, said he didn’t believe in giving to charity. To him, it was better not to give than to give out of some kind of obligation.

Likewise, Rousseau recognized the child’s ability to turn self-love into selfishness as they grow into adolescence, and took great pains in describing how he would instruct his imaginary student in pursuing his own happiness without infringing on the happiness of others, by having him empathize with even the lowest parts of society.

Selfishness in One Piece is often treated positively, and is one of the key traits that makes a good pirate. In order to chase one’s dreams without abandon, you have to be willing to shove everything else aside. It’s why characters like Yassopp and Olvia are never condemned by the narrative for abandoning their families, and is even the crux of the entire Baratie arc while Sanji struggles to find his “spear of spirit”.

One of the most commonly sited examples of Luffy’s self-centered morality comes in Impel Down. He doesn’t free the prisoners or team up with character like Crocodile out of some moral outrage for the despicable conditions of the prison or because of the inhumane torture of his fellow man. He just wants to save his brother. If he could have reached Ace without setting off a riot he would have, and wouldn’t have felt guilty about leaving the rest behind.

A more interesting example, I think, comes from Luffy allowing Robin onto the crew after Alabasta. It’s easy to forget that Robin at this time had just finished helping Crocodile orchestrate a civil war. The artificially-created drought displaced and killed untold numbers of people. Innocent people, who had personally done her no wrong. While Robin had no intention of giving Crocodile the in-universe equivalent of a nuke, her plans put Vivi and other people Luffy cared about at enormous risk.

And yet, he says she isn't a bad person. Why?

Well, Luffy’s selfish. He doesn’t judge people by their clothes or their work or if they help start civil wars. Robin personally saved his life twice, and for him, that was enough.

The secret that makes Luffy work as a character is that his selfishness is often exerted in the service of others. During the post-Marineford flashback Luffy makes it very clear that he’s ultimately motivated by the desire to not be alone. Similar to what’s described in book IV of Emile, he’s experienced suffering and takes great pains to avoid feeling that way ever again. He’s very quick to recognize others who are hurting and is willing to fight on their behalf.

Nothing else matters. Luffy’s willing to work with psychotic criminals like Bege if it means saving Sanji. He’s willing to team up with Crocodile if it means saving Ace. He’ll declare war on the World Government for Robin and take on the biggest bounty in the East Blue to save Nami. Luffy lives a life without regret, and in doing so does the sort of things that readers bound by the constraints of society only wish they could.

Luffy doesn't fight in pursuit of systemic change. He’s not a Revolutionary. He helps the gladiators of the Colosseum not because he recognizes the horrors they experience under Doflamingo’s rule but because they gave him food. And he expects to be judged in the same way, not caring how the citizens of Fishman Island look at him, but leting them come to their own conclusions based on what they see. Yet systematic change follows wherever he goes, the chaotic, disrupting force of Luffy’s personality refusing to kowtow to any of the great powers of the world.

This brand of selfishness would be terrifying if Luffy were not so quick to make friends. In searching for his own liberation he ends up liberating others by complete accident. At the same time, the characters who catch Luffy’s attention are the characters who fight for themselves, even if they aren’t strong enough to win without his help. This is seen from the very earliest chapters in the series, when Luffy only intervenes on Coby’s behalf after the latter insults Alvida, or how the Straw Hats only help Usopp fight off Kuro because he’s first willing to protect his village. Even the Revolutionary Army is only interested in helping those who are willing to pick up arms, making this a theme that transcends the pirate-focused narrative. The overwhelming force of nature that is Luffy empowering rather than conquering as he pursues his own ultimate freedom.

With this in mind, it comes as no surprise that the original Joyboy was the first pirate, or that Luffy is his successor. The character of Joyboy seems to be based on Caribbean myth brought over by West African slaves, and is a figure of dance, joy, and chaos, uniting people via celebration. It’s no accident that every big arc ends with a party and that people are brought together by their ability to genuinely laugh and be happy.

(Credits for this go to this reddit thread. Sadly sources on the real world Joyboy myth seem to be sparse)

While the ultimate significance of Joyboy and the nature of Luffy’s devil fruit have yet to be revealed, Luffy is no stranger to fighting against in-universe religious powers while ultimately taking the form of a god himself. It’s important, I think, that Oda portrays religious beliefs fairly neutrally up until the point where they cause human suffering. Skypiea remains a theocracy even at the end of the arc. The destruction of the spirit tree grove of the Shandians is treated with utmost seriousness. Dorry and Broggy fighting because of their belief in the god Elbaf is one of Usopp’s main inspirations throughout the series. And yet in both a literal and figurative sense, Luffy is God’s natural enemy.

Because at the end of the day no one, not even God, should stand in the way of progress and liberation. For Luffy, he finds that freedom in his adventures across incredible and impossible lands. This is something that would have resonated with the Romantics of old, as they often found God not in dark, dusty churches, but in nature, and their pursuit of the sublime.

#opbackgrounds #one piece #the romanticism of one piece #romanticism

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