#Painted a very vivid image in my head.

[gloopdimension]

since i feel like odozeirs claws would be really dexterous due to his gestures and such In my mind hes thought abt giving gibby a massage when hes stressed. daydreamed about it, even . gay wizard. i think hed be good at it =^_^=

THE WAY IVE PONDERED THIS SO MANY TIMES. oughhh such a good thought. Hed totally ponder it when gibbys having a tough day(ithink hes the first to notice if gibs has it rough. hes stared at him so much hes picked up on his like. subtler mannerisms. And this includes how much more often he pinches the bridge of his nose and how much more he has a growl in hisvoice. etc etc). You just KNOWthat gay wizard sits in his study and ponders massaging gibbys big strong back while reveling in the soft thanks his precious king utters under his sighs of relief.

[rose-tinted-kalopsia]

≡;-꒰ 𝑿𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑹 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑴𝒆𝒔𝒔

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : essentially pwp (without plot), fluff, softdom!xavier, needy xavier, kisses, slight dry humping, slight nipple stimulation, heavy petting, teasing, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, soft sex, slow sex, kitchen sex, counter sex, dirty talk, praise, use of pet name "angel", lmk if i missed any tags!!

wc : ~3k

Sometimes, Xavier couldn't resist you at all... and who's to say you could ever resist him?

"...Xavier?"

You felt warm hands snake over your waist, hot breath tingling the nape of your neck. You own hands, loosely holding the pan and spatula in front of you, froze in place.

"Mmm."

A hum was all you got in reply, the soft nuzzling of his nose against your neck almost making you melt.

In retrospect, he wasn't doing anything else, really. Just holding you close, seemingly savoring the warmth of being near you, occasionally swiping his thumb over the side of your waist affectionately. Soft, innocent touches, you would say—but after knowing him for as long as you have, you've quickly learned that he was quite the expert at downplaying every little thing that he did. You knew his intentions were anything but innocent, even when he tried to attempt idle conversation with you.

"What're you cooking?" he mumbled, voice low and clearly laced with lingering grogginess. The raspiness ever-present in the way he spoke brought vivid images of the night before—deeper, rich tones of his moans, his eyes closed in pleasure as he plunged his cock into you—

You cleared your throat.

"Oh, uh.... Pancakes?" you offered a feeble smile, slightly glancing to the side as he propped his chin on your shoulder.

Another hum of acknowledgement, and you immediately felt the hairs on your neck rise up.

He was getting to you. Very. Easily.

A steady breath to calm yourself down, and you shook your head. "...Did you just wake up?"

The hesitation in your voice was glaringly obvious to you, but Xavier made no indication that he'd noticed. His eyes remained curiously on the pan, watching as you poured in the batter for the aforementioned pancakes, rubbing soft, fluttering circles where his hand now rest over your clothed stomach.

And even as he let out a dismissive "Mhm, slept pretty well", even as he pulled you closer towards him, he was just so... calm. So nonchalant, so innocent, so—indifferent, almost, to the butterflies going wild in the pit of your stomach.

"It smells good, though. I like it when you cook."

He didn't notice...

...But he did notice.

You just knew he noticed.

As if to prove your point, he spoke again:

"You're wearing my shirt."

His words made you freeze.

Earlier when you'd woken up and entangled yourself from his embrace, it was your first thought to go and put on something of his. You didn't think much about it, the cold of the morning air hitting your skin without the warmth of his own, suddenly feeling a bit too exposed without his blanked draped over you. So you'd thrown on one of his t-shirts, smiling to yourself as you caught the familiar scent of his lavender-laced fabric conditioner. You felt comfortable in the way they draped over you long enough to reach halfway down your thighs, and you thought, it couldn't hurt to just wear it for a day.

It wasn't the first time you'd worn his clothes in front of him, and you didn't think he would make any comment on it...

But the fact that he did, meant that it had something to do with the way he was acting.

"O-oh, I... Um, it's the first thing I saw in your closet, I hope that's okay..."

"Mmm... But why? Didn't feel like wearing yours anymore?"

The way his words lingered in the air made it easy to catch his implications; after all, you could still remember the way they'd been strewn across the floor, painting his room in a messy scene almost as proof of your night's activities. While you'd collected them into a neat pile near his closet once you woke up, you didn't necessarily want to wear them...

"...Your clothes are comfy?"

You let out a nervous laugh, trying to distract yourself by beginning to flip the pancakes over, reminding yourself in your head just where you were and what you were doing. "I mean, you're not... mad, right?"

You didn't really think he was, but you couldn't think much at all, period.

And naturally, Xavier shifted to lean up, lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear."Not at all, angel," he whispered, and you could feel the way the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "It looks nice. You should keep this one."

His voice, so close to you, made you flush almost immediately, a wave of warmth coarsing through your body.

He was being unfair.

You huffed, a barely visible tremble in your hands as you slowly flip over the last pancake. "Xavier... You're distracting me...!" You tried to deflect his words, but the tone of your voice came out in somewhat of a whine.

You truly wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

You were playing right into his hands despite knowing this was a trap in the first place, and you thought to yourself, shame on you—your profession as a hunter barely amounted to anything once he had you in his arms like this. Because Xavier wouldn't give you a break, not like this, not in the way you would melt with such ease and he had every opportunity to just... play with you a little.

He chuckled, slipping his hands beneath the shirt you were wearing, breaching whatever tension had lingered in the air between you two. But the first touch of his fingers on your skin made you jump, only barely relaxing as they found found home on the curve of your waistline—

"Xavier!"

"Hmm...? What...?" He was mumbling against your skin again, light kisses on the side of your neck, having you instinctively tilt your head away to give him easier access. Though you wouldn't dare to look at him, you could be almost certain that his eyes had closed, even as he pressed you closer against the stove oven, your hands gripping the handle in front of you as the spatula fell with a soft clink to rest against the pan.

"X-Xavier, the food—"

You swore you could feel the smirk on his face widen.

"Why? I'm not doing anything. I'm not even stopping you."

Playing innocent, of course.

His characteristic sleepiness had yet to truly disappear in the way he spoke, but even if he might have been sleepy, he wouldn't fool you with the way he was acting. For despite his words, his hand moved lower and lower, trailing from your waist down to the plush of your thigh... You had to bite down whatever noise was on the tip of your tongue, your own eyes closing as you felt something poking against your rear.

"...Not yet," he added to his previous statement, breathing on the nape of your neck.

You could succumb.

Xavier had one hand massaging your thigh, the other lifting up your shirt just enough to expose your lower half, fabric of his sweatpants and a very present bulge rubbing slowly into the curve of your ass.

His breath shook—and just like that, whatever image of innocence he'd built up in the past few moments crumbled instantly.

"Haah—sorry, angel," he mouthed at your skin, voice exceedingly quiet, almost drowned out by the sound of his open-mouthed kisses all over you. "Are the pancakes done yet...? I really need you..."

You really, really, really could have succumbed.

And as you fumbled with your hand to switch off the stove, a small "...Yeah" falling from your lips... you did.

From there, it didn't take longer than a few seconds for Xavier to lift you up onto the counter, the chill of the marble surface hitting your skin.

"X-Xavier, we could—! T-the room is just—aah—!"

He leaned down to nuzzle his face into your chest, almost shaking his head, humming disapproval in exaggerated little mmmn's. One hand rest on the curve of your spine to hold you in place, the other still gently squeezing at your thigh in soft, rhythmic pulses. You couldn't help but lull your head back when he began mouthing at your perked nipples, peeking through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He was almost like a kitten as you watched, seemingly losing himself in the tiniest of things. His eyes moved in slow, tender blinks when he looked at you, tip of his tongue flicking wet patches against your clothed nub. The sensation of his licks had you drawing in a shaky breath—you reached out to slowly rake your fingers through his hair.

And you couldn't look away.

Bluer than blue, his sleepy eyes seemed to twinkle—you couldn't tell if it was from amusement, or satisfaction, or something like a mix of them both, but if it weren't for the fact that he was steadying you over the countertop, you were sure you would have melted right into a puddle on the floor.

"Xavier, you're so needy..." you pouted, though the softening of your gaze erased any hint of exasperation.

When he'd momentarily closed his eyes again, slowly leaning up to place a quick peck on your lips, you felt him smile. "You just look... kind of hot, like this." He sighed. "Couldn't stop thinking about you and last night, angel, and then you're like this..."

If your ears didn't betray you, you could have sworn you'd heard a whine fall from his lips.

"How come you didn't even wear any panties...? You're so unfair, angel... I can't go back to sleep like this..."

He was whining.

It was a stark contrast to his more commanding demeanor from the evening before, and had you the strength to truly resist the way his desire would pour right into your body, perhaps you would have teased him a little. He sounded so needy, so desperate—like all he wanted was you, you, you, so much so that even the thought of eating a breakfast cooked by you was less appealing than taking you here on the kitchen counter. You almost couldn't believe it—Xavier adored your cooking.

But you swallowed as he pushed you open, gently guiding you to rest your feet on the surface as if to hold your position in place.

He didn't say anything like he usually would—no comment about your wetness, no comment about how he liked seeing you all spread out for him, no comment about what he wanted to do with you.

Just silence, stepping back to kneel on the floor, half-lidded eyes now eye-level with your glistening cunt.

And then,

"...Breakfast," he said quietly, eyes moving back up to yours in an almost puppy-like gaze that had you clenching around absolutely nothing. "So you won't get angry. I'll eat first."

You could only grit your teeth to suppress a groan at his words.

This fucker, you thought, lower lip trembling as you watched him settle closer to your pussy, hands resting over your thighs to keep you in place. He had the audacity to give you the softest of smiles, before he stuck his tongue out... and licked.

It was slow, at first.

Testing.

Teasing.

He swiped his tongue from just above your slit, to just below your most delicate area—and he pulled back, slick trailing from the tip of his tongue, before repeating the same slow, gentle movements. All the while, he would refuse to break eye contact with you, and you shuddered under his touch.

"X-Xavier, don't tease..." you pouted.

The look in his eyes flashed with momentary amusement. He didn't speak, too busy flattening his tongue against your folds, languidly gliding up and down and barely curling at the tip of your clit, to bother voicing his thoughts at you. But you could hear it, almost—I'm not teasing, he seemed to say, denying his grip on you, denying the way you were trembling at his mouth.

Once he fell into a gentle rhythm, he curled his tongue into the side of your folds, diggind, searching, as if determined to lick you through every little crevice. The tip of his tongue found the eager opening of your entrance, then, and even the slightest touch had you throwing your head back with a moan.

And then he didn't bother going back.

You felt him smirk against you as his tongue was back to your center, lapping at your folds, taking your slick into his mouth in consistent yet lazy swipes.

"P-please, Xavier..." Whines fell from your lips once more, hands tightly gripping the edge of the counter.

But still, he refused to reply, refused to move even an inch away from you, his eyes shining at you in pure delight. Embarrassingly wet sounds were all that you could hear from him, even as you tried hard to keep your composure, barely containing the sounds that threatened to spill out from you.

"Ngh—fuck... Xavier, please, please, more—"

It seemed as if he hadn't been listening to you very much since you'd started, but now, for once, he allowed himself to give in just a little bit.

With another glide over your entrance, he pulled back for a split second to lick his lips, before wrapping them over your clit. In soft motions, his tongue swirled around you. Once, twice, thrice—and then a suck and a pull, releasing your clit with arousal already dripping down his chin.

He smiled at you, then. "Yummy," he said, casual tone colliding with the pure joy in his eyes, before he dove back in to repeat the same motions, tongue flirting with your sensitive bud.

"Xavier!" you cried, panting heavily, fingers reaching out to grip in his hair. You could feel yourself pulse in response to his actions, grinding your hips against his face. Your body went weak, and the hand remaining on the edge of the counter was barely enough to hold you up.

By now, Xavier's eyes had been slowly lulled to a close, soft, open-mouthed moans resounding with wet, slushing noises. The way he was drinking you up, almost slurping at your wetness had you crying out his name on a constant, fingers digging deeply into his scalp when he finally, finally pressed his tongue inside of you.

His grip on your thighs was tighter now, burying his face into your cunt and almost dragging you impossibly closer to him, causing you to fall back against the marble, the cold wall barely supporting your slumped figure.

"X-Xavier! Xav—hng— X-Xavie—"

This time you clenched tightly around his tongue, feeling it slither around your walls almost mercilessly, reveling in the way the tip of his nose would brush in your clit just right. It didn't take long for you to unravel. You creamed all over his his face, frozen, trembling, panting haphazardly.

Only then did Xavier really pull away from you, leaving kitten licks all over your core, easing you through your high.

Your eyes were closed, but you could hear the rustle of fabric and subtle shifting around you. His warmth pressed close to you, breath fanning over your face. "You taste good, angel," he whispered. And you could pout at the way his mouth glistened with your arousal, having opened your eyes to the hazy lust in his own.

You felt weak; spent. But a happy smile splayed across your lips, and you stroked his hair lovingly. "...But you're hard, right...?" you murmured. "You were already so needy, and yet, you still put me first..."

Xavier laughed. Soft, and quiet, he kissed your lips in a delicate flurry, allowing you to taste glimpses of what he had drunk up just seconds ago. "I know. But, I... don't think I'll last very long once I'm inside you..."

You almost giggled at his honesty. You wondered what thoughts he'd truly had when he woke up, to get him searching for your heat first thing in the morning... But you chased his kisses for one last time, before you felt him press his tip at your entrance.

"Please,"  his doe-like eyes looked into you with the most adorable pout, and how could you say no to him?

Xavier laced his fingers with yours when he pushed in, letting out a slow breath, stilling to allow you to take in the way he shuddered just bottoming out within you.

"Does it feel good?" You searched his eyes even as your sensitive walls accepted his length, a size you could never get used to despite how many times he's sheathed himself in you already.

"...Mhm..."

Xavier fell forward.

His weight pushed you back against the wall, and he nuzzled into your neck like you've found in recent weeks that he was very fond of doing.

"So good, angel," he sighed. "So, so good."

Unlike the way he'd been teasing you relentlessly for the past couple of minutes, now, it seemed like he'd submitted entirely to his own desires. For Xavier, you knew, that meant holding you close, and enjoying your warmth—proved by the way he would rock his hips back and forth, slowly, slowly, despite the way he would shudder with every thrust, despite the way he would groan into your skin unabashedly.

Praises would fall from his lips like they usually did, but you found them to be repetitive. Like a chant, like he wasn't thinking, like he was just rolling out words that he felt at the tip of his tongue.

"Ngh... S'good, angel... so good, so good, so good..."

You sighed into his hair, eyes closing at the gentle rhythm.

It was rare for you to see Xavier so drunk on you like this.

In retrospect, you liked it—you didn't mind his pace, didn't mind the way he would whine at you and refuse to let you move away from him. You were grateful that he wasn't taking this time to pound into you like he sometimes did, especially given the way you'd come on his mouth not too long ago. But you supposed, perhaps... he'd had his fair share of fucking you senseless, already the night before.

True to his words, he really didn't take very long, barely keeping his own composure when you clenched over his cock. His hips stuttered, and a whimper fell from his lips, and he was looking at you, eyes glowing softly, pouting under your loving gaze, filling you up with his cum.

"Haah... Angel... Thank you, angel..."

His voice was barely a whisper, tiredness seeping deep into his eyes within seconds as he pulled out and held you close.

It was cute of him. You could almost squeal at the image.

...And it would have been your normal reaction, had he not just made love to you in his kitchen, of all places, and had the edge of the counter not been covered in a pool of cum that was dripping down onto the floor. Because the way that his eyes closed and the way that he took in these slow, deep breaths, told you that he most certainly planned on falling asleep like this. You tapped urgently on his head, determined not to let him do that.

"Xavier... Don't sleep... We have to clean up! A-and, the pancakes will get cold..."

You could sigh at the way he groaned, shifting to bury himself deeper against your chest, voice muffled.

"Don't wanna."

He was almost like a child.

"Xavier—" you tried again, "The kitchen is too messy for you to sleep in—"

"Mmm. Five minutes. Just five. It's a pretty mess, anyway, angel, and I've already had my fill, just... Let me... Close my eyes..."

"Xavier—!"

⁺₊ / an: this came about because bestie and i talked about the boys' questionable locations for sex and she said xavier would totally take you on the kitchen counter... so i went feral over the idea like any other xavier stan would, but this turned out way softer than i expected it to!!! one day i'll be able to write pure filth for our star boy without it going on for so long and drowning in fluff ....... but that day is not today.

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[pretzel-box]

—SCENARIO: Sebastian asks P.AI.nter to draw his spouse while delving in the memories of their sunkissed proposal.

Tags: Sebastian is agressive at the beginning, soft hours with p.ai.nter, fluff and comfort, Sebastian is married to gn!reader

words: 1,3k

“Like this?” P.AI.nter's voice broke the silence, and the image of a beautiful young person appeared on his screen. It was clear that P.AI.nter had put a lot of effort into the picture, every stroke and detail meticulously crafted. Sebastian, who was sitting across from his friend, lifted his gaze from the file in his hand to study the drawing. His eyes traced the lines and shapes before he shook his head, frustration bubbling up inside him.

“THIS LOOKS NOTHING LIKE THEM!”

Sebastian suddenly yelled, his voice echoing through the room. He threw the file he had been reading at P.AI.nter’s screen, the papers scattering across the floor. Gripping his head in both hands, he let out a groan of frustration. “It looks nothing like the person I married. Do it again. Paint them again, please.”

P.AI.nter’s screen shifted to display his familiar face, and he studied Sebastian carefully. The sea-serpent hybrid was visibly distressed, his normally composed demeanour unravelling more with each passing day. “Sebastian, maybe we should take a break,” P.AI.nter suggested gently.

“DO IT!” Sebastian snapped, his voice tinged with desperation.

P.AI.nter hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded, his screen flickering as he began the task once more.

Over the last few days, P.AI.nter had witnessed Sebastian’s steady decline. The crushing weight of hopelessness had begun to take its toll, especially as progress on his escape plan stalled. The fear of never seeing you again had driven Sebastian to the edge, and now he was clinging to the only thing he could—the memory of you.

Sebastian could describe every detail of your face as if he had spent a lifetime memorizing it. The way your smile lit up when you spoke to him, the warmth in your eyes when he returned home, the tentative yet eager kiss you shared on your first date, and the breathtaking moment when he proposed to you at sunset, in your favorite place.

But no matter how vivid those memories were, the thought of forgetting you, of losing even a fragment of what he remembered, filled him with a terror that he could not shake.

As P.AI.nter worked on a new sketch, Sebastian leaned forward, his hands trembling slightly. His mind raced with thoughts of you, the love of his life, the one he was desperate to return to. He couldn't bear the idea of those memories fading, of your face becoming just another blur in his mind. The very thought made his heart ache in a way that nothing else down here ever could.

“Please, P.AI.nter,” Sebastian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now, raw and vulnerable. “Just… make sure I don’t forget them.”

P.AI.nter glanced at him again, the sympathy in his digital eyes clear. He understood what was driving Sebastian, the fear and the love intertwined in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. “I’ll do my best, Sebastian. I promise.”

Sebastian nodded, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to hold onto the image of you in his mind as tightly as he could. The thought of seeing you again, of holding you, was the only thing that kept him going. And he would do anything—anything—to make sure that happened. Even if it meant forcing himself to relive every precious memory, over and over, until the day he could finally make new ones with you again.

His mind was elsewhere, trapped in memories of a life he longed to return to. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from P.AI.nter’s screen as he quietly observed his friend.

“Tell me about the proposal again,” P.AI.nter requested gently, breaking the silence. He knew that Sebastian found solace in recounting these memories, even if they were tinged with the pain of longing.

Sebastian took a deep breath, closing his eyes as the memory flooded back. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he began to speak. “It was a perfect evening. We had been together for a while, and I knew… I just knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with them.”

P.AI.nter’s screen displayed a soft, encouraging expression as he listened and started to draw another sketch in the background, the digital companion understanding the importance of these memories for Sebastian.

“I chose their favorite spot—a secluded beach just outside the city we lived in. We used to go there all the time, just because they liked how the sun meets the water. The sun would set over the water, casting this incredible golden light everywhere. They loved it there.. We’d sit and watch the waves, talk about everything and nothing… It was our place,” Sebastian’s voice was soft, full of warmth as he spoke.

He paused for a moment, as if savoring the memory. “I remember that day so clearly. I was so nervous, even though I knew they’d say yes. I had the ring in my pocket, and I kept checking to make sure it was still there. My heart was pounding the entire time.”

P.AI.nter hummed in acknowledgment, his screen flickering slightly as he recorded every word, every detail. He knew how much this meant to Sebastian.

“We walked along the shore, just like we always did. I was waiting for the perfect moment, and then… then the sun began to set. The sky turned this beautiful shade of orange and pink, and the water looked like it was on fire. Their form got dived in a beautiful warm light, making their eyes shine so bright that it made me feel like I'm melting. That’s when I knew it was time.”

Sebastian’s smile widened, his eyes still closed as he relived the moment. “I stopped walking and turned to face them. They looked at me, their face in a cute little confusion t first, but then they saw the look on my face. I could see the realization in their beautiful eyes. I took their hands, and I told them how much they meant to me, how I couldn’t imagine a life without them, with words that couldn't even express a shard of the things I feel for them. And then… I got down on one knee.”

P.AI.nter’s screen now displayed a rough sketch of a beach, a couple standing in the golden light of the sunset. The image was simple, yet it captured the essence of the moment Sebastian was describing.

“I asked them to marry me, right there, with the waves crashing in the background and the sun setting behind us. Their eyes… They were filled with tears, but they were smiling, a genuine sweet one. And when they said yes, it was like the whole world just… clicked into place.”

Sebastian opened his eyes, and for a moment, it was as if he was back on that beach, holding your hands, hearing you say those words. His heart ached with longing, but the memory also brought him comfort.

“They hugged me so tightly, I could feel their heart beating against mine. We stayed there for a long time, just holding each other, watching the sun disappear below the horizon. It was the happiest moment of my life.”

P.AI.nter displayed the image of the sunset proposal on his screen, a small token to keep the memory alive in the dark depths of the Blackside. “It sounds beautiful, Sebastian.”

“It was,” Sebastian agreed, his voice softening. “It really was.”

P.AI.nter could see the emotion in Sebastian’s eyes, the way they glistened with unshed tears. “You’ll see them again, Sebastian. You’ll make it out of here, and you’ll have more moments like that.”

Sebastian nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or if he truly believed it. “I have to,” he whispered, more to himself than to P.AI.nter. “I have to see them again.”

P.AI.nter offered a comforting hum, the image of the sunset still glowing softly on his screen. “And when you do, you’ll have so many stories to tell them. They’ll be proud of how strong you’ve been.”

Sebastian didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he allowed himself to get lost in the memory for a little longer.

[auggieblogs]

cuddling > anything else ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ

Max Verstappen x fem!reader

summary: Max Verstappen returns to his hotel room exhausted. You comfort him by reading to him until he falls asleep. Daniel Ricciardo interrupts their moment and invites them to dinner.

author's note: Hello lovelies, This is my first time writing any kind of fanfic (probably the last), so please be kind and let me know if you like it<3

PS: only doing this for @flippingmyshit To be very honest( this is not the cookie fic you wanted).

After a gruelling day of practice and media commitments, Max Verstappen had finally returned to his hotel room, eager to rest and recharge for the upcoming race. However, the weariness that clung to him was undeniable; all he wanted was to lose himself in the embrace of a comfortable bed and you.

"Max, is that you?" Your gentle voice floated from the bedroom, where you had been quietly reading a book, ready to welcome Max back from the track.

Max perked up at the sound of your voice, a tired yet adoring smile gracing his lips. Without waiting for a response, he made his way to the bedroom where you were, his steps heavy but determined. He didn't need an invitation; he simply climbed onto the bed and nestled himself against you.

"Maxie," you murmured affectionately, your fingers finding their way into his tousled hair, soothingly massaging his scalp.

Max sighed in contentment, his eyes heavy with fatigue. "Rough day, love," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn't need him to say more. You knew that the back-to-back practice sessions had taken a toll on him. With a loving smile, you shifted, lying down on your back and cradling Max against your chest. His head found its resting place there, and you wrapped your arms around him, making him feel comfortable. You resumed the book you had been reading earlier, your voice gentle and soothing. The words flowed from your lips, painting vivid images in Max's mind.

As you read, Max's breathing gradually slowed, and his grip on you relaxed. The day's fatigue had caught up with him and he was finally asleep.

Just when you thought nothing could disrupt this perfect moment, the hotel room door swung open, and in strolled Daniel, wearing his trademark grin.

"Hey there, lovebirds!" Daniel chimed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything too romantic."

You chuckled, your voice soft as you replied, "Not at all, Danny. Max needed some rest, and I was keeping him company."

Max stirred slightly, hearing his friend's voice. "Daniel?" he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

Daniel couldn't resist poking fun at his sleepy friend. "Maxie, mate, didn't think you'd be enjoying story time."

Max cracked open one eye, his lips curving into a sleepy smile. "I am when it's y/n reading."

Daniel laughed at his sleepy friend (grumpy friend), understanding his genuine exhaustion. "Well, speaking of good times, I thought I'd invite you two for dinner. There's a great Italian place down the street."

You glanced at Max, wondering if he would be up for it. However, Max's response was swift and decisive.

"Nah, I think I'll pass, mate," Max replied, nuzzling back into your chest. "I'm quite cozy right here."

Daniel couldn't help but chuckle at Max's reluctance to leave you or his bedroom suite. "Alright, next time then. You two enjoy your cuddle session. Don't do something I wouldn't."

[thetriumphantpanda]

i work from nine to five; hey hell, i pay the price | Marcus Pike

Summary | You use the office halloween party as a way to prove you can push yourself out of your comfort zone. You didn't expect that to mean that the apple of your eye, Marcus Pike, would take an interest in you.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Plus Size F!Reader

Word Count | 4.4K

Warnings | Explicit smut, workplace 'romance', negative talk about bodies, body issues, plus size reader, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PiV sex, dirty talk, mention of food and alcohol, halloween vibes, costumes, pet names, but nothing else.

Authors Note | I told myself I wasn't going to do halloween writing, and then I had a very vivid image of Marcus Pike bending me over his desk at a work party.... So I did some halloween writing. As a woman who lives life in a bigger body, this one goes out to everyone else who has felt the way reader has felt. These are MY OWN experiences, attitudes I've had given to me, and given to myself, they aren't universal, we all feel differently about ourselves, but if you've ever been made to feel less than because of the way you look, just know I see you and that Marcus Pike would absolutely take you apart regardless of how thick your thighs are. If you liked this, please consider supporting me through my Ko-Fi.

Divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

You tug at your skirt a little, trying to pull it down over your thighs. It seemed like a good idea at the time, to choose something skimpy for the office Halloween party. A way to challenge yourself, finally start to work through the years of bullying at school, and the off-hand comments from your almond-mom who had always told you things like, ‘you could stand to lose a few pounds’, or ‘surely a salad would be a better idea?’. 

It had been such a relief when you’d gotten this job two years ago, finally earning enough on an FBI salary to move out of your family home and into your own space. A space where you weren’t judged for how many fries you had on your plate, or how the pair of trousers you’d chosen to wear made your belly look. It had been good for you, and ever since, you’d been trying your best to challenge yourself to do things you never thought you’d ever have the confidence to do. 

Things like standing in the office, in a pair of fishnet tights, with a skirt so short that if you bent over, Dave from Finance would get a complete eyeful. Looking around though, you couldn’t help feel like it had been a terrible idea. Amy from HR looked absolutely phenomenal in her devil outfit – a red bodycon dress that looked like it had been painted on, showing not a single imperfection on her body – and Jessica, who worked reception, in a Catwoman jumpsuit that hugged her figure perfectly. You don’t think it would ever go away, the comparing yourself to everyone else, even though you knew that Amy and Jessica would totally have their own insecurities about things. 

You were trying to make yourself at small as possible, crowding yourself into the corner of the room, hand clutched around a plastic cup full of ‘spooky punch’, that Hannah, the office manager had put together, which comprised of mostly vodka, some orange juice and what looked like a whole bottle of green food coloring, with some eyeball candy floating around in it. She’d put together a Halloween playlist, which was currently blasting The Monster Mash at a decibel you think should be illegal, and everyone had contributed to her spooky buffet, which was just normal food cut into shapes – like your addition of frozen pizza that you’d cut out with a ghost-shaped cookie cutter. You know you should go and mingle. Adam, on your team has already tried twice to get you to join their little group, so you relent, and walk over, giving everyone a warm smile. It’s all going well, until Alison, nods her head in your direction and stats speaking. 

“Did you work late?” She asks, to which you shake your head. 

“No, why?” 

“Oh,” She grimaces, “I just didn’t think you’d dressed up, is all.” 

And you know it’s mainly because she’s oblivious to mostly everything, but it smarts. Sure, the orange turtleneck is something you’d worn to work before, as are the black platform heels, but the skirt that ghosts the bottom of your ass and the fishnet tights that are still probably one size too small are not something you usually wear, nor are the fake glasses, with thick black frames, or the fucking magnifying glass you’re clutching. You sigh, make your excuses and walk over to the buffet table, picking up one of the slices of pizza you’d brought. Once you’ve eaten that, you reach for one of the cupcakes at the back of the table. It’s iced like a pumpkin and the cake looks to be chocolate, which is your favourite. You’re peeling off the wrapper and about to take a bite when someone interrupts you. 

“They’re delicious.” 

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Marcus Pike. Head of Department. Not your boss, but your boss’ boss, and the most beautiful man you think you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d sat in on meetings that he chaired, supposed to be taking notes but instead focused entirely on him and how he commanded the room. The way he talked with his hands, and how much you wish you could have him run those over your thighs. Or the way he would chew on his bottom lip when he was concentrating, wondering whether he’d like it if you did that if he were to ever kiss you. 

“Oh.” You exhale softly, suddenly uber aware of the fact he’s probably just watched you eat the ghost-shaped pizza, and now, not a minute later, getting ready to bite into the cupcake, you go to set it down on the table, but he stops you, hand gently holding onto your wrist. 

“Please,” He says softly, “I made them, so I need the ego boost.” 

You smile a little, finally meeting his eyes, “You just said they were delicious, what do you need my opinion for?” 

“I remember the raspberry muffins you made last week,” He smirks a little, “And the apple turnovers the week before those, and everything else you bring in, I need to know what the office star baker thinks about my effort.” 

You’re going to refuse, say you’re already full, despite the pizza being the first thing you’d eaten that evening, that you’ll take it home with you and report back on Monday, but his beautiful brown eyes are soft, almost pleading, so you sigh, peel the rest of the wrapper off and take a bite. It’s actually delicious. He’s put some kind of orange flavouring in the icing, and the cake itself is really good. 

“You were right,” You smile, “It is delicious.”

He smiles, like he’s won a prize and it makes you feel a bit fuzzy inside, that this man next to you has been affected by your praise. 

“Great costume, by the way.” He compliments, and you don’t miss the way his eyes trail over your body. 

“You mean you don’t think I ran out of time and came in my office clothes?” You tease. 

“You’d wear that skirt to the office?” He’s smirking at you, and also offers you a wink, which has your hand dropping to the table, holding yourself up, why on earth was Marcus Pike flirting with you? “It’s good, Velma, right?” He motions to the magnifying glass abandoned on the table. 

You chuckle a little, “First prize, got it first time,” You then take a moment to take in his costume, he’s wearing a brown jacket over one of his usual shirts, a brown satchel is draped across his body and he’s got a hat on, but it’s the whip that really gives him away, “Indiana Jones?” You say quietly. 

“The one and only.” He smiles, opening his arms a little. 

You think it must be the amount of vodka that Hannah put in the punch, but even so, your next question shocks you, “Do I ask where you got the whip from?” 

He looks around dramatically, “Just checking Amy from HR is out of earshot,” Then he leans in a little closer, “It’s from my own personal collection.” 

You reach your hand out, letting your fingers run over the material where the handle is holstered in his pocket. It feels expensive, although it’s not like you have much experience with them to pass judgement on what’s expensive and what isn’t.

“Feels expensive,” You hum, “Guess that head of department salary has to get spent on something.” 

He reaches down and takes your hand in his gently, running soft circles over the skin on the back of your hand, “You really do look lovely tonight,” He speaks softly, “Enjoy the rest of the evening.” 

And then as quickly as he was stood in front of you, he’s gone. You let out a breath that you didn’t realise you’d been holding in, focusing on the way your chest is heaving and you can feel your pulse in your head. You pick up your plastic cup and down the liquid that’s left in the bottom, wincing at the strength of the vodka, then deciding you need a top up. 

You mill about for a little bit longer, but still feel like a bit of a spare part. You’ve shown your face, spoken to everyone you should have, and now there’s a glass of wine and a bubble bath with your name on it back home. You pick up your coat from the back of a random office chair, grab your bag from your own desk, and sneak out as quietly as you can. You’re halfway down the hall, almost to the elevator, when you hear a voice from behind you. 

“Running away?” 

You turn around, Marcus Pike is leaning against the doorframe to his office. He’s taken the satchel off, and the whip is no longer in his pocket. He’s crossed one ankle over the other, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Feeling a little like a spare part,” You shrug, “And there’s a glass of wine calling my name at home.” 

He nods in understanding, “You drink whiskey?” He asks. 

“If I have to.” You answer back. 

“Well, how about you stay and have one with me,” He offers, “Leave that wine for another day.” 

You shift awkwardly from foot to foot, because why on earth would Marcus Pike want to have a drink with you? It feels like someone somewhere is having a good old laugh at your expense, but you feel your feet leading you towards him, brushing past him and into his office. 

You’ve been in here a handful of times before, mainly to drop of reports and papers, and only once whilst he’s been there. It’s been a very professional relationship up until now, no flirting, nothing inappropriate. You drape your coat over the arm of the small couch he’s got there – you imagine he sleeps on it when he hasn’t got time to go home during crunch time of investigations.  Your bag sits on the floor next to it. 

He leaves the door open, giving you an out if you want it. He points to the couch, tells you to sit down, which you do, pulling once again at the tiny skirt, trying to cover the way the skin of your thighs bulge through the holes of the fishnet tights, ultimately failing, as Marcus reaches into one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out two crystal tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them both equally, handing one to you, but he doesn’t sit next to you, he just leans against the edge of his desk. 

“I always thought it was a myth,” You muse, “Agents with whiskey in their desks.” 

He smiles at you, “It’s in there for big wins,” He explains, “Cracking cases and that kind of stuff.” 

You nod your head, taking a small sip of your drink, wincing as it drags down your throat, “What’s tonight’s big win?” You ask, fluttering your eyelashes and then cringing a little at yourself. 

“You looking that sinful.” 

You’re taking a sip when he says it, so you end up spluttering quite unattractively at his words. Is he serious? You dab at the corners on your mouth, setting your glass down on the floor, “Sorry,” You mutter, “But are you for real?” 

He smirks, “As real as you and I.” 

He pushes himself off the desk, puts his drink down on it as he moves. He takes three wide strides until he’s stood in front of you. You look up from where you’re sat, hands folded in your lap. He reaches out, drags the fake glasses from your face, throws them absentmindedly onto the couch next to you. You’re breathing heavily as reaches out with one of his hands. The flat of his palm cupping your jaw, whilst his thumb traces along your bottom lip. 

“Do you want me to close the door?” He asks, voice lower than you’ve ever known it. 

You have no words, your tongue refusing to work, so you nod instead, because as much as you’re still thinking someone is going to come in and tell you you’re being pranked, you also want to know what he’s going to do next. He’s back to you in moments once he’s closed the door and turned the lock. The light above is harsh, but it’s needed, because the blinds are closed. 

He's standing in front of you again, this time both his palms are cupping your cheeks, and he’s leaning down, ever so slowly, until his lips are a hairs breath from yours. God, you want him to push the last few millimeters and kiss you, but he’s stopped. Waiting. And you don’t want to break first. You’ve done it before, gone to kiss someone, and then felt them laugh just before you can, because why would they want to? 

“You gonna kiss me, pretty lady?” 

“I want you to kiss me first.” You admit on a shaky breath. 

You’ve got your eyes closed, so you can’t read his eyes, look for the sense of regret in them, so it’s a shock when you feel his lips on yours. It’s so soft, barely there, before he’s pulling away, still close enough to feel his hot breath over your skin though. 

“There,” His thumbs are moving across the skin of your cheeks, “Now you.” 

So, you do. You reach your hand around to the back of his neck, pull him into you and really press your lips to his. His bottom lip slots between yours and you suck it gently into your mouth. You smile a little at the sound that comes from his throat, then he’s opening his mouth against yours and you’re following, doing exactly the same, letting his tongue behind your teeth as it melds with your own. His hands are dropping from your face, trailing down your shoulders. He leans forward into you a little, his hands under your arms to tug you up. 

You drag your mouth from him to stand up, his hands dropping to your hips to guide you behind his desk. There are nerves bubbling under your skin because you know what he wants as he pressed your ass into the wood. He wants you to sit on it. To be fair to the department, it’s a sturdy looking desk, but the thought of the way it’s going to creak under your weight makes you want to crawl into a hole. Marcus doesn’t push though, just brings his mouth back to yours, letting his hands wander a little, dragging them back up your body to palm your tits through the layers you’re wearing. 

“I think you did this on purpose,” He speaks against your mouth, “Like you knew this woman had always driven me wild.” 

You don’t mean to, but it makes you laugh, “Don’t tell me Velma from Scooby-Doo was your sexual awakening?” 

He laughs back, doesn’t confirm it, but doesn’t deny it either. He’s looking down your body, having pulled back a bit, “Fuck,” He mutters, “Every time I look at you, it gets better.” 

“The magic of a slutty Halloween costume.” You shrug. 

He nods his head, but speaks again, “It’s not just that though,” He’s speaking softly now, “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, wandering around the office all the time, driving me mad.” 

This would normally be the time that you’d try and fight against the compliments being thrown your way. Tell them they must be lying, or joke that they need to get their eyes tested. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like you should do that here. There’s something about Marcus that makes you think he wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t string you along this far just to have a laugh at your expense, so you don’t do it, for the first time in your life. 

You reach up to his shirt, undo two of the buttons, “You know,” You hum, “I think exactly the same as you, with your whip or not.” 

He breathes out, taking hold of your wrists to stop your movements, “Let me make you feel good?” He asks. 

You meet his eyes, feeling heat rise across your face, but you nod anyway, because you’ve come this far, and you can already feel wetness pooling in your panties. He drags his hands down your body, grips your hips and forces you to sit on the edge of the desk, dropping to his knees in front of you. He’s looking you straight in the eyes, as he pushes the material of your skirt to gather at your waist. Your legs open further, and Marcus groans when your movement reveals the see-through black lace of your panties. It hadn’t felt right to dress as a sexy Velma and wear your normal underwear, is how you justify it. 

You’re expecting him to tell you to lift up so he can drag your tights off you, but instead, he hooks a finger through the material at your groin and fucking rips them apart. It makes you gasp. You’d chide him for ruining them, but at this point you don’t care. They were cheap, and if it means you’re going to have his mouth on you quicker, then you’re not going to complain. 

Marcus leans forwards, you can feel the heat of his breath splaying across the lace material, and then he drags his tongue across the length of your folds over the lace of your panties. Even with the material barrier between your skin and his mouth, you’re tipping your head back in pleasure, letting out a breath as he repeats his movements, dragging his fingers just behind his tongue on his last pass of movements. It’s not enough. 

“Please, Marcus.” You beg quietly. 

“What do you want, pretty lady?” He asks, looking up at you with angelic eyes, as if he couldn’t possibly think what it is you want from him. 

“Your mouth.” 

“You already have it.” He points out, proving his point by licking another stripe up your panties. 

“Marcus,” You sigh, “Move the… fuck… move the damn material out of the way.” 

He lets out a huff of amusement, “See,” He says, doing exactly as you ask, hooking his fingers under the material and moving it to the side, “All you had to do was ask.” 

He doesn’t waste any more time now. Letting his tongue dip between your slick folds, dragging the wetness that’s pooled at your entrance up to your clit, where he flicks softly with the tip of his tongue. You feel his thumbs spreading the lips of your cunt, baring you to him so he can really start to work you up. He presses the flat of his tongue to your clit, working it gently as your hand settles into the curls on his head, anchoring him there. He’s doing all the things you love, moving between wide stripes of the flat of his tongue, and quick flicks with the tip, until your hips are grinding against his face and you’re biting down onto your bottom lip to keep quiet. 

“You taste so fucking sweet, pretty lady,” He speaks against your skin, surprising you a little as he pushes not one, but two of his fingers into your soaked cunt, “Feel good?” 

“Oh God,” You breathe out as he hooks his fingers inside you, pressing against a spot you had no idea even existed inside of you, “Don’t stop… don’t fucking stop.” 

He doesn’t, the obedient man that he is. He starts dragging his fingers in and out of you, whilst his lips wrap around your clit, pulling it into his mouth, laving it with attention from his tongue, which sends you over the edge. 

Your thighs are clenching around his head as your body convulses. All you want is to cry out, call his name into the room, but even though you can hear the music from the party down here, anyone could be walking past, and it would be just your luck that it would be Amy from HR. His mouth is working you through those aftershocks as your thighs ease the pressure around his head. 

He's breathing as heavy as you are when he stands, slotting himself between your open legs. You can feel the hard length of him pressing against your silken center, as he dips his head to kiss you again, your taste intoxicating on his tongue. 

“Can I fuck you?” He asks, almost desperately, “You gonna let me?” 

“Please.” Is all you can get out, as he drags you off the desk, flipping you around so your front is pressed against the wood of the desk. 

He’s got his hand on the nape of your neck, pressing you down. You can hear him undoing his belt, dragging the zipper of his jeans down. You shuffle a little, widening your stance as he takes his place behind you. You can feel him dragging his cock through your folds, gathering the slick he’s pulled from you, before he’s plunging into you in one go. It takes everything you have not to scream. He’s big. Stretching you like no-one has before and it feels so fucking good. 

Marcus is still gripping the back of your neck as he starts moving, his other hand gripping the plush cheek of your ass, spreading you open even more as he slowly drags himself in and out of you. He’s going slowly, and you think that the way his breath is hitching in his throat means he’s struggling to keep his composure, so you decide to have a little fun. 

When he’s pulled almost all the way out of you, you turn your head as much as you can with his hand resting there, looking over your shoulder at him as you wiggle your ass, slowly backing into him, letting your cunt suck him right back into you again. 

“Baby, you can’t do that,” He pleads, his fingers digging into the skin of your ass, “Carry on like that and this will be over before it’s begun.” 

“Don’t care,” You mutter, “Harder, please.” 

He starts pounding into you now, the sound of his skin slapping against yours is obscene. You’re both trying as hard as possible to keep the moans and groans as quiet as possible, and you can’t help but wish he wants more, that he’ll take you home sometime, unwrap you and let you scream for him, but you decide to focus on the here and now. 

“Touch yourself.” You hear demanded from behind you, “I want to feel you come on my cock.” 

You snake your hand underneath you, pushing the discomfort of how your arm is trapped between your body and the desk, and start tracing quick circles over your clit. You’re already sensitive, hanging on the edge from his mouth, so you press harder, move your wrist faster. 

“Feel so fucking good, baby,” Marcus groans behind you, “Close, ain’tcha?” He asks, “Go on baby, let go for me, let me feel you.” 

And it’s his voice that does it, that finally tips you over the edge, has your cunt clenching around him, walls fluttering and teeth biting into your bottom lip as your knees give way. Thankfully, Marcus is gripping at your hips, which helps to keep you upright. 

“Where, baby?” He asks, voice strained, and you don’t catch what he means, “Quick baby, where do you want me?” 

“Anywhere.” You groan out, “I don’t care Marcus, just come for me.” 

You think for a moment he might stay inside you, which would be fine, you thank the implant under the skin of your arm, but at the last minute he’s pulling out of you, feeling the hot slick of his cum on the skin of your ass as he lets out a low groan out of his mouth. He’s breathing heavily behind you, pulling his jeans back up. You try and move, to push yourself up, but you’re worried if you move further you might collapse. 

“Stay there.” He says gently, leaning over you to pluck a few tissues from the box on his desk, gently wiping away the mess he’s caused, pulling your panties back into place and letting your skirt cover as much of your ass as it can in your position. 

“You okay?” He asks softly, helping you to stand, tucking a bit of your hair behind your ear. 

You nod, because you are, you’ve never been fucked so thoroughly, never been made to come so hard in your life, but there’s an anxiety settling in your stomach. What always happens now is they’ll tell you they had a great time, but don’t think they want to see you again, which is going to be even more embarrassing because you have to work with this man. 

It's almost as if he can sense your anxiety, because he’s cupping your cheek again, leaning to give you a soft kiss on the lips, “Would you maybe want to go out sometime?” He asks, “I know we’ve done things out of order, but I’ve wanted to ask for a while.” 

You smile, because it does make you happy, that the man you’ve fancied for the best part of a year actually wants to take you out, “As long as you promise to take me back to yours after and let me see you naked?” 

He blows out air from his mouth, but his eyes are twinkling, “You drive a hard bargain,” He muses, “But you’ve got yourself a deal.” 

He’s moving from you now, over to the couch, picking up your coat and your back, motioning you over so he can help you into your jacket, hooking your bag onto your elbow, then moving to gather his own things, “Wait, right now?” You ask, sounding surprised, as he shrugs his jacket on. 

“I know a great diner just down the road.” He shrugs, picking up his satchel. 

He’s walking back to you, but you put a hand on his chest, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You ask, watching a confused look fall over his face, you dart your eyes to his desk, where the whip from earlier is lying abandoned, “I’m only coming back to yours if you bring that.” 

You watch as a smirk splays across his lips. He snatches the whip from his desk, shoving it into the satchel, “Well, pretty lady, lead the way.” 

[lovebugism]

sleepover !! on the plane of dad!steve: what about steve finding out reader’s pregnant? they’re young enough for it to be a shock, but established relationship or casual hookup is up to you

i hereby name this the first installment of my dad!steve blurb series: the "crazy little thing called love" universe &lt;3

By all accounts, you and Steve did everything right.

Sure, you got married pretty young, but after surviving the end of the world four separate times, you thought you were deserving of the rapid elopement. You moved into a little apartment outside of town shortly after, working like dogs until you could afford a down payment on one of those pretty houses people put in magazines. 

Neither of you minded that it was in the middle of the suburbs — that it was “expected” of the Harringtons to live within white picket fences. You were just grateful you didn’t have to live in his vacant childhood home that his parents were kind enough to offer as a present for a wedding they didn’t attend. Steve was more than happy to let the place rot. 

It takes your entire first year of marriage to fully decorate the place. 

The pool in the backyard is lined with white and yellow striped lounge chairs. The living room is more plants than furniture. The kitchen cabinets are painted green to match the tile in the bathroom. And the bedroom’s got a gallery of photos of the both of you on one side and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the other — Steve stores his vinyls on the upper shelves and you stash your books on the lower ones.

You’re finally getting settled into your new life in your new house when you realize your period is late.

By two weeks, to be exact.

You don’t even realize it until you’re grocery shopping. 

Steve mans the cart while you strike through the list, as per usual. He’s trying to choose between two similarly scented body washes — accidentally squirting some on the tip of his nose in the process — when you return from the feminine hygiene section. 

You didn’t need tampons, you realized while standing in front of the vibrantly colored boxes, because you had a full pack at home for a period that never came.

Steve uses his sleeve to wipe the peppermint-scented soap from his nose when you return, looking pallid and ghastly — like you’ve just seen a ghost looking for period underwear. His hand slows before falling to his side. “You okay?” he cautions.

You nod before the words catch up to you. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m— Yeah.”

“You could at least try and sound a little more convincing,” he laughs as he puts both bottles back. Neither was worth getting soap up the nose, turns out. “C’mon. Just tell me. It can’t be that bad, right?”

In his head, you’ve just seen someone from high school. You saw an old friend or a mean girl who hated you for no reason or a boy you had a fling with. They tried to chat you up while you were deciding between regular and super tampons, and the unexpected encounter’s got you all shaken up.

The image is so vivid in his head, Steve could laugh just thinking about it.

You clear your tightening throat, inching closer to him when another couple enters the aisle. You whisper like you’re telling him a secret. “My, um… My period is late. By, like… a lot.”

Steve’s blood runs cold. His eyes go wide and he forgets how to breathe. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. That’s— That’s bad, huh?”

“Yes,” you agonize, breathless. “Yes, that’s bad. That’s very, very bad.”

“Alright, c’mon. I’m standing right here,” he half-jokes.

“I just got promoted. If I have to take a year off work for maternity leave, I’ll be right back where I started.”

Steve can sense the panic radiating off of you. It’s rising with vigor like a faucet turned on high in a stopped-up kitchen sink. Once it starts overflowing, it’s harder to stop. Despite his own distant worry, he tries to quell your own.

“You might not even be pregnant, right? So why are you already worrying about maternity leave?” he questions with a gentle laugh. He takes both your arms in his hands, squeezing you in a soft reassurance. “You’re right. You just got promoted. Maybe, you know— Maybe you’re just stressed out about it. That’s all.”

“Yeah… You’re probably right.”

“Let’s take a test first, huh? Then we can start panicking.”

He presses a kiss to the tip of your scrunched nose. 

You’re able to breathe again.

You pick out three different brands of pregnancy tests, shoving them quickly into your cart and hiding them beneath your groceries like sex toys. 

The boxes are stacked on top of each other as they move slowly on the conveyor belt at the checkout counter. The older woman with pink lips and pinker nails smiles as she scans them through.

“It’s exciting, huh?” she gushes, smacking bubble gum between her teeth.

“Yep,” you nod, though the word comes out slightly strangled.

Steve’s charming smile wavers. “Totally.”

The paper bags of groceries are quickly abandoned on the kitchen counter when you get home. You’re far more worried about the pregnancy tests, and Steve’s more concerned about calming you down.

He sits with you on your shared bed, back propped up against the headboard, with you in between his legs. He works your palm with his thumbs, smoothing out the tension you seem to hold there. His chest you lean upon rises and falls with deep, even breaths. 

You’re not sure how he can be so calm about this, but you’re almost comforted by it.

Almost.

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, you know?” Steve admits after a minute or more of pure silence. “If you were pregnant. Actually, you know, I think I’d be pretty happy.”

“I know you would be. It’s totally different for you.”

His brows furrow, though you’re not looking at him to see. “What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t have to be the one to take off work. I’d have to drop my entire career, and I’m— I’m just getting started. It would change everything for me.”

Steve hums to himself. It’s not the pregnancy that scares you, not the birthing process or the late nights or the constant crying. It’s the thought that you wouldn’t have a life outside of it all.

“I’d be here to help you, you know?”

“I know,” you sigh softly, tiling your head on his shoulder so you can stare up at him. His chin juts closer to his neck so he can look down at you too. “But for a while, we both couldn’t work. For the first couple of years, probably. And we can’t get a babysitter because we wouldn’t have double incomes, and… I don’t know if I’d trust someone to take care of our baby anyway—”

Steve tries not to smile but completely and utterly fails. 

You’re already talking like it’s a for sure thing — you having a baby. His baby. 

He doesn’t want to get his hopes up too high.

“Hey. It’s okay,” he almost coos to end your panicked rambling. “We’ll figure it out, I promise. Let’s just take this one step at a time, yeah?”

You take a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Yeah…”

He waits for you in the bedroom while you check the tests in the adjoining bathroom. He offered to come with you, of course, but you told him you could do it on your own. You said they’d probably be negative anyway, that it likely was just stress delaying your period, and that you were just making a fuss over nothing.

It’s quiet for all of ten seconds.

“Fuck!” you shout, a bit louder than you intended, muffled from the bathroom.

Steve winces.

“I take it they were positive?” he questions when you storm back into the bedroom, completely and utterly frazzled.

“We’re so stupid,” you chastise, pacing ahead of the bed. “We’re so, so stupid.”

Steve finds it in him to laugh, still a bit dazed by the results. “We’re not sixteen anymore. We’re married. Married people have kids—”

“But I’m not ready yet!” you shout with wild eyes. Your hands flail at your sides as you gesticulate. “I wanted to wait, like, five years, at least. I wanted to be CCO before we even thought about having kids.”

“Things don’t go as planned sometimes, babe. We know that more than anybody.”

He was right. After saving the world, you shouldn’t be shocked by anything anymore. You were so jaded by the time spring of 1986 rolled around that Vecna hardly scared you. The thought of uprooting your life to raise a child frightened you far more than any alternate dimension and monsters without faces.

“I was just announced Vice President, Steve. No one else in company history has gotten to oversee the marketing department so quickly. You don’t know what it’s like in the firm, alright? It’s vicious. They’ll replace me the second I’m gone.”

“No, they won’t,” the boy says with so much confidence it almost makes you angry.

“You can’t know that—”

“I do know that, actually,” he argues as he slides to the edge of the mattress to meet you. His larger hands engulf your shaking ones. His honey eyes twinkle as they gaze up at you. “‘Cause they’d be idiots to let you go. ’S why I married you, yeah? There’s not another person in the whole world like you.”

“It’s just something I’ve always wanted, you know?” you sigh, less prickly than before, but still visibly terrified. “I’ve been dreaming about corporate savagery since I was twelve…”

Steve grins. “You can still have all that. I’ve seen you set monsters on fire — you can raise a kid and run a company. You’re the most badass person I’ve ever met.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“If I can’t work, we’ll be living on your income. I don’t… I don’t want you to have to work more than you already do.”

“I’ll be okay,” he promises, squeezing your trembling fingers. “You’ll take maternity leave for however long you need to, your coworkers will grovel hands and knees to get you back, and I’ll… I’ll stay home with the baby.”

Your face scrunches with worry. “Is that something you want?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a dad, you know? I can’t… I can’t really see myself doing anything else.”

Steve always thought he was broken in that way. His dad was already building businesses by the time he had a kid. He coached Steve to do the same — to graduate, to spend thousands on a degree, to have ten assistants by the time he was twenty-five. But Steve never wanted that. Not Ever. Especially not after the tenth near-death experience.

He just wanted to have a family of his own. 

He wanted to be with you and to be still. That was all. 

“Besides, you always said you wanted a house husband,” he jokes with a crooked smile.

That makes you laugh. A giggle sputters from your lips before you can stop it. The sunshine feeling overpowers your lingering worry.

“I would like that,” you concur with a sheepish grin. 

You can picture it so clearly — Steve with a baby, greeting you with a kiss when you get home, a spit-up towel thrown over his shoulder, hair mussed and jaw stubbled. It was something dreams were made of. 

Your potential reality. 

Your future.

“We’re gonna be the happiest damn people on the planet, babe.”

You lean down to kiss him. It’s hard, though, because you’re both smiling so wide.

Your laughs entwine, pressed into one another, as Steve flops back on the bed and drags you down with him. He rolls you onto your sides, one hand propping his head up and the other resting on your belly. 

My kid is in there, he marvels in his head. This is where my baby’s gonna grow.

“What do you think about Apple?”

Your brows pinch together. “What?”

“For, like, a girl name?”

“…Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Apple for a girl and Wolfgang for a boy,” he jokes with a wide smile on his rosy lips. He shrugs. “And if we have twins, they can be Apple and Wolfgang. Really rolls off the tongue, don’t ya think?”

“You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.”

With your hands cradling his jaw, you pull him down for another interrupted kiss.

“What about Moon or— ah,” he gasps with wide eyes. “Or Rainbow?”

“Steve!” you groan.

“What? Tell me Rainbow Harrington isn’t the cutest damn name you’ve ever heard.”

“That is so not a baby name.”

“Anything can be a name if you make it a name,” he argues with all of his Steve Harrington sass. “Like Queen… Or Journey.”

“Yeah, let’s just name all our kids after your favorite bands,” you quip, giggling.

“I know you’re joking, but that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

You shake your head at this boy and his wild head filled with wilder thoughts. 

You sit in silence in your marveling, letting him ramble on — “There’s Roxy and Berlin and- wait, do you think babies can be named after numbers? Because, like, B-52 is a badass name. Sounds like something out of Star Wars, huh?” 

You can’t believe you married this man. You can’t believe you get to be married to this man.

You’re stuck with Steve Harrington and his dumbassery for life.

God, you can’t wait to spend forever with him.

[hayatheauthor]

How To Set The Scene Without Info Dumping

Accidentally writing a manuscript full of info dumping is every writer’s worst nightmare. Info dumping can distract your readers from the heart of your story and destroy their immersion. Unsure how to accurately describe your story’s setting without info dumping? Here are some tips to get you started. 

Tip One: Pace Yourself 

It’s important to have the right pace when you describe your story’s setting. This helps ensure you give your readers an accurate mental image of your setting and characters without boring them with too many details. 

One easy way to accomplish this is by dividing your information based on the scene. 

For example, if you’re writing a scene where a new character walks into the room and find yourself info dumping their appearance, try dividing bits and pieces of their description. Start with a simple description of their general characteristics, maybe their clothes are a certain colour or their face looks worn and tired. 

Only move on to describe more details once your scene progresses. Your protagonist could maybe notice how their green eyes glint in the sunlight when they take a seat on the chair beside the window. Or they could unbutton a very expensive coat when they take a seat, with the clothing indicating their status. 

This technique can also be employed for layouts and room descriptions. Maybe your protagonist walks into a very expensive ballroom with large bay windows but only notices the breathtaking view on the other side of the glass when they take a break from their dancing. 

Tip Two: Only Mention What’s Relevant

If writers always only wrote about what was relevant to their story’s plotline, info dumping wouldn’t be a thing. It’s easy to get excited when you’re writing your WIP. After all, there are so many different things you want to show your readers to make them understand the complexities of your tale. But writers can often find themselves info dumping because of this. 

Here’s something you probably didn’t want to hear: your readers don’t need to know everything about your book. 

It’s an annoying truth, but something you need to come to terms with when writing. 

As mentioned in my previous blogs posts, it’s important to know how much of your worldbuilding should be shown in your book and when to mention which parts of your worldbuilding. 

For example, saying a new character had a tortured look in their deep grey eyes that reminded your protagonist of the rumours of their childhood might be intriguing, but it’s important to consider whether or not that little piece of information is relevant to the current scene. 

If a piece of description or information isn’t relevant to what’s going on in your current chapter then consider cutting it out to eliminate any info dumping. This is especially important during fast-paced scenes such as fights or emotional revelations. 

Tip Three: Set A (Word) Limit

If you’re really struggling with info dumping then try setting a limit to restrict how much you write. Go back to any parts of your WIP that you think have a bit of info dumping and check how many words or paragraphs that part has, then set a goal for how many words/paragraphs you want it to be. Paste that particular text into a different document and start snipping away at unnecessary information or wordy areas until you reach your desired word or paragraph count. 

You can also do this for scenes that are overly descriptive. Following the previous examples, if you have a scene where your protagonist walks into a new room or a new character makes an appearance then try cutting out bits of the initial description and relocating them to a later part of your scene in order to meet your desired word limit. 

Tip Four: Get Poetic 

Do you know when people don’t mind long descriptions? When they are poetic and paint a vivid image in their head. These types of descriptions can help immerse your reader before you move into the heart of your scene. 

It doesn’t have to be long or overly dramatic, but a good piece of description can help you set your scene without accidentally info dumping. 

However, this tip should be used sparsely throughout your book in order to ensure you don’t constantly break your reader’s immersion. It’s important to ensure your poetic descriptions actually tie into the heart of your chapter. For example, don’t go describing a character’s hair poetically if that character only showed up to tell your protagonist something. 

I hope this blog on how to set the scene without info dumping will help you in your writing journey. Be sure to comment any tips of your own to help your fellow authors prosper, and follow my blog for new blog updates every Monday and Thursday.  

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Haya’s book blog where I post writing and marketing tools for authors every Monday and Thursday. 

Want to learn more about me and my writing journey? Visit my social media pages under the handle @hayatheauthor where I post content about my WIP The Traitor’s Throne and life as a teenage author.

Copyright © 2022 Haya Sameer, you are not allowed to repost, translate, recreate or redistribute my blog posts or content without prior permission 

[corruptedcaps]

The Descent

"Maybe if I put on her magic ponytail, I can find out where she hid our project," Matilda said, an almost entranced glint in her eyes as she played with the stolen strand of hair. The once long and flowing ponytail now lay coiled on her palm, its aura of power palpable even to the touch.

The hair had came from Vicky, their long time tormentor. She had been taunting them about how she had stolen their science project and was going to use it for herself. So engrossed in her taunting that she failed to see the stairs she tripped down. Matilda and Sarah were the only ones around and rushed to help her.

However as she they got to the bottom of the stairs they were both shocked to see a very different Vicky laying unconscious there. She was chubbier, blotchier and in different clothes but it was definitely still her. Weirder still was her long blonde ponytail was laying beside her perfectly detached.

As the ambulance arrived, Matilda quickly pocketed the ponytail into her bag, knowing something was special about it. Now after hours of discussion she was convinced it held some sort of magic properties.

Sarah shot her a skeptical look, her eyebrows knitting together. "Are you sure about this, Matilda? What if it changes you too?"

Matilda's determination shone through her apprehension. "We've suffered enough, Sarah. Vicky has tormented us for far too long. This ponytail might be the key to ending her reign of terror and retrieving our science project."

With a deep breath, Matilda gingerly placed the ponytail atop her head. She was about to try and find away to attach it in place when suddenly she felt it wrap around her own hair. An electrifying surge coursed through her, making her feel both exhilarated and oddly connected to something beyond herself.

However, looking in the mirror she found herself slightly saddened not to see her appearance differ at all. If anything the long blond ponytail looked kind of dumb coming out of her brown shoulder length hair.

“Well? Anything?” Sarah asked.

“No? But maybe I just need to concentrate.” Matilda said as she closed her eyes. She focused on Vicky mind becoming a canvas on which snippets of Vicky's past painted themselves in vivid colors.

Images flashed before Matilda's eyes: Vicky's sinister grins, her malicious delight in causing pain, and the twisted pleasure she took in their suffering. Matilda saw the stolen science project, hidden away in a place she recognized, the school’s supply closet in the basement. When the torrent of memories subsided, Matilda blinked, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within her.

Opening her eyes, Matilda faced Sarah with newfound resolve. "I know where it is."

As they made their way towards the closet at the other end of school, a strange voice began to creep into Matilda's head. It was a voice dripping with praise, like honeyed words that tickled her thoughts. "Matilda," it whispered, "you've freed me from Vicky's grasp. I'm glad to be with you now, my new host."

Matilda's steps faltered as a conflicted expression played across her face, unnoticed by Sarah. The voice seemed to resonate within her, an eerie echo that sent a shiver down her spine. Yet, there was an odd allure to it, like a promise of power and recognition she had never known before.

"I've watched you suffer at Vicky's hands, and now that you hold my essence, you're destined for greatness," the voice continued, its tones beguiling. A faint smile tugged at the corners of Matilda's lips as she soaked in the praise. Her nails seemed to subtly lengthen and shine with a newfound luster. "Together, we shall ascend to new heights, and you will become the new queen here."

A mixture of fascination and dread welled up inside Matilda. The voice's seductive promise of power was tempting, and a part of her reveled in the attention it bestowed upon her. She found herself absentmindedly stroking the ponytail lovingly, her fingers entwining with its strands, as she considered the dark promise it held.

As they continued on their descent to the basement, Matilda didn’t notice the subtle changes in her appearance. Her lips seemed plumper, her breasts a touch fuller, radiating an alluring charm she hadn't possessed before. It was as if the essence of the ponytail was altering her, physically and mentally.

As they finally reached the closet, Matilda found herself distracted by images and memories the hair was showing her. Vicky hadn’t been the only host to the hair and Matilda was captivated by the wicked images she was seeing. So much so that it took her a second to realize that Sarah was asking her a question through her haze. "So where in this mess is our project? Matilda? Matilda, are you alright?"

Matilda's eyes snapped open, her gaze locking onto Sarah's worried expression. Irritation surged within her, the grip of the voice's influence making her responses sharper than she intended. "I'm fine, Sarah. Just give me some space and go look for the project," she said in an unexpectedly bossy tone, "I'll stay here and delve further into the memories of the ponytail. Maybe there's something we missed."

While Sarah walked off slightly worried about her friend, Matilda closed her eyes, focusing on the ponytail's essence. In reality she knew exactly where the project was in the room but she wanted to to experience more of the ponytail’s memories. They were intoxicating. Each one showcasing Vicky's malevolent actions. To her surprise, Matilda found herself immersed in the scenes, a strange sense of delight bubbling up within her as she witnessed Vicky's cruelty.

Then, something shifted. Matilda saw herself in Vicky's place, commanding a group of loyal girls who followed her every command. They tormented others with glee, reveling in their power over those weaker than them. Matilda experienced the rush of control, the thrill of manipulation, and a dark satisfaction as her victims trembled before her.

“This could be you…. Popular. Beautiful. Powerful.” The ponytail hissed in her mind.

With each memory, Matilda's posture subtly changed, her shoulders straightening with a newfound confidence. Her once fair complexion took on a warm, tanned glow, and her makeup seemed to apply itself perfectly, accentuating her features in ways she had never managed before. As she absorbed the memories and physical changes, Matilda continued to stroke the ponytail, feeling an intimate connection to its power and allure.

The voice's promise of becoming the new queen of mean resonated more deeply now, as the lines between Matilda and the malevolent force blurred further. The temptation of power, beauty, and control tugged at her very being, threatening to consume her completely.

But something was stopping her from truly giving in. A lone face of worry appeared in her mind’s eye. Sarah. What would Sarah think of her if she went down this path? Sarah had been her only friend through their hard years of high school. They would graduate soon and they were going to be roommates at college. She couldn’t throw that all away. Could she?

"Sarah doesn't really care about you. She's always held you back, made you weak," the voice whispered seductively. Matilda found herself nodding in hesitant agreement. "With my power, you will rise above her, she will be nothing more than an ant to you."

As the voice's words wormed their way into her thoughts, a subtle grin betrayed the internal struggle. Sarah's presence, once comforting, now seemed like an obstacle. The voice's seductive promises fueled a growing resentment towards her friend, amplifying the allure of power and the desire for domination.

As Matilda continued to stroke the ponytail, her body underwent more extreme changes. Her tits swelled, straining against her clothing, which suddenly shifted to become short and revealing. Her long brown boring hair had been absorbed into the ponytail, causing it to grow long and blonde. Her lips plumped even further, and a sultry aura seemed to emanate from her very being, transforming her appearance into one of undeniable sexiness.

In the midst of Matilda's changes, Sarah's diligent search bore fruit. She let out a triumphant exclamation. But Matilda's attention was elsewhere as Sarah’s squeal caused her to open her eyes. A nearby mirror caught her attention, and she saw for the first time the changes the ponytail had bestowed upon her. She gazed in wonder at her altered appearance – her posture, her tanned complexion, her enhanced beauty. A wicked smile crept across her lips as she admired her reflection, her newfound look intoxicating.

"Matilda, look I found it! Oh my god, what happened to you?" Sarah's initially excited but then worrisome voice broke through, as she approached Matilda with the project in hand.

Without a second thought, Matilda's gaze snapped from her reflection to Sarah's outstretched hands holding the project. A cruel laugh bubbled up from within her, the voice's influence fueling her darker impulses. With a swift and deliberate motion, Matilda knocked the project out of Sarah's hands, the beakers and carefully constructed model shattering on the ground.

Sarah looked at Matilda in shock, her eyes wide and hurt. "Matilda, what... why?"

Matilda's lips curled into a cold smirk, her gaze unwavering. "Why should I care about some stupid science project, Sarah? It's time for you to realize my new station.”

The words, dripping with malice, hung heavy in the air. Matilda reveled in the twisted satisfaction of asserting dominance, fueled by the voice's encouragement and the newfound beauty that seemed to amplify her confidence. As Sarah stood there, stunned and betrayed, Matilda's descent into the depths of darkness seemed almost complete.

Sarah's shock quickly transformed into desperation. "Matilda, it's the ponytail, you have to take it off! It's turning you evil!"

Matilda's laughter echoed through the tense air, chilling in its newfound cruelty. "Oh, Sarah, I thought you were the smart one of us two. I know exactly what it's doing to me, and I love it."

Sarah's eyes brimmed with tears as she pleaded, "Please, Matilda, you're not yourself. You're letting it control you."

Matilda's smirk deepened, and her voice took on an eerie, almost mocking tone. "Matilda is dead, loser and I’m in control. You're looking at the new queen of the school now – Mercedes."

The transformation in Matilda was complete. Her once gentle nature had been consumed by the dark temptations of the ponytail's power. Her eyes gleamed with a sinister glint, her beauty now a reflection of the malevolent force that had taken hold. The voice's influence had reshaped her into something unrecognizable, a twisted echo of the girl who had once been bullied. Now she held all the cards.

A WEEK LATER

A week had passed since the transformation, and the school seemed like a different place. Mercedes had swiftly filled the void left by Vicky's absence. She radiated a commanding presence, her newfound beauty and malevolence drawing in Vicky’s old clique. Cruelty had become her currency, popularity her domain.

Sarah watched from the sidelines, heart heavy with a mix of sadness and shock. Mercedes was unrecognizable, her every move calculated to assert dominance. The voice's influence had turned her into a ruthless queen, and Sarah was now just another pawn in her game.

To Mercedes, Sarah meant nothing more than a tool to be used. She forced Sarah to do her homework, create a new science project, and cater to her whims. The once unbreakable bond between friends had been severed, replaced by Mercedes' insatiable thirst for control.

“Hurry up nerd, I don’t have all day to wait for you to finish this dumb project. My hawt boyfriend Chad is waiting and I don’t like to keep my man waiting.” She said with a cruel smirk as Sarah worked tirelessly, her heart aching for the loss of her friend and the darkness that now ruled her. The school had a new ruler, and Sarah was left to navigate the cruel reality of the queen of mean who had once been Matilda.

[writingquestionsanswered]

I have aphantasia, so I struggle often with picturing what my characters look like. As such, my descriptions of them are often vague. How can I write physical descriptions that paint a vivid picture to readers?

Struggling with What the Characters Look Like

Have you tried casting your characters? I don't have aphantasia, but I love to cast my characters with actors or models as if they were in a movie or TV show. It's a great way to help solidify the person you're already imagining in your head, and it can be very helpful when you need to describe the character. I've written a couple posts about it:

Guide: Casting Your Characters Face Claims/Casting Your Characters

Something else to keep in mind is that no matter what a writer does, whether they cast their characters or are really good at writing vivid descriptions, it's impossible to make your reader imagine the character exactly as you imagine them. That's because every reader comes at the story with different knowledge and experience, so what I mean when I describe a "dark brown pixie cut" may not be what you imagine. That said, don't worry about vivid descriptions as much as giving the reader enough details to come up with their own mental image. Or, if they're unable to do that, to at least have a general sense of what the character looks like.

Happy writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[myfandomprompts]

Dubious Headlines | Aemond Short Story (Part 3/3)

Aemond x Reader Modern!AU [Part 1/ Part 2]

Synopsis: In a world where Dragon Incorporation is the most powerful firm in town, Rhaenyra Targaryen's last announcement sends you, a journalist, to interview the younger sons of the family. However, you did not ask for any of this.

Warning: Fluff, but not only

You had a wet dream. Or at least you thought you had, it was all still foggy. The signs were there though, you had awoken abruptly, heart beating at a fast rate, slightly panting and more importantly, a sore feeling between your legs.

You sat up in the dark as it slowly came back to you, images of long silver-hair and a soft voice speaking into your ear as you heard yourself moan loudly like a distant echo.

When you realised what, or rather of who your dream had been about you shook your head at once, attempting to chase these thoughts off your mind.

You had a big day ahead of you and you needed a cool shower.

“It’s your lucky day!”

You stopped your typing to look up at your boss towering over you with a big smile on his face.

“It is?”

“Yes, a request came up, something about an art gallery opening in town, and they chose us to be the prime reviewers. I know you’ve been waiting for that sort of exclusivity for a long time.”

Why does this sound familiar?

“What sort of art gallery?” you asked warily.

“Specifically paintings, I believe. This came from one of our correspondents at Dragon Inc. From what I understand, it’s founded by one of their branches.”

Of course. It didn’t take long, it was only a week and a half ago that you had seen Aemond Targaryen at the inauguration. At least in the real world. For now you kept your emotions at bay.

“And they requested me?”

“Not you particularly, but who else would I put on the case than my best writer?” he joked, putting a paper on your desk and leaving with a proud smile.

“Yeah…” you breathed out as you looked at the info you needed, “Who else…”

It was a beautiful building, with large glass windows and high ceiling, and as you entered the lobby, worrying over the fact that you might be greeted by the quite cold assistant whom you had over the phone to make the appointment, you were relieved to see only an attendant sitting boringly behind a reception desk. You looked at your watch, ensuring that you were on time as you walked toward him to announce yourself, but someone came out of an adjacent door and you stopped in your tracks.

The sight of Aemond Targaryen appearing in your line of vision instantly made you think about the dream you had recently, making it very real for a moment. You got lost in the memory and by the time you had managed to get rid of one particular vivid image, he had levelled with you.

“Miss. L/N? Y/N?” he called again.

His voice made you snap out of your reveries and you realised that you had not talked at all since he had approached you. You tried to appear as natural as possible as you took control of yourself again, ignoring the fact that his hand was on your shoulder as you finally spoke, “Good afternoon, sorry-” you cleared your throat. “Thank you for having me, M. Targaryen. I hope I am not late.”

“Not at all, right on time,” he said, letting his hand fall from your shoulder to reply to your handshake. “And please, call me Aemond.”

His hold on your palm lingered far longer than necessary and you were unable to react, too occupied with the thought of how calling him by his first name would sound strange to you. Or maybe you would like it.

Yes, you definitely would.

“Very well then I shall,” you smiled as you took in your surroundings. “This is a very nice place. Do you own it?”

“My mother does. She uses it for her own private events and exposition such as this.”

You looked at the stone walls and warm lights that illuminated the elegantly decorated lobby, sighting only a part of what you assumed would be the exhibition room.

“Will your mother be joining us? I always admired her taste in art, she is a wonderful patron, I would love to have her insight on this.”

Aemond clenched his jaw, perfectly aware that you and his mother would have got along greatly. “Unfortunately, she won’t. I’m afraid that she had other matters to attend to. But she will be here at the opening.”

Your disappointed look sent a pang in his heart but he did not feel bad about it. He had told his mother earlier that her presence was not requested for your coming, that he would handle it alone. It was a calculated decision, one that he did not regret. You had come alone, so did he.

“Oh, that’s a shame…” you quietly said, taking your pad out. “When is the opening exactly?”

“Next week. Tuesday night.”

“And you need The Westerosi to advertise it enough beforehand for people to come to it, correct?”

“Correct.” Among other things.

You smiled at him, lowering your pen as you finished your note. “Alright, then let’s see it!”

Aemond returned your smile and extended his arm in order to let you pass, leading you to the exhibition room.

It was pretty big, warmly lit, contrasting with the usual bright lights of the museums, and you could only guess the length of the room because tall panels that were placed along both the walls and in the centre were hiding the end of it. You could see sofas and chairs placed here and there, surely to allow potential buyers to sit and admire the numerous paintings that hung on the walls and panels.

“This is quite the exposition, how many artworks do you have on display here?” you asked, walking toward the first painting on the left.

“Over forty. It is a few, but we have room for more.”

He was following your every step, arms clasped behind his back, watching how your mouth opened slightly each time you focused on one of the frames. “And will the exhibitors all be present next Tuesday?” you asked as you admired a mural representing two robotical birds over a white background.

“Not all of them,” Aemond said with a slight apologetic tone, “But enough so you have something to write about. If you decide to attend next week, of course.”

You gave him a side glance at his words, finding it amusing that he believed that you would not be returning. As if .

“You can count on me to be there, Aemond, I wouldn’t miss it. From what I see this is really worth it.”

He knew that asking you to call him by his first name had been a mistake. Now all he could think about was how nice it sounded and all the different ways he wanted you to say it.

You took some more notes as you asked him technical questions, about the choice of the artists, and how his own preferences and his mother’s had influenced what to display. “Do you paint yourself? Or your mother?”

“No, I hardly would have the time. And my mother is also just an observer, although she takes great pride in my sister’s drawings. She is the one with the artistic fibre.”

“Your sister Helaena?” you presumed, hardly picturing a woman like Rhaenyra draw in her free time.

“The very one,” he replied, following you as you kept advancing to admire the next painting. “Do you paint or draw?”

“Oh no. My grandfather was the painter, but apart from my aunt no one in my family can even draw a cloud.”

This was an obvious exaggeration, but it had the merit to make Aemond laugh. “I see. We all must find our talent in different places, I guess. I’m sure you have many skills besides writing.”

You blushed a bit as you examined a very small canvas, trying to see what it exactly represented. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I may write for a living but for everything else, I would call it hobbies instead of skills. Skills must be forged by practice.”

“I agree. To find in art what is worth admiring and what is not is a talent that we acquire over time, I’m just glad I had my mother to teach me from an early age the meaning of beauty.”

You had reached an area where tables had been placed among the panels, certainly intended for future glasses or food to be served for the opening.

You turned to him. “Because you believe that beauty is what makes art worthy of admiration? Not talent or its message?”

“Of course it does too, but we are mainly attracted to what we find beautiful in our eyes. Don’t you find yourself staring at something beautiful and intriguing longer than at something you don’t truly understand?”

You had both stopped walking and were now staring at each other, his gaze growing more intense by the minute as his words hang into the air, their meaning taking a whole new dimension. You felt your heart skip a beat.

“This... is an interesting theory from someone who hasn’t shown interest in any of the paintings he owns yet. Shall we test it? Show me the work you find the most beautiful to look at and I’ll make my own opinion,” you said, gesturing towards the many sketches frames around you.

But Aemond’s face lit up as if he had won the lottery, and remained perfectly still and silent. His eye was boring into you and you grew uneasy, asking yourself what exactly he did not understand.

“What are you doing?” you asked, a little confused.

“I’m looking at you.”

His voice had dropped several octaves lower and you felt your cheeks reddened.

“Why?”

“Do I truly need to say it out loud?”

He had scoffed, but his expression was serious, and you could not help but straighten as he got closer.

“A-actually I’d rather not,” you shyly said.

“Really? And why is that?”

“Because… if you do, I’m afraid that this interview will become very… unprofessional.”

He arched a brow but remained composed, taking several steps further, whereas you struggled to keep a straight face, feeling crushed under his gaze. He was closing in on you and you felt him reach out to your pad and pen in your hands to gently remove them from your grasp.

“And what exactly,” he said as he discarded your belongings on the table behind you, his face almost brushing against yours, “is it that would make this ‘unprofessional’?”

He was so close that you had to look up in order to hold his gaze because of how tall he was, without mentioning how good he smelled.

“By doing this…?” You sensed his fingers trail along the inside of your wrist and up over your arm, eliciting goosebumps all over it. He then went up to your shoulder, brushing your hair away from your neck as he cupped your cheek, his eye fascinated in the way your skin reacted to his touch.

“Or…”

He had only breathed out his last word, voice oh so very low into your ears as he took hold of your chin, slightly pressing his thumb over your lower lips, and you had to close your eyes in order to repress a moan.

“Aemond…” you warned, feeling your body ready to burst into flames.

He hissed at that, the sound of his name rolling out of your tongue sending electricity down his spine. He was enthralled by you, how you looked, how you felt, how you melted under his touch. He hadn’t expected to give into his desire so quickly, but here he was. He felt your hands crept up to flatten against his chest, looking for more contact. You looked, no, you felt exquisite.

“Tell me Y/N, tell me because otherwise I might be about to make a big mistake.”

You opened your eyes again, meeting his dilated pupils locked onto your lips, and you further grabbed the collar of his shirt to pull him closer, feeling the warmth of his burning skin through the fabric. Then his eye darted from your darkened eyes and to your alluring lips again, before strengthening his grasp on the back of your neck and finally closing the distance.

You could not register anything else around you apart from how soft his lips felt against yours and the way his fingers delicately brushed your neck, making a whine escape your throat as he slowly kissed you, his taste so sweet and maddening that you wondered how you had survived without it until now.

You did not know for how long it lasted, but by the time you had to part for air, leaving both of you breathless, you realised that your phone was vibrating into your vest’s inner pocket.

You heard Aemond growl as he heard it too, coming to rest his forehead against your own as he closed his eyes in frustration. “If you don’t take that thing off, I swear I’ll break it.”

You could only display a wicked smile on your face, amused at his impatience before letting go of his chest and reach for your phone, but your movement was apparently too slow for Aemond who unexpectedly detached himself from you and began to take off your blazer in a swift motion before tossing it to the side, your now silent phone with it.

Without wasting a second Aemond had grabbed you again and was kissing you more passionately than before, making you back off to collide with the table behind you and wrap your arms around his shoulders in order to respond to his eagerness. You tangled your fingers into his hair, enjoying the silkiness of it and making him groan into your mouth slightly, holding on to you tighter.

“I’m starting to believe that this whole reviewing thing was only a plan in order to get me alone with you,” you said.

He smiled against your skin, one of his hands travelling from your shoulder to your waist as he began to trace small kisses along your neck. “Maybe it was... In any case, I’ll still need that article published, positive or not. I don’t even care at the moment.”

You felt his mouth reach the junction where your neck met your shoulder, and you bit your lips at the delicious sensation.

“I’m afraid that I’m too… biased to write anything bad about it now,” you managed to breathe out.

His low chuckle resonated into your very being before he moved to your face again, his smirk hovering over your lips.

“Mh. And here I was, thinking that you were the very definition of professional.”

You gave him a fake offended look, smiling at his words as he leaned into you again. His kiss was growing more insistent, keen and you felt your body heat up.

“There aren’t any… cameras in here, right?” you asked timidly between two hungry kisses, thinking about the attendant in the next room.

“No, there are not,” he laughed, coming back to brush his nose against yours. “Why, afraid to cause a little scandal?”

You considered your position, stuck between the man you desired and the low table, one of your clothes on the floor and pretty aroused. It didn’t help that Aemond had taken hold of your hips and flushed you against him.

“The only thing I’ll cause is that if you don’t start kissing me again right now I’ll write the most scandalous article about you you’ve ever seen. Even your brother’s acts won’t be able to match.”

He was stunned for a moment before finding his composure again, his demeanour shifting into an intensity that was not there before and whispered:

“And we don’t want that…”

When he kissed you again, you concluded that now, it was you who owed Mathilda a favour. A big one.

I really liked writing this. I have some ideas for another part but I like how this one ends, and I have a million of other Aemond Oneshots ideas so we'll see!

@khaleesihavilliard@dollfaceyourfear@cecespizza01@julczimozart@missusnora/ @bb-swift@cbfvip / @depressedperson88 / @nitimurinvetitumsposts@this-is-a-bad-idea / @issshhh /@virginslut08 @boofy1998 / @tssf-imagines / @theeddiebrainr0t

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Teen Audiences Words: 4.8K~ Summary: A young human-Gem hybrid- a soul yet unknown to the rest of the Crystal Gems- takes their first brave steps towards greeting their heritage firsthand.

Chapter 3 of 4! This time, my OC goes on a tour of Little Homeschool with Bismuth, and gleans a far clearer picture of the most pertinent events of recent Gem history.

Enjoy! <3

__

Same as the car ride into town, the warp stream sees fit to aggravate their motion sickness.

Jean doubles over with hands on wobbly, wobbly knees when they finally reach their destination, relishing in the familiar comfort of feet planted upon solid ground once more. (Because good grief, they were whirling about like a damn tumbleweed in there. Balancing themself all perfectly poised and upright like the Gems felt near impossible.)

“Hey, you good?” the purple one— Amethyst, they remind themself— says, reaching a solitary hand out as if to catch them should they stumble.

“Y-yeah,” they stutter, still breathing heavy. “Yeah… sorry, it’s just— hoo boy, that was a lot.”

“Steven took a while to get used to the warp streams as well,” Garnet comments, issuing a formal, solitary nod. “It’s only expected that an organic being would struggle to acclimate to a zero-G environment like that. You’ll learn to manage it. In time.”

Jean swallows hard, willing that awful nausea at the base of their esophagus to recede. With any luck she’s right. It’d be such an embarrassing shame if they couldn’t physically handle such a basic form of Gem transportation. They always knew the theory for how the warp pads worked— the inter-linked system of crystalline terminals providing near-instantaneous travel between distant locations— but it’s another thing entirely to actually experience it. The whole journey from the beach house to this other settlement took, what? Maybe five or so seconds? Goodness, such a swift means of transportation could entirely revolutionize life on Earth as humanity knows it. It really is too bad these warp pads only activate for Gems.

(And that… well… they disorient every last balance-keeping anatomical feature of the inner ear. They’re thankful for Garnet’s encouragement, they are— but as of this precise moment they can’t imagine how such a trip could get any better, motion sensitivity in mind.)

Then, fingertips tapping delicately against the crystal inlaid at their chest in pure subconscious habit as the post-warp jitters fade away, they cast their gaze upwards and out. Shift their posture upright once more. This place…

“I— I’m actually here,” they mutter to themself, drinking in the glorious sight of all the colorful architecture and the bounty of Gem students milling around the busy central square.

Little Homeworld, in the flesh.

They step off the warp pad and— eyes widened with childlike wonder— begin to map out the area in their head. Clustered beyond the gold-rimmed concrete platform wrapping around the warp are a number of small buildings, each one featuring a completely different architectural style. Some are cozy A-frames, some are suspended on stilts… some are fashioned from wood and stone, others from brick… there’s square windows, circular windows, half-moon windows, no windows—! One story, two story, many, many stories… name any exotic building feature, and this place probably has it represented somewhere. And it’s a very colorful town, too— Jean has never seen a neighborhood painted in such vivid, welcoming pastel shades.

They’re still drinking in the sheer exhilarating splendor of their new surroundings when a broad figure they don’t recognize rushes across the square towards their current group, the very image of a Gem on a mission.

She’s clad in overalls that look much like their own, sporting a friendly face and— most unusually, compared to the Gems they’ve seen so far— an inverted gemstone at her chest, one that spirals inwards towards her core instead of sticking out.

“Oh, thank goodness you lot are back!” she says, nudging one of her rainbow locs back behind her shoulder as she plants herself square in front of their three hosts. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to start the seminar on your behalf.”

Pearl’s glance flits their way for the briefest of seconds, their fingertips threading together. “Apologies, we got a little caught up in… something important, shall we say.”

“Bismuth, this is Jean,” Garnet says, gesturing towards them. “They’re a prospective student and need a full tour of our campus and dormitory. Do you or Peridot have time to show them around?”

Her mouth screws up as she considers. “Well… pretty sure Peri’s busy with her horticulture class, so I guess I can do it. It sure beats all the busy work I had going on this morning. But wait, wait—” she interrupts her own train of thought then, her attention snapping right back to the other Gem— “hold up. You said prospective student? You mean this isn’t just a tour for the short-term exchange program?”

“Jean’s half-Gem,” Amethyst blurts out with clear excitement painting her tone. “Like Steven.”

Bismuth’s expression snaps from minor confusion to spellbound amazement almost faster than Jean is capable of processing. Her glance flits down, briefly hovering on the pale lavender-blue gemstone resting atop their sternum.

“Huh,” she muses out loud, balling her hand at her chin. “Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know that was possible.” Then, her focus pulling back up to meet their eyes: “But hey, we’ve plenty of time to talk shop about that later, right? It’s nice to meet you, Jean! We can begin that tour right now, if you’re ready. The rest of you guys, go on ahead. I’ll take it from here.”

“Sounds good,” they nod, tangling their own hands within the wide expanse of their pockets as they rock back and forth on their heels. “I, erm—” they wave an anticlimactic goodbye to the other Gems, who seem to be in a huge hurry to meet their previous engagement… golly, all of this is happening so fast— “can I just do one thing before we start, though?”

Bismuth hums an affirmative. “Whatever you need. We got all the time in the world.”

Inhaling deep through the slimmest slit of their lips, they pull their phone out of their pocket and sling a quick text to Dad, updating him on where they’re at. After all, warping straight to Little Homeworld itself was not in their plan for today… but oh, well. Life is full of surprises sometimes.

(A fact of existence that’s both a blessing and a curse.)

But with that little task out of the way, Jean follows their guide down the wide central path connecting to the main square, eagerly soaking up whatever knowledge she can spare. Bismuth, as it turns out, is the Gem who designed this whole campus. Thus for all the questions they might have, she’s got a pretty solid answer for most. Or so she claims.

From what they’ve seen of her so far, they’re apt to believe this, though.

“So… Little Homeworld,” they begin with a fair measure of timidity, skipping a little to catch up with this Gem’s large and energetic stride. “This place was only built in the last few years, yeah?”

She grins. “Yep! We broke ground in mid 2015, shortly after the start of Era 3.”

Their brow creases. “Era 3…?”

“Gem society’s current era,” she says in explanation, “which began when the Crystal Gems finally made peace with big Homeworld. You’ve… heard of Homeworld, right?”

“I mean… I always figured there was one, but that’s kinda it. I—” they trail off for a moment, their chest deflating under the humiliating weight of everything they’re unaware of. “To be completely honest, I’ve never even met any Gems until today. So there’s gonna be a lot I don’t know. Sorry…”

Bismuth merely waves their apology off. “Psssh, don’t worry about it. I can explain some of the basics to you after the tour. Plus, if you’re looking to enroll, you’ve plenty of time to learn all this stuff anyways. Now follow me, our first stop is just over here…”

The first stop she speaks of is the campus gymnasium. Jean’s interest is immediately piqued as they notice a few Gems sword fighting in one of the gym’s many courts. Bismuth— ever the keen eye— gives a fond laugh at their sharp swerve of interest, and dives straight into the meat of her tour spiel, beginning with…

Campus tour factoid number one: not only is this space utilized for structured classes (mostly swordplay and wrestling, which the quartzes are huge fans of), but students can even reserve courts for individual use. It’s not a super large gymnasium, but there’s plenty of space for sports outside, too. Apparently baseball (of all things) is a favorite pastime amongst Little Homeschool students.

Campus tour factoid number two: right next door to the gymnasium there’s a building with a bright, airy common area. Here, there’s tons of tables and chairs set up for students to play games and connect, a communal kitchen (mostly for the benefit of their human visitors, but also for Gems who wish to experiment with eating), and a mini library of human entertainment.

Campus tour factoid number three: when weather is permitting many instructors like hosting their classes outside, but they have plenty of physical classroom space too, over in the cluster of buildings nestled under the trees right across the main path. Some of the other amenities Little Homeschool boasts are a full art studio, an all-seasons greenhouse kitted out with the latest and greatest in hydroponics technology, and a records room with access ports to a whole wealth of Homeworld data banks for research and learning purposes.

The final stop on Bismuth’s tour is the dormitory, which is housed within the central tower.

“Now, many of the Gems who attend our school are at a delicate transitory stage in their lives,” she says, leading Jean through the front entrance of the dorm. “Plenty of them have never been apart from those of their own cut for more than a second, so the concept of ‘personal belongings’ and having a space that’s all their own is… well, for lack of a better term, alien.”

They nod as they follow Bismuth through the building’s lobby, each and every step bringing a new curiosity to gawk in awe at. Damn, this place is insane! The whole core of this tower is open space, with a set of transparent elevator-like pads stationed at the middle to ferry folks up and down from each level. There’s tons of greenery and light brightening up this expanse, and a number of railed walkways arcing across this central atrium from different angles every few floors. These walkways even have flowering vines hanging from the undersides, giving this building a strikingly organic vibe despite its concrete heavy architecture style. It all feels very… oh, what’s the style Dad always said he likes the aesthetic of, again—? Very, uh… very solar punk. Yes, that’s it. A sort of combination of solar punk and neo-futurism, what with all the bold angles and sweeping curves represented here.

A few Gems wave at Bismuth as the two of them pass by. She beckons them along towards the lift system.

“Thus, when building this school,” their tour guide continues, “we settled on dorm style accommodations, hoping that it could provide a nice balance between solo and community living for our students.”

“How many Gems are housed here, out of curiosity?” Jean asks, stepping up on the platform with her.

Bismuth taps her fingers against the diamond shaped screen inlaid in the half-wall that separates the lifts— probably imputing a floor— and the crystalline platform jolts to life. “Currently? About a hundred seventy or so,” she responds, turning back to face them. “And our roster rotates all the time. But the school itself serves plenty more— there’s a lot of Gems who warp in each day for their classes, and others who only choose to attend one or two sessions.”

They hum in acknowledgement, falling quiet to enjoy the smooth ride up to one of the upper levels.

The lift stops at floor seven, where their gracious host leads them towards what she describes as one of the few empty dorm rooms. (Or they think these are supposed to be the dorm rooms? These doorways don’t have any handles to speak of, which is a little confusing.) In any case, Jean’s brow arches in ample curiosity as they watch Bismuth press her palm flush against the adjacent panel much like one would use a hotel keycard. A dull chime rings out, and the entire surface of the door splits in two. They flinch a step backwards, wholly mystified. Wait, what?? But how did— there was no seam before, right? The doorway had no visible seam. They swear to the edge of the Earth it didn’t. So how could it just—?

Bismuth gives a fond chuckle, merely shuffling aside to invite them in to the room. “Trippy, right? This whole building’s a bit of an architectural labyrinth— held together with a whoooole lotta Gem tech, hah! So when you walk through that frame, you’re actually entering into something of a pocket dimension. It’s the only way we could scale up our operations while maintaining a slim footprint. The sunlight’s real, though,” she says, gesturing towards the wide window at the far end of the living unit.

Eager eyed, Jean takes a quick inventory of the space.

The room itself is fairly sparse, a blank canvas to be furnished and decorated however a Gem would prefer. But there’s some shelves built into the right hand wall at the far corner for storage of personal items, and a humble table and chair nestled by the window. Meanwhile, on the left side of the wall there’s a strange little person-sized inlet— a ‘cubby,’ of sorts— with another one of those touch screen panels next to it. They hum with intrigue, striding towards this mysterious furnishing feature.

“What’s this for?” they ask, the panel’s interface bursting to life under even the most feathery brush of their fingertips.

“Oh, that—?” she smiles. “It’s a newer contraption, actually… meant to mimic the unique conditions of any Gem’s exit hole.”

Jean purses their lips, absolutely nothing about the conclusion of that last sentence making sense.

Their what hole?? Oh gosh, it’s gonna take eons to figure out what even half of this stuff means, isn’t it?

Bismuth begins to speak further on the topic, delving into something more nuanced about these so-called ‘exit holes…’ something about rest, something about incubation, a kindergarten or whatever. Ugh. They don’t know. They don’t know. And even more frustratingly, for whatever goddamn reason it suddenly feels impossible to maintain focus on her words at all, their mind instead seeing fit to fixate on the daunting ravine that is their sheer lack of an even baseline understanding of Gem physiology, culture, and history. Here they are, trying to enroll in an all-Gem school, and they barely even comprehend the basic lingo. Oh god, she thinks they’re an idiot, doesn’t she?

They don’t even realize they’re clutching their arms around their midsection in the sheer strife of it all until the sound of their own name cuts through all the murk and mire that’s taken their body hostage.

“Jean… hey, Jean? You doin’ okay, there? D’ya want me to slow down?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, I just—”

Whatever lame, emotionally downplaying words they were about to utter die like snuffed cinders upon their tongue as they hazard a sheepish glance at the Gem and note the genuine concern weaving across her features. Jean sighs, dropping their arms.

“I think I need to go outside,” they admit, averting their gaze. “Everything’s just… a little overwhelming right now.”

“Hey, that’s all right,” she says, tone soft with understanding. “The rest of the tour can always wait. In fact… how ‘bout I take you back to my forge, and we can talk shop there, instead? It’s open air, and if you’re not up for talking, I can just show ya’ how I prepare billets for a while. At least until the others come back ‘round. That sound more your speed?”

“Yeah,” they nod, the barest hints of a smile returning to their lips. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

~

The walk back to Bismuth’s forge is pretty uneventful. There’s a few Gem students who wave a friendly hello to their guide as she leads them down the path, but beyond that their journey is cast in comfortable silence. And honestly, thank goodness for that. Jean is exceedingly glad to find another soul in this place who understands the importance of like… why a person might desire chatter-less companionship. Sometimes they just flat out don’t feel up to talking, y’hear?

Bismuth only breaks their quietude when the two of them step through the arched entry into her workshop.

“Here, you can sit, if you’d like,” she says, gesturing towards a squat wooden stool nestled at the corner of the space. There’s a table there as well, filled with a number of specialized metallic hand tools Jean can’t even begin to guess the names or uses of. Their Aunt Dee might, though. As a film costumer, metal work seems like something she would’ve at very least dabbled in before.

They nod in gratitude, eagerly situating themself on the offered seat and allowing their muscles to relax. Ahhh… it feels nice to rest after such a long walk.

Their gracious host rounds the room to grab a dense bar of metal from the healthy stash she’s got stacked on the shelves. As she crosses back around, her eyes lock on them immediately. Ever so subtle, her brows lift upon her broad forehead as she regards them once more, signaling her active sympathy.

“You ‘doin any better?”

They nod, small and meek. “Yeah, I think so. Sorry, about— well, sorry.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to be apologetic for, don’t you worry,” she says, laying the metal bar down on the working surface of her anvil. Then, with a faint laugh: “‘Sides, if you think you’re feelin’ out of your element, you should’ve seen my last tour group.”

“What would a Gem have to feel out of place about…?” Jean asks, more of an under-their-breath mutter than anything else.

Of course, Bismuth seems to glean the deeper meaning behind their hazy afterthought of a query anyways. “Oh, you’d be surprised. A lot of our students here have, well… a bit of a complicated past. A large number of them fought in the war for Earth, back when the Gem Homeworld was still trying to colonize it. And a good number of those spent a few thousand years trapped in a state of mental damage we Gems call ‘corruption.’”

Their features crinkle inwards as they ponder these facts. Hmm. ‘Corruption.’ Yet another term they’ve never seen show up in any of their research efforts. It seems the scant amount of information they’ve amassed about Gems up until now really was barely scraping the barrel. Was this their fault? Did they not dig deep enough? Are these pieces of their own history they could’ve learned years ago if only they applied themselves to their search harder? But in a true blessing of a breakthrough for an anxious wreck who’s starting to feel too ashamed to bother anyone with any more of their ignorant questions, their blank, deer-in-the-headlights gaze is obvious enough that their host clues in on the confusion swirling through their mind immediately.

“Ah, hmm. I guess you prolly don’t know what corruption is either, huh?” she muses, pressing a closed fist to the edge of her lips.

Jean flashes an apologetic smile. “‘Fraid not.”

She nods, and temporarily abandons her starting metal to the anvil so she can grab a second stool from the other side of the forge and sit herself down across from them.

“In that case,” she jabs a solitary finger in the air, “lemme just start from the beginning and give you the ol’ Earth rebellion primer…”

So, here’s what they glean from her narrative:

The Gem Homeworld was apparently once ruled by four Diamonds. The youngest of the quartet, Pink, had Earth given to her as her first colony. The colonization efforts went as planned for a good few hundred years… and then, a lone rose quartz and a pearl (the Pearl, the one they met just an hour or so ago, which makes a damn lot of sense from what little they’re aware of her), began seeding whispers of rebellion. It started small… isolated attacks on key settlements and construction sites, strategic disruptions of supply shipments and warp pad installations, that sort of thing. At first, the two of them only ever intended to scare the others off this planet— not wanting its ecosystem to be permanently destroyed via the lethal impacts of Gem production on the Earth’s soil chemistry. But over time, the rebellion blossomed to champion a cause far broader than what was originally intended:

Freedom for all Gems, no matter how disparate to Homeworld’s stringent ideals.

This was when Bismuth joined the fray, and where much of her recounting of this history is based on eye-witness experience.

Jean takes a moment to inquire a bit deeper about the destructive impact of Kindergarting before her story moves on.

“Essentially, Gemkind used to set up camp on a new planet, construct their colony, siphon every last scrap of life out of its crust until they’ve incubated all the Gems they possibly can, and then move right along to the next one,” Bismuth says, shaking her head with a tinge of shame coating her features. “An endless, soulless cycle, with countless dissatisfied Gems trapped at its center. That’s why the mere existence of Rose Quartz was such a shockwave at the time— ‘coz she was a Gem who outright defied her superiors’ demands at every opportunity. Rose, she—” her expression grows somewhat wistful with melancholy remembrance— “she taught me that my unique existence was precious, that I didn’t need to bend to Homeworld’s demands. That I could choose my own path in life. My own friends. My own loves… Stars, Rose Quartz was everything to me back then.”

Jean’s nose crinkles as they ask the obvious next question. “But…?”

Bismuth sighs as she slumps forward on her stool, age-old exhaustion evident within her tone. “But war is complicated. And so are Gems. I made a few choices I now regret, and got bubbled over it. Missed a few thousand years ‘coz of that. And by the time I was let out, the war was long over. The Crystal Gems won, but… only by a technicality.”

“Bubbled?” they inquire, tilting their head.

“Hah,” she laughs, low and half-hearted. “Means my form was dissipated in combat, and my gem was stashed in a bubble. It’s a long story. Don’t really wanna hash through the details of it now, if that’s okay.”

Jean nods, more than emphasizing with that sort of sentiment. There’s tons of awkward stuff in their past they’re not super interested in discussing with others, either. They gesture for her to continue.

Bismuth moves on to explain how— once she was freed from her stasis and allowed to reform— she discovered that all the Gems left behind on this planet were caught in a massive retaliatory attack by the Diamonds.

“They believed Rose Quartz shattered one of their own,” she shrugs. “Pink Diamond— the appointed leader of this colony— was lost during the war. So the three who remained traveled to Earth and tried to wipe every last Gem off its surface… their own soldiers included. They assumed they destroyed all of them.“

“But they were corrupted instead,” Jean completes, remembering that specific word Bismuth had used earlier. “Which means—?”

“—that their minds were thrown into a jumbled, primal state. Unable to retain a humanoid form, or even communicate in words. To use your human lingo, it’s as if the sheer brutality of the Diamonds’ damage reduced them into monsters.”

“Hmm. So how were they healed?”

“Ah, that was all Steven’s doing. I’m assuming you already know about Steven—?”

They nod. “I’ve seen his adverts,” they put it lightly.

That’s— of course— only the tip of the iceberg. They choose not to mention the ridiculous sum of time they’ve spent combing the internet for every last scrap of information they could feasibly grasp on Beach City, Steven, and the other Gems. It’s not clear yet what this particular Gem would think about such an obsessive level of study… whether she’d admire the initiative or resent them for sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.

“Alright. Now, here’s where things get a bit topsy-turvy,” Bismuth says, a bit of a chuckle coloring her tone. “So, Steven’s the half-human son of Rose Quartz, right?”

Yep, that tracks. None of Jean’s sources ever stated this so bluntly, but it meshes with the vague timeline of events they’ve pieced together… what with Rose’s disappearance and Steven’s arrival on the scene years later.

“Well, back when he was a kid, this whole bombshell secret ‘bout his mother comes out. I wasn’t there for the reveal,” she shrugs, gesturing wide with her palms spread open, “and only learned about it secondhand, but— basically, all along, Pink Diamond and Rose Quartz were the same person.”

Their brows scrunch inwards. “Wait, what?”

“Wild, right?” she says with noted amusement. “All those years of chaos and turmoil… when the whole time, Rose was simply waging a false war against herself. I’m sure you’ll learn plenty more about this era of history in time, but the important part is that this makes Steven one of the Diamonds. Which gave him the unique authority to negotiate with them for not only the complete liberation of Earth, but also the healing of all the corrupted Gems. Such a cure took the powers of all four of them to achieve. So, hah—” Bismuth cracks a half-hearted, wistful smile— “as much as it really cut my facets down a size at the time… in the end… making peace with Homeworld was literally the only option.”

Jean continues to muse on the broader implications of all this newly learned history as the Gem moves on to describe how Little Homeworld came to be. (Which— they’re ashamed to admit— they’re only halfway paying attention to.) So, Steven’s like… what… royalty, then? Some sort of Gem prince? It certainly would explain the sheer level of political sway he had in setting up this school, and the almost reverent way people here have spoken of him so far. Still, it’s not what they expected. Online documentation on Gem matters is still very sparse, yes, but nothing they’ve read thus far even remotely mentioned the existence of ‘Diamonds,’ let alone Steven’s innate connection to them. They can’t help but wonder if there’s any specific reason why.

Their thoughts migrating to related horizons, they inquire more about the rest of the Diamonds… are they still in some form of power today, they ask?

Bismuth shakes her head no. “Not entirely. It’s, ah… it’s complicated. We’ve elected leaders to aid in governing each of Homeworld’s planets, but… it’d be foolish to claim that the Diamonds don’t still hold a certain sway over a vast percentage of Gemkind. Our society’s entering a vital transitional state right now, shall we say.”

“Makes sense,” Jean nods.

Especially with how long-lived Gems are, though they elect not to say as much out loud. They have no idea if the topic of age is as sensitive for Gems as it can oft be for humans.

“But despite any lingering influence they may hold, they’re not ‘in charge,’ so to speak,” she continues, throwing up air quotes as emphasis. “Not as they once were. Everything’s different now.” Bismuth shifts back upon her stool as she pauses in her lesson, allowing the rejuvenating relief of those three little words to sink in for the both of them. A serene, content smile rises upon her lips. “After a lifetime of struggle, Gems are finally free to be their own selves in this era. We can finally rest.”

Their host meditates within the cusp of this welcoming truth for a few moments, staring off towards the open air doorway at their right to watch a fair handful of residents pass between activities. She closes her eyes, her features aligning into an almost unparalleled show of utter tranquility. Then, bobbing her head a little as she wrestles through the last few items on her laundry list of mental troubles, she clasps her hands upon her knees and pushes herself wholly upright once more.

“Anyways, that’s probably enough history for today, yeah? Hah, wouldn’t want to spook ya’ away with all the heavy stuff before you’ve even enrolled.”

“No, please, don’t worry ‘bout it,” they say with a slight laugh, shaking their head. “I thought it was pretty interesting, really.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it!” she chimes, pacing back across the forge to her anvil. “We can talk shop in more detail when Pearl’s back, but— should you be interested in becoming a student long-term— my plan is to retrofit one of those dorm rooms you saw with a kitchenette and a bathroom, as well as shuffling around some of the furnishings to make space for a bed. Does that sound suitable for your needs?”

“More than suitable,” Jean chimes, folding their hands in their lap.

“Good, good…”

Bismuth shines her a bright, enthusiastic grin, and picks up that dense hunk of metal she fetched minutes earlier.

“So… with all that said and done—” in a flash of brilliant light, she morphs her hand into a broad mallet— “d’ya think you’re still up for a lil’ demonstration?”

[3ris-d1st0rtionnn]

Statement of Eris [̴̡̡̯͇͕̻̝̱̘̐͗̓́̽̈́̈́͐͛̂̍̓̔̌̊͠R̸͙͎̼͈͑̌̽͒̽̓̅̀͘E̴͔̭̬̍̅́̃̎̏͋̂̇́̕̚D̴̡̫̤̰̝̲͍̪̖̥̥͙̭̭̰̱̜͖͍̹̟̬̋̑͛̆̀̄̚͜͜A̵̛͕͚͉͈͖̤̳̫̔̀̿̾͆͛͋̊̈́̄̿̀̒́͗͆̀̍̏́̊̐̑͝͠C̶̡̨̢̢̡̡̥͔̣̺̤̙̖͕̭̬̻̥͈̻̪̮̞̞̝̯͙̘̰̮̀̃͐̔͗͜ͅŢ̴̢̟̪̦̟̳̫̹̳͈͉̤͍̰̫̯͙̊̾̅̎̑̚E̷̡̢̛̞̼̜̞̪͓͕͉̰̘̞͉̤̺̮̭̯͛́̾͛̃̋̅̅̓͋̈́͆̆̑́̌̆̈͋͊̿͛̿̃̽̎̚͠͠ͅḐ̸̛̞͕̗̠̜̰̗̣̘͖̱̜̗͔̩͈͙̙̣̫̪̝̤͇͉̰̙̹̠̉ͅͅͅ]̶̛̻̟̥̘͇̬̫̹̠̤͕͔̏̓̕, regarding their university’s art school.

It was… I want to say a year ago. Maybe two, but my perception of time feels so strange now. It feels like I’m recalling some strange dream, but I know that what I saw was real. I know I lived this… experience.

To preface, I’m an art student at a local university. My university’s Arts building is definitely one of the older ones on campus and seems to have been renovated over time, leading to a very confusing layout. With all the additions and extra studios being repurposed and built over time, the place is pretty easy to get lost in if you don’t know it well. I like to say I know the place like the back of my hand from spending most of my classes there, I know I should, but… then I found the staircase. The door.

It was on my class list, the first day of my third year. “Advanced Visual Arts, Room 401”. I had no recollection of signing up for this class at all, and Room 401… shouldn’t exist. Rooms in the Arts building are numbered based on floors, with the 100s being on the 1st floor, 200s being on the 2nd… There is no 4th floor in this building. Nobody I asked had any idea where it could be; most looked at me like I was insane and some speculated that the room number was a typo, but I’d be damned if I missed my first class of the semester.

And so… I went looking for Room 401.

Looking back, I should have known something was horrifically wrong. The building seemed quieter the further I moved from the front studios, as if no classes were in session. I could hear the occasional distant voice echoing through the halls, but I never once saw another student or professor. I knew all these hallways, but the layout seemed different, like one of those dreams where a familiar location is… almost shuffled around. I eventually found myself on the 3rd floor access staircase - where else would I go if I was looking for this nonexistent 4th floor? - and it… It kept going. The staircase just kept spiraling up past the 3rd floor, into a space that I knew was never there. And at the top… A door. A standard wooden door, covered in stray paint splatters and labeled Room 401 with a rusted metal plate.

I don’t remember opening the door. I don’t remember stepping past that damn threshold. It was like I blacked out, like there’s a gap in my memories I can’t fill in. All I remember is the dread. The terror. The sense that something was wrong.

The door led into… I want to say it looked like part of the Arts building, but it didn’t. It was like an imitation, some kind of sick mockery. The walls were painted in sickly primary colors, so vivid they hurt my eyes to look at. The fluorescent lights overhead had a nauseating yellow cast to them. Hallways and doors branched out at odd angles that just didn’t look right, more like something out of a poor drawing.

I didn’t try to go back the way I came. Part of me knew the door wouldn’t open, and the thought made me feel sick with dread.

I’m not sure how long I’d been walking before the halls opened up into… what I can only describe as some kind of classroom, or maybe a gallery space. The walls were covered in these strange paintings; none of them were framed, just warped paper pinned to the walls, and I couldn’t make out any images. It wasn’t that they were abstract though, I knew I was supposed to be seeing something in them, but I just couldn’t decipher any of the images. A worn pedestal was placed in the center of the room, displaying a mannequin head. It appeared to be made of plaster, crudely painted to resemble… my face.

That, of all things, was my breaking point. I turned to leave, hoping to run back the way I came, but… the door to the room had vanished. It was just another wall, perfectly solid as if a door had never been there. I remember screaming, trying to claw away the papers and paintings in hope that another door was hidden beneath them, but I just… never got anywhere. There had to be hundreds of layers of the damn things, either that or… the room didn’t want me to go. And throughout my screaming, my feverish attempts to find a way out of this room… I felt a presence, like reality beginning to unravel around a set point… and that point was right behind me.

When I finally turned around to face it, when I saw what had been watching me struggle… it was like my screams couldn’t get out anymore. Trust me, I wanted to scream, but I… I couldn’t.

The thing, it… looked like me, but in the loosest, most awful sense. It was like seeing myself reflected in a funhouse mirror; it had my face, my hair, even the handmade jacket I was wearing, but… wrong. Distorted.

Its limbs were too long and disproportionate, almost appearing to bisect the pedestal it was sitting on as if its body didn’t know how to interact properly with anything physical. Its long, claw-like fingers twitched periodically, bent out of place as if they were broken. I couldn’t even focus on the buttons and patches on its jacket… Not when they changed appearance and position every time I looked at them. It just… smiled at me with this awful, knowing look in its painfully colorful eyes, like it knew something I didn’t.

And then… it laughed.

Its mouth opened, tearing right past the boundaries of its face to expose countless rows of teeth. The paintings all over the walls began to shift, incomprehensible images melting off the pages and bleeding together at a pace I couldn’t understand. It was like there was a message for me in there, one that I’d never be able to comprehend. And its voice… Its voice was like nails on a chalkboard, like the remnants of a lost radio signal, like glass shattering against my brain. I could hear it inside my head, burrowing and clawing at my psyche like a parasite while I dropped to my knees and screamed and screamed and-

…and my eyes snapped open.

I was… back on the 3rd floor staircase, surrounded by concerned students. Apparently somebody had heard me screaming and found me collapsed on the floor, nearly unconscious, but… I don’t remember that.

The stairs ended at the 3rd floor. Of course they did. They always have.

I understand if you don’t believe me, I really do… I’m not even sure if I believe myself, but… I can’t stop thinking about what happened. I keep seeing that door in my dreams, that same echoing voice and… no. No, it’s just my anxiety.

That’s it. Anxiety. It’s not real.

Statement ends.

[runwayrunway]

MISS CONENGINALITY - BRITTEN-NORMAN BN-2 ISLANDER

Remember when the UK made the best airplanes in the world? Me neither, I wouldn't be born for several decades. Anyway, Britten-Norman Islander.

image: Air Seychelles

The last holdout of the UK making really fantastic planes, the Islander is a popular regional airliner and utility plane used for things like skydiving and air ambulance service as well as the typical passenger and cargo flights. At first glance she's a pretty regular high-wing twin-prop that seats 10, but look closer and you may begin to notice things.

Upfront, I love the Islander. (Obviously, or I wouldn't be making this post about it.) My love for this plane isn't solely organically developed, because it does also hold a special nostalgic place in my heart for being the first propeller plane I ever flew on, with Cape Air in 2015 from San Juan to Vieques. (As Vieques Air Link also operates these, they're a common sight down there! The name of the model is, as it were, very apt.)

image: Cape Air This is the exact plane that I flew on!

Now, from this image you can already see that the Islander has some lovely features, from those absolute bollards coming out of the engines to the wildly pointy nose (not the first plane I've discussed that's giving DUKW), but despite looking goofier the closer you look at it this thing is an incredibly beloved and reliable plane.

image: Bonham's Behold, a Britten-Norman BN-2 Islander.

Also of note is the Islander's extremely low wing aspect ratio, and I've always thought the tailplane looked a little too small for the tailfin from the side despite looking giant from below. The general ratios on this plane, in every single possible place, look just ever-so-slightly off, and I love it.

image: Mark Harkin I mean. She's just blocks.

Still, this is an incredibly well-designed plane. It's cheap, rugged, utilitarian, reliable, versatile, and remarkably stable in flight, which is why over 1,000 have been built to date. (Personally, I didn't find the cabin to be the roomiest even for an aircraft of its size, but I remember it being a comfortable enough flight.) The Islander is still in production today despite first flying in the mid-1960s, which is something few models can claim. You can use an Islander for basically anything, with their big doors and STOL capability, and it's even used for the world's shortest flight and an entry on my bucket list, the two-minute hop between Westray and Papa Westray operated by Loganair.

image: National Museum of Flight Scotland Despite being shown outside in this photograph, she currently lives in the civil aviation hangar, a top pick on my list of places I would like to secretly live in for the rest of my life.

image: own work, taken inside the civil aviation hangar at the National Museum of Flight, Scotland

In late October I visited the National Museum of Flight, Scotland. It was an incredible experience and I will be discussing it across several future posts due to the sheer variety of preserved airframes they had, including everything from a Puss Moth to a jump jet. (The general museum will probably get a dedicated post as well in the future - suffice to say I had a fantastic time.) Among their preserved aircraft is a BN-2 Islander registered G-BELF, painted a vivid highlighter-yellow which pictures really can't do justice in homage to Scottish air ambulances which serve isolated island communities in the North Sea.

I was absolutely delighted to see her in person. Seven years after I last stepped foot in an Islander, it felt like something of a reunion to just stand next to a mothballed airframe and admire how...really strange-looking these planes actually are.

own work, obvi

I mean, for one thing, they're a lot shorter than you might think they should be. Pictured for scale is a 165cm/5'5" tall human with a PSA Lockheed TriStar for a face. I couldn't get that good of an angle on it, but my head is only a few inches short of the wing, and you can see that I'm well taller than the cabin windows. An entire Islander is shorter than a single Concorde tire.

Plus, that wing chord is so long I could use her as a shelter in the rain.

So, yeah. That's the story of how I met my favorite commuter airliner. I hope to fly on one again someday, but for the moment I'll have to be content with looking at pictures of these weird-looking planes that can fool you for a moment into thinking they're regular.

Also they tried to put propeller shrouds on one once.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Maera woke the next morning, her mind swirling with a mix of emotions and memories. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the soft, early dawn light filtering into her chamber, she couldn't help but wonder if the passionate encounter with Aemond the previous night had all been a dream.

Lying in her bed, she took in the familiar details of her room. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a few glowing embers, the once-filled goblet of Dornish wine on her table was now empty, and there lay her torn nightgown on the floor. Moving her thighs, she could feel the slick that painted across them from the intense wave of pleasure Aemond had given her with his fingers on her clit, a vivid reminder that the night's events were indeed real.

A soft, contented smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she shook her head in disbelief. It hadn't been a dream. The memory of their fiery encounter and the intensity of their connection had left an indelible mark on her, one she couldn't deny, even if she tried.

Maera's maid, Thena, entered her chamber to perform her usual morning rituals of dressing and preparing her Lady for the day. However, Maera was unusually quiet, the memory from the previous night replaying over and over again in her head, causing jolts of excitement to run through her. But then, Maera's mind raced with questions and doubts.

Aemond had had her crumbling with the mere stroke of his fingers, a powerful skill to have over somebody and a way to get what you wanted in a very persuasive manner. Yet Maera did not possess a skill like this. Yes, she was diplomatic in debate and had managed to get her own way in several occasions with numerous members of court. She was also skilled with the sword and knew how to physically hold her own in a fight. But this was different, and Maera had no idea what she was doing. As pleasurable as the experience had been, she needed to level the playing field. Another battle of power dynamics.

Once her maid had finished and Maera was ready, she made her way to Queen Helaena's chambers, where her duties awaited. As she assisted the Queen in donning a splendid gown of olive green, Maera's thoughts continued to churn, even as the pair sat together at the breakfast table to eat. There was an array of dishes that spanned from sweet to savory and the chamber was bathed in soft morning light, casting a warm and inviting glow upon the spread.

Helaena struck up a conversation with Maera regarding the recent sightings of the blue dragon Ēbrion made by the children on their recent trip to the Godswood, and how happy it had made little Jaehaerys to see the beast up close as he flew overhead. Maera smiled politely to her friend, nodding as she heard the words pass Helaena’s mouth, but unfortunately she could not absorb them properly. Her attention wandered back to Aemond over and over again, as she picked at her food absentmindedly.

Suddenly, she was then brought back to the present by Helaena's gentle voice as she remarked, “I said that you seem rather distracted today, Maera.”

Maera offered an apologetic smile to Helaena and said, "I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I've just had a lot on my mind, given recent events."

Helaena, her curiosity piqued, inquired, "Did you manage to speak with my brother about your betrothal to him?"

A subtle smile played at the corners of Maera's lips before she replied, "Yes, we... talked things over."

Helaena couldn't help but tease, "Ah, it seems you both have reached an amicable agreement about your future."

If only she knew the details, Maera thought, the smile still painted on her face. She turned to face Helaena in her chair, a blush spread across her face as the encounter with the Prince played again in her mind. "I must confess, Your Grace, I now have fewer reservations about my betrothal to him."

Helaena smiled warmly. "I'm glad to hear that," she replied. The Queen then wrinkled her nose as if disgusted and looked around the table before her gaze landed on a bowl of boiled eggs. Helaena then looked around the room and kindly asked one of the maids to remove it, stating the smell of them was overpowering. Odd, Maera thought, but then the conversation changed, distracted her from Helaena’s behaviour.

As they finished their breakfast and the bowl of eggs were removed, the Queen suggested, "Shall we accompany each other to the library? It seems the rain is too relentless to go outside today." She explained her intentions, "I'd like to find some embroidery books for myself and the Targaryen lineage book for the twins. They've been showing interest in the history of the Targaryen Kings lately."

Of course, the library. Surely there would be some information there that she could use in her marriage to the one-eyed Prince. Maera readily agreed, helping Helaena out of her chair as they linked arms, strolling down the corridor of the Red Keep to reach their desired destination for the day.

The library in the Red Keep was a sanctuary of knowledge, a treasure trove of wisdom and history. Its grandeur spoke of the importance of the written word in the realm. The room itself was expansive, with towering shelves that seemed to reach toward the heavens. The shelves, crafted from polished mahogany, bore the weight of countless tomes and manuscripts, their spines lined in rows like silent sentinels.

The air was heavy with the scent of ancient parchment and leather bindings, a fragrance that whispered of the ages. In the corners of the library, grand tapestries depicting scenes of knowledge and learning hung with regal dignity. The room's vaulted ceiling, adorned with intricate carvings, seemed to echo with the voices of the countless minds whose works were housed within.

Maester Orwyle rose from his seat and greeted the women as they entered the library, before sitting back down, his attention returning quickly to the scrolls he was working on. Helaena made her way to the left, ber silver-white hair cascading like a waterfall, framing a face marked by delicate features and captivating violet eyes that held a spark of intellectual curiosity.

The Queen selected three books before settling herself at a quiet table, engrossed in her chosen reading material, muttering to herself, while Maera smiled at her friend's dedication. She could see from a distance that the books Helaena had picked contained illustrations of dragonflies and spiders. The queen's nimble fingers occasionally traced the words or illustrations about how to action these patterns through embroidery.

Satisfied that the Queen was comfortable, Maera made her way to the right of the room in her own quest for knowledge. After passing several bookshelves, she managed to find a section suitable for the children. As she perused the books, she eventually stumbled upon one with a bright red leather cover, titled 'Fire and Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’, exactly the sort of book that would satiate the twins interest in royal history. Maera made her way back to where Helaena was seated, and placed the crimson book beside her, ready to take back to the Queen’s chambers.

Her next task was to locate a book on marital advice that would describe to her any wifely duties she could perform in order to keep her husband in line. Maera made her way to the left side of the library and began pulling several books from the shelf, starting with a copy of the Holy Text, the Seven-Pointed Star. While it contained chapters about the duties of a wife from the perspectives of the Father, Mother, and Maiden, it failed to provide the practical guidance she sought.

Maera considered that perhaps she needed a book that wasn't steeped in tales of women's roles and societal expectations, nor bound by religious doctrine. She sought concrete knowledge, grounded in science and medicine.

Peeking her head around the corner of a shelf, she politely inquired of the Maester, "Excuse me, Maester. Could you please direct me to the medical scrolls?"

The Maester, still immersed in his work, turned his attention to her and replied, "Certainly, Lady Maera. They are located high up on the shelves at the far end of the library, to the right ." He began to rise from his seat, but Maera halted him with a polite gesture.

"Please, do not let me disturb your important work, Maester Orwyle," she insisted. "Is there a ladder nearby that I could use?"

The Maester nodded, answering, "Of course, my Lady. There are some steps already in that section of the hall." With that, Maera made her way to the far ends of the library to retrieve the ladder, placing it against the tall mahogany shelf she intended to explore. As she ascended the steps cautiously, mindful of her trailing skirts, she began to search through the collections of scrolls and books, determined to find something that would provide the answers she sought.

In her quest for knowledge, Maera pulled out a couple of scrolls. One blue tome stood out, focusing on childbirth and the techniques for safely delivering a baby. Maera considered it briefly, but the gruesome details and painful memories it invoked made her shudder. She couldn't help but picture an uncertain future in the childbed, much like her mother's tragic demise when trying to bring her last child into the world. With a heavy heart, she reluctantly returned the book to its shelf among the others.

Another scroll detailed the intricacies of the female anatomy, while the one on the shelf below delved into the male counterpart. Though they were informative, they failed to provide her with the specific insights she was seeking.

With so many brothers growing up, Maera possessed a good understanding of male anatomy regarding what each organ was purposed for when it came to reproduction. As her older siblings matured into men, they would often boast to each other about their escapades with maids and wenches, and later, about their experiences with their wives.

She recalled a time back at Rain House all those months ago, when her elder brother Luthor had developed an obsessive infatuation with a whore at one of the brothels in Rainwood, causing Maera to put her head in her hands out of shame every time it was brought up during their sparring matches.

“You are cunt-struck, brother, nothing more,” Faran would say shaking his head before lunging forward and disarming him.

The sound of steel hitting the ground echoed through the yard as Luthor looked into the sky as if an angel was appearing before him. “ I am not surprised you do not understand, Faran, given your lack of experience. It is bewitching. She has been indulging me with this tongue trick that I cannot get out of-”

“Oh for the love of the Gods, Luthor! I do not wish to hear such things from your disgusting mouth,” Maera cried, shoving Luthor forward until he landed in the dirt with the thud, causing Faran to clutch his sides in laughter.

In hindsight, as much as it disgusted her hearing her brothers’ tales of a sexual nature, how she wished now she had paid more attention. Perhaps if she did, instead of listening to the advice of Septa Mathilde, which was to “lie there and wait for your husband to sow his seed,”, she would not be at such a disadvantage when it came to her relations with Aemond.

“A fine choice to come to the library on such a rainy day,” a voice echoed from the bottom of the ladder, drawing Maera's attention. She peered down to see a pair of sharp blue eyes staring up at her. The Lord had dark brown hair, a cascade of tight curls, framed a face marked by an air of enigmatic authority. In his right hand was a cane, a striking accessory inset with a golden firefly, to aid in his mobility as his right foot was badly curved inward and downward, effecting how he moved about the Keep.

"Lord Strong," she acknowledged with a respectful nod. His presence in the library puzzled her, but she descended from the ladder gracefully, offering a formal greeting.

Lord Larys initiated the conversation by expressing his belated congratulations on her betrothal to Prince Aemond. Maera gave him a polite nod, her curiosity piqued by the Master of Whispers' unexpected and sudden interest in her.

The lord continued, his tone somber, "It seems we are in need of good news, given the unfortunate incidents that have occurred within the Keep as of late."

Maera, her patience waning, inquired, "What do you mean, Lord Larys?"

He replied with a faint smile, "I only meant, Lady Maera, that injuries have become somewhat frequent. Mostly attributed to the state of our stone paths in the castle corridors, I hear.” Larys paused, a contemplative look on his face, yet Maera could tell that his eyes held a gaze that seemed to harbor secrets, a testament to the depth of his intellect. Lord Strong continued, “The stonemasons have much work ahead. I am, of course, relieved to see King Aegon and Queen Helaena recovering from their own respective injuries."

Maera found the conversation veering in an unexpected direction. "I see," she responded diplomatically, though a sense of unease gnawed at her. She then decided to postpone her book search for now; her instincts warned her not to trust the Master of Whispers. She wanted to make her way back toward the Queen, gesturing for Lord Larys to accompany her through the labyrinthine corridors of bookshelves.

As they walked, Lord Larys continued his monologue, much to Maera's growing annoyance. He began by asserting, "With the kingdom's current instability due to the war with Princess Rhaenyra, Westeros desperately requires a strong and reliable King." Maera nodded, her jaw tensed, her patience wearing thin as she assumed he would eventually reach his point.

Lord Larys carried on, stating, "Perception is everything, Lady Maera. It has the power to make or break someone." Maera glanced at him, her eyes meeting his, unable to decipher his expression. The lord added, "For instance, a simple fall would be a more acceptable reason for the King's injuries than being attacked by say, a mere Lady-in-waiting. Or perhaps, by altering the courts perception of a knight claiming unsavoury accusations towards a noblewoman, thus saving her tarnished reputation?”

Maera quickly grasped Lord Larys' intentions. It seemed he had two options in mind: either he intended to threaten Maera, exposing the truth about her role in Aegon's injuries to the court. Or he wanted to make her aware that he was solely responsible for her betrothal and the clearing of her name from the vicious rumors of Ser Penrose, somehow making her indebted to him. She found his tactics clever, almost admirable, but Maera was not one to be ordered around or blackmailed by yet another Lord in King's Landing.

With a sly smile, as they neared the library entrance, she played along, commenting, "The Crown is fortunate to have such a valuable ally in you, my Lord."

Lord Larys graciously acknowledged her compliment, adding, "And you, Lady Maera, are soon to become a part of that Crown, whom I serve with the utmost loyalty." He continued, "It's essential for a new Princess of the realm to forge such alliances as she comes into power. The royal court can be a treacherous place to navigate."

Maera bit the inside of her cheek as they approached the front of the library, where Helaena remained seated, deeply immersed in her books. She turned to Lord Larys and forced a smile, saying, "I've appreciated your company, Lord Larys. But now, duty calls, and I must attend to my Queen."

Lord Larys inclined his head in a respectful nod, offering a final piece of advice, "Do consider my words, Lady Maera. Within a political marriage, even to someone you know well, it can be a precarious position to find one’s self in, without the appropriate alliances."

Maintaining her composure, though it was challenging, Maera thanked the Master of Whispers for his counsel before making her way back to Helaena's side. A frown painted Maera’s face following the encounter, as Helaena looked up from her desk and asked her if she found anything. Maera stated, "I found a book for the twins, but nothing for myself. I've recently finished 'The Loves of Queen Nymeria' and would like another book that is similar."

Helaena cocked her head, her eyes thoughtful before raising her eyebrows as if she understood what Maera had been searching for. With a gentle smile, the Queen revealed, "If you are looking for books for… educating women, I doubt you will find one that hasn't been censored by the Citadel."

Maera groaned in frustration, but then Helaena smiled and pointed to a giant tapestry of the Maiden on the left side of the hall, near the doors. She said, "But over there, you might find something. That tapestry hides more than it shows."

Curiosity ignited by the Queen, Maera made her way over to the tapestry covered wall.

It was a work of art that spoke of devotion, beauty, and purity, its dimensions grand and its details exquisite. The Maiden, depicted with flowing golden hair and an expression of serene grace, stood amidst a verdant field of daisies. Her gown, woven from threads of silver and blue, seemed to shimmer in the soft light that filtered through the library's windows.

Surrounding her were symbols of her virtue and compassion. Doves of purest white fluttered around her, their wings outstretched in flight. A gentle stream meandered through the scene, its waters crystal clear and reflective of the world's harmony. Her presence in the library seemed to watch over the seekers of knowledge, offering a silent benediction to those who delved into the realm's histories and mysteries.

As she stood there admiring the artistry, Helaena joined her, saying, "It truly is a masterpiece, isn't it?"

Maera nodded, her eyes still fixed on the tapestry. "Indeed, my Queen, it's exquisite."

Maera examined the shelves on either side of the material, tracing the book spines with her finger as she read the titles, but alas neither shelf contained what she was looking for. As she was about to give up, she glanced once again at the tapestry and then saw something out of place. In the bottom left corner, woven into the material, were three deep red peonies, a stark contrast to the delicate field of white daisies that graced the rest of the masterpiece. Staring at the red flowers, she noticed that the bottom left corner where they were located was also not secured to the stone wall and could easily be moved.

Maera cautiously knelt down and pushed the fabric aside, revealing a hole in the stone wall, filled with a collection of old scrolls and books. Curiously, Maera flicked inconspicuously through them, and Helaena leaned in to see what they contained. The books contained information on marital duties and sexual acts, some with detailed descriptions, others with illustrations of men and women in impressive sexual positions.

Surprised, Maera, shut one of the books, face painted red with embarrassment as she turned to Helaena, her eyes widening. "Your Grace, I had no idea such a collection existed."

Helaena giggled, her cheeks slightly flushed. "It's a well-guarded secret, Maera. The books were first hidden here by Queen Alysanne, many generations ago. Royal women over the years have added to it, but it's not public knowledge. I have found some of the information here to be helpful, even with Aegon."

Maera nodded in understanding, her curiosity still piqued. She reached into the hidden stash of scrolls and pulled out a few more, passing them to Helaena. Then, something else caught her eye; a relatively new book, not as dusty as the rest. Its cover was decorated with a magnificent swirl of gold and turquoise. Maera carefully examined it and read the title page aloud in a hushed voice, "A Caution for Young Girls," written by a distant great-aunt of hers, Lady Coryanne Wylde. She beamed with surprise and delight as the book was known to be banned from multiple libraries, deemed too inappropriate for young impressionable noblewomen.

Slipping the tomes and scrolls underneath their arms, Helaena and Maera made their way back to the orignal reading table, stacking the books a top one another, hiding the ones that were considered ghastly underneath the embroidery and history books. As they left the library, some of the guards offered to carry the items, to which the women politely declined. They couldn't help but snicker as they made their way down the corridor, and Maera hoped that her distant relative could provide her with some answers as to how to win over her husband-to-be.

Notes: oh yeah, this story has a plot doesn’t it 🤣 best add some in before we return to our smutfest

Tags: @blue-serendipity @marvelescvpe @grungegrrrl @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[linnetagain]

List of random Season/skating/Bloodweave thoughts that I don’t know justify their own asks but that I thought you might like to hear anyway:

Chapter 1, Karlach asking Astarion about pay: “Vroomvroom: so you’ll suddenly do a really shit job in week 5 then? :P” YOU CHEEKY LITTLE BUGGER, YOU (I love it, A+ foreshadowing)

I stumbled across Ryan Dunk’s “Freddy Mercury on Ice” skate, and his butt was weirdly distracting. I’m very aspec, is this what the allosexuals mean when they say a pair of jeans makes their butt look good? Why do I keep looking at his butt, shut up and let me watch the skate

The “middle finger” skate Astarion did while Gale was in the hospital was to Looking at Me by Sabrina Carpenter, right? I’m basing this on its order in my mega playlist, I can never remember what chapter things happen in and I do not have TIME to reread the whole thing again, no matter how enjoyable it would be. Anyway. I finally listened to Looking at Me yesterday, and then listened to it another 37 times. Holy cha-cha music, I was not expecting the mariachi trumpet sound. So sassy, I love it. (I did ballroom for about a year and half in high school, back in yonder years of 2011-2012. I was on the standard team, but sometimes I still get beat over the head with the urge to Do Something Latin by certain pop songs). But, more to the point, I LOVE the lyrics for this story moment. For all Amy’s strategizing about song choice and how they need to handle the narrative with Gale’s hospitalization, I think Astarion freaking nailed it—you think they’re looking at (Gale)? They’re looking at me. Media tries to make a big deal about Gale’s collapse, or Astarion’s response, or the fact that he’s showing up to Hessie’s school, or any potential leaked footage of the Mystra Kerfuffle backstage, or anything Cazador tries, or ANYTHING—Astarion draws their gaze instead, whether they want it or not (just look for the broken necks). I can’t remember the exact names of the maneuvers you can pick when you level up a fighter in-game, but there’s one that will force nearby enemies to attack you instead of your allies. That’s what this reminds me of.

Cool factoid about me: I got to go on a field trip in 1st grade to a nearby ice rink during the lead up to the 2002 Olympics, and we got to watch a skating pair rehearse their routines. After some research, I THINK it was the French ice dancing team, Gwendol Peizerat and Marina Anissina, who won gold in one of their events. The routine I got to watch was probably one of these! Honestly, the thing I remember most is the dude’s luxurious hair XD

Heads up: I am going to attempt to draw Gale & Astarion in contrasting skating costumes, drawing from male/female costumes, but making both of them gender non-conforming/androgynous. Gonna try and give Gale his long skirt. I’ll report back.

Imagine, if you will, all of Gale’s official music videos going forward incorporating dance/skating choreography from Astarion. I remember a gazillion years ago, when Lindsey Stirling was on a “dancing with the stars” type webshow where all the stars were YouTubers, her music videos going forward all credited her pro dance partner as the paid choreographer. Ice skate music videos. Piano on the ice rink. Gale singing (lip-syncing?) while skating. Outdoor skating on location. Maybe Gale skates with him, maybe it’s just Astarion, maybe it’s just Gale! Who knows. Ice skate music videos.

I have had this vivid image for… weeks, honestly, I can’t remember which chapter of my first read-through triggered this, of their final skate being some kind of dope mashup of Golden and Always You, with Astarion’s back and arms and Gale’s chest exposed, with gold body paint highlighting each of their scars. Because kintsugi. I figure Astarion would be the one to design and make/customize the costumes, cuz I do not trust Volo even in the slightest with something like that. Maybe it would pair with Cazador being publicly denounced and/or arrested, like a “do these look like they came from a fall to you??” I don’t know. Maybe there’d be a secret third song that Gale has yet to write that the other two would morph into, something triumphant to resolve the story of the skate/the songs, where Golden is kind of hindsight bittersweet and Always You is a pining song.

Ugh. I wish I had filk powers and could make Gale’s songs real. YO, FAN COMPOSERS/FILK MUSICIANS, I HAVE A PROJECT FOR YOU GIFT-WRAPPED AND READY TO GO—

By any chance, do you have video examples of the particular moves that the boys use in their skates? Both Astarion’s TikToks and their competition pieces. For reasons. No, shush, no guessing.

I found some really cool skating vids to share, but my YouTube is being a BUTT so perhaps that shall be a separate ask. Welp.

HEHEHEHE

Ice skater's glutes are INSANE. I know in canon Astarion has a itty bitty tush, but in season that man is CAKED.

Yes it was Looking at Me!! I have so much fun choosing the songs

Gale is absolutely still working on that song he's been writing about Astarion and it's about to get a whole new angle (so, less sad and pine-y) and I love to imagine Astarion in the music video or choreographing it, haha!

I do have examples of specific moves but depressingly few of them have names - would you be interested in me linking the YouTube videos with the timestamps? Would that be useful?

I'm sorry I haven't responded to the rest of your points but it was either YES, GOOD, YES or I CAN'T ANSWER THAT WITHOUT SPOILERS so I hope you'll forgive me. Thank you so much for your enthusiasm it's so appreciated ily 💕💕

[xxxdreamscapexxx]

Hi there x

First of all, I hope you're doing well, you haven't been active much and just know that I really hope you are doing well, are safe, and are taking really good care of yourself 🌻

Your writing is absolutely incredible. I think I've read almost each and every one of them. The details, the length of words, the dialogue, it's all absolute perfect and paints such vivid images in my head. You are an extremely good writer

I have a possible request, if you ever have any time however if not you can totally disregard it 🤎

My request is: Wanda and Y/N have been in a very long term relationship. However, usually Y/N is the one "in charge". One night, she comes home after being at a bar with some old university friends and comes home drunk. Wanda finds it amusing, and tends to her. However, she starts to find mind freezing at certain moments. Such as when she walks into the bathroom and sees y/n on her knees in front of the toilet, looking up at wanda with glossy eyes and a pout. Wanda releases a small gasp when she hears a small sound y/n makes as she holds her hair up and grips it a bit. She's never seen y/n so vulnerable, and is starting to really like it. She knows she won't do anything right now, because y/n isn't sober, but is figuring out that there's a side of her that wants to see y/n like this in another situation. Begging for attention, glossy eyes, red lips, shaky legs, on her knees, etc.

This was originally a Wanda x Nat x Y/N idea however if you want it to just be a Wanda x Y/N idea that's perfect too 🤎

Hi there!

Awww ^^ Thank you, dear! I'm doing very well. I'm planning the celebration of my birthday this weekend and then I have a nice little vacation planned. ☺️

I'm actually a lot more active than I appear, I just don't have too much time for writing... But I'm happy to talk to anyone and share ideas.

And thank you for the kind words as well. I always feel all warm and cudly when I know someone appreciates my writing 💜

Oh, that's such an interesting concept...

I like the idea of Wanda discovering a new side of herself, when she's considered herself to be the more submissive one in the relationship.

I can picture Wanda tossing and turning all night, replaying little moments that are now stuck in her head.

Remembering her girlfriend on her knees, so vulnerable and exposed and completely dependant on Wanda.

A moment when R's hands were stuck in her shirt and all she could do was whine for Wanda to help her.

The way R's words came out slurred and slow, her brain foggy and unfocused...

It will haunt Wanda for days! And her brain will keep twisting the situation, re-imagining it, turning it heated and then sexual, adding on more and more fantasies, until she can't take it anymore.

This has so much potential for a great story! I keep thinking of the details of it.

I'll definitely try to write more about it at a later stage.

Thank you for sharing your idea with me! 💜