#Its like sitting by the window reading a book while its raining

[spagheddiesquash]

OH MY GOD IS IT FINALLY RAININGaaaand no its not. it was just a plane.

[mallowsweetmiri]

Need you to continue Best Friend! Fred please… PLEASE… I am begging on my knees… You write so well… I will be waiting right here… Oh how I yearn for Best Friend! Fred…

Merry Christmas sluts ❤️

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Bestfriend!Fred with no boundaries teaches you how to have sex pt 2

summary: its the day after you asked Fred to teach you about sex, and he's keeping up on his promise.

warnings: smut, cursing

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It wasn’t unusual for you to think about Fred first thing in the morning. You often walked to breakfast with the twins and saw him within your classes on a daily basis. But it was unusual to wake up with your panties completely soaked while thinking about him. Was this something that happened the morning after, or did you just not shower well enough after last night?

Either way, you ended up taking a very cold shower before breakfast. By the time you came down to the common room, Fred and George were waiting by the couches. Fred smiled as he watched you come down the stairs.

“Good morning, lovely,” Fred said as you approached them. He pulled you under his arms as the three of you started towards the exit.

“Good morning,” you smiled, happy to start another day by your best friends side.

“What am I, a flobberworm?” George scoffed sarcastically from behind. You rolled your eyes playfully and looked back at him.

“Good morning to you too, George,” you teased, walking through the portrait hole. The day seemed much brighter in the halls, and it looked surprisingly nice out. The three of you walked into the Great Hall and sat down where you normally did, next to Hermione usually at this time of the morning.

"Good morning," she chirped, her head buried in a book.

“Morning, Hermione,” you greeted, taking a seat.

“Whatcha reading there?” The twins sat on the other side of the table.

“Ancient Uses of Mystic Herbs,” she replied, sitting up straighter and flipping her book up to show the cover. “Trying to find something that could help Harry.” You hummed in interest as Hermione sank back into her book. George pulled out a paper and began writing at the bottom.

"What’s that?" you asked, buttering your toast. George smirked and gave you a funny look.

"The Herbology assignment that's due today?" George said questioningly, raising his brows at you. Your brows shot up in response as you remembered the blank paper in your bag.

"I completely forgot about that assignment," you gasped. "Fred, can I please, please copy yours?" You pleaded, sticking your bottom lip out in persuasion. He shot you back an amused look as he gathered sausages onto his plate.

"Y/N, you're usually such a good student,” he teased, shaking his head at you in disapproval. “Were you distracted yesterday?” You sharpened your eyes at him and he laughed, passing you his paper. You felt your cheeks heat up. At least he was letting you copy off of him.

"You're too nice to her, Freddie," George joked, shaking his head at him.

"Ah, it's the least I can do for my best friend," Freddie grinned, leaning over the table to pinch your cheek. You batted his head away and started furiously copying his work, ignoring George laughing at you. As you copied his work, he filled your mug with tea. Earl grey with a dash of cream, just the way you liked it. By the time breakfast was over, you had finished the assignment and were off to your first class of the day.

The day dragged on per usual. In Herbology, Fred and George rubbed sneezewart on the observation sheets causing multiple students to rush out of class in a fit. You had a few classes without Fred and George, and Ancient Runes was your final class for the day. You stared out the window as dull clouds began to roll in from the forest. You tried to pay attention to Professor Babbling, but her droning voice quickly became background noise. The clouds came in closer to the castle, the sound of thunder rumbling through the windows. Rain storms always made you feel cozy, and you wished class would end so you could curl up in your favorite jumper. It was Fred’s Gryffindor sweatshirt and the memory of its smell reminded you of yesterday. His skin had been so close to you, and while it was comforting, there was something else. A want, a yearning to just press your hips against his. Your head snapped away from the window as your peers began to gather their belongings. You began to do the same, noting the slickness between your thighs. There it was again. You needed to find Fred and ask him what you should do about it. Was it pathetic that you knew virtually nothing about sex? You slung your bag over your shoulder and left the classroom, moving hastily towards Gryffindor. You knew Fred wouldn’t judge you and would actually teach you, that’s why you had asked him in the first place. But would he pity you for barely knowing anything at all?

By the time you got to the tower, it was pouring outside. There was the usual chatter and rough housing in the common room, but your failure to spot Fred had you climbing the stairs to his dorm. You were frustrated and cold and you just wanted to be near your best friend.

When you opened the door after a hurried knock, you were happy to see only Fred in the room. He was laying on his bed reading his book.

"Hi Y/N," he greeted, looking up from his book. "How was class?" You huffed as you moved towards his closet, pulling his hoodie out and slipping it on over your head.

"It was terrible," you pouted, coming over to his bed. Fred put his book down and opened his arms to you. You fell gladly into his chest.

"Why was it terrible love?" Fred mumbled into your hair. You groaned and buried yourself deeper into him.

"It's just..." you hesitated, always losing the courage to talk about stuff like this.

"Is it about yesterday?" Fred asked, his hand petting the back of your head. He always knew what you were thinking and you were relieved that he had caught on.

"Yes," you fussed, sitting up from his grasp. Fred huffed out a chuckle and followed suit. "It's just that, I can't stop thinking about it, y'know?"

"Oh, I know," Fred mumbled. You continued on with your ramblings.

"It's like I'm in class and I'm just distracted," you explained, your hands gesturing wildly. "And my underwear has been wet for hours. How do I make it stop?" Fred swallowed and dropped his gaze to your skirt.

"Darling, it's not something you can just stop," Fred explained, his eyes coming back up to yours. "Your body just wants more." You pursed your lips as you pondered this for a second, listening to the rain pelt against the window. Maybe you really did want more...

"I want to go all the way," you declared, sitting up straight and nodding your head. Fred couldn't help but smiled at your naivety.

"You want to go 'all the way'?" Fred chuckled, teasing your choice of words. He found this entire situation charming.

"Yes," you huffed defiantly. "I want you to have sex with me." Fred chuckled in disbelief and ran his hands through his hair. Your bold innocence made his head spin.

"It's going to hurt," Fred warned, trying his best to properly inform you before you made the decision to lose your virginity. He wouldn't be able to say no to you.

"Okay," you nodded, your fingers playing with the hem of your sock. "What else?"

"You might bleed," he said. "And it might not feel good at all this time." Your brows furrowed.

"But everybody says sex feels amazing?" You questioned, tilting your head. Freds half smile made you heart skip. That was new.

"It does," he chuckled, his eyes falling to your lips for a moment. "But it might be uncomfortable your first time. Especially with me,” he teased. You rolled your eyes at his insinuation and he laughed again. "I'm serious, Y/N. I don't want you to do something you don't want to do." This was clearly the wrong thing to say as you leaned forward to roughly grasp his shoulders.

"Fred, I want this. I want to know what it feels like and there's nobody else on this entire planet I trust more than you," you stated, gripping his shoulders as he watched your declaration.

"Well if I'm going to fuck you we need to kiss first," he grinned cheekily, watching the heat rise up to your cheeks.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," you huffed, finding the courage to lean forward to kiss him. He laughed into the kiss but gladly gripped your hips in return, his mouth moving in tandem. You kissed him greedily, your body moving on its own. Fred swept you onto your back, crawling over your without breaking the kiss. Within seconds, he had taken the control back from you, his kiss melting away your sudden burst of courage. He clearly knew what he was doing and you didn't put up a fight for dominance. The ache in your core surged as his knee pried open your legs, causing a moan to leave your lips. You felt more confident this time, less embarrassed of your noises of ecstasy as Fred's knee applied a much needed pressure to your cunt. You let your hands grip his hair, then run down his back. You felt him groan and it made you want to do it again. You were surprised at your self assurance, and even more surprised that you seemed to have to same effect on Fred that he had on you. His teeth bit softly into your neck in a change of pace.

"Fred," you moaned instinctively, you back arching off the mattress against your will. He didn't stop, instead tearing off your sweatshirt. This prompted the two of you to hastily take off all your clothes, only stopping to laugh when your hand accidentally whacked Fred in the face. The laughter faded as he came forward again, this time kissing you with such tenderness, you thought you were melting back into the mattress.

Fred was hopeless; he had been ruined since yesterday. He knew from the moment he kissed you that he'd been a complete fool. All day he'd been trying to convince himself otherwise, that he didn't harbor any romantic feelings towards you and you were still just his bestfriend. He wasn't going to bother lying to himself any longer. He was hopelessly in love with you.

His kiss began to trail down your neck again, then to your breast, then down your navel. Fred wanted to devour you. He wanted to watch as you came again for him. It drove him crazy that he was the only person to watch you unravel.

"F-Fred," you breathed, your hands tugging at his hair. "What are you doing?" His brown eyes peered up at you as he pressed his mouth into your thigh, making your hips buck.

"Before you have sex, we need to get you nice and wet for me darling," he breathed, kissing closer to your cunt. His fingers ran up your slit and you shivered. "Although, it doesn't seem like you need much help." You didn't have time to respond before he pressed a kiss into your clit, effectively sucking the rest of the air out of your lungs. You shuddered repeatedly as he licked gently on your sensitive clit. It felt so different from his fingers, so wet and warm. It took you a moment in your daze to realize he was moaning into your pussy, greedily lapping at your clit and pushing his tongue inside you. Fred wasn't even trying to hold himself back, his arms wrapping underneath you thighs and pulling you into his face. You tried to press him off of you, embarrassed at how close he was to you heat, but his grip won over you. His tongue lapped in circle, his gentle suck and kiss pulling terrible noises from your mouth. With every movement, the pressures built up inside you, sensation washing over you as you rocked your hips against his tongue. It felt like only a minute had passed when the tightness in your core suddenly snapped.

"Oh, fuck-" you cried as you came unexpectedly onto his tongue, the waves of intense pleasure taking away your ability to breathe. He sighed deeply as he lapped it all up, his grip not loosening for a second. It was only when he felt your legs kicking and your needy pleas for him that he gave one last gentle kiss to you clit. You stared at him breathlessly, unsure of what to say after you just came all over your bestfriends face. Luckily for you, Fred didn't miss a beat.

"You taste so fucking good," Fred praised, kissing up your stomach as you caught your breath. “You’re so good at this Y/N. Did that feel good?" He asked, coming up to hover over your face and brush the sweaty strands of hair off your face. You nodded shyly as you breathed, leaning up to catch his lips in a kiss. He chuckled as he accepted your kiss before saying, "Use your words, darling."

"Yes," you panted, pulling the back of his head down towards you. "That felt so good, Freddie." Fred groaned as his mouth came down to savor your kiss. You stayed like this for a while, kissing as Fred gently pressed his hips into yours. After a while, your hips began to rock with his, naturally moving with the rhythm he had set. There was nothing between the two of you besides his thin boxers, and you could feel his hard length rubbing against you. Occasionally, his tip would catch your entrance, and the pressure made the both of you groan.

"I'm ready," you mumbled into his lips, the two of you unable to break your kiss. He hummed into your lips and kissed you hard for a few more second before he pried himself off of you. He kneeled over you, freeing himself from his boxers with a slap. Your mouth parted slightly at the sight of him, and you were starting to believe him when he said it might hurt. His smile was more adoring than teasing as he watched you gape at his size. You watched breathlessly as he stroked himself a few times before coming back over you.

"Are you sure?" He asked once more, rubbing his tip up and down your slit, spreading your slickness. You weren't sure you could even speak as you watched him do this, you were mesmerized.

"Yes," you breathed, you gaze coming back up to his. His eyes searched your face for any hesitation, and when he found none, he lined himself up with your entrance.

"Just tell me if you want to stop," he soothed, brushing your fallen hair behind your ear. You nodded and tightened your grip on the back of his neck. He pressed a kiss to your lips and pushed himself inside of you.

Fred felt like an idiot as he exhaled into the kiss, his thumb rubbing gently across your cheek. He couldn't believe he didn't realize how much he liked you, how much he loved you. He wanted to swallow you whole. He wished that you knew how much this meant to him, but he knew you were too distracted to be thinking about anything else but his cock inside your tight pussy for the first time. Fuck.

"How does it feel, love," Fred asked, his voice nothing but a raspy whisper. You buried your face into his neck and whined.

"Just keep going," you whispered. "Please." Fred tried not to groan at your pleading as he pulled back again. He knew it must hurt for you, you were so tight. It was taking everything inside of him not to groan uncontrollably and push himself fully inside of you, you felt so good. His lips fell to your neck and left soothing kisses as he pushed himself into you again, this time going deeper. He felt your breath hitch into his neck as your eyes clamped shut. Fred's fingers gripped the sheets for his life.

"Just one more, darling. You’re doing so good," Fred muttered, pulling back gently once more. You nodded into his neck, making some sort of noise of assurance. With a final push, Fred bottomed out and let out an irrepressible moan. You cried again, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you felt his full length. He stayed like this for a moment, his lips encouraging you to return his kiss. You obliged and felt yourself relax, the feeling of his lips against yours softening your face. After a moment you let out a soft moan, the fullness inside of you finally satisfying what you thought would be a never ending ache. You moaned again into his kiss, this time louder as he became less controlled, his mouth eagerly devouring your own.

"It feels better now," you whispered into the kiss. Fred hummed and began to move with small and gentle pumps, letting you get used to his size. Fred's fingers were losing circulation as he gripped the bedsheets in an attempt to control himself from fucking you senseless. He fit perfectly inside you, and your breathy whimpers and pants were sending him over the edge. He made a critical mistake by pulling back to watch you as he picked up his pace, your watery eyes and swollen lips looked like heaven.

"Fuck, Y/N," he grunted, fully moving with his entire length at this point. "I'm not going to last long." You didn't seem to be able to form any coherent words besides your whines so you just nodded instead, overwhelmed by the unexpected knot forming in your stomach. He watched your eyes as he thrust into you over and over again, the pleasure on your face growing with each movement. His hand gripped your waist as he drove himself into you at his full capability for the final few thrusts. He couldn't help himself and from the noises you were making, you seemed to enjoy it. "Fuck," Fred whispered as he pulled out of you, pumping his cock a few times as he came on the sheets next to you. You watched in awe as he spurted hot liquid onto the bed, some of it falling onto the side of your hips. It made you buck you hips as the emptiness began to creep up, his warm cum dripping teasingly down your side. Fred finished and promptly smothered you in kisses, the two of you groaning as you rode out the last moments of euphoria with each other. Breathless and spent, Fred rolled off of you and pulled you in his chest.

"Are you okay, my love?" He asked, kissing the top of your head and your ears and your cheeks. You giggled and sighed into his kisses, coming up to place one onto his lips.

"Yes," you sighed. "More than okay." Fred smiled and huffed out a laugh, burying his face into you neck as his arms pulled you in tighter. You both sighed contentedly and rested like this for a moment, wetness and warmth in between your bodies.

"We need to get you cleaned up," Fred hushed, reaching over to his bedside to grab his wand. He quickly cleaned up the bed before moving to you, carefully casting the proper charms to get you clean before doing himself. "You should definitely use the bathroom soon and shower before you go to sleep tonight, love." Fred pressed a kiss to your lips again before pulling his sweatshirt over your head and finding you a fresh pair of his boxers to slip up your legs before pulling his sweats back on.

"Mmm," you groaned, closing your eyes and falling back onto his pillow. You were sapped. Fred chuckled and came to join you again, wrapping himself around you.

"Are you listening, love?" Fred teased, rubbing your back with his soft and sturdy hands.

"Mmm," you hummed again, burying yourself deeper into his chest, relishing in his comfort. He huffed out a laugh and buried himself back into your neck.

"Well, I'm getting you up in a moment to use the bathroom," he said, pressing a kiss into the fabric on your shoulders. "And you're not getting out of it. I'm not going to succumb to your cute little noises." You murmured again into his chest and smiled when this made him laugh.

"Can we do this again?" You asked quietly, almost hoping he hadn't heard you. He chortled at your question.

"Yes. Yes, we can do this again."

[ggirlthatgotaway]

Like an Animal, Driven by an Inexplicable Desire He Had Never Felt Before

summary: Aemond Targaryen does not have friends and he does not wish for any. At the Cambridge University, he has everything he wishes for: free time, studies that interest him, money, and a perfect table to study on. Of course, when he sees you sat on his chair, one of the pillars of his perfect life crumbles, shattering on the ancient university’s stone floors.

trigger warning: obsession for both tables and girls, explicit and sexual language, degrading terms, choking, masturbation, slight stalking maybe.

word count: 7.2k

supposed reading time: 29 minutes

note: for feck’s sake, this took FOREVER. i’m sorry, but at least this one is kinkier than the others, so… ALSO, i have many ideas for next ffs, AND OMG THE NEW FONTAINES DC MUSIC VIDEO?!?!? thank you ireland, i love you deeply (never been)

-💎

Aemond Targaryen was weird- or so he told himself as a reason why he was twenty and still did not have one friend.

His highschool years had been hell to say the least: he used to feel like everyone noticed him and how he was always alone, but at the same time nobody noticed that he was not such a bad person to be around- not after some time, anyway.

University, on the other hand, had him feeling like he was not as bad as highschool had made him out to be. He realised that he needed to be discovered to be understood, and if nobody had the time to do so, that wasn’t his trouble. He still had no friends, but he had stopped caring right at the start. He had his studies that kept his mind sharp and trained, free time he used to train the body and still more moments to stare at the ceiling of his dorm in comfortable silence.

He had his spot at the ancient library of Cambridge University, where the light was soft but still lasted enough to make him feel how much he accomplished during the day. Aemond appreciated immensely the space that he had carved out for himself, for it was silent and empty and held the perfect warmth in the reoccurring rainy and humid days without being suffocating.

The spot at his table- the seat in front of the last shelf that was filled with books on Theoretical Physics, his major, had its chair complete of all screws and it did not creak when moved, never warm for nobody sat on it- was the the one near the window, so the sound of rain fell on the glass provided a calm white noise that had him go on with his studies without much effort. He also adored how no table was beside or behind him, which meant that no other student could see him there, but from his chair he could easily rest his eyes on most of the other study tables, which meant that he could look and sometimes stare at people without being noticed.

The perfection of said spot was sacred to him, that was the reason why rage boiled into his whole body when he was someone occupying it when he came into the library.

It was a girl, a stash of literature books sat on the place usually reserved for his physics material. Her hand was in her hair and she was chewing on her pen cap- a thing he found extremely irritating- while her eyes scanned the page she was reading.

What was she doing there, sat on his chair?

He was aware that it did not have his name on it or anything of the kind, although he wished it did. Such a problem had never presented itself before: that was the reason why he stopped in the middle of the corridor and the hold on his school bag tightened at the point his knuckles were white.

He was staring at her, and he was aware that people might have started staring at him after the amount of seconds he spent there like a shot-up mule, but he couldn’t help it for a long time.

It infuriated him how prettily she sat there, as if nothing was wrong, as if he were invisible although he was standing right in front of her. With her colourful highlighters and her legs put into a position that no human could find comfortable to sit in.

When his body finally permitted his feet to move, he reached the table and tapped his index finger on the wood, making the girl raise her eyes. Ignoring the way her gaze made him feel as it travelled his body before settling on his face, he spoke, “You’re in my seat.”

“Excuse me?” you said, furrowing your brows and straightening up.

Despite he was aware you did not ask that for him to repeat his words, he did, this time even more angrily, “You. Are. In. My. Seat.”

A grimace spread on your lips as his rude words reached your ears for the second time, and you could bot help but reciprocate the tone he had used, “You haven’t used it for at least a whole hour- I got here first.”

Your answer only served to make his anger rise, but he did not bite his tonge and deprive you of another stiff reply, “I come here every day. It’s practically my seat.” The word ‘practically’ was said to avoid that phrase he expected you to say: ‘I don’t see your name anywhere’. That would have not only gotten him even closer to slamming his hands on the table, but they also would have left him with no intelligent reply.

Your point was valid, and he was aware of it. It irritated him greatly how calmly you answered, despite the grimace on your oretty lips. But he found your following actions irritated him even more so: you rolled your eyes and shifted your stuff to the other half of the table, before getting up from his chair and sitting on the one opposite of it. “I hope you’re happy.” you said as you walked behind him.

“Hm.” he answered curtly, walking up to his usual seat and sitting on his beloved chair. He did stare as he took his books out of his school bag, appreciating and loathing how you resumed your studies without any semblance of annoyance.

He tried to study for the whole two hours you sat in front of him, but a sweet and fresh scent seemed to linger in the air around him, making his trousers tighten and his teeth sink into the inside of his cheek.

He liked to think he would have quickly forgotten about you in the short span of three days if you hadn’t sat in front of him again the following day. He had gotten to the library an hour before his usual study time and settled his things down, pretending he was not expecting you to show up and study in front of him again.

The way your eyes did not meet his sent a wave of annoyance crushing into him, but it was nothing compared to the wave of heat that would have hit him if you made eye-contact with him for even a split second.

You seemed impervious to his cold eyes on your scalp and to his very unsuccessful intimidation tactics, and he found it surprisingly refreshing, although immensely irksome. Aemond fixed his glasses on the bridge of his bose and let out a sigh, careful not to make any noise. He would be damned if he wasn’t able to study another day because a mere pretty girl sat in front of him.

But the words escaped his mouth before his brain was even able to register them, “You seem awfully committed to my table.” Aemond felt ashamed for his words for the first time in his whole life: never had he ever lost control of his mouth in such a way. He could get over the betrayal of his body from yesterday, yet his mind had also failed him despite it being what he redeemed himself good for.

“It’s the best one.” you answered, making his thoughts reel. Had you also noticed how much perfection surrounded his table? Was that the reason why you had chosen to occupy his chair yesterday, and not any other of the four seats?

“I’m aware.” he muttered under his breath, before letting his eyes fall on the open book in front of you. “And I suppose you need the best lighting to read those flowerry passages you study?” The mock was clear on his tone, for he had no intention of hiding it.

“Do you have problems with my choice of studies?” you asked as your eyes lifted from your book to meet his cold blue ones, and he basked in the slight annoyance in your voice like a lizard under the sun.

“Not at all,” he said calmly, but a hint of a grin gave out how much he was enjoying getting a reaction out of you, “Just seems like a waste of time when there’s real work to be done.” He tutted and raised his eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders imperceptibly, “To each their own.”

He saw your eyebrows raise as you looked down on your material, and he felt victorious for your surprised expression at his bastard words. But your absence of a reply irked him in a way that rarely happened- maybe he wanted to hear more of your voice, maybe he merely wanted to get even more on your nerves…

So he spoke again after some seconds of silence in which he desperately tried to find something else to say, “Also, I’m trying to concentrate here. So, if you don’t mind…” he trailed off, gesturing to your belongings that occupied half of his table, half of his territory.

He saw the way your grip tightened around your blue biro, signalling that he had succeeded in bothering you again. You gave him a fake smile and flipped your notebook open, making clear you had no intention of moving your things, “I believe half of the table is perfectly enough for you.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Aemond gave the same smile back to you, and looked back down at his textbook, but instead of words his mind replayed the way you had walked up to him just minutes prior, and he found himself staring wide eyed at the paper.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your pen scratching against paper, drawing his attention to the way your hand moved gracefully, tapping your lower lip in concentration as you thought of what to write before putting it down on paper. He quickly turned his gaze back to his book, biting back a groan.

Since when were pretty girls so distracting to him? He pushed his thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand, but not before casting a sideways glance at you, a mixture of irritation and fascination swirling in his blue eyes.

After other three hours spent on studying- today he was able to concentrate slightly more than the day before, although the sound of your voice haunted his thoughts like a pleasing even if annoying melody- the sound of your chair against the stone floors made his head shoot up.

You gathered your things and pushed the books into the already overflowing bag you carried around. He was sure the covers of the books would bend horribly in such a position, but he made no comment on that. His eyes followed you even if his head didn’t move as you put the chair you were sat on back in place, which he appreciated, before you turned on your heels and made your way back out of the library.

He stared at your ass in an inappropriate way: the fabric of the blue jeans you were wearing gave him a perfect view, one he had no intention of missing. He wanted to say something to you, maybe a mocking “See you tomorrow.”, but no words came out of his lips.

He was not aware when his table became your table, despite the fact he thought of it extremely often. He had never studied as few as he had done in the three weeks you had sat in front of him in the library: he could smell the perfume you wore when you weren’t there, and he realised he was either going mental or you had walked there some moments before him; he noticed the nail polish on your nails and the way you changed it every weekend; he memorised the order in which you put your earrings, and the fact you wore three on your left ear and two on your right.

One day, you left the library earlier than usual. “Bye.” you told him with a small wave of your hand- you had started saying goodbye to him on the Tuesday of the second week.

Aemond let out a “Hm.” in response, hiding how he would stare at you until you were no longer in sight. Leaning back on his chair, he realised he knew an extremely limited amount of things about you- as in proper things, not your earrings, your nails, your books, or the bitten caps of blue pens. He knew your name and your studies, and that, he decided as he stared at the wooden door you had just disappeared behind, was far too few.

His chair creaked when he shot to his feet, and he rested his palms on the flat wooden surface to gather his thoughts. The library held a great amount of personal information in its yearbooks, and Gods be damned if he did not find you in one of them.

The waste of time that he could have spent studying or resting heavied upon him as he scanned the thick pages of the previous year’s yearbook, but then he took a deep breath, and his nostrils filled with your perfume as if you were there, pressing your sweater against his nose. That kept him going on with his research, and it also made him realise that, yes, he was going mental.

Apparently, you were so good at spelling you had won multiple awards for the school. The news made him click his tongue and shake his head, almost bothered, almost as if a picture of him wasn’t in that same yearbook for his chess award.

His eyes stilled on the picture, on the softness of your hair, evident even from there, on the soft curve of your lips and their rosy colour, and on your eyes, which have been making his trousers tight for weeks now. And you were staring right at the camera, and at the viewer.

Aemond Targaryen did not blink for a whole minute, maybe two. When he felt as if your face was imprinted onto his eyelids, he walked over to the photocopier, and before he knew it, he was staring again at your picture, only this time he was in his dorm, sitting on his bed, with his cock in hand.

It was a temptation he had weakly fought too long to resist, and despite the slight guilt he had felt before undoing the button of his jeans, he felt victorious at the accomplishment.

Said ‘accomplishment’, anyway, became a deep obsession, an overwhelming need that he needed to satisfy every single day after the study sessions you and Aemond had going on.

He felt fifteen in a way he hadn’t felt when he had been that actual age, and he secretly relished in it, both for the physical pleasure and for the adrenaline the immoral brought him.

He started to wonder, as he looked at you biting your pen and not really hiding anymore the fact that he was staring at you, what your reaction would be in the impossible situation that you would find out about the picture he kept safely put into his nightstand, second drawer to the left.

Would you slap him? Demand the picture brought to you? Sue him for stalking? Run away and avoid him ever after? The possibilities were endless, really, but also impossible to come true: the only ways you could ever find out were by rummaging through his stuff or by him telling you. Completely impossible indeed- nothing that would ever come true.

When he noticed you were staring at him, he realised he needed to get out of his thoughts. “What?” he asked, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter.

“I asked you for a pen.” you repeated, holding out your open palm and waiting for him to pout the requested object on it.

He gave the pen he was ‘using’ to you, bot mreting your eyes and pretending to be focused on his textbook, although the slight contact of your skin under his made him shiver pleasenty, “Don’t bite on it.”

That day he left the library before you, after he realised he was not going to study anyway, and it was better to spend his time doing something he knew he was going to enjoy.

Aemond opened the door of his dorm swiftly and carelessly left his bag on the floor, before sitting down on his bed with a sigh, his eyes locked on the second drawer. He did not reach to open it immediately: he had the sensation he was still being observed, still in your presence.

But since that piece of paper was imprinted on his eyelids, he really did not make a big difference whether he had it in hand or not.

He lied down, his hand massaging his length through the constraining fabric of his jeans. He closed his eyes when his fingers wandered close to the cold button, and imagined you standing before him, no useless fabric to cover your curves as you looked at him with thise eyes he had been idolising for weeks.

He imagined himself reaching out to tangle his hand through your hair, tugging you forward rather roughly before forcing you down with your knees on the softness of the carpet.

He undid the zip of his trousers and freed his cock, massaging it and imagining himself stroking it over your face as he held you close tt, so much the lenght often brushed against the skin of your cheek.

He groaned as he made you suck his tip, pulling it out as he pleased to trace the contours of your mouth before pushing it past your lips again. He imagined his hand taking a better hold of your hair and pushing your head further down his cock, making you take it whole as your eyes were still locked on his.

He craved that pretty, soft and definitely sweet mouth around him, warming him up as he fucked it roughly, making you choke on his cock.

He imagined seeing your ass reflecting on the mirror beside the bed, and your dripping cunt peeking out of it like a treasure he would take and use. He imagined making you take him down to his base as he reached down to grasp the soft flesh of your ass, molding it in his hand before delivering a sharp slap to it.

“Fuck.” he hissed, opening his eyes and quickly reaching for the left corner of the second rawer of his nightstand. He pulled out your picture and fucked his hand furiously over it, his mouth hanging open in pleasure.

He could feel himself about to reach the edge when someone knocked. The movements on his cock stilled instantly, trying to figure out if his mind had tricked his ears into hearing it, but when the noise came again he shot to his feet, your picture still on his hand as he haphazardly tucked his throbbing cock back into his jeans.

He wished he hadn’t opened the door when he found you standing outside of it, your hair tied back as it often was when you studied, and your bag still on your shoulder.

His expression was weird, you found, with his usually pale cheeks flushed and his normally perfectly put together silver hair slightly messy on his head. You wondered what had caused such distress on him, but you did not ask. You only offered his pen back to him after you realised he was not going to greet you. “I didn’t give it back: you ran away.” you explained, and extended your hand some more when Aemond didn’t take it right away.

He finally did, and the weird thought that he tried to make as little contact as possible when taking the pen from your hand settled in your mind. It was quickly swept off when he muttered a thank you and tried closing the door.

“Wait.” you said, your brows furrowed. His movements halted, and, although you didn’t notice, he dug the pencap into the palm of his hand so as not to scream, while trying desperately to hide the photo of you he still held in his hand, the one he used to open the door. It was crumpling under his grip and onto the metal of the doorknob, and the fact bothered him greatly. “You don’t invite me in?”

You saw him tense even further at your question, and his eyes darkened, and his voice came out hoarse when he finally spoke, “Why would you want to?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “‘Cause I have nothing to do.”

Aemond’s hand tightened on the doorknob, and, despite himself, he took a step back. “What makes you think I also have nothing to do?”

“I bet you never do.” you answered simply, entering his dorm and brushing your shoulder against his since he hadn’t opened the door all the way. “What were you do-“

But before you could finish your question, Aemond interrupted you with one of his own, “How did you find my dorm?”

“I have friends, on your contrary.” you answered dryly- which was his fault, really: he was the one who had started the bitchy comebacks that he called conversations between you two, and you made up your mind that he was going to be the one to cease with the childish behaviour, if he was ever going to. “One of them has the dorm in front of yours.”

“Mh.” was his answer, as it was for most things, you had discovered during your study hours. “Make yourself useful, then: I can’t find a book of mine. It’s called ‘Gravitation’.”

Why you were complying to something Aemond Targaryen had asked of you, you did not know, but you started looking for the tome anyway.

Thankful at your distraction, Aemond put back the photo on the second drawer, which he had left open, before pretending to care about that book he had already given as lost.

The space of his dorm was extremely neat, making you wonder how on Earth could he have lost something in such a place. You scanned half of the room, and then switched places, both of you not trusting the other’s searching skills.

There was no sign of that stupid book anywhere, so you decided to ask, “Have you checked your drawers?” as your hand was already on the handle of the second drawer of his nightstand.

“Yes!” he quickly said, but it was too late, because your eyes grew wide. You looked at him, taking in his stiff position and the tightness of his lip. What in the world was Armond Targaryen doing with a picture of you inside his nightstand?

Your eyes went back to the picture and you took it, feeling the crumpled material under your fingers and raising it, showing it to him. “I do look quite good in here.” you teased him, and a grin formed on your lips.

What was wrong with you, smiling at the actions of an obvious creep that kept your photo near his bed? You always had a thing for odd guys, and Aemond Targaryen was the closest incarnation of your type you had ever laid eyes on: always alone, intelligent out-of-the-ordinary, a complete cunt to whomever, and ethereally beautiful. But you would usually consider that picture slightly crossing the line- tonight was not the case.

You noticed his jaw clenching tightly, his eyes fixed on the photo. “That… Is not what it looks like.” His words made you scoff, and you noticed how your casual amusement surprised him greatly- it was surprising you, too. “Give it back.” he ordered then, walking quickly around the bed and next to you, still crouched down on the ground.

You squirmed away from his attempts at snatching the picture from you, and held it against your chest. “Why?” you asked with a mischievous grin that showed your white teeth, “Is it a treasure you must keep safe?”

“It’s none of your business.” he replied sharply, yanking his hand forward once again, this time taking the photo from you. He looked at it, then at you, his eyes hard, but you could see the embarrassment he desperately tried to hide behind his meticulously crafted facade.

“What do you do with it?”

“…What?”

“What do you do with my picture?” you asked again, looking at him through your eyelashes and with a grin on your lips you could bot contain- everything was just so exciting, for you had never thought you would have the chance to tease Aemond Targaryen in such a way.

“I will tell you again that it’s hardly any of your business.” he retorted, trying to tear his gaze away from yours. He put the picture into his left pocket with too much care.

“Well, but it is.” you said with a shrug, your eyes persistent on his face, “It’s me in that picture, no?” The fact that you were right seemed to bother him greatly, and his fists clenched at his sides.

“Indeed.” Aemond gritted out of his teeth as he finally looked at you, too. You saw it behind his eyes, the struggle he was feeling in trying to come up with something marginally more acceptable than what he actually did with that picture. “I find it helps me focus.”

You scoffed out a laugh at his pathetic response, and the thought that he fucked his hand while looking at your picture started forming into your mind. You leaned forward by resting your hands on the soft carpet beneath you, so you were closer, so close your breath hit his face.

“What is it you do with my picture, Aemond Targaryen?”

He swallowed thickly, and the notion that you were affecting him so greatly made your grin spread even wider. “I told you: it’s nothing important- I…” he turned his head to the side, unable to form a coherent sentence with you in such a proximity. “I just…”

You looked down, only to be met with the prominent bulge in his jeans, and then looked back up. “Mh…” you muttered, raising a hand and turning his face back towards you. “Don’t be scared,” you reassured him with the most mischievous tone you had ever spoken, “You can tell me.”

“Stop it already.” he breathed out, distancing himself from you and sitting down on the carpet, his back pressed against the wooden tiles on the side of the bed. His hand reached his face, massaging his forehead to both cover his eyes and relieve some of the pressure you had him feel.

You narrowed your eyes despite being aware that he could not see you: you were not going to give up until those words came out of his lips. So, you sat on his lap and took his hand off his face, feeling him stiffen even more. “You don’t think I was asking nicely enough?” you asked him, tilting your head.

He breathed heavily at your closeness, and his eyes closed instinctively, almost as if having you this close and looking at you at the same time was too much to handle. “What if you don’t like the answer?” Aemond whispered, opening his eyes but settling them down, on your shirt.

When he realised you were not going to reply, he bit the inside of his cheek. “I use it for inspiration…” he told you, definitely aware that the short answer was not going to be enough for you. So, when you asked him what kind of inspiration he was referring to, he continued, “I masturbate to it.”

That made a filthy, wide, and pretty grin spread on your lips. You reached behind him, pulled the picture out of his pocket and unfolded it. “I think I look pretty here, don’t you?”

You saw blood rush to his face when you pulled the picture back out, and his voice was hoarse and strained when he spoke, “Yes… You look very nice.” but that did not stop his lips from curving upwards slightly into a small smirk.

“And… What do you imagine doing to me?” you asked, leaving your mouth slightly opened as you stared down at him. You were aware that the question was risky, that guys like Aemond weren’t the kind to ask you to take your clothes off, and not even the kind to give such an order. No, Aemond Targaryen was the kind to rip them off and discard them on the floor without a care.

He raised a brow at your directness, and his smirk deepened. His eyes went down to meet your lips, hungry and dark. Beneath you, you felt his pulse quicken and his cock getting even harder. "I imagine grabbing you by that beautiful hair of yours, pulling your head back so I can see the desire in your eyes, and then..." he paused, his voice thick with lust, "ramming my cock down your throat until you choke on it."

“That’s the sweetest thing you could say to a woman.” you answered, your breath hitting his face as you grinned at him. Your hand went up to his hair pulling it back twice before gripping it.

You saw his eyes widening slightly at your tug, but he did not pull away, but leaned into the touch instead. “I suppose I’ll have to express myself in such a way more often.” he said, his voice hoarse. His hands then finally gathered the courage to grip your hips- which they did as tightly you did his hair- and they pulled you closer, so you were chest against chest.

His body was warm, even through his white shirt and the jumper worn over it. Your hand on hisbhair automatically loosened its grip, giving him the freedom to brush his nose against your cheek. “Do it again, then.” you breathed out, hating how he had gotten control of the situation in a matter of seconds.

“Oh,” he said with his usual tone, the apathetic one from which transpired only challenge, yet the strength with which his grip tightened on your hips betrayed and exposed him completely, whether he was aware of it or not. “You want to hear about how I want to take you from behind?” he stopped briefly, breathing deeply before continuing, “Want to hear how I’ll fuck that little cunt while the only audible sounds will be your screams of pleasure and that of my hips slapping against your ass… Occasionally my hand will contribute.”

You cleared your throat after his words, and got off his lap, your hand falling away from his soft silver hair in the process of your standing up. Aemond looked up at you, his mouth slightly parted as he took you in like a goddess. “Are we waiting for anyone or do we start?” you asked, making his pupils dilate even further, and his mouth close in sudden seriousness.

He swiftly got up from the carpet, and his hand found the base of your throat in an almost natural gesture. “You want me to fuck you, pretty girl?” he asked, massaging the tender skin without putting any pressure into the motion. But, when you nodded in response, he used his grip to bring your mouth onto his, so he could give it a bruising kiss.

Aemond’s hand moved to cradle the back of your head and angled it so he could slip his tongue inside more easily. When you finally kissed him back, he groaned in pleasure, and his arm sneaked around your waist, holding you flush against his chest as your tongue tangled with his.

The taste of your lips made him so greedy he leaned in even though your bodies were already as close as possible. His free hand travelled down your body until it found your ass, and gave it a rough squeeze that made him groan against your lip. Pulling away, you kissed his cheek, going lower with each one until you reached his jaw.

Aemond’s head fell back, his mouth parted and his lips reddened, his eyes closed. You felt his hand stiffening and tightening around your body, and under your lips, his heartbeat was thummering wildly. “Strip.” he ordered, his voice coming out like a strained plea.

Biting your lower lip, you realised he had loosened his grip on you the only necessary amount for you to obey. You took off your jumper, discarding it carelessly on the wooden floor, before moving your hands down your body with his eyes following their every movement until you undid the button of your jeans.

Ravenous eyes, he had, as he took in the flesh you exposed little by little, and when you unzipped your jeans he decided to take matters into his own hands by roughly tugging them down so they pooled at your ankles. He raised you so as to make you step out of them and threw you onto your back on his bed.

His knee landed on the space on the mattress between your legs while he kept himself up with his arms. His lips reclaimed yours, and his hand found your hip, squeezing it before moving his fingers to trace your stomach, and then down, over the black lace of your underwear. “You’re as wet as I’m hard.” he hissed ruggedly at your lips with a hint of triumph in his voice, the back of his fingers tracing your covered but drenched slit. “Filthy little slut.”

A moan came out of your lips when you parted them, and the little contact that had caused such a reaction in you made you think that, maybe, you really did crave his touch as much as he did yours.

He left the bed then, straightening up and bringing his hands to the button of his jeans right away, “Knees.” he said, already knowing you were going to comply. Once in the position he wanted you in, he ran a hand through your hair, brushing it out of your face, as the other one pulled his pants down.

He freed his cock and bit his lip, before guiding your head towards him. You kissed his tip, looking up at him as you did so and watched him letting out a slow breath. “Take it, pretty girl… Suck it…” he said, seemingly giving you control of your movements.

But mere seconds later he was already using the grip on your hair to guide your mouth up and down his shaft, at the rhythm he desired. Groaning as you took more of him into your mouth, his grip tightened, making your eyes water for the pleasurable pain, and he grinned. “That’s it,” he encouraged, “Take my cock like a good little whore…”

“Do you have an idea of how many times I’ve imagined this?” he continued in a sultry but strained voice. He pulled out of your mouth briefly, letting you take a breath while he slapped his length on your lips. “Every night I lay here in my bed, stroking myself to the thought of your lips wrapped around my cock, your pretty eyes looking up at me with nothing but submission."

He tapped his dick against your lips, silently telling you to open your mouth. When you did, he pushed back inside, moving slower this time. “And now you’re really here… On your knees for me.” He tightened his hold on your hair, pulling you back so he could look down at you. "Open your eyes. I want you to see who's fucking your face."

When you did and he took in your watery eyes caused by the way he was treating your mouth, his grin turned predatory. He pushed you back down, making you take him in til the base, and holding you there for some seconds, while you forced yourself not to choke on him.

He savoured the sensation well enough before pulling out. He moved his hand from your hair to your arm and pulled you up, before his hand moved back up to cradle you face. He kissed you again, with his mouth agape and his breath shaking.

When he moved his lips, he touched your cheek and angled your head to expose your throat before touching that. ”You’re so beautiful…” he breathed out against your flushed skin, forming goosebumps on it. He spun you around, his hand caressing your bare skin as he pressed his chest on your back.

Found the back of your bra he opened it with ease, sliding down your skin and letting it fall onto the floor. As his lips kept their place on your neck, both of Aemond’s hands found your breasts, kneading them with need but gentleness, brushing his thumbs against your nipples and making your breath hitch.

“Bend over.”

His command was executed by him when one of his warm hands found your back and pushed it down, while the other held your hip. He caressed the curve of your ass, chastely at first- as chaste as that kind of action could be- before kneading the flesh with a sharp intake of breath.

Your hands landed on the softness of the mattress, and he helped you get on all fours onto the bed by accompanying your legs with his hands. One of his index fingers hooked in the side of your knickers, and then travelled to the string that passed between your legs, pulling it aside to expose your dripping cunt to the warm air of the small room.

His fingers teased your entrance, lubricating your slit, before pushing inside, making a sweet moan come out of your lips. Aemond established right away that such a distance was far too much, so his free hand sneaked up to wrap around your throat and pulled you back until you were pressed against his chest.

Massaging your pulse point in tandem with his fingers inside of you, you let your head fall back onto his shoulder. “I didn’t think you knew how to fuck.” you said with a grin, although subtled by the pleasure his tapered fingers were provoking you by caressing the walls of your cunt.

Despite himself, Aemond scoffed out a small laugh, “It’s because I study Theoretical Physics, isn’t it?” When you nodded in response, he quickened the pace of his fingers, making your walls contract around them. “Interesting.”

Slipping his digits out of you and making you gasp in protest, Aemond bent you back down until your face collided with the mattress and your ass was completely exposed to him.

He quickly rid himself of his clothes, while his eyes did not leave once your beautiful form. Once you were both completely naked, except for those little black lace knickers he had all the intention to keep on, he took hold of his cock and brought it to rest on your ass, before giving your cheek a sharp slap, making you jolt forward.

Aemond scoffed once again, “For this few?”

“Shut it- I wasn’t expecting it.” you retorted, turning to look at him, but he pushed your face back around once you took in his smug expression, silently telling you to stay still where he had put you.

He slapped your cheeks with his length and probet at your entrance, teasing you mercilessly and making you want to push him on the bed and do it yourself. But not much time passed before he was not able to keep up his act any longer.

With a ragged breath, he pushed into you in one motion, burying himself to the hilt and making you moan and roll your eyes back in pure pleasure. He held you still with his grip on your hips for some time, taking in the feeling of being inside of you with his teeth sunk into his lower lip.

"Mmm," he hummed in pleasure, watching as your body quivered beneath his touch. He bent over, leaning his forehead onto the centre of your back, between your shoulder blades.”

He reveled in the feeling of your cunt gripping him tightly, welcoming him in. His strokes were deep and measured when he started to move, his breath coming in hot bursts against your neck. "That's right," he growled, breathing heavily, "take my cock like the little slut you are."

“Fuck…” you muttered, your hand reaching between your thighs to touch yourself. But he stopped you, blocking both your hands behind your back, almost hurting you.

“None of that, pretty girl.” Aemond said, swallowing thickly. He used his free hand to pull your hips back towards him, forcing his cock deeper inside you with each thrust. “You’ll cum with my cock tonight… Only that way.”

He spun you around, making your hair spread onto the softness of the white duvet. Gripping your thighs and digging his fingertips into the soft flesh, he parted them, entering you again, filling you up again, making you moan loudly again.

Your hands, now freed from his grip, found his hair and tugged at the short silver strands that curled slightly, pulling him towards you until your breath fanned over his face. “Is it how you had imagined?” you asked with a grin, trying to hide the fact you desperately wanted to know, “Fucking me… Is it how you had imagined?”

“Better.” he hissed, grabbing your face and pressing his nose against yours, “Real… But just as tight.” He then crushed your lips together in a bruising kiss, pounding at you like an animal, driven by an inexplicable desire he had never felt before.

You moaned into his mouth when he quickened his pace even more, making your body quiver under his. The way his fingers were leaving litteral fingerprints on the skin of your thighs was making your head spin in pleasure.

Scratching his back and marking him with angry red signs just as he was doing on you, you urged him deeper, rougher, and he obliged without a word. His hand left your face to hook the back of your knee, and the sudden shift in position made you scream against your mouth, making you feel like he was splitting you in two.

“Fuck, Aemond!” you hissed, feeling your walls quivering around his cock as he pounded at you almost as if you were a piece of meat he could use as he pleased.

From the look of his face, from his eyes that seemed injected with blood and pure, unbelievably strong lust and recklessness, you understood how he, too, was on the edge. You suddenly realised that he did not have a condom on, that the passion had been so strong you both hadn’t even thought about it. But you realised you could not care. You realised you wanted to cum inside you, to fill you up.

With the thought in your mind, you came around his cock, your vision going black and your ears whistling as Aemond emptied himself inside you completely. With his strength drained, the grip on you loosened, and he leaned himself on you.

Your legs remained wrapped around his waist as you regained your breath, and hopefully some strength, although you didn’t mind the feeling of him on top of you, still inside.

“Shit…” he murmured against your neck, as your hand still gripped his hair tightly. “I’m completely obsessed with you.”

[iniquitousyearning]

quiet reckoning. chapter one

summary: mattheo comes to visit. it’s strange, being twenty five and still seeing your childhood in his eyes.

warnings: just a ton of fucking angst. complicated, self destructive mattheo who’s finally coming to terms with how he pushed you away when you were younger simply because he couldn’t stand being second to tom in your eyes. the acceptance doesn’t make it hurt any less. get the tissues. cry with me please.

masterlist & other chapters.

Life these days holds a strange, silent kind of peace, interrupted only by the faint sound of water rushing over stone—the creek that runs quick along the forest edge. In your early summer afternoons, the trees form a leafy wall of emerald and ochre, and they sway with the breeze that brushes the hair back from your cheeks.

You sit cross-legged in the dirt, hands buried in soil as you pull vegetables out of your garden in prep for the approaching cold months. You love how earth has its own signature scent: damp, fertile, alive. Somehow it makes you think of Tom—his manor, with its towering windows overlooking manicured grounds, its own gardens sprawling wide. His manor with its grand, sweeping staircases, polished black floors.

Everything was pristine, almost oppressively so. Even the walls seemed haughty, disdainful of the cobwebs that clung to the corners.

Tom had never let you stay long enough to tend to those.

But his gardens—those had their own softness, a quiet beauty that only fully revealed itself after dusk when the moonlight cast everything in silver. I loved you there, you reminisce, and the ache has a name in memory—longing. I wish I could have loved you there longer.

And now you're here, a few years after Tom told you never to come back to him—here where the ache feels smaller, further away. Here where there’s no temptation, where the air smells of earth and moss and freedom, and the silence holds its own kind of comfort. Mattheo visits sometimes, wandering into the quiet when your absence grows too thick, when too many of his owls have gone unanswered.

"He'll visit soon." He always tells you. You start to hate how much he lies to you.

"Don't pretend," you said once, and his mouth stretched into a thin, humourless smile.

"Alright," he replied. "I won't."

So now, when he comes to visit, he doesn't say it—he just sits next to you. He doesn't talk much. Neither do you. Life here is quiet—few neighbours, even fewer visitors. A woman brings you pastries from time to time and the town grocer knows your name, but most days you pass unbothered. You tend the garden when the days are warm, work on the cottage when it's cold.

When it's raining you read books and pretend they're not the same kind Tom used to keep.

On a day in early October, Mattheo sits next to you on the porch and you hate that you notice how he doesn't look at you the same way Tom did. It's something lighter, something less cloying. Sometimes you think of how unfair it is that he can taunt you silently like this—how he can remind you of the chocolate streaks in Tom's inky hair, the depth in his dark eyes. How he can remind you that he holds all the same features as his brother, just without the weight.

As the sun sinks slowly through the trees, casting pink and orange across the sky, you turn your face to the creek, watching the water ripple over stones and rocks, and you think of how young you loved them—the way your love grew different when you weren't looking.

Mattheo was chaos, always had been. I could have helped him find himself. But that thought feels hollow, and it's always followed by another. If he would have let me.

"It's strange to think that this is your life." Mattheo speaks after a while of not. He lights a cigarette, and you reach for it when he passes it to you. "You could have done anything."

You inhale the smoke and close your eyes—thinking of how cigarettes taste like fire and ash and the last time Tom had taken your hand.

"Maybe this is all I ever wanted to be." You reply, spinning the cigarette between your fingers. "At peace."

He glances at you in the fading light—the way the sunset casts shadows in the hollows of your cheeks, makes the gold of your earrings look darker against your hair.

He frowns. "You don't look at peace."

No, you think, taking another drag. I never really have.

You pass the cigarette back to him, watching the smoke drift in the breeze. He doesn't say anything else, so you don't either.

Instead, you watch the dark start to close in, the sky turn into an endless stretch of indigo, stars winking to life somewhere above the trees. The fireflies come out eventually, when the night is quiet and heavy and the world turns a little sleepy. They flutter around in the trees and grass like faeries—like stars that've made their home on the ground—and Mattheo watches them with a furrow in his brow.

You wonder what he's thinking, then think better of it at the bitter twist of his mouth. He always thought they'd burn.

"Why do you still come here?" You question. He turns to you, and when his eyes meet yours that's when you realize you'd verbalized the thought. "To sit with me."

Mattheo shakes his head. "I'll need another smoke to answer that."

So he pulls out another cigarette and lights it. The first inhale is long, and the exhale makes you blink. You look away and pretend like his response doesn't make your stomach twist.

The stream moves a little darker in the moonlight and the pine trees shiver with a gentle breeze that smells like soil. You feel the comfort in it—in knowing that all of this has been here longer than you ever have, and that it'll be here long after you're gone.

Perhaps that's precisely what you chased. A home in something steady.

"I come to remind myself you're okay." He says after a long silence, staring at his hands. "Sometimes it feels like you're dead."

You blink again. He's more perceptive than you remember.

"I'm still here," you remind him, but he laughs without humour in it.

"Sure, you're there," he replies, before another pause. "But you're not really living."

He says the words casually, like they're a fact. You think they're meant to hurt. He's right—it's a thought that comes quietly, the way most unwanted thoughts do. You over look at the river, the fireflies, the dirt under your fingernails—you try to feel the chill in the October breeze, the soft moss under your feet. You try to be alive.

"Why do you think that?" You ask even when you know the answer.

He takes another drag of his cigarette, and then exhales—casting his hair grey when the smoke drifts over his face.

He looks older here, when the night stretches over him. It reminds you how much has changed.

"Sometimes I think you're here to punish yourself." He says, passing you the cigarette again. "You say you come here for peace, but this isn't peace like a person should have. It's just an absence. Silence, and isolation, and nothing else." You glance down at his hand resting on his knee beside you, shadows deepening in the lines of his palm. He watches you. "I wish you'd stop hating yourself for what he's become."

A lump forms in your throat—you remember Tom as a boy, the way he'd hold magic in his palms and make lights dance just to make you laugh. You remember the way he once looked at you, quietly and gently in a way that made you feel safe within crumbling walls offering cold stone decorum. You remember one of the last times at Hogwarts, once things took a turn, when he held more than just magic in his palms—when the lights danced only to burn you instead of make you laugh.

You wonder what it says about you, that you loved him in both.

"I don't hate myself, Matt." You mutter, more conviction than truth. "If I'm punishing myself at all, it's for giving him something to hurt."

He doesn't say anything for a while, so you think briefly that his silence is agreement. You and him both know that there is a lot to hurt about, when it comes to Tom.

"You didn't give him anything." He rebuttals with certainty. "He was who he was before you even knew his name."

It's easy to forget that sometimes, the way he had been all sharp edges even when you'd first met. The way he'd pulled you and his brother through crumbling, damp, narrow hallways with something far too assured for a six year old. Something that made you want to follow him forever—something that whispered; I'll never let anything hurt you.

You exhale a plume of smoke. The fireflies look like falling stars when you close your eyes.

"Sometimes, I think I made him human." You say, and immediately wish you didn't. It's a weird thought, but one that comes unbidden. "Others, I think I made him evil."

It tastes like acid the moment you say it aloud. I made him evil. You think back to all those nights in the quiet, the way you taught him how to confide in you, the way he looked at you as if you held some answer he couldn't find on his own. You remember the secrets he shared, the way he softened when no one else could see. You remember how long it took him to get there.

But you remember the darker moments, too—moments when you didn't pull away, even when you should have. Moments you whispered reassurances instead of warnings, when you offered comfort instead of caution. Maybe, in those silences, you fed a need that shouldn't have been nourished, let him believe his ambitions weren't dangerous, only misunderstood.

You wonder if, in being the one person who never condemned him, you gave him permission to be what he became.

"And me?" Mattheo turns to you. You glance at him, the hard line of his mouth and his eyes that look more black than brown in the night— "did you make me evil too?"

You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound is the stream, the only motion is the flutter of the fireflies.

"I don't believe I made you anything." You say finally, letting him take the cigarette back from you. "I suppose you only became who you wanted to be."

You think, quietly, that it's a kinder fate than the rest.

He huffs a laugh. "So you think I wanted to be an asshole."

He's joking, you think. Or he's bitter again, resentful. You're sure he wanted to be whatever Tom would accept him as—though you'd never say those words out loud.

"I think you wanted to be loved." Is what you settle on, and the words tear your throat apart as you speak them. "Just like I did."

He hums, noncommittally, and lights a third cigarette.

You wonder why you still know that he's bitter even when he's not saying the words—why you still know that he only hums that way when something hurts, or when it's a truth he can't bring himself to admit.

"You found it now, haven't you?" You fill his silence with another sentence you wish you didn't say. "You're engaged."

You watch the embers from the cigarette tip light up the hollows of his cheeks, the way it burns his eyes gold as he takes a drag on it.

"Yeah," he nods into the night. "I'm engaged."

Something selfish in you aches at that.

"Then why do you come here and look at me like you're lonely?" You try to ask it casually, but you don't think you manage it. You see him tense when he realizes how well you still read him. "What is it you're missing, Matt?"

"I don't know." He looks at you in the dark, his expression lost in the shadows of his hair. "Sometimes I think it's you."

It's an answer like a knife, because you've known all along that he feels the same way you do—that the loneliness stays and the regret never really dissipates—that the 'what-ifs' linger long after they shouldn't.

"I'm not your girl." You remind him.

It sounds empty when you say it, but he made it clear when you were younger that he wanted it this way.

"You never were."

He looks away after that, to the stream, and you wonder if it has ever felt hollow like this.

All the lights seem very small suddenly, the moon, the stars—you're not sure where his vulnerability is coming from, all these years in passing. You assume it’s the old saying—absence makes the heart grow fonder.

"But you wanted me to be." It's more of a question.

"For a time, when we were kids." He gives you honesty that surprises you. "Sometimes I think I still do."

Why?—you want to ask, suddenly, desperately—and wonder at the cruelty of the thought. Asking that would be the worst kind of question. Why do you want me?

You think you know all the answers already. They sit bitter at the back of your throat.

"So that's why you come here." You say instead, shivering with the wind that brushes over you. "To remind yourself of all the reasons you still feel empty."

There's a dark sort of humour to the sound he lets out, one that makes your chest ache. He turns to you again, and his hands shake when he lifts the cigarette.

"It's not you that makes me feel empty, princess." He whispers. "It's the absence of you."

You look at him, then—really look. There's something strange about being twenty five and still seeing your childhood in his eyes. Despite the nickname, he’s not joking. It’s the kind of confession that tastes like a fist, like a punch that breaks bones.

I know, you think. I wish it could have been different for us.

"You need to stop coming here." There's no spine in those words. They're putty between you. "Just like Tom told me to stop, I'm now telling you."

He's quiet, watching you as the embers of the cigarette flicker over his fingers.

"I'll stop," he pauses, and you see the pain in his throat as he swallows. "When he finally comes to you."

That, you think, will probably never happen.

"So you'll come here forever." You say, and his mouth twists in a silent, bitter smile.

"I guess I will."

You don't have a response to that. It's not a choice he makes so much as it is his reality, and you, of all people, could never fault him for that.

So instead of words, you lean to rest your head on his shoulder, same way you did when you were kids. You sit together, watching the moon and stars and the stream and the trees and everything else around you that reminds you you're alive, even if you don't feel it. You think of his fiancé, you know she'd never understand. This is childhood love in its most vulnerable form—and you thank him for it, silently, for reminding you that you're not alone. Even if you're sure you are.

He leans his head sideways, on top of yours—a gesture almost automatic.

"I still think of you in the summer." He mutters into your hair. You close your eyes and remember the sun, the way it once felt like it touched your bones. "The summer when we were nine. Swimming in the river at night. Those stupid bugs that I thought were made of fire." He pauses for a minute, looking around, and you think he's done talking, until he isn't. "I suppose I do understand why you chose this life."

You remember that summer, too. Small children swimming in a river that was all silver shadows under the moonlight, chasing fireflies like stars. No parents to call you home, no rules except the ones of your own.

Somehow, that's not your favourite memory of him.

"And I think of you in the fall." You say, listening to your own voice sounding distant. "The year just before Hogwarts. When the leaves turned red and orange and gold. When you raked them into a pile for us to jump in."

He hums. "I tried to kiss you that fall."

"And Tom fought you for it."

"And he won." Mattheo's voice sounds distant too, almost lost. "He always won."

It's strange, thinking of autumn when you think of Mattheo, but it fits—he's just as fleeting. Beautiful, easy to fall into, but always gone too soon, leaving a chill in his place.

"Sometimes I think it's because he knew he could." You build off his thoughts. "And sometimes I think it's because he just wanted to prove it."

He shrugs. "Either way, I still lost."

It's such a mournful way to reminisce, you think, for the children you used to be.

"And what now?" You ask.

He exhales slowly, and the smoke looks like a mist in front of you. "I suppose now we both lose."

And that, is the most honest thing he's said all night.

You turn your face into his shoulder, the way you had when you were younger. You close your eyes, and for a moment you imagine being a child again—back in the days when love was simple and nights were endless. Back to a time when you didn't know things you should and all you had were each other's shoulders to lean on in an orphanage dirtier than the forest before you.

"We lose together, then." You offer, a half-whisper.

"Yeah," he answers, just as quiet, just as lost. "We lose together."

There's a bitter kind of contentment in that, you think. You're sure that's a terrible thing.

You take a few moments to brace yourself for the shift in conversation, and then—

"How is he?"

"He's fine." Mattheo understands what you aren't asking. "The leader he always wanted to be."

You close your eyes again and hear the stream running steady, moving around rocks that have been shaped by years of its presence. You ignore the ache in your chest.

"He's happy?"

You don't have to open your eyes to know that Mattheo smiles bitterly. "He's as happy as someone like Tom could be."

There are several beats of silence, the kind that holds too many unsaid things. You feel it in Mattheos exhale that there's something he isn't saying. You don't press him on it. You sit together like this for a while under the sky—watching the way the dark clouds move, the stars shift.

You think about childhoods that never last. About fireflies and streams and boys you loved.

"Tell me something true." You murmur as the midnight grog sets in. "Tell me something that'll warm me through winter."

Mattheo pauses, silent, and for a moment you think he's not going to answer.

"I've loved you most of my life." He mutters finally, into the top of your head. The words feel like a breath of summer, in a quiet, dark night. "That's the kind of truth that could melt an iceberg."

It's the sort of declaration you could only share in the cover of the night, in the silence of a forest. Not the sort of admission that would ever survive daylight. I've loved you most of mine, too.

"And a lie?" You reply.

His fingertips run through his hair, almost idly. You suppose he's looking back into memories of fleeting autumn's and summer sun, the time he tried to kiss you and the day he pushed you away. He doesn't answer the question for a while. You wonder if he doesn't have an answer, or if he just doesn't want to say it.

And then, finally, quietly— "I'm happy for him."

You close your eyes again. That, you think, is the cold truth of winter.

You turn your face again into his shoulder for a second time tonight, but you keep your eyes open. You can feel the weight of your childhood on your shoulders, the trees and the creek behind you, and the silence that follows his lie.

Suddenly, you're furious—a fire tearing through regret. You wish Mattheo hadn't chosen booze, fights, and empty escapes. You wish he'd let you love him properly before pushing you away. You wish he hadn't always resented Tom—hadn't always felt second best in a way no amount of reassurance could fix. Yet somehow, you just can't fault him for any of it.

He's always known you loved Tom first; he's carried that like a wound.

"Ask me to lie to you." You say as you swallow your anger.

There's an exhale. You're sure Mattheo's watching the trees, the wind as it runs quietly past.

"Lie to me."

You tilt your head up to the sky. You try to remember that fall, you try to feel what it was like to be a child again, and to believe in a future that wasn't shaped by the past. You think of his fiancé.

"I'm happy for you." You whisper.

From the corner of your eye, you know he smiles bitterly again, but he responds with nothing more than his unsteady breathing. You're both silent like this for the rest of his stay, together under the moon that's watched you both change.

"I'll be back in a month," he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear as time stretches thin.

He has to go before the sun rises, before dawn coaxes him into staying. You consider, if only for the flicker of a second, letting him.

"I'll see you then." You lean back and look up into his eyes, searching into the gold buried deep. If you look too long, you think you may see his broken heart. You make yourself smile anyway. "Write to me."

"Even if you don't write back." He replies with a nod.

The cold air makes your eyes water. For a moment he's still, like he may pull you into him and drown you in all the things he feels. Instead, he puts a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it with one of his hands. The lighter casts an orange glow over his face that makes him look pale and tired again, like the boy you'd met in an orphanage that was so much dirtier than the forest before you.

"Good night." He murmurs, and you feel his thumb brush your cheek before he apparates back to the life you left behind.

And now, alone under the black sky, you take a deep breath. Then, you exhale, go back into your cabin and you try not to think about all the things you've lost.

You try not to think of the boy you've loved for far too large a part of your life and how it changed the boy who's loved you for far too large a part of his. You try instead to focus on what you have—walls and peace and solitude, something certain that won't disappear when it rains.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Paper Spine - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

i am a thief of joy😔 must keep the story on brand with Y/N being traumatized. i sleep now, post another part tomorrow😗

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 2.65k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The day starts out quiet.

You wake with the soft gray light of morning slipping through your curtains and the scent of damp earth from the night’s rain still clinging to the windows. You get dressed slowly. Eat half a piece of toast you don’t remember making. It’s one of those days where your head feels a little too loud and a little too empty all at once, but you tell yourself it’ll pass. You’ve had worse.

By late afternoon, you’re sitting on Haymitch’s couch.

It’s nothing new. You’ve been here a thousand times by now. Sometimes you read while he mutters over his latest attempt at cleaning up the place. Sometimes you both sit in silence. Sometimes he starts a conversation and you fall into your usual rhythm—sharp words, softer looks, elbows nudged and insults traded like currency. It’s familiar. Safe, in its own strange way.

But today is different.

Today, something’s off.

You notice it the second he walks into the room—his shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes just a little too dark. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just grabs a stack of books from the floor and sets them down harder than necessary on the table beside you.

You glance up from the page you’ve been pretending to read. “Everything okay?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Fine.”

That’s the first warning.

You try again. “You want help with anything?”

“I said I’m fine.”

His tone is clipped. Sharper than it needs to be. You blink, lips parting, confused. You weren’t even pushing. You were just—asking. You watch him move across the room, setting down another stack like it’s full of glass, but his hands are anything but gentle.

He doesn’t look at you once.

You press your lips together, trying to ignore the cold creeping down your spine. You don’t want to push. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe it’s just one of his bad days.

You set the book down and reach for the empty cup beside you. “I can take this to the sink for you—”

“I said I don’t need anything, alright?”

His voice is piercing, bitter. It lands like a slap.

Your hand freezes mid-reach. Your breath stutters.

And all you can say—so quiet it barely exists—is, “Oh.”

The sound of it turns something in the air. Haymitch looks up then, but it’s too late.

Your shoulders curl inward like a reflex. You stare at the cup. At your hands. At the floor. Anywhere but at him.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, already standing, already moving toward the door before he can speak again. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Wait—”

But you’re already halfway down the porch steps, not looking back.

Your house is too quiet.

You lie in bed, fully dressed, arms folded tight against your stomach like that might hold everything in. Your eyes don’t sting, but your throat does. You don’t cry. You don’t even blink hard enough to try.

All you can hear is your mother’s voice.

Always too much. Always in the way. Always trying too hard.

The words crawl in like smoke, thick and choking, coiling through the cracks in your ribs until you feel them settle in the hollow spaces you thought had started to close.

You don’t move. You just stare at the ceiling, motionless.

It wasn’t a big thing. It wasn’t screaming. It wasn’t cruel. It was just—too sharp. Too close to home. Too familiar. And it was from him.

And somehow that hurts the most.

You stay like that for a long time. Hours, maybe. Time folds in on itself.

Every little sound in the house feels too loud. Every silence feels worse.

He’s going to leave.

You know it with a sick kind of certainty, the way you know the sun’s going to rise or your heart’s going to beat or that when people get tired of you, they always, always go.

You were too much. You knew it. You were getting too close, too comfortable, too obvious.

You pushed too hard. He didn’t want your help. He didn’t even want you there.

He sounded like her.

And you—you just stood there like a kid again, hoping that maybe this time would be different, like an idiot. Like you didn’t already know how this always ends.

“I’m so stupid,” you whisper into the dark. “Why did I ever think it’d be different?”

Your hand curls into the edge of your blanket. Your chest feels too tight. Your skin feels wrong. Your thoughts keep spiraling like water down a drain.

“Why do I even have this stupid crush?” you mutter, voice breaking on the word. “He’s never going to love me.”

You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down.

And then her voice comes again, soft and poisonous and etched so deep into your bones you can’t separate it from your own anymore.

The only people stupid enough to love you are dead.

You shut your eyes. Shake your head. Try to stop hearing it, but it echoes anyway, bouncing around the hollow parts of your skull until it makes your stomach twist.

Your heart stutters, flips. And then your brain does what it always does—it goes further.

Katniss and Peeta.

You think of them. Of Peeta’s steady kindness, the way he always knows how to pull you out of your spirals. Of Katniss’s quiet comfort, the way she just exists beside you without asking for anything.

They’ve known him longer. Trusted him longer.

If he goes, they’ll go too.

Why would they stay, if he’s done with you?

You were doing so well. You were getting better. You were okay.

But if Haymitch is tired of you—if he sees you like she did—then it was never real. None of it. Not the puzzle pieces, not the porch swing, not the lake, not the way his voice went soft just for you.

It was nothing.

You curl tighter around yourself, barely breathing now.

And the voice—hers, yours, both—doesn’t stop.

You’re too much.

You’re nothing.

They’re going to leave.

And for the first time in weeks, you believe it.

You turn your face into the pillow, like maybe the quiet will swallow you whole if you press hard enough.

It doesn’t.

The silence just stretches.

You were so stupid. You let yourself believe in this. In him. In them. In this stupid, fragile little version of a life you thought maybe—maybe—you could have.

You press your palms to your eyes. Try to stop the burning. But it’s too late.

The tears come anyway.

And the worst part is that it’s been so long since you cried like this. So long since you let yourself fall apart. Not since Peeta, someone you’d started to see as a best friend. Not since he found you and pulled you up out of the dark with soft words and lemon cake and the kind of safety you didn’t know how to ask for.

But he’s not here.

No one is.

And maybe that’s for the best. You’ll have to get used to this again. Might as well start now.

You press a hand to your mouth to muffle the sound as a sob slips out anyway, sharp and sudden and humiliating.

It doesn’t stop there.

You curl in tighter, as small as you can make yourself, shaking with it now—whole body trembling like it’s trying to collapse in on itself, trying to disappear. The ache in your chest is unbearable, like something’s caving in from the inside.

Your breath stutters. Catches.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, choking on it. “I’m fine. I’m—fine.”

You’re not.

They’re all going to leave.

It gets louder every time you think it. Louder and truer.

You shouldn’t have let yourself get used to being held up by other people. You shouldn’t have believed you could trust someone and not end up here.

You can almost hear your mother laughing.

Look at you now. Just like always. Falling apart. Alone.

You let out a strangled sound—half sob, half scream muffled into your pillow—and it still doesn’t make anything stop.

You curl in tighter.

The room is dark now. You didn’t notice when the sun went down.

And the worst part is… you don’t want anyone to come fix it.

Because you’re sure—so sure—that no one will.

You don’t know how long you stay there, curled up and sobbing into your pillow. At some point, the tears slow—not because it hurts any less, but because your body is too tired to keep up.

But your mind doesn’t stop.

It only gets worse.

You sit up with a gasp, hands shaking, chest tight like something’s pressing down on it from all sides. You try to suck in a breath and it feels like your lungs won’t stretch far enough.

Your feet hit the floor without thinking. You start pacing. One side of the room to the other. Again. Again.

You press your hands into your chest like maybe that’ll help, maybe it’ll hold everything in place.

It doesn’t.

Your breathing’s too fast now. Shallow. Your fingers tremble where they curl into the hem of your shirt.

You want to scream.

You want to disappear.

You want to go across the way and bang on the door until Peeta opens it and pulls you into a hug and tells you it’s going to be okay even if it isn’t.

But you can’t.

You’re right back where you started. Barely able to breathe. Terrified of being too much. Too needy. Too loud.

You promised yourself you’d never put that on them again. That you’d be better.

But you’re not better.

You’re a mess. Just like always.

You sink down to the floor beside your bed, knees drawn to your chest, rocking slightly without realizing you’re doing it.

And all you can think, over and over, is:

I ruined everything.

I ruined it and now he’s going to leave and they’ll leave too.

And I’ll be alone again. And it’ll be my fault.

You’re still on the floor, trembling, arms tight around your knees, your chest caving inward with every broken breath that won’t quite make it all the way in. You’re gasping, but the air feels too thin. The walls feel too close. The silence feels like it’s screaming.

And then—

“Honey?”

It’s barely a whisper. Soft. Rough around the edges, like it hurts him to say it. Like maybe it’s not the first time he’s tried to call your name and failed.

Your head jerks up.

You hadn’t heard the door. Hadn’t heard the stairs. Hadn’t heard anything over the sound of your own spiraling.

But he’s there.

He’s in the doorway to your bedroom, standing still—shoulders tense, brow furrowed, eyes wide in that way you rarely see.

Not angry.

Not annoyed.

Worried.

Sad.

Your breath catches again, but for a different reason this time. Something sharper. Something that feels almost like shame.

You wipe at your face quickly, though it doesn’t do much. Your hands are shaking too hard.

You can’t get a single word out. Just stare at him, chest still heaving, tears still slipping silently down your cheeks.

He takes a slow step forward, voice even softer now.

“Can I come in?”

He sees the nod—small, shaky—and that’s all he needs.

He moves carefully. No sudden steps. No sharp sounds. Just crosses the room like he’s afraid you might break if he gets too close too fast.

When he reaches you, he crouches down without a word, his knees creaking with the movement. His eyes flick to your hands, still fisted tight in the fabric over your chest, like you’re trying to hold yourself together by sheer force.

Your breath is coming in shallow gasps. Too fast. Too thin. You can’t stop.

Haymitch doesn’t touch you.

He just sits there, eye-level, and says, quiet as anything, “Alright. In and out. With me now. Just like before.”

Then he inhales—slow, deliberate.

“In.”

You try. Your lungs stutter, catch on the inhale.

He nods, patient. “That’s it. Doesn’t have to be perfect, honey. Just try again.”

He breathes out through his nose.

“Out.”

You copy him, or at least try to. It comes out more like a gasp, but it’s something.

His voice stays steady. “Good. Again.”

And again.

And again.

He never rushes you. Never tells you to calm down. Just sits there, breathing with you like it’s the only thing that matters.

Like you’re not broken. Like this is okay. Like you’re okay—even if you don’t feel it.

Even if you’re not sure you ever will.

Your breathing slows—gradually, painfully. The gasps become uneven shudders, and the shudders finally give way to silence. Not peace, but quiet. The kind that feels raw, like it’s all that’s left after something breaks.

You don’t say anything. Just hide your face in your knees, hands still gripping your shirt.

You feel the heat of him still sitting there, close enough to touch, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You can’t look at him.

Shame settles heavy in your throat. Your fingers dig into your sleeves.

You swallow hard, trying to force the tears back down. They burn anyway.

You stay curled in on yourself, still too afraid to meet his eyes.

Still waiting for the moment he leaves.

You flinch when the floor creaks beside you, but he doesn’t say anything. Just shifts closer—slow, deliberate—and then you feel it.

His hands, steady. One at your back, the other at your knees.

He gathers you gently into his arms, pulling you into his lap like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. Like he’s done it a thousand times before. Your side rests against his chest, your legs curled beside him. You melt into him, almost instinctively, placing your head on his shoulder.

He holds you so tightly you can barely breathe—but not in the way that hurts. It’s the kind of tight that says I’ve got you. The kind that doesn’t let go.

His chin rests lightly on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and rough. “Honey, I’m so damn sorry.”

Your hands are still clutching your shirt, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. You wouldn’t even know how.

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t about you. None of it was about you.”

You nod once, barely.

He presses his palm between your shoulder blades, grounding. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

You press your face into his shoulder, a quiet, shaking breath escaping.

“You hear me?” he says, firmer now. “You don’t get rid of me that easy. I’m too damn stubborn for that.”

His grip tightens, like he means to anchor you.

“You’re stuck with me, honey.”

“I’m sorry,” your voice comes out soft, broken. 

His breath catches like he hadn’t expected you to speak at all.

You feel it in his chest, the way it stills beneath your cheek. Then—

“No,” he says, gently but without room for argument. “You don’t apologize for this.”

You don’t move. Don’t lift your head. The quiet sits between you like something fragile.

“I messed up,” he adds, voice lower now. “You were trying to help. I—” He exhales through his nose, like the words are hard to get out. “That wasn’t about you, and I still made it your problem.”

You shake your head, but you still can’t look at him.

“It’s not your fault I’m broken,” you whisper.

Haymitch huffs softly, something between a laugh and a breath. “Then we make a fine pair.”

His hand rubs slow circles against your back. You stay curled into him, small and silent, until your fingers unclench slightly at the fabric of your shirt.

He doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even ease his grip. Just keeps holding you like you’re something worth holding on to.

Next Part

[sugardollcurse]

hi queen, i love your writing so much!! its hard to come by beatles writers nowadays 😭 anyway i was wanting to request hcs (or a oneshot if u want) of george x fem reader who is a popular singer from america and whos sort of like him in the sense that shes very quiet and loves to stay inside? ofc u dont have to but if you do, thank u!!!! hope you have a wonderful day☺️🫰

𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒉

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x fem!reader

꒰ contains ꒱ being famous but anti-attention together </3

꒰ summary ꒱ you're america’s shyest superstar, he was the quiet beatle.

꒰ note ꒱ thank you love!! you’re so right.. with how massive the beatles still are, i would expect there to be more writing for them!! </3

𓂃⋆ your first meeting was backstage.

You were touring the UK for the first time. Headlines called you so many great things, but you always ducked out of the spotlight the second you left the stage.

The press was obsessed with you possibly meeting the Beatles, so naturally, some label exec cooked up a photo op.

You were so overwhelmed by the noise, the flashes, the people shouting your name. And George saw it.

While John. Paul and Ringo charmed the room, George kind of… hovered at the edge. Watching you.

You finally locked eyes across the room, two introverts in a storm.

When you were introduced, you both spoke so softly the poor rep had to lean in to hear.

George did it on purpose, obviously. He could speak as loud as he wanted but didn't.

You heard each other perfectly.

𓂃⋆ you didn’t flirt the way people expected.

You weren’t bantering. You weren’t laughing too loudly.

You weren’t doing it for the cameras.

It was quieter than that.

You complimented his guitar work.

Said you liked the way he played “Boys” live better than the record version.

George blinked. "You actually listen?"

You smiled. "I only care about the music."

It was the exact thing he needed to hear.

𓂃⋆ you started spending time together in stolen minutes.

While the others went to clubs or threw hotel parties, you and George would find corners to sit in.

Literal corners.

Just cross-legged on a carpeted floor, passing a guitar between you.

“You write anything lately?” he’d ask.

You’d hum half a verse. He’d finish the line.

Neither of you would say out loud what was happening, but it was obvious.

You were falling in love like it was a secret chord progression.

𓂃⋆ george loved how low-maintenance it was with you.

You didn’t demand fancy dinners.

You didn’t push him to be louder than he was.

You didn’t mind if he didn’t talk a lot.

When you were together, it wasn’t awkward silence, it was peaceful.

You’d sit on opposite ends of the sofa reading different books, and occasionally trade glances like, I can’t believe I get to have this.

𓂃⋆ you both hated interviews.

George, famously, had zero patience for the media circus.

And even though you were famous, you wilted under too many questions.

You hated when journalists asked if you were dating anyone, or if you’d “snag a Beatle.”

Once someone asked you on live TV, “Which Beatle’s your favorite?”

You smiled and said, “The quiet one.”

𓂃⋆ you stayed "friends" for years. when you visited him at home, it was heaven.

He showed you his garden.

You called it peaceful. He said it was yours now too.

You cooked one thing and nearly burned it.

He ate it anyway.

Called it “gourmet” with a straight face.

You both sat at the window listening to records while it rained, and when the world outside got too loud, George would rest his chin on your shoulder and whisper, “S’just us, alright?”

𓂃⋆ the press didn’t know what to do with you two.

They kept trying to spin you as a “power couple”, loud, wild, flashy.

But there were no scandals.

No drunken nights.

Just grainy photos of you two sneaking out of hotels early in the morning, both in sunglasses and long coats, quietly holding hands.

𓂃⋆ he wrote songs for you. quietly. always.

He never said, “this is about you.”

But you’d know.

A little chord change that mirrored something you sang once.

A lyric about “the sound of her silence.”

You’d hear his songs and feel a weight in your chest, like someone just saw you.

𓂃⋆ george trusted you with the parts of himself he couldn’t explain.

The spiritual searching.

The feeling of not belonging to the machine.

You’d lay in bed at 2 a.m. while he talked about India, or what it meant to him to finally feel quiet inside.

You said, “You don’t owe the world an explanation.”

He said, “I don’t, but I think I owe you one.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

[winteringdream]

DRIFT TO SLEEP ───── asakura jo

✩ ⋅ pairing. asakura jo x fem!reader ✩ ⋅ genre. fluff ✩ ⋅ warnings. none! ✩ ⋅ wc. 556 ✩ ⋅ prompts. reading together, a classic: falling asleep to their lover’s heartbeat as they’re lying against their chest, lying down while one plays with the other’s hair ✩ ⋅ request. If that's okay, I would like it to be JO x Female Reader. Thank you. ✩ ⋅ a/n. another one for the 600 event! ty for requesting!

The rain outside patters softly against the window. It’s 10pm, not late, but late enough to make you feel somewhat sleepy. Jo sits comfortably against the pillows, his back resting against the headboard, one arm loosely around you as you lie against his chest, your head nestled under his chin. 

His voice drifts through the air as he reads aloud from his book. The words flow smoothly, but you barely focus on them. You’re more aware of the warmth of him. His heartbeat beats softly in your ear, pulling you further into tiredness.

His other hand moves through your hair, fingertips combing gently through the strands. It’s lazy and tender, the kind of touch that makes your eyelids grow heavier with each slow touch. 

You let out a soft sigh, pressing yourself closer, and Jo chuckles softly, the quiet sound vibrating through his chest. You smile against the fabric of his sweater.

“You’re falling asleep on me,” he murmurs.

“Mmm.” You hum in acknowledgment, not bothering to move. “Not my fault you’re comfortable.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his fingers still combing through your hair. “I told you reading would make you sleepy.”

“Then why did you agree to read to me?” You peek up at him.

Jo smirks, tilting the book slightly in his hand. “Because you said, and I quote, ‘I promise I won’t fall asleep this time.’”

“That doesn’t sound like me.” You groan, burying your face against his sweater. 

He chuckles again, the deep, breathy sound making your chest feel warm. “It sounds exactly like you.”

His arm tightens slightly around you, his warmth settling over you like a second blanket. You sigh again, your fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his sweater. 

“Keep playing with my hair,” you mumble.

Jo shakes his head but doesn’t stop. “So demanding.”

“You like it.”

There’s a pause. Then, a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” he admits quietly, his fingers threading through your hair even more slowly, his nails gently scratching against your scalp.

A small, pleased smile tugs at your lips. Your hand lazily reaches for the hem of his sweater, fingers curling into the fabric. He notices, his arm tightening around you slightly, a quiet reassurance that he isn’t going anywhere.

The steady patter of rain against the window fills the silence between you. It’s peaceful, the world outside is small and far away.

Jo shifts slightly, turning his head just enough to press a barely-there kiss to the top of your head. His lips linger for a second before he pulls back, as if he isn’t sure you felt it.

A deep sense of warmth spreads through you. The rain continues its steady rhythm against the window, the dim lighting casting a soft golden glow over everything.

A soft hum escapes you, eyes still closed. “Did you just-”

“Go to sleep,” he interrupts, his voice holding a hint of flustered embarrassment.

A quiet laugh bubbles in your chest, but you’re too tired to tease him properly. Instead, you snuggle further against him, letting his warmth, his heartbeat, and the movement of his fingers on your head pull you into sleep.

And just before you drift off completely, you hear his voice again, so soft it almost blends with the rain outside.

“Sleep well.”

And before you can tease him about it, you do.

[yena-enha]

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟗, 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 - 𝐋𝐇𝐒

A sequel to ‘2019, Maybe’ (Touch this text to read 2019,Maybe)

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Warning - Angst, emotional baggage, breakup aftermath, grief, slow reconciliation, emotional vulnerability, implied mental health struggles, eventual healing and romance

Note - SFW ANGST & FLUFF CONTENT

Genre - Second-chance romance, angst, slice of life, soft drama

Pairing - Lee Heeseung x Fem!Reader

Song Inspiration - Dream BY LISA

Word Count - 2,300 words

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“Whenever I close my eyes, it’s taking me back in time,

Drowning in dreams lately, like it’s 2019, baby.

I look at your picture and I smile,

It makes me rewind my mind,

‘Cause in the end, you saved me.

Now it’s 2029, baby.”

----

Heeseung doesn't come home at 2:37 a.m. anymore.

Because it's been almost five years since he had a home to come back to.

Since he dropped his keys on your counter, peeled off his hoodie like the weight of the world sat in its seams, and moved through your apartment like a stranger with memorized steps.

Since you laid in bed, blinking through the dark while his breath filled the silence you used to share.

Since you told him, "I don't think I can keep doing this," and he answered, "I know."

Since he left.

And you let him.

You thought that was the end of your story.

Until today.

---

It's late April 2029, and the rain falls the same way it used to. Soft taps on the cafe windows, mist clinging to the glass like unspoken things.

You hadn't planned to come. You haven't been here in years. Not since you buried that version of yourself—the girl who used to wait across this table for a boy with stars in his eyes and music in his bones.

But you're early for your 4:00 p.m. client. And something pulls you here like muscle memory. Like grief still has a pulse.

The bell above the door rings as you enter. The place hasn't changed. Same scratched-up tables. Same amber glow of lamps. Same faint scent of cinnamon and espresso.

You sit at the same table. Without thinking.

You used to sit here on Sundays when Heeseung was still a trainee, all nerves and neon dreams. He'd scribble lyrics on napkins and hold your hand under the table like it grounded him.

Back then, he kissed you like he had nothing but time.

You're stirring your drink when he walks in.

You don't see him at first. Just the familiar chime of the bell. The hush of rain. And then—the silence that stretches taut when your eyes meet.

Heeseung.

Older now. But unmistakably him. Hair darker. Hoodie oversized. The same way he used to wear it when he wanted to disappear into a crowd.

He freezes. Then walks over.

You both speak at the same time.

"This was our table."

A pause. A breath. A ghost of a smile.

"Mind if I sit?"

You shake your head. "Go ahead."

You don't talk. Not at first. Not for days.

You both keep coming back. You sit across from each other. Order the same drinks.

Heeseung still hums under his breath. You still take your coffee too sweet.

He opens his book but never reads it. You bring your case notes but never write.

You just exist—two people haunting the same past.

Until one day, he speaks.

"I teach now," he says quietly, staring at the foam in his latte. "Vocal coach. I work with trainees. Sometimes idols too."

You nod. "Therapist. Clinic on 6th. Specialize in burnout. And grief."

He looks at you then. Really looks.

"Grief, huh?"

You nod. "It sticks around."

He nods too. "Yeah. It does."

---

Over the next few weeks, the silence turns to soft chatter.

Heeseung tells you about the boy he mentors who reminds him of himself. You tell him about the client who writes poetry instead of speaking.

You both laugh again.

Not like you used to.

Softer. Fragile. Like muscle memory stretching after disuse.

You learn he never dated anyone seriously after you. He learns you stopped believing in forever.

You fall back in love like waves against a worn shore.

In glances. In shared silence. In remembering how his fingers used to play with the sleeves of your cardigan when he was nervous.

One evening, as the cafe empties, he touches your hand.

Just a brush.

You don't pull away.

---

October 18th comes. The date you never say out loud.

You arrive at the cafe. He's already there.

A tiny bouquet of forget-me-nots sits on the table.

Heeseung looks up, eyes glassy.

"I know this day probably means nothing now. But it used to. To me. To us."

You sit down slowly. Words caught behind your ribs.

He breathes in like he’s steadying a tremble.

"I think about that morning a lot. The last one. You offered me breakfast. I said I didn’t have time."

You remember it too. The way his arms felt more like routine than comfort. The way he said, "I love you," like it was an afterthought.

"I knew I was losing you," he whispers. "And I didn’t fight. I chose silence. I chose my dream."

Your throat tightens.

"I used to believe in that dream like it was mine too," you say softly.

Heeseung looks down.

"You were never just a chapter, you know? You were the story. And I... I threw it away."

You don’t say anything for a long time.

Then:

"I’m still trying to forgive you."

His head lifts. He looks at you like he's breathing for the first time in years.

"Then I’ll wait. As long as it takes."

And that’s how it begins again.

Not in declarations. But in promises born from truth.

---

Forehead kisses come first. Tentative. Grateful.

Then laughter. Your first real one since that night in 2024.

Then the way he pulls your chair out. How he walks on the outside of the sidewalk. How he still plays with your fingers like they're notes he's learning again.

One night, in the soft glow of your apartment, he kisses you.

Really kisses you.

Not like a boy chasing dreams.

But like a man who found his way home.

---

He proposes on a quiet Sunday. Same table. Same coffee.

No speech. Just a velvet box. A scribbled note:

"Maybe I outgrew the dream. But I never outgrew you."

You say yes through tears.

---

The aisle is short. But the moment feels infinite.

Heeseung cries before you even reach him.

Your hand trembles in his.

When it's time for vows, he breaks.

"I left you when you needed me most. I chose ambition over presence. And yet you still let me in again. You loved me through the ruin."

His voice cracks.

"This time, I vow to stay. To listen. To hold you when you're tired. To fight when it's hard. To never let silence be louder than love."

Tears stream down your face. You nod.

When the officiant says kiss, he doesn’t hesitate.

Your lips meet.

And this time, there's no distance. No silence.

Just you and Heeseung.

And the home you built between heartbreak and healing.

His forehead presses to yours.

You close your eyes.

You were his dream outgrown.

He was your heart, still.

Now, you are each other's again.

In 2029, Probably

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You guys asked for a sequel, so here it is (with a happy ending ofc)

«Masterlist || Introduction»

Taglist» (open) @strxwbloody

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[ihavenoideawhatiamdoingjustgay2]

UHH ARLECCHINO X FEMREADER AND LIKE ARLE HAS HAD A HORRIBLE WRETCHED DAY AND IS PISSED OFF AND HER AND Y/N ARGUE BUT YN ISNT HAVING IT SO THEY WORK IT OUT 🤗🤔 ?

dw u aint gotta do this its up to you ur amazing 🫶🏻

The brigth side of the Moon

Trope : Angst (?)

Notes : This is a short one, that is a very old request that I still really wanted to do, I really like what I rote and the content, kind of a character study, fluff, Arlecchino is bad with feelings, sligth angst, hope ya'll like it, Fem!Readed, author is sleep deprived deprived

I don't know if this is what you really wanted but I hope you still like it <3

Word count : 603

My Masterlist

The heels of the young Knave clicked against the marble floor as she let her jacket carelessly caress the ground. Her hand drew over her heas, pushing her wet hair away. She could feel the cold seep into her bones. Or maybe she was letting it. Her hand pushed the door to your shared bedroom open, to you, reading a book, while sitting in a rocking chair that sat in front of the hearth. It was nodding, taking your peaceful self along. And the window was open. While the hearth was on.

"How often did I tell you" she said, throwing her jacket into some corner of the room "to close the window while the hearth is burning."

You looked up from your book, you were smiling. It ripped her apart. "The Hearth is always burning during cold seasons.", you say. "And it was raining, the air is fresh, it smells nice."

"We keep it on so it will stay warm. If you want fresh air you can go outside, like anyone normal would.", she rubbed her forehead, it was still slick from rain and sweat.

She heard the chair squeak, heard your dress rustle as you slowly approached her. "Arle, love…are you okay?", your head was crocked at her. "Your curse, it's flaring up.", she looked down at her charcoal hands, the fire under her fingertips.

"Worry less about my curse and more about my window."

You blink. "How'd the training with our children go."

"My children."

She hasn't acted that way since her confession to you. "Arlecchino, you are being mean.", you mumble. "I'm not having that."

He'll, she should've removed herself from you at the start. Should just have gone training with the dummies. But no. She came and started to argue. "I'm going."

"Arle-"

"I'll see you."

Arlecchino held her scythe by her side, surrounded by headless grey figures, most of which had burn marks all over their bodies, yet her breathing wasn't even ragged, her muscles did not burn. She leaned her head against the mirror. The meeting earlier today had left her stoked. That letter- they always targeted you, didn't they? How pathetic of her rivals, maybe she should take their wives and-

The lock of the door sprung open. She stood there for a few moments, glaring at the it, daring them to enter, only for it to be…you. Arlecchino pushed herself of the wall, walking up towards you, despite the…shame that was burning inside of her.

Your hands found her face in an instant, cupping it "Are you ok?"

She felt her throath tigthen, her mouth became dry like the Sumeru desert and something burned in her eyes. No, no, no, no-

"Arlecchino?"

She had buried herself into your neck before you knew it, clawing you closer, feeling your dress rip a bit under her nails. Doesn't matter, she'll pay for repairs, or a new one, whatever you wished for.

"You're my biggest weakness, you know that?", her voice was hoarse and sligthly muted against your neck. Your hand was going through her hair, entangling it, making it pretty, nice. "Stop that.", she asked.

"No."

"Why?"

You sighed, it was shaky. Your hands were shaky too as you grabed for her face, making her look into your eyes. "Because I love you.", you said.

She blinked. "I know."

You chuckled. "You always do.", you took her back into the hug.

"I…I love you too…I suppose.", she confessed.

You grinned. "I know."

Anger makes you impulsive.

Sorrow makes you waver.

And loves makes you weak.

She'll never let them get to you. Ever.

[lazyjellyfish300]

In the heat of the afternoon, the hallways of the school remain calm, uncharacteristic one might think for a place of learning, but quite the common occurrence for a place as unique as Jujutsu High.

Kento sits in his chair in his office, deep in reflection as he takes full advantage of the solitude the peace afforded him, fingers tracing over a piece of paper in his hand.

The material is a bit worn, creased from being folded and tucked over many times in its rightful place in his wallet. But, each line of the paper bends in the exact same way, careful and meticulous so as not to compromise its quality, for the sentimental words it contains hold unspeakable value compared to the rest of it.

It's his wedding vows, written carefully on notebook paper that took him exactly three days to write.

On some occasions when he had to be here in the city for work while you stayed behind in the country, he'd pull them out and read them at times when the hollowness in his chest became a bit too much to bear, when the empty space next to him at night grew more noticeable and he longed to be back where the restlessness in his soul would settle under the steady calm of every reassuring breath you released next to him.

As he reads, he twists absentmindedly the silver band on his left hand as the physical manifestation of the sacred words in front of him now. He remembers how it felt to write them, how many times he had to edit, scribble, and start anew when he felt that they did not do you enough justice.

He remembers looking out of those rainy windows, lost in thought, gathering inspiration from the ample gifts of nature surrounding him in the farmhouse he shared with you, trying to conjure up something that possessed even a sliver of the weight behind the meaning of the words he had seen you write so beautifully next to him, your feet in his lap while he slowly conquered page after page of his books in those blissful afternoons.

He remembers reciting them aloud at the empty altar before the ceremony, pacing with an anxiousness he had not felt since his youth, an innocence that carried him all the way back to high school with the butterflies of young love as he muttered each word to himself, cringing and starting at the beginning when he felt himself stumble uncharacteristically over the fluency of his phrases.

And how quickly it all washed away like moss by the tides of the calming sea outside when he locked eyes on you underneath your lacey veil as you entered, beaming, and 10 minutes late.

But, he would not have expected anything different. No, he would not have wanted anything different because the day would not have been shined by your very essence that you so effortlessly shedded on everything you touched, including every beat of his heart in his chest that irrecovably belonged to you, overwhelming adoration resounding with every approaching echo of your footsteps.

He remembers looking you in the eyes as the delivery came straight from his soul, the solemnness of every vow he promised you that day was immortalized in the hallowed halls of the chapel, in the eyes and ears of every person you loved who was present, whose love for you both made it so that the room was overflowing with it, in the unceasing caress of the seafoam over the shoreline, and in the smell from the rain that clung to this beloved corner of the Earth in a way that was nothing short of eternal.

And, as he reads them now for the countless time alone in his office, he relives those special memories and, for a moment, he recalls that time where he used to be a man who never really had a reason for doing anything, who now answers, "Everything." when anyone asks what exactly he's reminded of whenever he thinks of you.

Ever in tune with him as though you could sense him despite being hundreds of miles away, an incoming phone call from you breaks his contemplative silence.

Kento smiles and tucks the vows neatly away in his wallet, then he answers,

"How are you, darling?"

Before he carefully closes the door behind him.

----

pics from pinterest.

[hi65387]

Their Human Pet (Poly! Yandere! Monster High x Human! Pet! Female! Reader) Part 1

(Yandere stuff will start soon. They will seem normal at first.)

Draculaura and Clawd: Y/n was not impressed when she saw the vampire werewolf couple come into the human living area of the shelter holding hands. Surprised, but not impressed. Y/n could see they were typical monsters from a mile away. Nothing special even if they were an odd couple and the vampire girl seemed weird for one.

Y/n stayed in her corner starring out the window and watching rain fall. She was not interested in meeting either of them. She was watching two particularly small drops race each other across the window when someone tapped her shoulder. She didn't turn around. She could see in the window it was the vampire girl.

The vampire tapped her shoulder again. Y/n sighed. "Can't you tell I don't want to speak? I have no interest in being adopted. Now be gone.", says Y/n while making a shoeing motion.

The vampiress pouts. "Why not? I promise we'll be good owners.", says pink and black haired female vampire. Y/n rolls her eyes.

"I do not care. I do not want to be adopted by anyone. I'd prefer watching paint dry.", says Y/n. The vampiress frowns. The werewolf guy finally speaks up. "Uhh, Draculaura, maybe we should look at other humans? Or just get a dog instead?", says the werewolf.

"But Clawd the shelter people said if she doesn't find an owner soon they'll put her down.", whispers the vampiress, thinking Y/n could not hear. Unfortunately Y/n could. She shrugged. "If they kill me they kill me. I still don't want to be adopted.", says Y/n.

Draculaura looks at her boyfriend pleadingly. "I'm sure she's just shy, Clawd.", says the vampire. "I don't know.", said Clawd. They walk away from Y/n. The seem to argue for a few minutes when Draculaura pouts again and kisses Clawd.

The werewolf says something and they walk out. Y/n thinks he told her no and its over. Only a hour later a shelter worker comes back and clips a leash to Y/n collar and drags her out of the human living area.

Deuce and Cleo: Y/n was not in the least bit interested when the Gorgon and mummy couple entered the human living area. Every other human sat at attention but Y/n kept reading her old and battered copy of Moby Dick for the 300th time. Y/n was just getting to a good part when she felt someone sit down next to her.

"Sup?", says a unfamiliar voice. Y/n looked over to see the gorgon guy was sitting beside her. He was looking at her nonchalantly. "You should move along. I have no interest in being adopted at all. Try Jenna.", says Y/n feeling too lazy and interested in her book to piss him off properly.

"Okay.", says the gorgon getting up. A minute later his mummy girlfriend takes his place. "My Ra? Are there no good humans here?", says the mummy.

"Try a human store instead of a shelter if you don't like our attitudes. We're all abandoned here for a reason.", says Y/n flipping over a page. The mummy stiffened beside her.

"With that attitude you'll never be adopted.", says the mummy. "Good. I don't want to be. I just want to read until they put me down in a month.", says Y/n.

"You talk so casually of your own death. Don't you have desire to live and get out of here?", says the mummy. "Nope.", says Y/n flipping another page.

"Ugh.", says the mummy standing up. She goes over to her boyfriend. The seem to be arguing and the mummy points at Y/n a couple times. Soon the mummy kisses her boyfriend and they walk out. Y/n figured whatever it was was over.

Then an a hour later a shelter employee came back. He attached a leash to Y/n's collar. He dragged her out of the human living area.

Jackson/Holt and Frankie: Y/n was surprised when a human without a collar or leash came into the human area holding the hand of a frankenstein girl. Y/n watched them from behind her book. She was curious as to why he was allowed not to a collar or leash. Then a nearby human started blaring rock music.

The collarless human clutched his head. The frankenstein girl tried to turn off the music but she couldn't. The collar free human boy transformed from human into a blue skinned monster boy with flaming red hair. Y/n immediately lost interest as soon as she saw he was actually a monster.

Y/n quickly went back to reading. Or rather she tried to do so. The blue skinned monster boy was very loud and rude. He started blaring rock music from his phone. Y/n gritted her teeth and kept trying to read.

Suddenly the book was snatched out of her hands. The blue skinned monster boy tossed the book aside. "Hey hey hey. A pretty lady like you shouldn't be reading when theirs cools a going. Get up and dance. Best human dancer is probably gonna get adopted.", he says and starts dancing on his own.

Y/n scowls. "No, thank you. I do not want to be adopted. I want to read.", says Y/n grabbing another book.

"What? You don't want to adopted by me and Frankie Fine? You must be tripping.", says the blue skinned monster guy. He grabs Y/n wrist and tries to pull her to her feet. Y/n begins to have a panic attack. She does not like being touched by monsters or dancing or being the center of attention.

Y/n jerks away and curls into a ball as the blue skinned guy frowns. His girlfriend pulls him away and stops the music. She puts head phones over his ears and he turns back into a collarless human. Frankie and her boyfriend seem to argue for a bit. The frankenstein girl pointing at Y/n. The guy nods and they kiss briefly before leaving.

Y/n thinks it is over and she is safe. She goes back to reading. However an hour later a shelter worker comes and puts a leash on her collar. They drag her out of the human living area.

Lagoona and Gil: Y/n didn't even look over from her window to see what kind of monster or monsters had entered. She watching raindrops slide down the window. However when they started to approach her she saw in the window that they were aquatic type monsters.

They came to a stop behind Y/n. Y/n didn't react. The female monster spoke first. "Good ay. I'm Lagoona and this is Gil.", says the blue skinned monster woman.

"I'm not interested in being adopted.", says Y/n. The human girl watches the couple look at each other. Their frowning but turn back to Y/n.

"I see. Are you aware the shelter is telling people they're going to put you down soon if your not adopted?", says Gil. "Yes. I enjoy pissing people off. I look forward to my death in about a month.", says Y/n without looking at them.

"So you've what, just given up on being adopted? That's no good.", asked Lagoona. "No. I never wanted to be adopted. Its why I piss people off.", says Y/n.

Lagoona frowns and pulls Gil aside away from Y/n. She saw them start arguing for a bit. Then they seem to reach an agreement because they kissed and left. Y/n thought it was over and she would never see them again.

An hour later though a shelter worker came back and attached a leash to her collar. Y/n fought them. However ultimately she was dragged out of the human area.

[writingescapades]

Building Nests

LoP P x reader

Birds could nest in the thorns that winded around your heart. But no bird, that is, no living creature, would be a fool to take such a risk. The nest was warm, but its source was shrouded and impenetrable. One could only feel the pulse that indicated its existence. No berries burst forth for sustenance. No roses to allure. Only a hollow heartless hole for those who dared to call it home.

It wasn’t that you walked around with a dagger at everyone’s head. Nor did you experience some traumatic backstory that could be undone by true love’s touch. Such nonsense was reserved for the fairytales. But somehow, you grew up to find your ability to trust in a state of decomposition. And since distrust did not excuse manners, you found yourself keeping everyone an arms length away with a smile on your face. It was just easier. It was easier to rely on oneself. To build the life one desired and the achievements one wanted. Overtime, you lost the ability to let anyone, anything, in.

Most would say you lived a selfish life, but you wondered if that was true. You weren’t heartless to others, you merely reserved it for other objectives in life. Books, music, art, and science filled your nest. Your laughter and enjoyment kept it warm. And you concluded, at the end of the day, if the residents of Hotel Krat seemed content with you, you were doing fine.

 But wont you get lonely?

It was a judgement masked as concern. You’ve heard endless renditions of this question, this remark. All living creatures get lonely. But you’d rather be lonely than miserable.  Anyway, it wasn’t as if there were a line of suitors awaiting your attention. Nor were you supressing your desires for anyone. Life came and life went. The days would pass on. It was a peaceful realization of life you’d come to accept. You didn’t need anything. Didn’t want anything.

So why then, where you in this situation?

When P first entered the hotel, you were curious. After coming across Polendina and Alidoro, not to mention the numerous other mechanical fabrications roaming large, you were not shocked by P’s appearance. If anything, his humanness was a surprise. P’s quiet openness to life drew your curiosity. Initial thoughts on how he was designed and would react soon morphed to an eagerness to know his ideas. P was fun to be around with. He was easy to be around. You didn’t have to second guess his words or be careful of yours least you be accused of stringing him along. He was very likely your first best friend.

So why then, where you in this situation?

P had gone out for another mission. This one took longer than usual, and everyone at the hotel was concerned. You even noticed Geppetto frequently look out the window, lost in his thoughts. It was raining when P’s unmistakable footsteps reverberated up the Hotel Steps. Upon entering, he was soon surrounded by concerned souls, each of which tried to help him. A towel for the rain. Clean clothes for the oil. P’s legion arm was scurried over to the mechanics who quickly set to work fixing and improving the arm. Blankets covered the young boy and Spring was soon purring in his lap. All this, P took in his usual silent manner. Occasionally he got up to help, only to be ushered back down and told to rest.

P didn’t speak much, but since he rarely did, no one took much notice. But after spending much time in P’s company, you could tell something was on his mind. So it didn’t surprise you when he nudged you towards your room, or when he said he didn’t want to be alone. You both spent numerous nights pouring over books. It always ended up with you fast asleep on the bed while P read on, occasionally looking up to ensure your rest was not disturbed. Nor did it surprise you to see P sit on the floor or pull you down near him. What shocked you was the look he gave you as he pulled you in closer.

P stared at you with an intensity that threatened to push past mere curiosity. A hand went up and gently began to trace your lips. You recoiled and asked P what he was doing. But P ignored your question and instead placed his fingers on his lips, as if discovering them for the first time. He then stared at you again, but this time at your chest. Then he looked down at his chest and placed a hand over his ergo heart.

“I have a heart,” he said.

“Yes P,” you sighed, “like humans, you have a functioning heart”.  

Judging by his behaviour, you readied yourself for a night of explaining how his body and humans were alike, yet different. However, instead of asking more questions, P reached out for your hand and brought it to his heart. You could feel the heavy pulses of his ergo heart ricocheting across his body. His heart certainly pulsed with more intensity than a human’s heart, but only a fool would attribute it to mere mechanical makeup.

“Yes P, that’s your heart,” you said, hoping it would prompt him to continue with this question.

But P shook his head and said, “No. Your heart”.

With his legion arm holding your hand close to his heart, P began to trace your lips again and gently whispered, “Your heart,” over and over again.

“P,” you said in a low voice. “That’s enough”.

P shook his head again.

“Not enough”.

He then pointed to your heart.

“I want to belong there”.

You stared at the humanoid puppet incredulously. As if hearing his words, you could feel the thorns wrapping in themselves, pulling tighter around the nest that encompassed your heart as if to respond, no room!

“P,” you began again, “I don’t think you understand—”

“Do you understand?” P interrupted.

His question silenced you. Surprised by your silence, P looked at you, puzzled. Then a smirk crept up his lips as the puppet delighted in finally understanding an emotion before you, perhaps even better than you ever could.

Once again, his fingers traced your lips, and this time you merely watched him. Even as P slowly danced down a path from your lips to your neck, you watched him. Partly as curious as he was and partly unsure on the change that was beginning to take root between you two.

When he brought his finger once more to your heart, P spoke softly, “I understand”. His voice seemed to carry a wisdom you believed only resided in yourself. An awareness that to be in your heart, P would have to call the thorny nest a home and wait till the linings enveloped him. He’d probably be jostled around your many interests as you fumbled to figure out what to do with him. But, you realized as the puppet pulled you closer to him and began once more to explore your face, was he not doing the same? You sighed, chuckled, and leaned into his touch. You supposed it would be interesting to figure this out together.

[lovefender76]

cosy

a slow reading day with steve!

steve had gotten himself up before you, he finished cleaning the kitchen from the night before and then brewed coffee for you both.

you woke up to feel the other side of the bed slowly losing its warmth, turning onto your back you took in the stillness of the early morning. the door slowly opened revealing your boyfriend, he came to your side of the bed giving you the cup with a “g’morning” his voice still coated with sleep. “good morning” you responded with a sickly sweet smile, cuddling into steve’s side as he settled into the bed next to you.

“what would you like to do today?” steve questioned as he finished his coffee. you contemplated for a moment before answering “shall we just stay in, it’d be nice to just have a day to ourselves” steve smiled before agreeing.

once you both got out of bed you headed downstairs to make breakfast with each other, deciding on pancakes to start your cosy day together. sitting down in the living room to eat, “these are the best you’ve ever made” steve commented. you giggled but continued to eat as the news quietly played in the background, neither of you really paying attention to it. you cleaned the dishes as steve wiped down the countertops .

you both headed back upstairs where you both picked out a book before getting comfortable again. steve had chosen ‘the bourne identity’ while you read ‘the last wife of henry viii’. you both sat in a comfortable silence, legs touching as a light rain began to tap at the window. after getting a few chapters into your book you turned to look at steve and caught him already staring at you- book placed on his bedside table. he eased a smile as you locked eyes, leaning over you kissed the side of his neck. steve took the book from your hands and put it on top of his before grabbing you by the waist to pull you closer to him.

[f14fun]

pages and podiums (!author x op81) - chapter 1

synopsis: in which case y/n, an author hosts a signing and a read-out-loud of the final installment of her book series in new york city. oscar, lost in the big city, stumbles by the bookstore and is immediately intrigued by her (and her books).

prose (3.3K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist | next ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

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There was nothing I liked to do more than write stories.

Well, reading them came in a close second, but being able to tell a heartfelt tale coming from the inner depths of my heart, and sharing that emotion with an audience really, is the best thing that could ever happen to me.

That's how I found myself newly graduated from New York University, sitting in a relatively popular bookstore, sat in the corner of the shop with my books surrounding me. The bookstore was a quaint little gem nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, its walls lined with shelves brimming with literary treasures.

The warm, inviting atmosphere was a stark contrast to the bustling city outside. My table, adorned with a modest sign displaying my name and the title of my latest book, was strategically placed near the large bay windows, allowing the soft afternoon sunlight to spill in and create a cozy nook.

As I arranged my books, carefully stacking them in neat piles, I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment and anticipation. This bookstore had been a frequent haunt during my university years, a place where I sought refuge and inspiration amidst the chaos of assignments and deadlines. Now, returning as an author, it felt like a full-circle moment—a dream realized in the most poetic of settings.

I was hosting a book-signing and read-out-loud for the last installment of my book series.

It was quite early in the afternoon, but never too early in the Big Apple. As it neared one o'clock, I was lost in the tranquility of it all. The shop had quieted to a dull lull.

It was lunch hour, and people were busy munching away on salads, sipping their lattes and iced-coffees, and eating finger-held pastries.

The clinking of silverware against porcelain plates created a rhythmic background hum, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or murmur of conversation. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet scent of pastries, creating an intoxicating blend that seemed to energize the entire space. Some patrons sat alone, engrossed in their books or typing away on laptops, while others gathered in small groups, their animated discussions adding to the lively ambiance.

The bookstore café, with its rustic wooden tables and vintage chairs, was a popular spot for locals and tourists alike, a perfect retreat from the frenetic pace of the city outside. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the faces of the patrons and illuminating the colorful spines of the books on display. It was a picture of serene contentment, a snapshot of everyday life unfolding in the heart of the city.

It was a sleepy time too, everyone tired from the consumption of their lunches. It was a relaxing time, and I was glad to have the time to myself, which contrasted the terribly-busy morning I had. Signing books and talking to fans nonstop from eight to twelve.

But I was eternally grateful for them.

Without them, I would quite literally be homeless on the scary streets of New York City. Their compassion and appreciation for my work kept me writing.

I was interrupted from my moment of solitude when I heard the bookstore door suddenly swing open. It was quite an ordeal as well, as the rusty, copper door hinges squeaked loudly when opened, disrupting the ambiance of the shop. Heads turned briefly toward the entrance, curiosity piqued by the unexpected noise. A gust of cool air rushed in, carrying with it the faint scent of rain from the gathering clouds outside.

From where I was sitting, adjacent to the door, I spotted the new customer. Or at least, he was an unsuspecting customer.

Standing awkwardly with his two feet pointing in opposite directions and his nervous hands fiddling with each other, I could tell that he looked inexplicably lost. With a bewildered look on his face, he looked like the opposite of a native New Yorker.

He stood in the doorway for what felt like a minute, inquisitively grappling with his new surroundings. His eyes darted from shelf to shelf, taking in the rows of books with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

He wore a slightly rumpled graphic t-shirt and shorts, his brown, mousy, tousled hair suggesting a hurried departure from wherever he had come. The contrast between his uneasy demeanor and the bookstore's cozy, relaxed atmosphere was almost palpable.

As he lingered by the entrance, other patrons glanced up briefly before returning to their books and conversations. The young man seemed to be in his own world, oblivious to the mild interest he was generating.

His fingers tapped nervously against his leg, and I noticed he kept glancing at a slip of paper he held, as if seeking reassurance from whatever was written there.

The longer he stood there, the more out of place he seemed, like a character from a different story who had wandered into the wrong book.

Finally, he took a tentative step forward, then another, moving slowly into the bookstore’s warm embrace. His eyes continued to scan the room, perhaps searching for a familiar face or a sign that would guide him to his destination.

There was something almost endearing about his uncertainty, a raw vulnerability that made him stand out in this city of confident strides and determined gazes.

From my vantage point, I watched him with a blend of amusement and empathy. I remembered the feeling of being out of place, the hesitance before taking a plunge into the unknown.

It was a moment of silent kinship, two strangers connected by the shared experience of navigating the unpredictable terrain of life in the city.

He was sort of cute, in an awkward way. His tousled hair gave him a boyish charm, as if he had just rolled out of bed and rushed to get here. He had some sort of a crooked smile, one side of his lip lifting higher than the other. He was tall, with a lanky frame that made his awkwardness even more pronounced. His long legs seemed to have a mind of their own, fidgeting and shifting as he stood in the doorway, adding to his endearing clumsiness.

The way he towered over the small tables and chairs made him look slightly out of place, like a gentle giant in a world built for smaller people. Despite his height, there was nothing intimidating about him. Instead, his gangly limbs and hesitant movements gave him an almost childlike innocence.

His eyes, bright and inquisitive, roamed the room with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. There was a spark of intelligence in them, hinting at a thoughtful mind behind the awkward exterior.

He was different, a moment of slowness. Different from the fast, bustling energy and the fast-paced life the city offered. As I continued to observe him, our eyes met. It was a fleeting moment, but there was something in his gaze that beckoned him to cross the room to meet me.

With a deep breath, he finally took a step forward, his tall frame weaving through the tables and chairs with cautious determination. As he drew closer, his awkwardness seemed to melt away, replaced by a quiet confidence.

“Hi,” he said, his voice carrying a rich, unmistakable Australian accent. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a bit lost.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the accent and the admission. “Lost? In a bookstore or New York City?” I asked with a playful smile. “Because either way, that’s quite the adventure for an Australian.”

Oscar chuckled, his crooked smile widening. “Both, actually. My phone’s dead, and I’ve been wandering around for a while." Oscar’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and a faint blush spread across his cheeks. He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking slightly embarrassed." I’m just visiting for work, and I think I’ve wandered a bit too far.”

“Well, welcome to the Big Apple, Oscar. I’m Y/N,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it with a firm shake, his eyes brightening as he glanced around the bookstore. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. So, any tips for a lost Aussie in the city?”

I enjoyed the nice handshake, noticing how his hand seemed to slot perfectly with mine, the warmth of his palm against mine sending a faint shiver up my arm. I blushed slightly, a feeling of unexpected warmth spreading through me as I glanced down at the table where a loose slip of paper lay forgotten.

Gathering my bearings, I leaned in with mock seriousness. “Well, first tip—don’t trust the pigeons. They might look innocent, but they’re secretly plotting world domination.”

Oscar laughed, a genuine sound that filled the space between us. “Noted. And here I thought they were just after my lunch.”

“You’ve got to watch out for those New York pigeons,” I continued with a grin. “They’re a sneaky bunch.”

Oscar leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Do they have a vendetta against Australians too?”

I chuckled, remembering a particularly humorous incident. “Well, let’s just say they’re equal opportunity offenders. Once, on my way to NYU, one of them decided my freshly washed hair was the perfect target.”

Oscar burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the bookstore and drawing curious glances from nearby patrons. “That’s terrible! But I have to admit, I can’t help but laugh imagining that.”

“It was a memorable day, to say the least,” I replied, joining in his laughter. “I learned a valuable lesson about looking up in the city.”

“Well, consider me warned,” Oscar said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “I’ll keep an eye out for those feathered troublemakers.”

I grinned mischievously. “If you see them starting to organize, run. Or carry a loaf of bread as a peace offering.”

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll keep that in mind. But if I end up covered in bird droppings, I’ll know who to blame.”

“You’re setting me up for failure,” he added with a playful glint in his eye. “They’ll definitely target me now.”

I couldn’t help but give him a sly grin. “Consider it a rite of passage in New York City. Once you’ve dodged a pigeon or two, you’re officially a local.”

Oscar chuckled at my remark, his eyes lingering on mine with a warmth that made my cheeks flush. “So, Y/N,” Oscar began, his tone suddenly more serious, “since my phone’s dead and all, do you mind if I stick around and keep you company? You seem like you know your way around here.”

I raised an eyebrow playfully. “Are you asking for a tour guide or just trying to charm your way into free coffee?”

He flashed a sheepish grin. “Can’t it be both?”

I chuckled, enjoying his easygoing nature. “Alright, Aussie. You’ve got yourself a deal. But fair warning—I give terrible directions.”

“Good thing I’m not in a hurry,” he replied with a wink, his attempt at flirting more endearing than smooth.

I smiled warmly at his playful remark, enjoying the easy flow of our conversation. "You're welcome to stay," I said, gesturing to the empty chair beside me.

Oscar nodded gratefully and smoothly slid over a chair, positioning himself directly in front of me. As he settled in, I couldn't help but notice how his earlier awkwardness seemed to melt away, replaced by a relaxed confidence that was inviting yet unassuming.

Sitting face to face with Oscar, making direct eye contact, I suddenly felt a shift in our interaction. It wasn't just a casual meeting anymore; it felt like a moment frozen in time, a bookstore date where we were the main characters in a story unfolding between the shelves of books.

His brown eyes met mine, and in that instant, I felt a sense of peace and comfort wash over me, as if I had found a familiar place where I belonged. We continued to hold each other’s gaze, sharing unspoken sentiments that seemed to weave between us like a silent conversation.

Unexpectedly, Oscar's smile turned cheeky, a playful glint dancing in his eyes as if he was having an internal dialogue with himself. He was the first to break eye contact, his cheeks tinted with a soft blush that crept up from his neck.

Despite his attempt to maintain composure, his bashfulness was endearing, adding a charming vulnerability to his confident demeanor. I couldn't help but find it incredibly endearing.

I watched as he glanced down briefly, a small smile playing on his lips as he collected himself. His gaze returned to mine, now tinged with a mixture of amusement and newfound self-awareness. It was a moment of mutual recognition, a subtle acknowledgment of the connection that had begun to blossom between us.

I smiled softly, realizing that despite the bustling surroundings, I felt completely at ease with Oscar beside me. It was as if we had stumbled upon a quiet sanctuary amidst the chaos of the city, where our shared laughter and exchanged stories were the only things that mattered in that moment.

Oscar leaned in slightly, his smile still playful. "You know, Y/N," he began, his voice carrying a hint of flirtation, "there's something about this bookstore that feels like it's hiding a secret or two. What do you think?"

I chuckled softly, intrigued by his observation. "Maybe it's where all the lost plot twists end up," I replied, meeting his gaze with a playful glint in my eye. "Or perhaps it's a portal to a parallel universe of unfinished stories."

He grinned, clearly enjoying the banter. "A bookstore as a gateway to alternate dimensions? Now that's a plot twist I can get behind."

"Who knows," I mused, leaning back slightly in my chair. "Maybe we're characters in someone else's story right now, and they're wondering how our plotline will unfold."

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. "You know, as much as I enjoy pondering these ideas, sometimes it leads me down a path of existential dread. The vastness of the universe and our place in it—it can be daunting."

I nodded in understanding, recognizing the weight of his words. "It's a lot to wrap your head around, especially when you start thinking about multiverses and infinite possibilities."

"Yeah," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I try not to dwell on it too much. That's why I appreciate stories—they provide a narrative structure that helps make sense of it all, even if it's just for a moment."

"That's true," I agreed, feeling a deeper connection as our conversation touched on deeper themes. "Stories give us a way to explore those big questions in a way that feels manageable, contained within their own worlds."

Oscar smiled gratefully. "Exactly. They offer us glimpses into different perspectives and allow us to navigate through complex ideas in a way that's both enlightening and comforting."

I leaned forward slightly, intrigued by his introspective nature. "Do you ever wonder who you'd be in a parallel universe? What job you'd have?"

He chuckled softly. "Sometimes. It's a fun thought experiment, imagining different versions of myself in alternate realities."

Curious, I asked, "So, what do you do in this universe?"

He leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Guess."

I considered for a moment, trying to match his playful demeanor. "Acupuncturist?"

"Nope," he replied, shaking his head with a smirk. "Is that the best that you can come up with?" He said, teasing me.

"Quantum physicist?" I guessed, trying to make each guess more outlandish than the previous one.

"Not quite," he chuckled. "Do I really seem like the type to be in that job?" he asked.

"To be honest..." I trailed off, "Not really, no," I said quietly. Laughing at my honest response, he gestured with his hands, prompting me to guess again.

"Funeral director?" I ventured, this was literally a shot in the dark. If such a happy man was in such a depressing career I would immediately be so disappointed and sad.

"Getting warmer, but no," he teased. "Again, do you really peg me to be the type of person who would be a funeral director?" He asked again.

"No! I'm just guessing the most outlandish and random jobs," I held up my hands in mock frustration, pretending to surrender.

"Yeah I can tell, some of these jobs are quite random," he smirked. "But to be fair, my actual job is way more random than what you think it is, I genuinely bet you could not guess it," He provoked me again.

"Please do not tell me you work at a car dealership," I sighed in exasperation. Those people were the worst types of people to deal with as they keep pressuring innocent customers. God, I hoped Oscar wasn't that.

Oscar's face suddenly lit up. Shit, if that was his actual job...

"Close but no," Oscar's smile widened.

"What do you mean close but no?!" I got louder, the competitive spirit in me arising, "That's so vague"

"Okay, to give you a hint, it has something to do with cars," he said calmly. Ahh, that was much better, I see what he meant.

"Are you a tire technician?" I asked.

"Nope," he replied, popping the p.

"An auto-instructor?"

"Wrong, again."

"A diesel technician?"

"Loud, incorrect buzzer."

"That one guy that tests the car for quality issues... the quality control engineer!"

"Not it!"

"You're joking... right. I've guessed all that I know, and I really do not know much about cars in general, just tell me what it is, I give up," I said, finally exasperated as I went through all possible options of what Oscar did for a living.

Oscar leaned forward again, his smile widening. "I drive for McLaren Formula One."

My eyes widened in surprise, momentarily stunned by his revelation. "Seriously? Formula One? I would never have guessed that!"

He laughed at me, momentarily erupting into a guffaw at my blatant shock. "That is literally the most random job relating to cars, and it's motorsport, not just cars. I would have never guessed that, really!" I continued, still surprised.

"That's not fair, you shouldn't have made me guess. I didn't know you were famous," I said, teasing him lightly.

He grinned, clearly enjoying my reaction. "I guess I don't fit the typical stereotype, do I?"

I shook my head, still processing the unexpected twist in our conversation. "Definitely not. That's amazing, though. How did you get into that?"

Oscar leaned back, folding his arms with a playful air. "Well, it all started with a love for speed and a bit of luck. I've been racing since I was a kid, and somehow, it led me here."

"Impressive," I replied with a smile. "You must have some incredible stories from the track."

He nodded, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Plenty. It's a world of its own, filled with highs and lows, victories and near misses."

"I can imagine," I said, genuinely intrigued. "It sounds like a thrilling life."

"It has its moments," he agreed, his tone turning thoughtful. "But enough about me. I want to hear more about you. What's your story, Y/N?"

And so, as the afternoon sunlight filtered through the bookstore windows, we continued to share stories and laughter, each revelation deepening our connection. Eventually, as the conversation naturally drifted to an end, Oscar leaned forward with a gentle smile.

"You know, Y/N," he began, his voice warm and sincere, "I've had a great time getting to know you today. Would you like to grab dinner with me later? Earlier I saw this dinner place on Google Maps that had splendid reviews."

Surprised yet pleasantly flustered by his invitation, I couldn't help but smile. "I'd love to," I replied, feeling a rush of excitement at the prospect of continuing our conversation beyond the cozy confines of the bookstore.

And with that simple agreement, like a chapter in a novel, our first chapter closed, leaving us both eager to see where our story would lead next.

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author's note:

ty guys for reading this fic! 😍🫶🏾

(part TWO coming soon, comment if you want to be added to the taglist <3)

[dragonridersandhighlords]

The Life We'll Build | All The Ways We Stay

Tyrrendor Week Masterlist

Summary: As Aretia rises from the ruins, Xaden dreams of the future he's building—for her, for them.

Notes: For Tyrrendor Week Day 4: Rebuild - @empyreanevents. I am totally using tyrrendor week as an excuse to post these ATWWS one shots.

Warnings: Post-war grief, mentions of loss and execution, emotional longing

Word Count: <1k

The sound of hammers echoed through the valley like the ticking of a clock counting forward—toward something new, something better.

Aretia was changing.

Xaden walked the old road in silence, boots sinking into gravel softened by spring rain. Half-built homes lined the path where a row of flower trees used to bloom in late summer. The trees were gone, but their roots remained. Like everything else in this place.

Like him.

Riorson house still stood at the top of the rise, its black stone walls defiant and untouched by fire. Stone doesn’t burn, he’d told Garrick once. He hadn’t realized at the time how much he was counting on that to be true.

He crossed the threshold slowly. The silence inside was the same, but the stillness had changed—less like a mausoleum, more like a promise. Windows had been cleared of soot, boards replaced, broken furniture hauled away. The Assembly had already started the repairs in earnest, but Xaden had specific plans.

He could already see them in his head, clear as a map.

A library in the west wing—sunlight pooling on warm wood floors, a reading nook tucked into the far corner where Wren could curl up with a blanket and fall asleep with a book open in her lap. She always said she read best when someone was nearby. So he planned to move his office there so he could pace while she read, ramble about strategy and theory, just so she could pretend she wasn’t listening.

The old sitting room would become a greenhouse. She’d drag in planters, hang herbs from the ceiling, paint the walls sage green and claim it was calming. He’d pretend not to care about the color but would find excuses to walk through it every day.

His old room would become theirs, obviously. She’d string stars from the ceiling like her old room. Make the bed with too many pillows. And he’d let her talk him into finally going to sleep more often than not.

Outside, the old oak orchard stands untouched but he’d as a stone bench beneath the ridge where she could sit with her thoughts. Somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet.

All of it—every tile, every wall, every window—he planned with her in mind.

Because when the world fell apart, she was the only thing he wanted to hold onto.

He hadn’t seen her since the executions. A full year without her laughter, her temper, the steady strength of her hand in his. The war had swallowed everything, but the ache of missing her never dulled.

He still reached for her in dreams.

Still turned at the sound of her name.

Still imagined the way her face would light up when she saw the city again—their city. Rebuilt not just for survival, but for joy. For life.

She’d create shopping districts. Training arenas. Spaces for artists, merchants, farmers. She had plans once. Dreams. He wanted to give them back to her. Every single one.

He stood at the top of the stairs and looked out the cracked window, down toward the valley where the new gatherinf hall was rising. He’d been helping plan irrigation routes that morning. Tomorrow, it would be housing and a school.

But this? This house. This city. This was hers.

His voice broke the silence like a prayer: “She’s going to love this.”

“She always did.”

Xaden stilled. He turned, slowly, toward the man standing in the shadowed corridor just beyond the staircase. Wren’s father looked older. Thinner. His shoulders bore the weight of grief that Xaden understood too well. But the eyes—those were unmistakable.

“Harlow,” he breathed.

The man nodded. “You’ve done more for this place than anyone could’ve asked, Xaden. She’d be proud.”

Xaden swallowed. His throat felt tight. “I just… I want her to have something to come back to.”

“You’re building her a future,” Harlow said gently. “That’s more than most ever get.”

They stood together in silence. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the scent of smoke and honeysuckle.

The city still had scars. 

So did they.

But the foundations were strong. And someday—soon, if he had anything to say about it—she’d walk these streets again. She’d see the house. The shops. The greenhouse. The library, and she’d know.

He built this for her.

For them.

All of it waiting for her to come home.

Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans @bookwormysblog @nikfigueiredo @fictionalrelapse @poisonivy2267

Chasing Shadows: @hiraethjules @fangirling-galore @sande5098 @javden @littlepippilongstocking @what-will-be-your-verse @xadenstyles @daisydark @messageforthesmallestman @taleiaargenis @littleemissperfecttt @nesiris21 @samriddhisingh @helo1281917 @simplyyspring

[wisteriainslumber]

baby twst headcanons

happy mothers day, have some disorganized tiny shenanigans feat. the twst women warnings: ch7 spoilers for draconia family members, siblings lying for fun (borderline malicious behaviour), foul language, and maybe a teensybitoftraumaoopsies

Riddle

if he could, he'd be an outside kid with tons of bug friends

secretly kept a caterpillar pet in a lil terrarium jar until it could fly on its own

he found it while it was raining outside and wanted to help it grow :(

my guy was a sickly victorian child

rarely would three months go by without riddle falling ill

he has dyslexia. without the pressure of having to get everything right on the first try, riddle can kinda enjoy reading now because he gets to learn new words and concepts at his own pace

deep in the corner of his room sits a journal with only half if it filled out. most of the entries start like 'i read a new book today' immediately followed by something like 'i do not understand life'

he actually can't bear to read the contents of the more recent diaries, but he equally can't bear to throw them away (not until he can send his younger self a letter that it will all be okay)

his only connection to other people his age were trey and che'nya

and on the occasions where trey was absent che'nya would 'teach riddle about the queendom of roses'

most of the time he fed him lies and riddle believed him

and most of the time riddle would yell at che'nya for being confusing and not clear enough

you can't just tell him that the hat man haunts him at night then reply with "what hat man?" when riddle asks for clarification

like !!! the hat man you just told him about !! (which gets him a reply of "who told you about?" damn you che'nya)

his favourite childhood memory was going out with them to get matching pins together

he still wears his little crown pin today!!

cats would frequently perch on his windowsill and riddle likes to watch them lounge in the sun and wonder what cats think about

(che'nya claims to know but riddle has never seen the beastman talk to a single cat)

but kitty-speak was riddle's first learned animal linguistic. he would practice by talking to the regular cat by the window

it stopped showing up for a while and then came back with four kittens and riddle smuggled them for a good... three anxiety-riddled hours before telling the cat their babies will be well taken care of with che'nya instead

riddle may had to give up those kittens that day but owning a pet cat will be in his future soon. #manifest

Trey

it was a massive game of follow the leader in the clover household

when mama clover was carrying flour over to the patisserie, you'll see the mini clovers carrying small bowls and utensils to help

easy bake oven user

but he was ass at it

legend says his unique magic manifested at age 10 when it was mommas birthday and he baked a really shitty cookie, so he prayed to the queen that his mum would think it tasted nice and it did :D

his siblings took a bite out of the rest of the batch and wretched very dramatically

had his hands full trying to convince che'nya to not eat the glass he found on the sidewalk because it 'looks crunchy'

in fact, whenever talking to adults, trey never refers to che'nya by his nickname but his entire full name. he just wants you to know!! also che'nya is a nickname for friends and family >:(

trey's room has always been free reign for his other siblings, they treat it like a common room

why? mostly because they don't have permission to do anything fun without supervision but big brother trey can to be their supervision :)) right :)))

the clover household is no longer shocked by che'nyas abrupt presence in their house. he seems to favour a certain corner of the house and most of the material on trey's bed

theres usually an extra set of utensils by their table in case che'nya appears. there used to be two extra sets but.. you know🫠

his siblings started a game of hiding as many rubber ducks in trey's room without him noticing

but after they permanently clogged the pipes of the toilet with their duckies, they switched to ugly stickers all over trey's bicycle

howEVER, it happens to be their bicycle now because trey outgrew it and had to get a new one. have fun cleaning the stickers :D

unofficial designated seats at the table and in the family car. real fights have broken out over the siblings because of these spots

still fears basketballs to this day because his brother threw one and trey happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and he woke up with the wrong accent. oh, and a concussion

Cater

all brands but barbie was ruined for caycay

his sisters used him as a mannequin to practice makeup

he had extremely elaborate revenge plans to pin them on the other sister but would get his ass whooped if he was caught

of course, that never stopped him from being extremely crafty to get out of trouble :)

referring to himself in third person cutely was a learned behaviour for survival™

it never worked in his household but it surely worked with other kids his age

collecting pity points but at what cost

had a girlfriend on club penguin for two months and got publicly dumped on club penguin

banned from club penguin because he wouldnt leave her alone and she reported him

sold off his sisters rainbow looms

those kids that are cognitively gifted such as he thought the people in the tv were trapped in there and then asked his mom if they were also in a tv and trapped

whenever dad worked in the office, cater would sit in the big boss chair and 'help', which meant that he was sorting coins and bills based off colour

he also told his dad to wash the money because it looked dirty on the corners

whenever he and his sisters played together, they'd tried to open the compartments of their toys and cater had so much fun with the screwdriver and taking stuff apart

also owned a joint notebook with his sisters. there would be things like poems, drawings, and the hair of ruined barbie dolls taped inside

cater has his own journal though, and he composes very emo poems in there. all written in glitter gel pen. cater would later look back on these and cringe but the more you read, the more you kinda get into it. it is a tad bit profound... for an eight year old, that is

Ace

demented ass doll player

his version of fun was making his dolls de-limb each other and throw them into a big pit to summon his darth vador figurine

whatever in-game ace is, that was his brother except he was significantly worse

my boy ace was the number 1 victim of big bro trappola

ate brown paint chips, which was 'chocolate' according to his brother

was locked inside the bathroom while his brother whispered bloody mary into the walls

sat through horror movies to prove he was a big boy and shit his pants when his brother recreated the jumpscares in the middle of the night

until he got a little older and started outsmarting him

now the trappola brothers team up to terrorize everyone else

its a competition for the brothers to compete over who can spoil the plot of which movie first

weaponized the slap bracelets

sucked milk out of plushies. no i will not elaborate

he's a jump rope champion! and it carries over to those skipper hoops as well

he does prefer the skipper hoops over the rope simply because there are um... ankle shattering consequences if you miss a jump, which meant it was perfect for sharing with the neighbourhood kids! gotta keep those stakes high, ya know?

tried to do a lot of magic tricks to impress papa trappola

made his brother take him to the amusement park and big bro got MAD tips because everyone thought ace was so cute, and quote unquote 'an angel'

like NO HES NOT???? if only big brother trappola knew ace picked up his charisma from him😭

Deuce

grew up with 80s movies, he thinks every that happens in those movies are true stories

he was always presented with old gadgets to 'fix' so its now something he can do pretty well; restoring old devices

the kids his age thought he was like wayyy too old fashioned, like born in the wrong generation

bike kid. if he wasnt inside he was on wheels

he kept a barbie doll in his bike basket and always made sure she wore her helmet (she was the bike guard)

slept with eggs and held them in his hands hoping to hatch a baby chick

thinks teachers live at the school

super sweet child. he's the first at the other kids' side if they got hurt

at the same time he is the biter kid. especially on fathers day

loves reading stories with grandma. whenever she came over, he would bring her a book

he'd also stick around the kitchen and try to see what she was doing. he thought that maybe he could learn to cook a few things by himself so they had more time together

in times like these he would be internally angry at his father because?? grandma is always working, mum is always working, fuck that guy specifically.

easter is his favourite holiday. his family have a tradition of egg painting and deuce used to hide caramel candies in them because grandma liked them

best helper kid around. will hold the dustpans and stuff while Dilah was sweeping

knew the names of all the trucks his mum drove and also a lot of the mechanical part names

had a habit of accidentally breaking things like clocks so he learned quickly how to fix them back up

his grandma takes him shopping for stamps so deuce can send mail to his house, addressed to his mum

Leona

parkour child

bounced all around the palace, climbing the trees outside and everything. gotta keep those claws sharp

before his father fell ill, the kingscholar family used to have lil picnics with Kifaji outside

without fail, leona would always find the highest seat or a nice sun rock to rest upon

unconsciously, even now, leona finds immense comfort in sun rocks

followed his brother around everywhere

when he couldn't catch up, Falena would give him piggy back rides while he was going about his day

asked him many questions bc hes curious about the world

would ask him difficult questions he already knew the answer to just to see Falena struggle lol

whenever tiny leona got tuckered out, his brother would carry him back to bed in lieu of the servants

leona insisted on sitting in the conference room with his dad to gain insight on how kingdom affairs were run

papa kingscholar agreed since it would be good exposure for them, and leona was the one who took notes, Falena would point out the participants at the table and quietly introduce them to leona

ruined the lives of people he played chess with. imagine being bested by a nine year old in chess. the shame.

after Falena got married, leona shifted his studies from maintaining amicable kingdom relationships to medicinal research and ancient curses

the palace staff thought it was out of malice, but leona wanted to focus more on the properties of magic now

(and also, well, based on the new target on his brother, his new sister-in-law, and his nephew, there can never be too many precautions..)

even when he was a tiny child he did whatever he fancied

his servants may have told him that tending to a servant's hair was below his stature but that only made him sneakier when making tiny braids in Kifaji's hair

git gud g

Ruggie

another crafty child

aye, when it depends on your survival, you learn to use those legs of yours to run like the wind

even worse he was a small ass child so he was hard to find

snuck into schools and pretended he could talk to ghosts and charged the kids a quarter to talk to a ghost for them

mental math god. from multiplication to geometry and time, ruggie knows the most efficient ways to get the job done, as well as a few backup plans

would sew up little felt dolls for his neighbourhood friends

left the house to do a bunch of odd jobs and picked up quite a few languages, which meant even more jobs all around, and now he has some pretty unique talents

like, he can preform acrobat tricks! and he can also paint a house upside down. oh, and he can travel quickly on one foot! (don't ask)

oh yeah, ruggie had a huge slime stand

he would make so much slime and sell it off and it made mad bucks but he also absolutely hated slime. what a good waste of detergent and glue, honestly... >:(

and people wanted them different colours and with charms and the like. at least it was a thriving market, but ruggie cannot stand the sight of slime ever since he retired from the slime scene

really liked rubiks cubes because it was like painting a little puzzle. also, when the children got bored of it, they would try to detach the squares and put them on the faces they desired

it was so funny to watch because they will use the oddest tools and tricks to dislodge the squares (like tying a shoelace around a square and trying to tug it off like you do with baby teeth)

ruggie also made lots of origami as seasonal decor :D his grandma really like the flowers and birds he would fashion

this IS canon but i want you to know that he would take the neighbourhood kids and rotate the group around houses in different costumes to get more halloween candy. everyone stan ruggie

Jack

he has younger siblings so his sense of justice was in his personality wayy back then

got to be an exemplar big bro for them💪

whenever they were playing castle, jack was always the princess because his sister wanted to be the heroic knight

if you asked jack, he would say that his sister only wanted to be the knight as an excuse to beat the shit out of his brother

wanted piercings but couldnt get them pierced so his sister gave him sticker earrings

they did not work nor stick very well but he loved him

let his siblings bite him, it seems to be their preferred mode of affection

sometimes they will wordlessly enter his room just to bite him and chill

often had playdates with vil when he was home

jack still doesn't quite know what the difference was between all these water brands vil was showing him but the spirit is there

oftentimes vil was alone in the house so the two played grown up and cooked by themselves

vil had told his dad that they were married because jack would come over and had sleepovers a lot

jack has a big green thumb. he wanted to plant a garden but he started with succulents first because they are notoriously hard to kill

by now he's ready to advance but every time he goes to get different plants, he comes back with more succulents haha

the plants under jack's care are happy enough to bloom flowers, and he gives them to his mama

if vil learned a spell, he would teach jack and vice versa. the BIGGEST supporters of each other. friendship is magic, guys

the first time they learned colour changing spells was an entire mess and vil was bawling in a panic by the end of it because they dyed Eric Venue's favourite couch bright blue and didn't know how to reverse it

jack wanted to call vil's dad to tell him but he ended up calling the wrong number and thought they were in trouble so he ended up bawling too

whenever vil wasn't in the class, no doubt jack is going to question his whereabouts

oddly, jack and neige have never interacted and only found out about vil being their mutual friend well into their teen years

Azul

like ruggie, was a master hider

unless he wants to be found, you will never find him

learned how to read earlier than kids his age because he wanted to prove he could spell big words to his mama

he may have cried a lot as a kid but do you know what that means? FREE black paint!! SUCK IT, PLEBS.

my boy was an astounding artiste, its why hes so creative with getting his way

azul is a visual learner, and always finished books a little slower because he REALLY analyzes all the pictures like downright dissects it

his grandma suggested art as a way to express himself while also making sense of the world around him

even though he thinks his old drawing of him and the twins is outdated in terms of his skill level now, he has a sentimental attachment to it and keeps it in his room always

trading trinkets was a common thing between the trio aka the twins would pop by

mama ashengrotto adored the twins bc they adored azul('s mom that is)

also inherited a beautiful singing voice from mama ashengrotto. he and his grandma would bond by playing the piano and singing. sometimes, they'd do a little show at his mom's restaurant

red hair was seen as very attractive in the coral sea and he very regrettably colour-magicked his hair

it was not the shade he wanted, but he was curious on what was, so with the many complex spells he learned at his age, he experimented with different lengths, colours, and styles until he restored it back to its original form

there remains one surviving picture of his red hair and it is kept in his stepdad's wallet (because its the only place azul wouldn't look!)

no azul is not aware pictures of his redhead era even exist

Jade

loved to weave necklaces and bracelets using shells and plants

gave a lot of necklaces made of sharks teeth to his family and azul because those are valued good luck charms!

it might also be because he loved to hunt sharks but he pretends thats not the reason :)

wandered off all the time and floyd always had to drag him back home before night

hes a curious boy, wanted to explore everything around him, especially the dangerous places

child leashes don't work in the sea but im sure mama and papa leech would have loved to have one anyway

was the main reason why he and his brother have separate rooms

too many petty "stop leaving your mess on my side (of the room)" and hissy fights had mama and papa leech mad

things definitely settled after they had separate rooms

sometimes if he got into trouble he would pretend he was floyd and sent his parents off to look for "jade"

highkey never worked but it never stopped him from trying

started a new method of using tears and his parents were more lenient with him after so he realized he can get away with things if he shed a few tears

he can cry on command and this is his primary weapon if scaring people off didnt work

will then pin it on the other party as if he didn't enable the fight

straight up told floyd lies growing up, that the pufferfish would crawl inside his ears when he sleeps, or that floyd was 'allergic' to seahorses, or that in order to get an angler mer to go away, floyd had to use bioluminescence

this carried over to land as well except jade didnt know whether his words were true or not he just straight up made things up

was also a very very sickly child. got ill extremely easily and is much more sensitive to temperature or water pressure changes

esp during pollen season? jade is gonna lose those lungs he just acquired from sneezing and coughing

Floyd

grade A hoarder

he sees something he likes? he's bringing it back home

unlike at NRC, the twins have separate rooms so the entire space is filled with a bunch of floyd's knickknacks (its why jade is always mad)

as soon as hes done playing with one he's found something else on his swims so his room is 80% things lying around

and when jade stole said knickknacks claiming it was his turn to play thats when floyd suddenly claimed that mermaid doll (that he highkey forgot existed) was his prized possession

back off jade thats his property😡

when he was younger, he loved looking and behaving exactly like jade, but as he got older he valued being his own person instead of an X2

is actually legitimately the older sibling by a few minutes and deliberately decides whether its his privilege or not whenever he can

but as soon as "because you're the oldest" is said he claims that none of them are older because they were born on the same day

to the outsider, it sounds like floyd is feeding jade a heap load of bs, but he likes gathering trivia and wording it so it *sounds* fake but really isnt

like that seahorses give birth via baby explosion

one exception to this rule is that floyd is constantly changing the story of how he met jade

one instance it was that they found each other, another was that some kid kept begging him for food and that later their mom said that was his sibling, other times, jade had allegedly died before floyd used his awesome magic to revive him

most of the time floyd tells jade that a whale shat him out and whatever came out of it looked so deformed and floyd thought jade was so soppy pathetic (in a cute way) so he brought him home

jade never tries to refute nor confirm any of these allegations but when the last story gets told he's always a little more passive aggressive with floyd that day

Kalim

sickly victorian child #2

its from all the poison attempts

and as a result he may or may not have tried mithraism so maybe its worse than we think😭

allergic as hell to bug bites too like someone please give them a electric racket

hide and seek is banned from the Asim household

at that point in his life, kalim had a good 6-7 siblings and letting them loose in a big household AND telling them to hide is a recipe for disaster

it was almost impossible for him to get in trouble too because no one was about to scold the heir of the house

workers of the Asim palace were absolutely not going to scold him and his parents had like fourteen other more rambunctious younger children

but don't be fooled, kalim is a very good seeker when it matters! he can spend hours focused on finding something important, so those hide and seek games were banned for a VERY good reason when kalim was out at night searching and didn't return the next morning (meaning he got childnapped)

oh, whats a little kidnapping but a minor setback? hes fine and in one piece, the doctor triple-checked! anyways, who's ready for another round of hide and seek??

every now and then, kalim falls victim to the good ole' midnight hour and kitchen scissors hair disaster. no, no one learns

the birds and random animals in the Asim park (that's right, his private park..) all have names and kalim visits them often to befriend them

he's learned around a total of eight languages and he will personally translate (with jamil as the scribe) his own books so he can teach his younger siblings

even remembers all their favourite hobbies, genres, activities, etc, etc

the Asim children all have one thing in common and that is their love for bubbles, but who doesn't?

kalim spends time in the nrc lab to create the perfect bubble solution with big, long lasting bubbles. trust.

remembers faces, names, and even birthdays very well. you can always bet on kalim to wish a servant or one of his tutors a happy birthday!

to kalim, having someone know your name and be happy to see you is very important! so he wants his loved ones, guests, and servants to feel appreciated, especially on their very special days :)

Jamil

has the immune system of god he has survived all of the flu seasons without catching it himself

he and kalim played in the bird houses often

taught the parrots a bunch of silly words and phrases

Najima taught one of the parrots to only refer to jamil as 'stinky'

he and Najima claim they look nothing alike even though kalim and everyone else insists its true

the two siblings fought over particular hairbands while sitting next to an entire selection of them💀

Najima loved to fight over things that jamil wanted first just for the victory

yeah, even in childhood jamil never got a break. as if the universe would give him that

we all heard the silly goofy story of jamil shuffling around under a vase thinking he was all sneaky and shit. he has many more stories like this

such as climbing in trees (he only got stuck twice!), wrapping himself in cloth and slithering on the ground (very conspicuous!!), again, draping himself in fabric and trying to blend in with the walls (with a 50% chance of success) etc, etc.

he is SO good at hiding and has so many secret spots around Asim palace, trust him.

Najima?? literally sent him a picture of curry for his birthday to celebrate. the two constantly send each other a bunch of pictures of random rocks, disfigured trash, and all sorts of unsavory things with the caption 'look its you'

while other servants were renovating Asim palace, they told the kids not to run around, because someone could crack their head if they fell off the ladder/the ladder fell on them

so, like the curious kids they were, jamil, Najima, kalim, and a few of his siblings camped around the construction zone waiting for someone's skull to break

its just morbid curiosity, they weren't wishing ill upon anyone

Vil

'don't carry me! i can walk by myself!' but in a way to convince his dad to pick him up

loved being carried around but would never admit to it

partook in many sweets as a kid even though he limits himself now

had a tradition with neige to make hot chocolate every thursday after school. in the warmer seasons, they switched to making their own fruit juice with the blender

from whole kiwis, to sweet potatoes, and ginger roots, it evolved to throwing random things in the machine to see what kind of funky juice would be made

our dear Eric Venue thinks this is so cute he has no problem with it as long as they dont waste food and clean up after. it would be a good habit to learn

plus vil looks so happy because he thinks operating a blender is such a grown up thing to do

1000% ate things he wasn't supposed to

the lipsmacker smelled so good though :(

when he failed a spelling bee and didnt want his papa to be disappointed in him the most logical thing in his seven year old mind was to eat the test

ripped it up and munch munched on the paper

and that had been his primary solution to bad grades until he was able to get in a good study technique (that, and his stomach rejecting the paper)

HORRENDOUS handwriting and it was because he tried to trick himself into being left-handed for a good portion of his life because the Beautiful Queen was left-handed >:(

also had trouble with enunciation from learning very big words. Eric can understand him but a bit of speech therapy and musical training helped

(if you're lucky, you'll still hear hints of it when vil's extremely sleepy)

often made friendship bracelets with, like, no one to give them to

traded a few with jack because vil taught him how to make them. jack thought that they would be a nice thing to give to the rest of his family, and made a few for vil in exchange

Rook

you think him crawling around on the dirt was a recent thing? hell no this was a learned childhood behaviour

he may not have had a bow back then but he had rocks and a will to play

and by will to play i mean he would pelt a lot of things with rocks

his old teachers had to placate him by teaching him how to skip stones on the lake for every one else's safety

only members of his own family were willing to play hide and seek with him

mostly because he is a terrifying seeker. you hide in the bushes and not two seconds later you hear those loud ass military grade boots stomping in your direction

ik no one wanted to play hide & seek with his ass. he only got worse after he developed his unique magic

helped paint his family's nails bc he had such a precise hand

its probably the nail polish fumes that made him this way. among 10 million other things

you know how kids would give each other cards and lolipops on valentines day?

well, on heart's day, rook would have drawn a picture of all his recipients and attach a cool leaf or flower to it

its very adorable and extremely thought out. his old recipients still think of him to this day (real)

rook had very nice penmanship even at a young age. he started by replicating his fathers handwriting and liked the flow of cursive and flair of a signature (rook has made a lot of personal signatures for himself)

had a wax stamp phase where he would dry out and collect a bunch of flowers and presses to make wax stamps

he still is crazy about wax stamps but now he can carve his OWN presses with his OWN knife 👍👍

made homemade twisttube videos at home with his siblings. they range from movie scene recreations, lip sync videos, or full on original scripts

be assured that the costumes, lighting, acting, and editing were rather top tier for their age, and it is because rook's family is exuberant like him (all cutie pies!!)

Epel

mud pie maker

he and the chickens in his village go wayyy back

didn't need animal linguistics to understand the clucks

uhh hey did anyone else have the experience of having pet chickens and then having them disappear and reappear on the dinner table??

im not saying it happened but im also not saying it didn't happen

he does brush his hair. the only reason he hates it when vil brushes his hair is that he feels like his scalp is getting scraped off

the only way to get epel to bathe was to use those three-in-ones because he would never sit still

those children that get dirty thirty minutes after you bathe them. sigh

overlined his lips with his ma's lipstick because ma used it to look nice before going to sell their produce, and epel wanted to help with sales this time. you can probably guess what happened after

the dislike for cosmetics is lifelong

(he did apologize by picking a handful of dandelions for his ma)

adrenaline junkie through and through. as soon as his legs were long enough to touch the pedal, he'd be operating the forklifts and in no way was it safe or responsible

fed the birds with seeds meant for their garden. they were hungry :(

fiddled around with the stray instruments on rainy days, now he can play in perfect harmony during celebrations with his relatives

epel has perfect pitch. destined for pomefiore all along <3

epel did not fear bees. he has potential for being a beekeeper but he didn't want to wear the bee suit

learned how to read and write very early in because he wanted to help out around the village. epel put checkmarks to confirm shipments and things

a bunch of his drawings are hung around the home

'helped' his grandma Marja knit by using the needle to stab the ball of yarn she needs to hand it to her

Idia

banning him from anything was impossible

locking your kids away from the cookie jar would work for anyone but idia. and not for the spiteful reason you think

makes him want to do it more because its interesting enough to stimulate his genius little brain

at that point he doesn't even want the cookie anymore

doing mental gymnastics to exploit loopholes. having a remote controlled airplane fetch him a cookie isn't going against his parents' word because technically he never touched the jar at all

which leads to extremely specific rules established in the shroud household

some notable ones include "severed limbs are only allowed in the staff freezers on halloween" and "no hacking the automated showers to chase down staff member C for thinking Premo are cuter than ortho"

his minecraft boyfriend broke up with him after they built their house together

it doesnt end there though, it never does. ortho took control of the pc to burn down the house and idia also got them banned. never underestimate the rage and revenge spirit of a child scorned

you know that thing about a devil and an angel on the shoulders? well, ortho was 90% the enabler for Bad Behaviour

and mostly because if idia was thinking of doing something, chances are, ortho was already doing said something

the S.T.Y.X staff often with the brothers were usually roped into playing video games and were happy to listen to whatever the boys felt like talking about

idia would bring new inventions to them and play a guessing game of what they think the function was

ortho stunk really bad at building things from scratch, but he was pretty good at memorizing the names of the parts to help idia

idia would ask the staff to take them to the observatory often. they would learn all about the constellations and idia liked to chart how they changed through the seasons

Ortho

his parents mostly had him because idia always got too creative when he was bored and thought having a new baby in the family would help idia fix up his behaviour, you know, be a good role model for ortho and all

... turns out, ortho would be pulling idia into all sorts of mischief. and worst of all, he ALWAYS GOT AWAY WITH IT.

he is tiny but mighty

lots of attitude in this little body

his favourite word was 'why'

him and idia had new nicknames for each other all the time

some of the time they were just kid things, most of the time they were a prize

whoever clears the extreme level with the highest score gets to make the other call him a nickname of their choosing

his received nicknames included such like "cosmic warrior", "lord of the shadow realm", and "the almighty" (when he beats idia's high score... after 5 losses in a row that is)

has no problem hacking the main S.T.Y.X system then blaming it on the employees for having weak security (some bs like 'im six and managed to break into the most secure network')

im sorry but i can't deny it. yes, ortho is an ipad kid and yes his ipad was disgusting

except ortho actually does listen to cyber security and he didn't have the passcode lock, he had the password lock, and it was changed every other week

(idia has accidentally locked the ipad on several occasions trying to guess the overly complicated password)

insane attachment in the sense that he will make up some bs reason (AND a forged research paper to further solidify it) on why he can't be separated from idia

if he were actually surrounded by children his age, just know ortho would've been the biter kid

weaponizes his cuteness just like jade but in a more ^^🌸 way

in these cases he will only refer to himself in third person because it pulls the most heartstrings

tugging on idias sleeves and telling him "ortho wants a cookie" had yielded better results for him than "i want a cookie"

and ortho is nothing if not a very smart boy

Malleus

fully believed that eating the seeds of watermelons would cause one to grow in your stomach

grandma Malificia found it too funny to correct him and to this day malleus still believes it

1/2 contributor to lilia's hairstyle. whenever lilia tried to make him take his bath he would spit fire

(until lilia let him play with the bubbles that was)

when he was a little kid and knew he was in trouble, he would hide in all sorts of places and pout

except he sucked at it. his hiding skill was between "if i dont see you, you cant see me", or his tail would be poking out behind the couches

usually the servants would turn the other way unless it was an emergency. because if malleus was found by anyone but the Queen or lilia, he'd have a toddler tantrum (he thinks they gave up on him)

spent most of his early days finding comfy nesting places or hunting for shiny things. there was nothing but Instinct in his little noggin until he could transform into a bi-pedal form

every day, without fail, he would get his horns stuck in something and throw a fit over it

testiest kid to ever test. when you tell mal he can't do something he'll do it bc he wants to understand why he can't do it

wanted to help grow the roses in his garden faster by summoning a thunderstorm that lasted three days and three nights

whatever tantrums you think malleus throws now are the most mild ones in his entire life

a younger malleus would summon entire hurricanes unknowingly and he would screech and babble in old fae tongue

a non-briar valley resident could easily mistake this for a demon summoning, but this is a normal tuesday in the palace

TRUST, malleus' temper is the tamest ever in the entire draconia lineage

the palace staff actually thank the witch of thorns for her mercy because this tantrum only burnt the entire east wing of the castle to the ground. the young prince is so tame !!

Lilia

straight out of a horror movie, this one

has the long dark hair and only wore long white dresses to really complete the look

loves walking around bare foot to connect with nature. that dress will be smeared with mud, fur, and berry juice (that were always red or purple tones, to everyones horror)

you all have lilia to thank for the inspiration to this horror trope

im talking wandering around in the dark, glowing magenta eyes, which appear red at times

sits SO still when its story time and the story is ancient curses and tomes

was also the kid that claimed they had a ghost friend and that his peers were being mean to "billy"

and no his family was probably the exact same way tbh

the fae are sturdy and lilia went without supervision for days

its quite a normal thing in his household

lilia would be fighting real ass ghosts in diapers and his mom would be cheering him on

the streaks are not from a goth phase but it was more of a 'the fruit juice in cranberries make really nice paint did you know??'

he also really loves tomato juice and it happens to be pretty too, so, why not?

it was originally red streaks but faded and he liked the pink better

one day he packed his bags and told his parents he was going to live in the afterglow savanna and his mom straight up joined him in packing

i like to believe that lilia did have edible food as a child but the army just ruined his tastebuds for Ever bc at that point, food was only a substance needed to live, it didn't have to be enjoyable

yeah, anyway it would be super funny if lilia's parents were good chefs, but lilia legit cannot tell the different between salt, flour, and white glitter

lilia was scooped up by Malificia mostly for his skill but it really turned out to be a glorified playdate for Meleanor

the princess was a mENACE and lilia could take her thunderbolts a bit better than the rest of her servants

(meaning that lilia was the only one that wouldn't be screaming bloody murder, he just would be hella mad and Meleanor thinks his audacity is funny)

Silver

lilias method of feeding him was waterboarding him with milk and that does not come without consequences

although lilia would go out often, its safe to say that silver was never really 'alone'

lilia would have a magical beacon on him at all times even if mal was babysitting, and he appreciates that the wildlife took a liking to silver

speaking of, silver had no concept of stranger danger no matter how much lilia told him so

every time malleus would come over silver would ask him to play murder mystery with his dolls

his first word was an attempt at malleus' name

they played together a lot it was really inevitable

helps worms and snails when it rains by helping them get under tree stumps or grass

played with axes & garden shears (thanks lilia)

2/2 contributor to lilia's hairstyle. and by that i mean he gave lilia a haircut with garden shears (that lilia fully encouraged so silver could 'build his repertoire of skills')

at this point lilias hair length was more of a liability since his sons loved to tug on it and one had a penchant for burning it

take your eyes off silver for one second and he's gone. he saw an ant, a bird, a cool statue, etc etc

loved all the fairytales lilia read him and always asked to be read the ones where true love reigned

him and malleus ran off together (more like mal whisked silver away) everywhere to play and explore

mal loved to show silver the most random things and he would always speak to him like a grown up

would often protest at the end of the day because he didn't want to part ways with him

their earlier conversations looked like mal was listening to silver say something profound even though all silver could do at the time was babble in toddler language with the occasional 'tar-tar' (no one knows what this is but malleus insists that silver is telling him he's hungry)

Sebek

beat the shit out of rocks with sticks

in the colder seasons, and and silver would find rocks or big ice pieces to smash on the ground

poor dude grew up confused as heck. lilia tells him lots of things, and he goes home and his parents tell him a different thing

complained about going to the dentist so much that now silver knows so much about the teeth structure of fae

his siblings love him so much, they're always doting on him and pinching his cheeks and that's why his smiles are so big and nice (real)

refused to eat anything on a fork. he hated the taste of metal

much preferred to use chopsticks. learned because he was a Big Boy now (he is one) and can help himself!!!!

unexplainable hatred for felt fabric. he used to melt all of his felt puppets in the water

him and silver dug a hole in lilia's backyard thinking they could make it to the shaftlands

they didn't make it to the shaftlands, but they dug too close to the river, so the hole filled up with water

and while silver panicked, sebek straight up burst into tears thinking the hole was going to drain the river

also burst into tears one halloween where lilia was dressed up and claimed he was the river spirit and didn't know anyone named sebek

ate a dog treat at some point but silver and malleus also joined him (not before malleus trolled sebek by saying he's going to turn into a dog now)

sebek was so distressed that he dragged malleus into it that he questioned his entire life because he loved playing with sticks. did he eat a dog treat earlier in his life???

when questioned, sebek told silver he didn't need to worry about the dog treat because he already drank milk like a puppy anyways (referencing the milk waterboarding, of course)

anyways, this incident ended in a stick-sword fight and malleus got a bonk on the head from lilia for his instigating

this is where sebek learned it btw. silver developed a thick skull because sebek is ALWAYS bonking him on the head for not knowing things he deems 'everyone should know'

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