#a list of fics ill read like right the fuck now

[ihathbenobiwankenobied]

Cody holding Obi-Wan close through nightmares about Zigoola.

Cody's emotional damage finding out Obi-Wan returned from dead after Rako Hardeen.

Cody worrying about Obi-Wan and changing his bandages and after he returns from Kadavo.

Cody learning how to live and breathe again after tracking Obi-Wan to Tatooine.

[beloved-child-of-the-house]

what are thee best drarry fics to read in this day and age? I've not read any for a few years and I don't know what's good 🤔

what an incredibly flattering question! i do not know what your tastes run to, but here are a few of my recentish favorites in no particular order. i think these are all m or e, as that tends to be what i go for. they're also properly adults, well out of hogwarts, and the stories are sort of mid length, over 10K, under 100K. make sure you read the tags!

Necro-romance by @thehoneybeet coming in hot!!!! i feel like this is a very very profoundly drarry story. we are fucked up in some of the same ways so let's do weird sex about it. dark, weird, very tender. incredible atmosphere. loved it!!!

In Every Universe by @skeptiquewrites this is like an AU hopping fic where draco is on the run for Reasons, and harry is chasing him. not with state violence in his heart. please come home. EXQUISITE worldbuilding, one of my favorite things about Tee's fics. This fic is so fun and there are also some really heartwrenching moments that i won't even come close to spoiling. god i love it it's so fucking good

Anatomy of a Wolf Heart this fic is orphaned but i actually do know the author very well (and love him with all my heart). this is an amazing draco. he's dealing with some significant trauma on top of what he went through in canon. all i'm gonna say is werewolf draco cinematic universe my beloved. i love this harry, too. compulsively doing the right thing even as it fucks his whole life up. yum.

Home Truths another @skeptiquewrites fic bc Tee's writing got me WEAK. i rlly love the ensemble here!!! harry and draco are both amazing characters whom i adore, but they are also surrounded by other characters who feel so real and so lived in. wonderful worldbuilding as per usual w this author. and. harry is a pro athlete at the peak of his career so uh. he do be inhabiting his physical form. it's sexy okay. damn. Tee has a talent for capturing Draco's drama and prissiness without making him feel like a caricature. i found this story genuinely inspiring for lots of reasons, and i can't say enough good things about it.

Preserving Lemons by @saintgarbanzo (this one is locked to the archive, so you'll need to be logged in to read it) god i love this story!!! food as a love language? gender magic? fucking YES PLEASE. it's nice to see them get out of the typical Stately Homes backdrop (i enjoy that too, but. well i'm not going to go off on a tangent about it now. variety is the spice of life!). lots of sensuality here and a heaping dollop of straight up fucking. i just love this depiction of them. i love draco's offers of vulnerability and harry's diving in face first. LOVE.

A Gift of True Esteem by ME! i am big enough to acknowledge that i write fucking good fic okay!!! hogwarts professors, chronic illness, historiography, gratuitous use of patronuses, fun world building in general. harry has been self-isolating a little bit. burying himself in his work. he has to let himself feel things again. joy, love, pleasure. draco makes him want to.

Names for a House this is also by me bc it's my fuckn list and i do what i want!!! harry is raising teddy lupin after andromeda gets sick (don't worry i do not kill off any old ladies in this fic). harry is also the wizarding world's first novelist. teddy lupin is a budding werewolf about to go off to hogwarts, and harry is not sure how to do right by him. FORTUNATELY harry's erstwhile nemesis and current cursebreaker is also a werewolf and teddy's cousin, and he's more than willing to help out.

[writers-hes]

All Things End

You always knew Tommy as the cheerful boy who took care of you. He always knew you as the smart girl that he visited by the docks. The daughter of a prostitute, the son of a deadbeat father; a soldier who protected his country; a whore who protected him; a gangster who controlled Brimingham; and now, a wife. War changes people, you just didn’t realize that war could change you both. (angst, depictions of abuse, poverty, prostitution, canon-typical themes, death, war, time jumps, depictions of mental illness, and a toxic marriage)

A/N: This whole fic was inspired by Hozier’s latest releases; Nth/Unknown, All Things End, Francesca, and Eat Your Young. I recommend listening to the album before or after you read this. This dedicated to everyone who reblogged the last chapter. Thank you for the love; it means the world.

PROTECTION SERIES TAGLIST | PROTECTION MASTERLIST navigation | main master lists |

PART ONE: Toy Horses Outside the Brothel

BIRMINGHAM, 1914

You’ve been inconsolable since the Shelby brothers left. Everyone can see how different you were ever since they left. The Shelby’s reached out to you—but you didn’t like going to Watery Lane. You begged Polly to remove the Blinders that were supposed to watch you and she agreed after a while. It wasn’t the same without Tommy protecting you. You didn’t have the strength to face them, to go to their house and pretend like it was all okay. 

“Angel, I’ve missed you,” he sighed into your hair. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course, I do, Simon,” you told him. “How are you? It’s been a while since you last saw me. You don’t like me anymore?”

“You know that I could never forget about you, darling,” he said. “I have a gift for you,” 

“Really?” you asked, eyes hopeful. “What is it?”

Simon smiled, fishing a velvet jewellery box out of his pocket. He opens it and you gasp. A pair of sapphire earrings. 

“I have to start dressing you up when I take you to London,” he says. “You’ll wear it for me?”

“I’ll wear it,” you confirm. You fixed your hair up in a faux bun. “Will you put it on me, Simon?”

“Of course,” he says, doing what you asked. “I’m fixing everything for us,”

“For us?” you asked, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I told you that I’ll show you the world, didn’t I?” he asked, grasping your jaw softly to make you look up at him. “I’m taking you away from this shit hole.”

“We’ll stay in Birmingham?” you asked, voice wavering. Fuck. What do you do now?

“No, we won’t,” he shook his head. “I have a mansion in London waiting for us. Why would I want to live here?”

“But…”

“But what? Are you not thankful that I’m showing the whole world? I thought I was your hero?” he asked, his hand over yours. 

“You are!” you said, inching closer. “You are. But I have friends here,”

“We can visit them,” he says dismissively. “Anytime you want. Or they can visit us, you know? Once you’re mine, you’ll have everything you want on your fingertips,”

“Why are you so nice to me?” you asked. 

“Because you’re my Angel. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. You make me want to take care of you,” he says. “I love you. You love me too, right?”

“Of course,” you lied. “Of course, I do.”

-

Polly and Ada liked to visit your house every now and then. They said that it makes them forget all about Watery Lane. Over the times you’ve spent here, the house was fully in bloom. You’d buy plants and some fresh flowers to keep in a vase. There was always a pot of water ready to be heated for tea. You hated your job but this freedom, your own house…it sometimes made everything worth it. 

“Shit, love. Your rich bastard must be buttering you up,” Polly says, helping herself on some tea. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you wore those sapphire earrings. You like him?”

“No,” you shook your head. “He has some of his men guard me…I’m afraid that he’ll stop showing if I stop wearing these heavy earrings.”

“Waiting for…”

“It’s hard,” you said. “I don’t go to the brothel anymore. Simon forbade me to work there after he gave me this. He said he’s fixing up things in London.”

“Do you want to leave?” Ada asked, looking at you. 

“No,” you swallowed. “I’m thankful for…for being here. Not having to work anymore and just living comfortably but the price that I’m paying for it…”

You wanted to be there when Tommy comes back. You wanted to be the one to kiss him the first time you see him out of that train. But if you left…if you didn’t wait like you promised, what good would that be on the end of things? You wanted to see how life with Tommy plays out but what would you in the meantime? Where would you go?

“You have to choose what you’re willing to sell, then. You can’t live like this if you won’t string that rich bastard along. You won’t have to leave if you still work at the brothel.” Polly said. “Did you at least…think about it?”

“He said I could visit…or you could visit,” you replied, looking at anywhere but them. “But…but…I want to be here,”

“What if he doesn’t come back? This war…war changes people. Would you really toss your entire life away for a man in the war? I’m supposed to be on Tommy’s side, but I don’t want you missing out on life just because you're waiting for him,” Polly said. She’s always been practical, and she was…right. But you desperately wanted to see him before anything else. Still, Tommy and his brothers might never come back. If you turned down Simon’s proposal, you’ll be the town pariah. You could be wasting a good life away for Tommy Shelby. 

“Pol,” Ada hissed but her aunt only smoked her cigarettes. 

“All things end, darling. Maybe whatever you have with Tommy has run its course,” she exhaled, clouds of smoke entering your lungs, closing in on you. All things end. All things end.

-

LONDON, 1915

“I can’t believe I’m going to be married today,” you whispered. Your voice betrayed you, wavering slightly. “Fuck,”

“Hey, you can still stop the wedding,” Ada replied, stopping the work that she was doing on your veil. It was an expensive one, it cost more than your home in Birmingham. You never let that go, asking Ada to take care of it while you were gone. “We can run away,”

“I’m already here,” you nodded. “I want to…I want to see Tommy.” Your face was crestfallen, heart drumming in your chest because you never imagined your wedding to be like this. You were picking on your nailbeds again, nevermind the lacquer that coloured your nails. You were getting married in the most expensive place in London. Flowers hung from the ceiling; pearls lined your wedding dress. The sapphire earrings hung from your ears like albatrosses. The diamond ring on your finger demanded attention, a big rock on a silver band embedded with smaller diamonds. You never imagined being married like this. You always thought that you’d marry in the countryside, a nice flowy gown that you borrowed, wildflowers, and dancing. Not like this…surrounded by other businessmen, rich families who never gave a shit about you until you married Simon. 

“You’re getting married but you’re unhappy. This should be your day,” Ada said, ensuring that nothing was out of place. “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You smiled tightly. You should be thankful—ecstatic. You should be happy. So many girls dreamed of this. A fairytale wedding. The war was getting worse but not for you, not for Simon. In any case, Simon relished in the war, it brought him more money. You hated yourself for marrying him today when Tommy was most probably out there, fighting for his life.

Were you to blame for marrying Simon, though? It’s been a year and Tommy has never sent you a letter. All the letters you’ve sent were never replied to. It saddened you at first because his family would have something to look for, but you were left in the dust. You never brought that matter to light, maybe Tommy didn’t want to talk to you.

It hurts to be forgotten by the person you loved most. The only person who ever truly knew you. It hurt you to realise that for him, you were forgettable, replaceable. It’s like all the years you spent together were nothing. Maybe it was spite mixed with sadness and desperation that made you accept Simon’s proposal last year. Polly was right,—all things end.

Walking to the altar with Johnny to give you away was something else. Simon was kind enough to let the Shelby’s come to the wedding. He provided them with rooms to stay at a hotel. You should have been happy but the dryness in your mouth says otherwise. His family were there, judging you for being a prostitute; judging him for marrying someone so penniless. 

Simon’s smile was genuine, at least. He was waiting for you, a bundle of nerves. When you reach him, he thanks Polly. Taking your hand, he brings you to the ordainer and the wedding starts.

The reception of the wedding was in your new mansion in London. A real estate treasure with a little bit of plush green land. Your husband had a professional come in to decorate the garden—you never knew that a job like that existed. 

“This house is so big!” Finn said, after he ran to you. He was playing with the other kids. “You’d let me visit you?”

“Of course, Finn.” you said, a smile on your face. “But you have to be with Ada or Polly,”

“Okay,” he says, a toothy grin. “Maybe I can bring Tommy too when he comes back.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Maybe…” Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. Would he appear if you called him in front of a mirror thrice? You just wanted to see him.

Simon comes to you and Finn. 

“Hi, Finn,” he greets. “How are you?”

“Hi,” he says sheepishly, hiding behind your gown. “I’m good. Thanks for letting me come,”

“My wife really wanted you guys here and I really needed to see who’s the famous Finn Shelby,” he said. 

“I was telling Y/N about how my brother, Tommy and I can visit sometime,” he said. You visibly tense at the mention of Tommy, Simon notices. You’ve talked about Tommy before. Tommy Shelby…

That night, after consummating your marriage, Simon asked. 

“Who’s Tommy? I know who he is but what did he do?” Caressing your naked back, he pressed again. “Finn was telling me about his brother, and it made you uncomfortable.”

“He’s no one,” you lied, looking up at him through your lashes. “You shouldn’t worry about him,”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable…if he’s making you uncomfortable, I’ll have him dealt with.”

“No!” you cleared your throat. “You don’t have to, Simon. Thank you for caring,” you smiled, kissing his lips softly to forget about Tommy Shelby—the man who broke your heart. 

NEW YORK, 1915

You were staying in one of your husband’s properties in America, a penthouse in New York when he came barging in, throwing you an envelope. He was angry, you could tell that clearly. He never got angry except now. 

“Simon,” you said, smiling up at him.

“Who’s Tommy Shelby?” he asked, demanding you to answer. He knew who Tommy Shelby was. He knew of the Shelbys in Birmingham. But who was he to you? “Don’t even fucking lie to me,”

“What’s wrong…?” 

“Who is he?” he asked, his tone more forceful now. “Don’t tell me that he’s no one! Who is he?”

“He’s a friend. A childhood friend. What is this about?” you asked. “Simon…”

“You told me during our wedding night that he was no one but I had him investigated,” he said. You furrowed your brows. “Guess what? I found out that you grew up together. You were seeing him while I was seeing you. You told me you love me!”

“I do love you,” you lied, trying to soothe his worries. “You don’t have to worry about him, you know? We didn’t see each other like that, Simon,”

“Fuck…I gave you my everything and you hang onto this Tommy Shelby cunt. Like, like…I had to buy your love and you gave it to him,” he said, stalking towards you. “I gave you everything! What could he give? He’s poor and he’s in the war. I’m here. I am!” he roared. 

“Simon—“

“You are to cut off any ties and communications that you have with the Shelbys, understood?” he spat, pointing a finger at you. 

“Simon, they’re my friends! They took care of me,” you pleaded, putting your hands on his waist to appease him but she just shrugs you off. 

“I said ‘Understood’?” he seethed. “I gave the Shelby’s and Johnny a hefty sum of money so you won’t have to think of them ever again but you have to promise to never fucking think of them—of him—of-of your life in Birmingham. Do you understand me?”

“Simon, you—“

“I know where Tommy Shelby is in France. Tunnelling. You’ll know better than to defy me. Trust me, I have my ways of getting him and his brothers killed. I know people. Do you understand me?” he spits.

You couldn’t cry in front of him, so you just gulped, nodding. 

“I understand,” you whispered, a frown set upon your face. Relief washes over your husband and he pulls you closer.

“You know that I only want what’s best for you. What’s best for us,” he whispered. “You’re my little bird. My beautiful flower, I won’t let anyone else have you. Okay? I’m sorry for making you sad but this is for the best. For us and for the family that we’re going to build,” 

“I know, Simon,”

“I love you,” he says but it felt like a threat.

“I love you too,”

-

BIRMINGHAM, 1915

Tommy,

I hope you’re well. We all pray for your safe return home. Have I told you that Y/N got married this year in London? His name is Simon Coventry, I’m sure you know him as ‘Rich Bastard.’

He truly loves her and has taken care of her so well. We’ve been to their mansion in London multiple times. Finn loves to visit because he gets him everything he wants. Did you know that he gifted Finn his own horse for Christmas? Please, don’t worry about her anymore. She’s in safe hands, in a loving marriage, with a husband that could give her the world. 

Pol

(This letter was never sent.)

BIRMINGHAM, 1911

“What do you think will happen to us?” you asked Tommy once. Twenty-one, and you allowed yourself to make bad decisions when it came to him. You were sitting close together in the balcony of your home; it was the morning, and you had the day off because it was your birthday. No serving customers today; Tommy didn’t go to work because you were free. 

“We’ll stay together,” he says, like it was a no-brainer. He had stolen a bottle of whiskey in the place where he worked out and you both decided to drink today. Twenty-one and you’d make all bad decisions for Tommy. There was a crinkle in his eyes when he looked at you. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you replied, taking a sip of the whiskey.

“I got you something,” he says, tossing his cigarette butt away. “It’s not as…expensive as what that rich bastard got you, but I was thinking that…well, here,” he says, showing you something wrapped in a handkerchief. “Don’t know how to wrap gifts.”

You took it from him and undid the knot of the handkerchief. 

“Tommy…”

“I asked Polly and Ada,” he says. “So, that’s not all me.”

A picture frame of pressed flowers. It was more than that for him. For Tommy, it was a declaration of his love; a life-long commitment to you.

“I’ve been picking flowers that remind me of you for the past year,” he tells you. “Do you like it?”

“I love it, Tom.” you told him, tackling him in a hug. “This is the best thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you so much,”

LONDON, 1916

Simon hardly allowed you to go anywhere without him or at least the presence of a bodyguard since last year. It was understandable, since he was a wealthy man—the world was too dangerous for him. But you couldn’t grasp why you needed his permission to go to the shops, why you needed to ask him if you could do something. Your wardrobe was chosen by him and you hardly had any control over that. The jewellery he bought were things he thought would look the best on you too. 

You had to ask him for approval to meet your friends—if you had any. None of them really stayed longer than a year. It was fine, they were never him anyways. They all had ulterior motives when it came to seeking a friendship with you. They were all parties and dinners and events. One time, there was a party in his house. Some charity gathering that you couldn't care less about. You were outside in the garden when one of your employees walked by. You called him to where you were sitting. 

“Can you please get me some water?” you asked. “I don’t really want to go back there right now,” you said. You spent the whole night portraying the happy wife; the younger wife and you were sick of it. To them, you were Simon Coventry’s wife. To him, you were somebody he owned. To yourself, you were a prostitute. He basically bought you from that brothel anyway. You sat there silently, allowing yourself to shed the tears that you’ve been keeping. 

You were sobbing, trying to comfort your body from the loss of personhood that you’ve experienced. You were a glorified doll for Simon to look at—a pet to protect. He’s never treated you like an equal and you will never be.

Your hands were shaky, makeup staining your face. If only Simon could see you now. He’d lose it. You clutched the locket that Tommy gave you. You told Simon that you needed it, that it was a picture of your mother and that you didn’t want to forget what she looked like. It was shabby; he asked if you wanted a better one, but you declined. When Tommy gave you that locket, he helped you put a picture of your mother right beside his. You still needed to give it back to him. 

In the quietness of the garden, you remembered Polly’s advice before your wedding. She was helping you fit into the gown when she started to talk quietly. 

“Remember, this,” she started, zipping up your dress. “Take advantage of the world you’re in now. Even if you do not love him, take advantage of what he’s willing to give. Take advantage of everything.”

The employee comes back to you with a glass of water. 

“Thanks,” you whispered. “You may go now,”

-

Simon loved your newfound interest in participating in his business. He always sought you in the brothel for advice. It didn’t matter if you never studied, what mattered was that you were correct. They were small matters in his company. Like, you told him that maybe he wanted to increase the bond to a partnership. Or that he had to host charity events to make his company more appealing; ensure that it was widely publicised. 

You were perched on his lap, looking through the documents, while he played with your hair. He was kissing your shoulder as you flipped through the pages. 

“Some of my investments have been transferred to your account,” he says and you look at him, surprised. 

“Simon—?”

“You deserve it,” he says, continuing his kisses on your shoulder. “You’re my wife. You should have your own money,”

“But that’s…that’s too much,” 

“Just enough for you to go on those shopping sprees, if you ever wanted anything,” he says. 

“Why—“

“You’ve proven to me that I could trust you after our…disagreement about Tommy Shelby,” he declared. “I’m sorry for cutting you off from your friends in Birmingham, darling but I promise, that they’re being taken care of. Especially Johnny. He doesn’t work in the brothel anymore after I bought him his house in Watery Lane,”

“It’s okay,” relishing in the newfound power that you had over your husband. You turned to him, your knees on either side of his thighs. You straddled him and grasped his chin with your hands. “I know that you only want what’s best for me, right?” you preened, dropping your lips to nibble on his ear. “Tell me,”

He sighs, clutching your body closer to his as you trailed your lips down his neck. 

“You’re so good to me, baby,” he moans. “So, so good. I’ll give you everything.”

FRANCE, 1917

Tommy had been injured and was sent to the wards immediately. There was a gaping wound on his chest when one of the tunnel rats shot him. His comrades were quick enough to retaliate; to put him above ground and call for help. He was on the hard bed, wondering if it would be easier to just give up and let the world take him. 

“Y/N…” he mumbles, reaching for you. He could see you, see your arms beckoning him to come closer.”Y/N…where…Y/N…” 

He mumbles your name over and over for what seemed like an eternity. He couldn’t say anything else, pleading with anyone.

“Just fucking kill me!” he shouts. “Fucking kill me, please…” he sobs, body shaking from the emotions that dwell inside. “Y/N! Y/N! Fucking kill me!” In…in-in the bleak midwinter…Y/N. Y/N. 

AMERICA, 1917

“How is it being married to Simon?” one of the guests in some event asked. She was supposed to be the wife of a big oil conglomerate. Simon’s father invested in their business awhile back and had been business partners since. 

“He’s kind,” you said. He is…you just can’t love him like that. “It’s amazing being married to him,”

“I see,” she replied. “May I ask where you met again?”

“We met in Birmingham,” was your meek answer, looking for your husband. You hated events like these. The heir and his younger wife. You hated everything about it. Where is he?

“What family are you from?” she asked, oblivious to the fact. Everyone was oblivious to that fact. Simon made sure to never let anyone know that you were a prostitute. ‘For your safety’ he said and you understood. She said that she’ll never forgive you for tainting her wonderful son but Simon said that it was okay. You both didn’t need anyone else. 

“Sorry—do you happen to know where Simon is?” you asked, trying to change the topic. 

“Can’t stay away from him too long, huh? You must really love him,” she gushed. “I hope I’m the same with my husband but our union was basically something that was already agreed upon,”

“Yeah, I do,” you half-lied. You loved Simon as a friend, as a companion. He tries his best to understand. He’s loving and as far as you were aware, hadn’t kept any mistresses. That came with a price, though. Simon never liked it when a man looks at you too long. He doesn’t like seeing you with the opposite sex. He didn’t like you exchanging pleasantries with them. “He’s the best. He allows me to help him out in the business, you know?”

“You’re involved in his business?” she asked. 

“Small things,” you replied. “Arranging charity balls and the like,”

“Your governess must have been a good one,” she replied. 

“I suppose so.” You lied, knowing that you could never have been able to afford one. You were living day to day when you were a kid.

The girl only smiled tightly before walking away. You watched her talk to other girls. How beautiful it is to be included in a group! You’ve always felt like an outsider. This room was filled with billionaires and millionaires. This room made up most of the world’s economy and you were a prostitute. You were in the nicest clothes that money could afford but it still felt like the same, cheap lace that you used to wear. You turned to look for your husband but he was already wrapping his arm around your waist. 

“Simon,” you greeted, kissing his cheek. You were relieved to see him, somehow.

“Hello, darling. Do you wish to meet my friends?” he asked, kissing the side of your head affectionately. 

“Of course,” you nodded, seeing the girl you were talking to with her own husband now. Simon took you to them, never letting your waist go. 

“Simon!” the husband greeted, regarding you with a swift look before shaking your husband’s hand. “Is she the wife or a mistress?” he asked, and you frowned. 

“The wife,” Simon replied honestly. “Don’t have a mistress,” 

“What about that bird you were seeing in…Small Heath? Is it Small Heath?” he asked. 

“Haven’t been there since I got married,” he replied. It was true. “By the way, Eric, I do hope your wife watches what she talks about with her other…friends,” he said, and you tilted your head in confusion. The girl looks down in shame. 

“What do you mean?” Eric asked. “Surely, Natalia only wished to make an acquaintance. Is that right, Nat?”

“Yes, of course. Whatever Y/N was saying must be untrue,” she said, feigning innocence. 

“I see. I must have been delirious when I heard your wife call Y/N boring,” he shrugged. “Anyways, if I see or hear you disrespect my wife one more time, there will be repercussions. Seeing as you’re financially unwell, I would hate to take out my shares in your company. Isn’t that right?” 

“Of course, Simon,” Eric coughed, glaring at Natalia. “I apologise, Mrs. Coventry,”

You could only nod before Simon whisked you away. 

“Let’s go home. No one’s worth talking to in this shit hole anyway,”

-

When you got in the car, Simon was already all over you. He was tugging on your sleeves, kissing your neck. You were used to this; the driver was used to this. 

“Did I ever tell you that you looked absolutely ravishing in this dress?” he growled, fisting the silk fabric. “The things you do to me, pet,”

“I dressed up just for you,” you whimper. “Do you like it?” You may not love him but he was good. Maybe it’s because you’ve known each other for years…or maybe, you’re more comfortable but Simon was good at what he does. He puts your needs first. In any case, that’s how he likes it. This is what you’ve been doing for about two years. Giving everything that Simon ever wanted from you and taking double back from him. You were wealthy on your own now. If you divorced Simon, you’d never have to worry about life anymore. He had put trusts, investments, and properties in your name that he promised he’d never take away. It was sealed in a document. You were his closest kin. You own everything. 

Except your freedom. 

“Of course I do,” he confirms, rutting his hips on your exposed thigh. He groans at the contact. “Fuck, are we close?” he asked the driver. 

“Twenty minutes, sir,” he replied. 

“I’ll triple your salary for the month if you could take us there in ten,” he proposes and the driver speeds up, never minding the laws of the road. 

LONDON, 1918

The war has ended and you were close to collapsing. There could only be two things—the brothers made it or they did not. You didn’t have any form of communication with them and you were nervous. What if they didn’t make it?

BIRMINGHAM, 1918

The boys were deployed in Birmingham. Cramped in vehicles, Tommy held the strap of his satchel tightly. He was anxious to see his family. He was so anxious to see you. He never received letters from you even though he wrote every week. He was too afraid that he'd turn his back on his country to come to you but he didn’t care. What kind of man would that make of him? 

There were a million things that he wanted to tell you—how he left without ever telling you that he loved you. How your face was the only thing that kept him alive in those tunnels. Would you still love him now that he’s not the same? Would you still soothe him until he falls asleep?

His brothers could see his nervousness. So, Arthur offered him a tight smile. John was looking forward to seeing his kids again. 

“She’ll be there, Tom,” Arthur offered. “If anyone’s going to be there, it’s her,”

“Yeah, of course,” Tommy replied. They were nearing Birmingham. They were nearing the place you both grew up in and he felt bad because he should have been thinking about his family but instead, he was thinking about you. The vehicle stops and he takes a deep breath. Will he see you? Will you run to him and finally kiss him like he’s been thinking of for four years? He braced himself as soldiers spilled out into the road. He could see Polly and Charlie with Finn on his shoulders. He smiled, telling his brothers that he saw everyone.

“You boys are back!” Polly gushed, taking the three of them in an embrace. She blinks away the tears. Tommy was searching the crowd for you and Polly could see that. “She couldn’t make it, Tom. She’s in London,”

His heart drops. Why would you miss this reunion? Why were you in London? He nodded wordlessly, keeping to himself while John answered all of the questions. The day after that, he went to your house but saw that nobody was there. He went to the brothel but there were new girls who didn't know who you were. Johnny wasn’t there either. 

He went there every day for less than two weeks until one day, he saw a scrap of newspaper sitting in the kitchen. 

SIMON AND Y/N COVENTRY PURCHASE NEW HOME IN PARIS AFTER THE WAR. 

He furrowed his brows, turning the pages until sure enough, there you were. It was a portrait of you and Simon. He barged into Polly’s room, opening the drawer where she kept memorabilia. There were multiple pictures of you and your wedding with Simon. There was a picture of you and the whole Shelby clan along with Johnny. There was an envelope with a cheque worth a few thousand pounds from Simon. He shook, his heart beating loudly as he let go of everything. You were married. You married Simon Coventry. You didn't wait for him. 

“Tommy,” Ada whispers from the door, seeing her older brother crouch in defeat. 

“When were you planning to tell me?” he spat. “When?”

“Tommy, we didn’t know how to tell you—“

“Tell me when the fuck were you planning to tell me, Ada or I swear, I will blow this fucking house down,” he threatened, running his fingers through his hair. It’s not the same when you do it. Ada walked towards her brother, seeing her brother so defeated was something new.

“I…” his voice breaks into a sob. “I was under the tunnels and all I could ever think—all I could—I’m smoking fucking opium because I’m so fucking worried and she’s—she’s,” Tommy couldn’t breathe, hyperventilating. “She’s gone, she’s gone…”

There was a ringing in his ears, and he couldn’t hear Ada call for help. He was panicking, tears flowing freely from his eyes. He waited for you. He counted the days until he saw you again, but you were not here. He felt like he was underground again. It was Arthur who calmed him down, slapping Tommy across the face to wake him up. It works, it always works.

“Leave us,” Polly ordered everyone. “Drink some water, Tommy, we have to talk,” 

“Pol—“

“Leave us,”

“Polly, it’s not right!” Ada said. “I should’ve listened to her when she told me she didn’t want it,”

“He has to know, Ada. I’ll tell him now,”

“It’s alright, Ada,” he croaked. “Leave us,” His brother dragged his furious sister away. He was embarrassed to have been seen like that—weak. But what else could he do? He crossed the vastness of a sea of fire just to go home to you. Polly sighed. 

“It’s my fault,” she said once everyone was out. He exhales, a staggered breath as if he’s been carrying all the weight of love that he has for you. 

“It’s all I ever wanted, Pol,” he said, looking down on his lap. A life with you in your home. There’d be a big garden for you to run on. You’ll have so many horses and you'll teach your kids how to ride them. “You know that it’s all I ever wanted,”

“I know, Tom but you can’t blame her,” she said. “She didn’t want to leave and I saw that but what else could she be if she didn’t leave Birmingham? I prayed for your safety everyday, I did. But…but what if you didn’t come back? Would she work at that brothel until she fades? There was an opportunity for her to have a better life outside of Birmingham. I told her to take advantage of it,” she explained, trying to reach Tommy but he flinched away. Polly puts down her hand, clearing her throat.

“She’s all I ever wanted, Polly and you took that from me. You took her-you took her away from me!” he sobbed, cradling his head in his hands. “You took her away. You took her away…”

“She sent you letters while you were away,” Polly said, placing a stack of envelopes beside Tommy. “I’m sorry, Tom but I wanted her to have a good life. Birmingham isn't good for her. You were only going to keep her from making a name for herself,”

Polly nodded to herself before leaving Tommy and a stack of letters that he never received. 

He opens the one on top just to check—just today. 

Dear Tommy,

Every day passes by without you and I still can’t bear it. I hope you’re well, I hope my letters become a sense of comfort for you. 

It’s getting harder for me to spend time with your family. All I could think about was how the two of us would run freely in Polly’s house because you were chasing after me. I couldn’t spend time at home either because my bed reminds me of how much I liked sleeping beside you. It’s so peaceful. I sleep in your clothes sometimes and Ada gave me some of the shirts that you left. I’ll return them to you when you’re back but right now, it’s the only way for me to feel like I could breathe…that someday, you’ll come back to me. I’ll wait. I’ll always wait for you, like I promised. 

I haven’t told you everything yet, but I hope I can tell you soon. 

Tommy opens another one. What’s another stab to the heart anyway?

Dear Tommy,

It’s been years and you haven't written back. Are you mad at me? I’ll stop writing to you for the meantime but just know that I’ll wait for you.

-

LONDON, 1919

Dearest, 

I’m so sorry to tell you but Johnny has died. Please come to Birmingham soon. 

The letter from Johnny’s wife shook in your hands. Big Johnny was dead, and you had to go to Birmingham to the funeral. You ran to your husband’s office. Upon seeing your tear-stained face, his face falls in concern. 

“What the matter, love? Did someone hurt you?” he asked, patting his lap, telling you to sit on it. You complied, hiccuping. You were heartbroken but you knew that if you wanted to go, you had to play smart. You had to play the broken doll that he loved to take care of. 

“Johnny’s dead,” you whispered, burying your face in his chest. You allowed him the privilege to soothe you. His hand inching their way underneath your shirt for unbridled contact. “Johnny’s dead, Simon,” you cried. “I—I got this…letter,” you said, showing him the crumpled piece of paper on your hand. He had to fire whoever gave you this letter—it was a strict rule that he was supposed to read all the letters sent to you. It was a rule that no letter from Birmingham must arrive in your hands. 

“Oh, darling,” he said, kissing your temple. 

“I know…I know that I can’t go,” you said. “But…can I please go, Simon?” you asked. “He was like my father,” you whispered. It was true and Simon knew that. Johnny took care of you to the best of his abilities. You told Simon of the stories when you were younger. Him teaching you arithmetic, teaching you how to throw a punch to defend yourself…he helped you move into the house you bought. You’ve never been there for years, and you wondered if Ada continued to take care of it after abandoning them. “I understand if you won’t allow me,” you nodded, removing yourself away from him but he held you closer. 

“You can go,” he whispered. He’d have you guarded so that no one could even come to you. No Tommy Shelby. “Do you want me to come?”

“No,” you shook your head, regaining your composure. “I know that the partnership with Alfie Solomons will require your full attention. Do you promise to be home once I arrive? I need you,” You stilled on his chest.

You didn’t know what a lie was anymore. 

“Of course, I’ll be here,” he said. 

“I can take some of the guards with me for my safety,” you compromised. You weren’t lying, though. The business he had with Alfie Solomons kind of scared you. What if he sent men to take you as ransom?

“Of course,” he said. “Where will you stay? Are there hotels there?”

“I can stay at my old home.” you said. “We can send in some cleaners before I arrive to make it nice,” 

“Alright, darling. Are you leaving tomorrow? I’ll send some people now. Will that be okay with you?” he asked. You looked up to him, doe-eyed. 

“Yes,” you replied. “Thank you, Simon. I love you,” you said, kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”

BIRMINGHAM, 1919

The Blinders mentioned to Arthur that the old house that Ada takes care of had the lights on. There were multiple servants coming in and out of the run-down house and they asked who was coming. It was the owner of the house. That could only mean…

“Tommy!” Arthur called, nodding at Harry before barging in the special room at the Garrison. “Stop fucking the barmaid and listen to me, mate,”

Grace looks at him sheepishly before excusing herself. 

“Fuck, what is it Arthur?” Tommy asked, lighting a cigarette. 

“Y/N’s coming back,” he said. Tommy halts, looking at Arthur. 

“Arthur—“

“The Blinders saw the lights at her old house open with a fuck ton of servants cleaning up. They asked…told her that the owner of the house is coming back to go to a fucking funeral,” Arthur explained. “She’s coming back, mate. Your Y/N’s coming back.”

Tommy leans on the couch, running a hand through his face. He wordlessly leaves Arthur, not sparing a glance to Grace, before leaving the Garrison entirely. It was midnight, you could be home soon. In the shadows, Tommy waited, his peaky cap making him incognito. 

He waited the whole night, smoking his cigarette and looking at the spot where your house could be seen clearly. At around six in the morning, he sees a convoy of high end cars line up. A black Bentley stopped right in front of the house and there you were. Tommy’s breath is knocked out of his lungs. You were dressed in something simple and comfortable for your travel but you’ve never looked so ethereal. The driver gives you his hand to help you and you smile at him. Looking around the place, peace settles in your features. 

He doesn’t realise it but his face relaxes too. It’s like he hasn’t breathed in all the years he spent without you. He gulps, not allowing himself to cry. He’s stronger now and he couldn’t let his emotions get the better of him. 

He looked on, noticing that Simon Coventry was not with you. It was then he realised that guards dressed formally surrounded your house. It didn’t matter to him. Fuck your husband’s security system. He’ll make a way. Just because there was a change of plans doesn’t mean that you can begin again. He doesn’t care.

You were here. You were finally home, and he wonders if the frame he gave you on your 21st birthday was still there.

PART 3

A/N: Grace will not be romantically involved with Tommy in the story for obvious reasons. There will be mentions of her but they will be minimal. Thank you so much for reading and for giving my story love and support. I hope to see you in the next one!

BTW, we need a face for Simon. Who do you think will be a perfect Simon?

Don’t forget to reblog / leave a comment if you liked it! TAGLIST:  @shelbydelrey @runnning-outof-time @duckybird101 @thenattitude @swordofawriter @litteltourtius​ @trixie23​ @everythingelseisextra​ @majesticcmey @liveat1am @dumb-wh @denabp16 @yvonna-chan @goldensunflowe-r @therosabel @hunnibearrr @dazecrea @daddyslittleattentionwhore @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf @dang-shawty-okay

[wistfulrat]

・❥・lesbian wangxian reccs ・❥・

ao3topships poll gate made me realize there are hundreds nay thousands of u who dont know abt lesbian wangxian ?? that’s so sad can i proselytize u real quick

mimilamp cinematic universe (the ppl’s mcu) sorry for starting this list with a whole author catalog. as if it's my fault!! these gave me covid. no listen mimilamp fics have feverish lesbian angst levels of hot horny despair that could paralyze a large forest animal. and on a sentence level it's just stunning. messy dykes fumbling toward love confessions while making emotionally insane choices and the sex scenes fuckn bang ??? god is real

good, good - 13.5k E Wei Ying has two broken wrists and now she needs Lan Zhan to help her do stuff (jerk off)

here’s a story - 46k E Wei Ying reluctantly joins her recently-dumped best friend, Lan Zhan, on a couples' holiday retreat. Snow! Drinks! Truth or dare! There's a s-s-s-single bed! You'll never guess what happens next.

out of your system - 20k E “Maybe you should get me out of your system,” Wei Ying blurts. “Maybe that’ll help.” // Wei Ying finds out her best friend Lan Zhan is in love with her and offers a really super solution.

exposure therapy - 14k E Wei Ying clambered up from the floor, put the joint on the corner of the night stand, announced, “Exposure therapy,” and got into Lan Zhan’s bed. // Lan Zhan doesn't like to be touched, Wei Ying likes to touch.

know no one else - 20k E Lan Zhan moves out, Wei Ying's boyfriend moves in. Six months later, Lan Zhan visits, they go to a party, and Wei Ying has something to tell her.

74243 this author should be studied in a lab bc these 2 fics ruined my life. a pulitzer prize short fic with immaculate tone followed by the fuck nastiest shit you will ever read. "wei ying swipes right" still a top 3 bar of all time re: fic summaries. like people died.

chef’s kiss - 6.5k E Wei Ying said, “You know, in some ways I’m kind of depressed. I took your biggest dick on my first try. Now I don’t have anything to build up to.” “There are bigger ones available,” Lan Zhan said lazily. “I can pay for express shipping.” // (Lan Zhan works the late shift.)

pull out game weak - 22.7k E Wei Ying swipes right.

plonk this is the only fic in many ways. dyke nmj's mustache academy award winning breakout role. possessive hot dyke lwj. the sentence "don't knot her you freak." have u ever seen a group chat get rabies in real time. the slut rot breached containment. it was a public health crisis. it brought back horny cinema. cultural reset.

good friends - 11.5k E “I could invite her over for when the game’s done,” Nie Mingjue offers. Lan Zhan hums, considering it. They do that sometimes. Take omegas down together.

occultings will i ever get tired of -wwx thinks she's straight and wants to practice being gay with sadsack lwj who is like sure im in love with u and this will cause me psychic damage but mayhaps that's the cost of being homiesexual--? no i dont get tired of the classics it's called taste

give me one good honest kiss - 25k E The text keeps flashing over and over in Lan Zhan's head like the bulb lights on a marquee. They’d been talking about homework directly before that, swapping notes on music theory in the baroque period. Then, like a fork of lightning out of a clear blue sky: wanna practice kissing? 😚 // Wei Ying suggests an arrangement. Lan Zhan, in love, deals.

saltyfeathers ok so like sure it's ill advised to get your cartilage pierced at claire's but if you wanted the experience of participating in deranged hysteric behavior that kinda bangs in a badgood way? well then.

the mall that has it all - 8k E She introduced herself in the food court, breathless after sprinting across it in Lan Zhan’s direction and vaulting over a table only to crash into the seat across from her, ask, “Can I have a sip?”, spring forward with both elbows on the table to wrap her burgundy lips around Lan Zhan’s smoothie straw, wrinkle her nose, and say, “What is that, kale? Not really my thing, as like, a mall goth. Oh!” A pleased, chaotic exhale. “My name’s Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan said, after taking a moment to fully process the last forty-five seconds, “What?” or; mall goth au

[hiemaldesirae]

i have less than 24 hours left before i have to go through one of the most stressful days of my life so. heres a list of my fav radiostatic fic recs in no particular order

clarification: by radiostatic i mean fics where vox is 100% not the dom in the relationship. most of these dont contain explicit sex though, and im not recommending any straight porn fics here because you can easily find those with a click and search through the bottom vox tag lmao

most of these fics are unfinished, so be warned that i will not take accountability if you get attached to these without them being finished properly. in fact ill just laugh at you because then we'll be suffering together

now, that aside- starting off strong with some of the more popular fics:

RHTVS / Radio Healed the Video Star by Aspiring_Forest_Witch

notes: LONG fucking fic. like this guys almost 700k words long fic. one of the best things ive ever read in my life though and it has a plotline thats frankly more engaging than the actual showing of hazbin on amazon. so. you know. if you have the time to read it Please do you wont regret it

Unraveling Emotions by Xaelei

notes: one of my favourite fics ever on god. started my brainrot for dad!husk, portrays one of the most scrumptious radiostatic dynamics and is generally so very well written that i might end up trying to recreate one of the scenes in comic form. genuinely in love with this fic and im so glad i can say i was the first comment on this fic because my God its such a treat to see new chapters drop for this. unfortunately i havent had the time to write out a detailed comment as of now but if someone wants to let the author know that im still in love with their fic and will continue supporting it until i drop dead go ahead for me

Safe with Me by rillyrillo

notes: the prequel and main fic of this series is human radiostatic, though the sequel is set in hell. it comes with gorgeous gorgeous art and frankly one of the most exhilirating endings ive ever had the pleasure of witnessing play out. i recommend you guys check out their other fics too, the art continues in them + their radiostatic is written wonderfully across all universes!

A Month of Rut by Vylad

notes: this fic is very self indulgent to me. i love the way radiostatic is written in this one because theyre very soft and sweet, but others may not prefer it if theyre looking for freak4freak radiostatic. if you just want something to indulge in and relax with at the end of a heavy day though this is my #1 rec. i read this sometimes when i find myself crying at night lmao

Down, Up, and Back Down by CowboyEnthusiast

notes: made me sob like a baby. 10/10 no notes whatsoever read it for yourself because you WILL not regret it. i genuinely am always at a loss for words whenever i reread this because it is among the most gutwrenching but beautiful and poetic works that ive ever read and i think it deserves some recognition

Mind the Gap by ZLynn

notes: again, to reiterate, i do very much dislike the abusive!staticmoth portrayal i see in a lot of fics. but in this one... it's written so perfectly, i can definitely see it actually happening. i enjoy the way that val does still seem to care about vox, albeit in his own twisted way that eventually breaks and fractures their love and trust, and its just. Ugh. So fucking good

+ with the less popular but still wonderful depictions of radiostatic that i love to indulge in:

i'll give you a show (cause it helps fill the seats) by dead_and_dreaming

notes: absolutely shameless plug from me for my dear mk's work because i cant stop thinking about the way that she's portrayed al here. its actually insane how fucked up that stupid little deer is and i just. i really fucking love the way that their alastor is written, it's genuinely probably my Number One depiction of alastor ever. i demand more of this stupid little freak RIGHT NOW!!!!

Any of the fics by Rachello344 in the Hazbin Hotel Fandom Tag on their profile

notes: so remember when i told you guys i wouldnt be linking straight porn. looks away... okay in my defense though i read the smut for the characterization and their unique dynamics. its sooo interesting to see how their radiostatic is explored here and im honestly refreshed by the depiction of their relationship. im here for it !!!

The Read 'Em and Weep Series by TooManyPseudonyms

notes: so from what i was able to piece together (everything flies over my head when im reading, forgive me for my low media literacy) this is an au set before the hotel where (in the first work) al and vox are in a qpr relationship. in the second work this evolves into a romantic relationship, and the exploration of their dynamic through this is just... Yeah. please read it its 100% worth your time and so underrated it hurts my heart

Uneasy by Saezs

notes: this fic is one of the first radiostatic fics i read (the others being RHTVS and... i think i tried the 666 series, but it didnt appeal to me lol) and its actually just wonderful. i really love saezs's genderfluid vox and how supportive the other vees are of them <3 their portrayl of the characters puts a smile on my face whenever i reread their work

Heat Waves by HappyPRAWN

notes: i'll be fr dsmptsd hit me like a truck when i read the title but it is such an interesting debut! only at one chapter as of me making this post but the way the author wrote this is so engaging and it really makes me wonder what they have next in store for the fic

Do I have your attention now? by Chi_Chi25

notes: wow no way we have the same name... anyway ahem. ill be completely honest this ones a bit of a guilty pleasure for me. this fic is a bit fragmented and short, so for people who click off fics when they see imperfect grammar this one may not be for you. however if you can look past that, it has an engaging storyline and quite the juicy concept :)

Killer Ex by FanGirl48

notes: gorgeous, gorgeous little human! radiostatic oneshot. i love the relationship that vox and al have here... the reasons why they both stayed away from each other even though theyre still so very clearly down bad for each other... anyway. i think about this one a lot and i still go back to reread it sometimes lol

Negotiations by FanGirl48

notes: i didnt realize until i started making this list that this fic was also written by fangirl48.... go off queen keep feeding us (me). this one was a fic recommended to me initially by link nonny, and i can 100% vouch for how good it is. its got appletv interactions, radiostatic plus lucifer trying to navigate heaven, angels... basically everything needed for a very varied and well packed with flavour story

The diary of a Serial Killer by ShippersCave

notes: okay im running out of brain juice at this point but. yeah this fic is soooo self indulgent to me. this ones another human au, with al as a serial killer and vox as the journalist trying to conduct interviews with him. its got SUCH a good dynamic between al and vox, i encourage you guys to check it out and give it a chance even if youre not really into human aus.

My heart's been pierced by Cupid by ShippersCave

notes: pirate/siren au !!!!!!!!! RAAHH !!!!! i dont have to say anything else for this if thats not enough to get you to click then i dont know what is

System Shutdown by Swoolie

notes: i cant believe i nearly forgot about this one LMAO... vox goes onto a temporary hiatus and everyone goes crazy about it. im not really sure if this counts as radiostatic frankly because of the way its tagged but its so good i think you should give it a read anyway

Together in Radio Static by Anonymous

notes: QPR media husbands radiostatic au !!!! i love this one especially because it opens off with vox slapping alastor across the face for leaving him LMAOO (deserved)

What Has Been by Tianren

notes: another human au (YEAH YEAH I KNOW. JUST HEAR ME OUT OKAY i swear im cooking) look, as someone with religious trauma deeper than i can properly express and the worlds fifteenth worst parental issues, the depiction of vox in this fic just really hits home. i really adore the exploration of voxs past and how the themes of religious guilt and cults are woven in so far- and it blends very seamlessly with their human au, despite the characters eccentricities

you're too sweet for me by awestruck_atrophy and moonbeanies

notes: basically, vox and al make a deal where vox tries to help him out of the shackles or whatever that are bound to him because of his stupid dumbass lusting for power. its very intriguing so far and i love the setup and worldbuilding the authors have done, so you should check it out if you want a unique perspective on radiostatics relationship

candlelight by curtailed

notes: the best way i can think of to describe this one is like... fake marriage but instead of fake marriage its. fake roommates??? the author probably puts it better than me tbh. its super interesting so far, i cant wait to see where this one is headed especially with how unique its premise is!

Zero Day by Anonymous

notes: this one is like those time regression manhwas. you know, the ones where the protag goes back in time and proceeds to try and avoid everyone who made their life miserable- only to fail because for some reason now they're paying attention to them more than they would have had they stayed the same person. its certainly very promising, though! i do love indulging in time regression stories, especially when the mc is someone i love like vox. i really cant wait to see which direction this one is headed in :)

Never as Good as the First Time by IComeForFanficsNowin403

notes: okay. so, uh. um. so- this one is in spanish. HOWEVER its premise (serial killer alastor meets television star (?? i think. its not quite clear) at a party hosted by rosie, moves into his neighborhood to keep an eye on the pretty prey) is just so unique i honestly think its worth the experience to pull out google translate and try living the machine translated life. really. give it a chance. also its got beautiful art to go along with, so.. you know. thats just a bonus!

+ honorary staticmoth and one-sided/past radiostatic fic rec:

Freak-A-Zoid by Femalefonzie

notes: this fic deserves every single piece of praise its ever gotten because good lord. its SO good. i was not seeing the radiostatic twist come in, but it *is* mostly staticmoth. and also a/b/o but i mean. who *hasnt* indulged in a little bit of a/b/o before honestly

there are other fics that i personally like to indulge in, but i frankly wouldnt recommend to anyone else because they're either the kinds of fics that i myself can only bring myself to read after ive spent 8 hours at work crying into my pillow and need to look at something entertaining, or when im starved of content and cant be bothered to cook myself so i pull out the translator and start going at it. (technically i should know how to read french by now but. urgh. anywway..)

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Seventeen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

No tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen

AO3 LINK

Author's Note: We've got Rhaenyra POV! We've got Aemond POV! We've got a surprise in the end! Thank you for all the support and patience. You're all getting this chapter early since I'm out of town for the weekend! Enjoy!

PLEASE PLEASE subscribe to the series page or my author page so you get updates when we start the next story! You're not going to want to miss it. (And follow @emkald-fic on tumblr if you read here!)

All my love to @vampire-exgirlfriend for her love and support and holding my hand through this chapter that just kept kicking my fucking ass. If you need more Aemond content, you must read, They Say I killed You (Haunt Me Then)! Now complete! (epilogue going up soon!)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Parrying the Daggers Thrown At Us

Rhaenyra receives a letter. Aemond cannot find peace until he gets a taste of it.

Grandfather is still ill, much like we saw him last but he prefers his wheel chaired more oft than not…

Things have been tense, understandably so, but Queen Alicent has been cordial and has made sure we are comfortable and have what we need… 

Aegon and Aemond keep their distance, perhaps so they can glare all the better…

I do not know how to make amends for what happened… 

…and they say Aemond is taken by his pains at times, darkening his room as his head aches from his wound… 

I should make amends, it is right… 

What do you think I should do?...

Heleana has been the warmest… 

…we danced together at the feast and she was quite happy to do so. It is nice spending time with her…

Aegon is happy around Lady Abrogail and she laughs freely with him. He is not like how he used to be as much with her… 

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased to see how well she is treated…

Many houses were represented at Aegon’s nameday… 

Most seemed to wonder if Aegon would have been named heir and displace you but none came to pass… 

…they will inherit Harrenhal. I can see the wisdom in it as Luke will have Driftmark one day, but I think of Joffrey and Aegitsos and my uncles who do not have lands and holds to occupy them…

I love you much, Muñus, I hope you are well and that I will see you soon…

Rhaenyra ran her fingers over her son’s careful script, her mouth twitching in fondness amidst her worry of her zēapos. His letter was long, too much for a raven’s wings and she started from the beginning once she had read it through once. Twice. Her ribs ached as if Jace had been carved out of her to go on this journey and she shook her head, trying to let the feeling flit away on the breeze. Her eldest had a temper, much as she did in her youth, much as his father had, in the ways that drew her in. Time stole away much, and her own bouts of temper had cooled with each broken toy, each yelling fight, each ‘he pulled my hair!’ and ‘He pushed me and won’t share!’

The sounds of swords clanged in the yard and her gaze flitted from her son’s letter - pages crinkled in her grasp - to the courtyard below where Daemon was testing the new recruits to the Dragonstone guard. His silver hair was twisted back from his face in braids as he preferred, something about war and mindset and always be prepared.

He called something towards Joff and Aegitsos as the knight before him panted, having been bested against her husband.

Baela had not written, that much she knew, though Jace had said that she had found a friend in Helaena after a tense standoff. Rhaenyra had found the mention of it surprising, for her little sister, in the times she’d been around her, had been a quiet thing, eyes large in her face, gaze flitting to everyone and no one.

Helaena has been the warmest…

Helaena was not yet married. The match with Aegon had never come to pass.

The invitation lay on the table before her next to the plate of lemon cake she liked for her morning meal on days such as this.

The wedding of Prince Aegon of House Targaryen and Lady Abrogail Strong of Harrenhal…

In five moons, the spectacle would be held in the Riverlands. In five moons, the realm would look upon her brother once more, peacocked and pulled out, as Daemon sneered, by Otto Hightower to show him off as a contender, to put pressure on her father to change his mind. Her father had nearly twenty years to change his mind and still, he had not. Not even in her absence, cowardly as it sometimes felt to retreat and lick her wounds, had her father’s support of the claim and her family seemed to waver. Try as the Hightowers might to scream and spread slanders that would call for bloodshed, her father still would not be swayed. It was the sense of satisfaction that she had felt when he came to her defense in that shadowed hall those years ago, the heated of curl in it that no matter what, there could be no question as to his choice.

He had chosen her.

Even as the feeling waned over time to give over to those moments where she doubted, all the times he had failed to reign his wife in with her abuses and vitriol, the words her son had sent her bolstered her.

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased…

Harwin’s little sister, big blue eyes and red curls bound in braids, peeking curiously over the edge of Lucerys’ cradle next to Jace because ‘She asked if she could see the baby and give him this,’ Harwin had said, as the little girl presented her attempts at embroidering a little dragon on a pillow. Little Abrogail, half Harwin’s, half Alicent’s. She had tried to bring the girl to Dragonstone with them. Would she not be happier away from the court politics with her brother and the quiet? Lord Lyonel had given her a surprised, then hard look, and Rhaenyra had felt chastened in a way her own father had never been able to evoke within her.

“I will keep my daughter with me, and should I send her away, it will be back to her home, at Harrenhal, with her brother.”

Grief washed through her like the crashing of the waves on the rocky shore below and she felt her own jagged edges inside of her. Lyonel Strong had been the best of them, putting the realm first, always by her side at every council meeting she attended, encouraging her, even as his face grew graver with each brunette curled boy she bore.

Violet eyes swept across the parchment again. A servant in the camp had tried to attack the girl, Jace said. Crept into her tent, assuming she would have been alone. Inquiries were being made, but as far as anyone could see, the man had just been a baseborn servant - blending in like no other. Rhaenyra pursed her lips and looked down at the training yard once more, fingers drumming along the stone ledge of the terrace.

She wondered how wrapped around Lady Abrogail’s finger her half-brother might be… and how opportune this moment was.

Alicent’s eldest was marrying and taking a seat in the Riverlands. It was not the bold choice that Rhaenyra had thought would happen. Surely one of the many Lannister girls, or one of the Baratheons - a great house who would be invested in their own daughter becoming queen would have made more sense.

Harrenhal, for the wealth and lands that it had, did not command armies the way the Stormlands did. It did not have endless coffers the way Casterly Rock boasted of. It was a moody fortress on the edge of the God’s Eye, surrounded by lush farmland and woods that were dark and deep and felt that you were somewhere fanciful, somewhere that didn’t hold dragons nor thrones, nothing except for a warm hand wrapped around her own.

The clashing and screaming of steel in the yard below pulled Rhaenyra from her thoughts, and away from the path of her sorrows and regrets. Turning her back to the sight below, she reached for her own parchment and quill, pushing aside the letter from Lord Celtigar.

Lady Abrogail… Good tidings on news of your approaching nuptials…

Aemond pursed his lips, his gaze rising from the book before him, a study on the Conqueror’s approach to the first Dornish war,to squint across the barrel room near the top of the tower that held the library in the Holdfast. He drummed his fingers upon the scarred wooden table, a fingertip running along the crescent burn from the time Abby had accidentally knocked over a candle while they were reading about Harren the Black.

He exhaled slowly, the way the Braavosi manuals advised and looked back at his book.

It had been weeks since his brother’s festivities, and the chill of the end of the growing season had crept in. It was not cold by northern standards, but the air cooled, the rains rolled in for the next several months, and angry storms fell over them  from the Narrow Sea, their winds piercing and frightening, as if they were dragons themselves in the winds that the Storm God rode, threatening to tear apart the Red Keep brick by brick.

Helaena’s nameday had passed with quiet fanfare, the lingering lords of the realm who had not left parading their sons in front of his maiden sister. As if any of them were worthy of a dragonrider, someone as clever and kind as Helaena.

It had been complicated over the past weeks since the talk in the garden, and Aemond still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt. What had been most surprising had been the strange sense of release when his sister let him go, leaving him to sit in the rain before Visenya’s statue, her words ringing in his ears. 

‘I would burn Dorne for you… but I do not want to leave behind a world of ash and bone.’

How desperate Helaena had looked, angry and frightened and full of hope as she begged not to have a husband, but a brother back. ‘How else am I supposed to protect her?' he had wondered. How else could he offer his sister protection and security if it wasn’t to marry her, to tie her to him so that she would never have to fear, never have to doubt her acceptance and those who loved her?

Aegon had not wanted to marry her. She was weird, he’d sneered. How miserable Helaena would be, how miserable they both would have been. Aemond had done the right thing. He’d stepped up, he had gotten Mother and The Tower to break the betrothal. Even if they had not promised him and Helaena to one another, that was alright, it would simply be a matter of time.

He had Vhagar. There could be no further doubt that he was truly a Valyrian. There could be no more doubt as to his place in the world. All that was left was his sister.

Guilt gnawed deep in his stomach, shame twisting around his throat when the thought filtered through. Helaena was not a bauble he needed to collect to prove something. Collecting her was not protecting her. Collecting her was not about her, but for him, and it was this knowledge that he had thought about constantly.

His sister deserved more than being a broodmare, to be a pawn in the games. The forced distance the last few weeks had given him, after Helaena pushed him from the proverbial nest, had left him unsettled and snappish.

The loud thud of a book hitting the stone floor reverberated through the room. A heavy tome, judging from the heft of the sound, followed by a soft giggling, a deeper snickering sound chasing after it before they muffled and fell quiet.

He knew, with the utmost certainty, why it had fallen quiet.

Ever since the betrothal, the grip on his best friend had been slipping. Oh, him and Abrogail were an unlikely pair, but few appreciated books and history as his cousin did. While digging in the dirt and helping Helaena catalog her collection had been fulfilling, there was something joyous in being able to have someone who understood the quiet and sanctity of the library, and who loved books and reading and learning as he did. Lyonel Strong had always indulged his questions when was young - far more enthralling than Mellos and Orwyle were, and he had fostered that curiosity in his daughter.

‘All she’s going to care about is making babies with Aegon!’ Helaena had cried, frustrated and angry when they’d been alone after the fight in the brothel. 

There was a soft cry, and Aemond scowled at his book before his chair scraped across the stone floor and he strode purposefully towards the source of the sound. The histories of the Riverlands were there - not just observational books, but the census, the trade information, things used by the small council’s not-quite-so-small army of clerks and counters and lawmakers. The section of the library that Abby had frequented since the announcement and that he had helped her with.

“Not here,” came the whispered whine, laced with laughter. Aemond rolled his eye as he turned the corner of the aisle. It was shadowed somewhat this far down, The strategically polished silver angled to bounce the light around so as not to pose a fire risk among the precious books, although the day was gray and cloudy and the light reflected was that of a lamp. Abby was pressed against the bookshelves, the blue and silver brocade of her skirts rucked up with her stockings on display, her legs at present, wrapped around his stupid brother’s waist. One arm was stretched out to grab onto the bookshelf behind her, and the fallen book that had been in its place was still on the ground. Aegon’s face was buried into her chest, or maybe her throat? 

He was half-blind, after all, sometimes details could be mercifully missed. Or ignored.

“This,” Aemond said, his voice even and dripping with every ounce of annoyance and betrayal he felt, “is the library, not a brothel.”

Aemond’s fists clenched at the disrespect both of them displayed to a place they knew  was important to him. At the announcement of his presence, Abby squeaked, Aegon’s arms tightening around her as she scrambled to lower herself without sending them both toppling. He held his arms folded behind his back, his hand scraping along his elbow as the pair of them got themselves in order and he shook his head when Aegon looked at him, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. Abby had turned to straighten her gown.

“Are you really going to act like this?” Aegon said, for it was barely a question. “We weren’t in front of you and your book. You were the one seeking us out.”

“Because you both weren’t as quiet as you thought you were,” Aemond snapped. “It was distracting.”

A lazy smirk crossed across his brother’s flushed face and he wanted to punch him square in his stupid nose. Let him kiss his future wife with his face bashed in. “Well, my lady is distracting-.” There was a soft sound as Abby smacked Aegon’s shoulder, cutting him off with an exaggerated ow, the flinch was nowhere near the violent response that inhabited his brother when it was their mother doing the hitting. She peered around Aegon’s shoulder, her mouth just as swollen, her cheeks just as flushed and her features apologetic.

“We’re sorry, Aemond. Things just got out of hand. I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t you apologize,” Aegon interrupted her this time, a fierce look on his face. 

“No, actually,” Aemond cut in, taking a step forward, using the few inches he now had on his brother to straighten his shoulders. “She’s right. Thank you, Abby, for apologizing. Are you upset that she has to apologize for you, since your self-awareness is worse than a billy goat ramming his head into things?”

Aegon’s mouth gaped in offense, his flush deepening. There was a bruise along his neck that was going to be difficult to hide. The glib nature of his eldest brother was a trial at the best of times, but this? “You know this isn’t your place to run about as you please. Shall I just unlock my doors, let you roll around in my sheets and over my personal things while you’re at it?”

“It’s the fucking library, Aemond. It doesn’t belong to you-”

Abby let out a startled cry as Aemond’s fist shot out, but as much as he would love to punch his brother, he shoved him instead, feeling the crackling of frustration, the rumble of Vhagar in his chest.  “Because it’s all yours, is that it? You mewling fucking kitten. This isn’t just my library, it’s hers too, but you don’t fucking care about anything that means something to anyone else if it gets in the way of what your limp cock wants.”

“Aemond, truly, we’re sorry - Aegon, no!” Abby’s voice was lost in Aegon’s growl as his brother came back with another shove, sending him back a few steps. Aemond laughed, a hint of a sound like the thin scrape of wind whistling through a crack. Yes, yes let the idiot push him around. Let him continue to pull his friend away from him, from him and Helaena both. His gaze darted briefly to the redhead, blue eyes wide as she pressed herself back against the shelves, before meeting his brother’s lighter gaze.

“You are a glib fucking fool, Aegon,” Aemond said lowly, his mouth curling as he readied for a fight, needing to expend the burn of flame inside of him. “I don’t care what the pair of you do, I’ll say nothing should Mother hear of it, but-” he stepped forward and shoved Aegon hard into the bookstack. The ancient wood creaked and groaned, but the stacks were bolted to the floor to prevent them from topping. A few books fell from the force of Aegon’s frame smacking into it. “Stay the hell out of my library.”

He did not look over his shoulder, even as Abby called his name, apology rife in her tone. He strode through the halls, calling for his horse to be saddled while he went to angrily pull on his riding leathers. The left side of his temple ached as it was wont to do when his face was full of tension. Helaena would make him tea, protect him in the quiet, but that was not meant to be today. The last he saw, his sister was in the gardens with Jacaerys. 

How he ached to wring the stupid bastard’s neck.

How bright he seemed to make Helaena laugh.

How betrayed Aemond felt by it all.

Why hadn’t Helaena said anything? Why hadn’t she told him that she didn’t want to be married? Why had she just let him wander around like a puppy and now left the fool?

‘But hadn’t she told you?’ a little voice drifted through Aemond’s mind and he paused in the lacing of his leathers. Had she not told him by pursuing that fool Warren Fossoway, and the time that he had spied her kissing him - for he had seen Helaena push the squire behind the carved dragon pillar by the gardens. 

‘But she would let me kiss her, she would kiss me, and she’d touch me and I her and-’ The flurry of thoughts ached as he pulled on his boots.

It would not hurt as much if it was anyone but Jacaerys.

The ride to the beach beneath the shadow of the Red Keep was a blur. The rock outcropping of Aegon’s High Hill was a craggy, sheer thing, but the beach below was one that Vhagar enjoyed sunning herself, a guard dog laying at the foot of the bed in a way. Her head lifted as Aemond approached, lowing in greeting and shaking sand from her scales. The tension in Aemond’s chest began to ease at the sight of her, and he approached, patting a gloved hand along her scarred neck, scratching along a vicious scar she must have received in Dorne. There were no words exchanged, not the way Aegon chattered with Sunfyre. Aemond’s bond with Vhagar was one of feeling, of such deep understanding that no words needed to spill from him. In no time, he scaled her great bulk and yelled out the command to fly, which his dragon responded with her own, what he assumed was excited, call in return.

Vhagar landed on the cliffs on the western side of Massey’s Hook, the bay below dotted with smaller fishing boats this far out from King’s Landing and away from the bustle of the capital. Rage and grief, anger and fear were a tempest in his gut and he rankled at the call of Moondancer as his cousin circled above them.

If Baela wanted this fight, then he would meet her, unflinching. Let her see what dragons were made of. They did not all reside on Dragonstone.

“Laodijes peldios!” Baela howled at him, her voice a sharp shout on the breeze, her face twisted and ugly with fury, fists at her side as she readied herself to hit him should he get within reach.

Aemond glared at her, the distance between them shrunk now to an arm length. Vhagar was a great shadow behind him and he could feel the sulfuric heat of her breath as she exhaled buffeting at his back. Moondancer was a little ways away, shrieking fearfully and Aemond could not tell if the dragon reflected her rider’s mood, or her fear of Vhagar.

“You’re a fucking fool. Daemon Targaryen is your father, your mother a Velaryon, and you still don’t realize that a dragon cannot be stolen.”

“You had no fucking right!” Baela snarled. “Vhagar was for Rhaena to claim-”

“If Vhagar had not wanted me, she would have eaten me and you damn well know it.” Aemond cut her off, watching her jaw click shut with a curl of satisfaction. “Vhagar chose me, not your sister. What? You want to kill me to give her another chance at claiming her? Is that what you’re here? To finish the job that you all started?”

“Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?” Balea cried, and this time, there was a choked quality to her rage. Aemond’s eye widened slightly and he leaned back from her, a curl of uncertainty that he despised. His words had been harsh, full of the anger that he had felt simmering these past years. Aemond shrugged it off. He had earned his harshness in this. He’d been the one attacked, the band of them setting upon him simply because he chose to claim his right as a Valyrian prince.

‘Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?’

Aemond ran his tongue over his teeth and leaned back on his foot, watching Baela gasp for air amidst her choking sobs, and turn from him to look out to the bay, towards Driftmark and High Tide.

He remembered his mother’s cries, her rage, her such careful and elegant control snapping as her voice cracked in the silence of the Hall of Nine.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“Why did Moondancer choose you?” Aemond asked. “Why did Moondancer choose you, and my egg never hatched?” Baela did not look at him but he could see the way her shoulders tensed. “Why didn’t you go find the guards? Why did you come, thinking a thief had stolen a dragon and Jacaerys brought his blade? Why did they give me a pig, pretending they had found me a dragon as they both had their own? Why did they do nothing but terrorize me with that fact for our childhoods?” 

Aegon had done it too, gone in on the fun, drunk on being the eldest. It had lessened considerably in the wake of Rhaenyra leaving the capital, even if his brother sought other ways to tease him - he’d never again mentioned his lack of dragon.

Aegon had come to him in his sick bed, his curls shorn, red eyed and puffy faced, tears on his cheeks, had knelt at his bedside and vowed to him. 

“We protect our own and I did not protect you. I do not care if you’ve claimed Vhagar, for I was not there for you when you needed me. It will never happen again. I will protect you. I will be by your side.”

Aemond had sometimes wondered how much of the words were his brother’s own, but he had known, with certainty, that the feelings were genuine. His brother was an idiot, and they butted heads, but his brother loved him in his own way, and for as angry as Aegon could make him, he loved him too. In his own way. 

He might admit that on his deathbed, unlike Aegon, who would only need to be in the depths of his cups and into the sad and tearful mourning edge.

“What do you know, Baela?” Aemond said, his voice even, coldness creeping along the edges. “Of fighting and scraping for everything that is owed to you?” He forcefully bit his tongue, copper exploding in his mouth as he broke skin, to keep from pressing further at the loss of her birth right to Driftmark for Rhaenyra’s folly.

“A prince has to scrape for all that is owed to him.” It was rhetorical, biting, and Aemond snorted, taking a step forward, his own gaze looking out at the water.

“You may have been an idiot child, but don’t play me for a fool.” It was impossible not to see how little Viserys thought of his second family, and he had seen it plainly on Jacaerys’ face, the surprise in witnessing it. “I’m sure your father relishes every word you send to him. His little spy.”

Baela’s lip curled in a snarl and she stalked closer. Aemond stayed where he was, watching her with a narrowed eye as Vhagar let out a low growl behind him. She did not move, did not lift her head, but her nostrils flared and Aemond felt the heat of her breath swirl around him. Baela’s eyes widened, and she paused, the indigo of them shining with tears. 

He turned his head slightly to look at Vhagar. “Ȳgha iksi,” he reassured her, feeling Vhagar’s displeasure seeping through him, her warning and the remembered rage from those years ago when she could not protect him or take away his pain. He reached for her snout, pressing his hand to the scar above her left nostril, rubbing against it. He turned his back to his cousin and brought his other hand up, feeling the anger hot as coals, hot as dragonfire in his chest. Vhagar was full of tension. He could feel it. Would she feel that way if it wasn’t him? If she was not so worried for him, would she recognize the girl behind him as the child that Laena Velaryon surely brought to her, as Aemond would have brought his own child? Had his grandfather, Baelon, brought his sons to this dragon before them?

The silence filled the air around them, the wind thick with tension. Aemond pressed his forehead to Vhagar, took strength from her, squeezed his eye shut and ignored the pain that lanced through his head and pulsed behind his scar.

The sob behind him was soft, and Moondancer’s cry was mournful.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“I did not mean to tarnish your mother’s memory,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice carrying as he looked, blind side towards Baela. “It was not done to hurt you, or to take something from you. It was… It was my only chance. And it’s something I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand. I am… I am sorry about the loss of your mother. I did not have the opportunity to give you my condolences then, but I can give them to you now.”

The sound Baela made was strangled. Aemond turned to look at her. Baela was stiff beneath her red and black riding leathers, the metal rings in her hair tinkling as the wind tugged at her braids. He recalled the mourning child she had been sitting by her twin and Jace, the vicious yell she’d let out when she punched him in the nose that night, the howls and scream of pain. He felt Vhagar twitch and groan beneath his touch, another warning and he hushed her again, stroking her snout. He watched her gaze go towards Moondancer, who was crying fitfully, grounded still, her aquamarine wings more green against the lush grass of the clifftop.

“Do you want to pet her?”

Baela stared at him, the hostile lines to her face instantly slacking in surprise. “Skoro syt?” Her voice was small and wary, even as her eyes were wide with grief.

“My condolences,” Aemond repeated, and he found the words genuine. It was not Baela, nor her sister, or even his bastard nephews that rankled him. Oh, he wanted his revenge, He wanted what was due, but more of the blame lay with his eldest sister and their father. Of that, Aemond was secure in. He would gladly feed them both to Vhagar, to take an eye as payment for his mother.

His cousin shifted on her booted feet before whatever compelled her brought her forward. Aemond shifted, beckoning her to take her place by his side as he murmured words to Vhagar. Baela had taken her glove off, her slim, tanned hand reaching tentatively up before resting along the scar on Vhagar’s nostril.

They stood there for how long, Aemond was not sure, quietly beside one another as Baela grieved for the mother at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, and his own grief at what was taken from him.

“Do not mourn me, mother…”

‘But mourn the boy dead on Driftmark.’

It was not lightness or peace that settled over Aemond when he and his cousin parted later. He was not certain how much time had passed, only that after she had sobbed, they sat there in a strange, companionable silence eating hunks of bread and cheese and apple that Baela cut with a wicked blade. She did not give him thanks, she did not say anything, but Aemond took the offering of shared food as her own gesture of whatever truce was settled between them. The exchanged curt nods before parting, Baela northeast and away from the city to what Aemond assumed was High Tide and her grandmother and twin, while he circled back towards the city.

Aemond was not certain of the feeling he held except that it felt like he had scratched something out on a list, or deposited a burden that he was trying to carry with all his other, more cumbersome burdens. It was a closed door. That was enough for Aemond, and there was a part of him that wanted to march to his sisters and tell them that he had made nice, to have Abby’s warm smile proud with him, and Helaena’s little clap and promptly being the receiver of her latest mountain spider that Uncle Rodrik had brought her.

Instead, after entering the inner courtyard of the Red Keep and handing off his horse to one of the stablehands, he made his way to the gardens and to his own preferred solitude when the library - so recently desecrated - was not an option. No, Aemond needed air, he needed the statue of Visenya to look down upon him. There, where Helaena had snipped the strings and released him from the vow he had made, the goal that held him that was more about him than it truly was about her. 

Where his sister had set him free, and he loved her all the more for it.

The problem, he found, upon striding down the paved path and through the dripping ivy, was that his garden was not, in fact, as empty as he hoped. Wylla Karstark was kneeled in front of a bush of hyacinths, carefully cutting the purple blooms and placing them in a basket beside her. She was clad in a dove gray dress, the black fabric of her kirtle beneath poking out through slashes along her shoulders and puffed at her elbows. Her fox features were pinched in concentration and Aemond watched her for a moment, silent as she had clearly not heard his approach.

Wylla Karstark was an unknown. She was pretty enough, with a long nose and sharp jaw, gray eyes that flashed when she was annoyed, which was the majority of the time. She had a rather frustrating talent of being able to look down at him even as she had to arch her neck, for she was as petite as Abby was. Their joint misfortune, just like Aegon’s. She was also well read, their conversation at the feast turning from a mutual annoyance to discussing the book of poetry that he had seen her reading, which itself had turned into a rather long and in depth conversation on the Valyrian poet, Praxilla, whose work had survived by the grace of her living the life of leisure in Lys when the Doom happened. Wylla and his elder brother unknowingly shared a fondness for drinking songs penned by the scribe, although Aemond was smart enough to know he shouldn’t bring that up.

Not until he needed to.

“It is polite to speak when coming upon someone, Your Grace,” Wylla’s northern burr was arch as she focused on her task. “I would curtsy, but you can see I’m already on my knees.”

Aemond’s cheeks flushed at the turn of her words, and he was not certain if she understood how they could be taken. He decided that she didn’t, for she did not turn to look at him, seemingly unbothered. All for the best, he supposed, for Aemond did not think he could meet her gaze should she be facing him.

“Why are you cutting my flowers?”

“Your flowers, Your Grace?” Wylla laughed, a sharp, lilting sort of sound and he wondered if that’s what she sounded like when she sang. Did she sing? He had not asked her. “These flowers belong to Queen Visenya, for it is her garden, is it not?”

“It is my garden,” he pushed back, frowning at the back of her head, the mass of thick, twisted black braids kept in place with a woven, pearl hair net with wicked looking, pearl tipped hair pins to keep the heaviness of it in place. He flexed his hands, wiping them on his riding leathers as he approached. There were other flowers in her basket, like wisteria and some of the roses from the main garden. He sat, bending his one leg to rest an arm on while the other reached in.

Up close, he could see the red flush to her pale cheeks. He did not recall them looking so red when he saw her the day before, outside of the bit of sun all the girls had gotten during the sun.

Her smack was quick, the sound of flesh stinging flesh loud and he immediately pulled back with a hiss and a glare. “How dare-”

“Those aren’t for you,” Wylla said forcefully, the gray eyes of her bright in her face as she finally looked at him. “They’re for Lady Abrogail.”

Aemond had killed a man for the fox-faced woman before him without hesitation, and the knowledge of it settled in him still, generally buried over the past few weeks because he had no idea what to do about it. They’d been attacked in the night, and Wylla Karstark had shoved a knife between the man’s ribs without hesitation. So tall, Wylla Karstark seemed, so loud, filling up the spaces she was in without holding herself back, that he had so often forgotten how small she was.

Until she was there, in front of him, those gray eyes like the storm ridden ocean.

Aemond held her gaze, reaching back into the basket to pluck one of the deep purple, nearly blue anemones that she had gathered, twirling it idly between his long fingers before reaching up to tuck it behind her ear. Wylla was still beside him, her red painted mouth parted slightly, so he could see the flash of her white teeth behind it. Her cheeks deepend in their red to match the paint on her lips and Aemon hummed. 

Abby had been understandably shaken. Knowing her as long as he did, even with the smiles affixed to her face, he knew the signs as intimately as he understood Helaena’s or Aegon’s, or his own mother’s. Wylla Karstark was a mystery. She had been quiet, from what he had seen, but the wedding preparations had taken up much time with the girls, as well as her brother finally leaving the capital earlier that week.

He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking, before he met her gaze. “Are you alright?”

Her inhale was loud. It trembled and she pressed her red lips together, her throat bobbing with a swallow and looked back at the flowers but did not move to cut anymore. Aemond did not push her, but only waited.

“Yes? No? Strangely yes,” she finally whispered. “I think that’s what bothers me more.”

“That bastard came in with intent to harm,” Aemond said. “If you didn’t kill him, someone else would have. You were incredibly brave.” None knew  where he’d come from. The assailant had been clad in the same red garb as the rest of the servants. A baseborn man. Waters or Storm, Aemond couldn’t remember, much like he had no memory of the man’s face before he stared down at it, red and wheezing before he killed him.

“At least it wasn’t Aegon,” Wylla whispered, her eyes wide, drawing his attention back to her. “What would have that turned into - him sneaking in for them to slobber all over each other. Me thinking he was an attacker and-”

The snort of laughter that escaped Aemond at the idea of it all could not be held back. He bent his head, gasping for air as his shoulders shook and it was only a moment before Wylla’s own peel of laughter joined his. It had been some weeks since he’d laughed, in the wake of what happened at the hunt drying up what little humor he’d indulged in. There was an infectious quality to Wylla Karstark’s amusement that he found comforting. Aemond looked at her, her face flushed from her laughter, and he leaned in, kissing her.

The laughter abruptly stopped, her mouth soft against his, still from her clear surprise. She tasted like oranges. Abby must have indulged in the sweet and sour orange cakes they had at the feast. Wylla did not respond, but she didn’t move away either and Aemond took that as acceptance, and he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, thumb swiping softly against the apple of it. Kisses with Helaena had been different - always expected, always ready, with her initiating many of them. The one time he’d kissed Abby, when they were little and Jace had dared him to, did not count. The both of them had made faces, vowing to never do it again. 

Kissing Wylla, though? He never wanted to stop, especially not when she reached up, the clippers making a soft thump along the grass to wrap around the end of the braid slung over his shoulder. She tugged it gently and Aemond broke away, blinking and gasping. “What?” he asked. “Should I have not done that?”

“Oh, you should have,” she reassured him, breathless and red faced. She licked her lips and looked at her fingers still wound around his braid, toying with the leather tie. “I was just reminded of something someone told me once.”

He cocked his head, mouth pursed. “What was it?”

The smile that cut across Wylla’s face was amused, the scar along the top of her lip giving a mischievous bend to her small, red mouth. “It was about how dragons purr when you pull their hair.”

Whatever thought started to coalesce about her late night conversation with his sisters was pushed right out when her lips found his.

I would love to hear your thoughts! Even if it's just a keyboard smash! Reblog to spread a story around so others may find it! I would love to hear your theories! What did you love? What are you looking forward to? Happy to have you here as always <3

[Next Chapter]

[suddencolds]

The Worst Timing | [3/?]

part 3 (6k words)!! you can read [part 1] here! (it gets worse before it gets better). this chapter is more character-centric (sorry again 🙇‍♀️). i wanted to post this before work eats me alive this week T.T

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

It’s fine, until it isn’t.

—

Yves gets home, showers first (only after Vincent insists that he shower first), heads out into the living room, and shuts off the lights. The lights in the bedroom are still on, bleeding in from the doorframe. 

His head hurts. Every part of him feels cold. He burrows deep into the covers on the pullout bed, rearranges himself until he finds a sufficiently comfortable position, and shuts his eyes. 

Tomorrow, he’ll be away for most of the afternoon—with the wedding rehearsal, and then the rehearsal dinner with the rest of his family—and Vincent will grab dinner and drinks with some of Genevieve’s friends in the meantime. Yves will probably be home late. They won’t see each other for the entire day—at least, until he gets back from dinner some time in the late evening. 

Everything for the wedding is ready. His suit jacket is ironed, his shoes polished; his speech has been written for weeks and rehearsed first alone, and then in front of Leon and Victoire, who’d told him how to make it funnier (Leon) and more concise (Victoire). Two days from today, Aimee and Genevieve will be married.

All he has to do, now, is just see it through.

—

Yves wakes up coughing.

He feels distinctly wrong. His head is throbbing. His limbs feel strangely leaden, like they’re weighing him down, like it’d be a considerable inconvenience to move them—he isn’t sure if he’d be able to sit up properly.

He presses a hand to his forehead, in an attempt to gauge whether he’s running a fever. It’s no use—his hand is warm and clammy. He can’t tell.

Fuck. This is not good. 

One wrong breath leaves him coughing, harshly enough that the coughs seem to reverberate through his frame. His throat burns. He reaches blindly through the dark in an attempt to find one of the waters he’d bought yesterday night, at the convenience store. Had he left a bottle on the nightstand? Or had he gotten rid of the one he’d drunk from last night? His breath hitches, so sharply that he has practically no hope of holding back.

“Hhehh’YISHh-CHHiew! hhHEHH’iIDTSSHh-iiEW!”

The sneezes tear through him with little warning, leaving him flushed and shivering. It’s not warm enough in the living room. He doesn’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the room, or the relative thinness of the blanket he’s under, or if perhaps the window is open just a crack, or if perhaps he just hasn’t been moving enough to get warm. He’s not sure he could pinpoint the cause if he tried.

The only thing that seems evident to him, now, is that he feels immediately, uncomfortably cold. He could get out of bed and look for something to wear—he hadn’t packed any thick jackets, because Provence in March isn’t especially cold, but even one of the dress jackets would be better than nothing, so long as it’s one of the ones which can withstand getting a little wrinkled.

But when he sits up—or, rather, when he attempts to sit up—he feels the world tilt, uncomfortably. He braces himself on the frame of the couch, propping himself up with one arm up on the armrest. 

He definitely has a fever, even if there’s no way for him to verify that right now. Otherwise, it would be strange for him to feel so cold. Even now, only half-vertical, he finds himself shivering so hard he can barely move the blanket back up to sit comfortably around his shoulders.

One wrong breath sends a painful twinge down his throat, and he finds himself coughing, gripping the armrest tightly to keep himself upright. He should get out of bed. He should find water, put on a jacket, make an attempt to get back to sleep.

For now, all he can do is muffle the coughs as best he can into a cupped hand. His chest aches with every cough. Every breath he takes in feels like it only manages to irritate his lungs further.

Through the haze of his exhaustion, he thinks he hears footsteps. The knowledge that he’s keeping Vincent up is the last thing he needs, right now. 

Through the crack under the doorframe, he can see the line of light from the hallway, which is lit even at night. Maybe if he’s going to be up anyways, he should spend the night out in the hallway—at the very least, he’ll be a little quieter out there.

Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.

“Drink,” Vincent says. “It’s uncapped.”

Yves brings the water to his lips and takes a short, tentative sip, and then another. His throat is sorer than it had been yesterday—the water burns against the back of his throat as he swallows.

Vincent steps past him, past the edge of the couch, to do—something. Yves doesn’t know what. He hears a click, and the lamp on the cabinet by the sofa flickers on, floods the living room with dim yellow light. Vincent regards him carefully, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” Yves says. The next breath he takes in exacerbates the tickle at the back of his throat, and he twists away, muffling cough after cough into a tightly cupped hand. “I didn’t mbean to wake you.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. He looks… upset, somehow, though the light is dim enough that his expression is hard to make out. Yves tries to think of what else he should say, but his head feels heavy.

He tries to re-cap the bottle of water, though his hands are shaky enough to make it a little difficult. Vincent takes the bottle from him and screws the cap tight in one fluid motion. Yves tries and fails to think of something to joke about.

Vincent presses a hand to his forehead. His hand is comfortingly warm, and a little calloused. It’s strange, how good it feels to be touched—he knows and knows well that it means nothing, but the gentle press of Vincent’s fingers to his skin—when he’s spent the past few days trying to keep his distance from everyone—is strangely comforting. Yves leans into the contact, despite all logic.

Vincent pulls away, too soon. “You’re—”

“Warm?” Yves finishes for him.

“Feverish,” Vincent clarifies, with a frown. “Did you already know that?”

“I had a hunch,” Yves answers, honestly.

Vincent just stares at him, for a moment, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Yves repositions the blankets over his shoulders, a little self-conscious. “It’s fide. I’ll take something for it,” Yves says. “You should go back to sleep.”

“We slept early,” Vincent says. “I’m not tired.”

“What time is it?”

Vincent glances at his watch. “5:34.”

“That’s still early enough that you should be asleep.” Yves sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head hurts, and there’s a prickle in his nose again. “Sorry. I can be quieter.”

His breath hitches. In a frantic attempt to keep his promise, he lifts the blanket to his face and stifles—or, rather, attempts to stifle—the sneeze into the fabric.

“hh—! hhEHH’NGKTSHCH-iiew!”

It’s still not very quiet, despite his best efforts, and the attempt to stifle leaves him coughing a little. It’s a good thing they’re not sharing a bed, he thinks. He hasn’t exactly been careful about keeping this illness to himself.

“Bless you,” Vincent says, rising to his feet. He ducks into the bedroom, only to be back a moment later with a box of tissues, which he tucks into the crook between the pullout bed and the sofa armrests, conveniently in reach. “Was it like this last night?”

“What?”

“Were you unable to sleep last night?”

It’s not an accusation, but Yves freezes at the question, nonetheless. For a moment, he worries—that Vincent knows precisely how little sleep he’s gotten since they landed in France. That Vincent was awake last night—or worse, that Yves was the one who kept him up—which is why he’s asking this question now.

But if he knew, wouldn’t he have said something about it yesterday? 

“I slept fine,” Yves says. 

There’s a cold breeze coming in from somewhere—from the hallway, or from one of the air conditioning vents, he can’t say. Yves tries his best to suppress a shiver. He can tell, by the change to Vincent’s expression—the way Vincent’s eyes linger on him a little too long—that he doesn’t do it well enough.

“You should really have taken the bed,” Vincent says, with a sigh. “It’s warmer.”

“It’s warm here too,” Yves says. There probably wouldn’t even be a problem if he weren’t feverish—it’s just the relative temperature difference that’s making him shiver. “Are you goidg to stop interrogating me ndow?”

“If you stop giving me reasons to be worried,” Vincent says plainly, “Then I will.”

Yves sighs. He’s cold, and exhausted, and he wants this argument to be over. He doesn’t want to have to justify all of this to Vincent, who should be enjoying this vacation instead of worrying about Yves and whatever cold-slash-flu he’s managed to pick up this time. “This is not the first time I’ve been under the weather,” he says. “I—” he veers away to face the opposite direction from Vincent, pulls the blanket up to cover his face. “hHeh-!-hHEHh‘nGKTTSHH-iiIEw!”

“Bless you.”

“—I kdow what I’m doing, snf. I don't even feel that—hh… hHheh'iiDDZZCHH-iIIEW!” The sneeze comes on too quickly for him to stifle. “—that udwell,” he finishes, sniffling, though that’s not entirely truthful. He lifts an elbow to muffle a few coughs into it, blinking through the tears that are surfacing, irritatingly, in his vision.

“So you’ve said,” Vincent says.

“Yes,” Yves says. “You can trust me on this.”

Vincent looks at him for a moment. For a moment, Yves waits for him to refute this, waits for him to point out just how unprepared he is, just how little of a plan he has aside from sticking this out until he has the chance to crash and burn.

“What do you need?” he says, instead.

Yves blinks at him. It’s not the question he expects Vincent to ask.

“Nothidg,” he says, honestly. “Seriously. It’s just a cold. I’ll take somethidg for it when I wake up.”

“Cold medicine?” To Yves’s nod, Vincent says, “I can get it for you, if you want.”

“No need. I’ll probably just — hhEhh-! HhEHh’IITShh-iiEW! Ugh… I’ll pick somethidg up from the codvenience store on the way to breakfast.”

Vincent turns aside to muffle a yawn into a cupped hand. Yves is unpleasantly reminded that he’s probably the sole reason why Vincent is awake right now.

“You should sleep, seriously,” Yves says, insistent. “Maybe you’ll be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before sunrise. I’ll be okay.”

Vincent blinks at him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Vincent says, softly. 

Then he stands, sets the bottle of water on the cabinet by the sofa, switches off the lamp, and heads back into the bedroom. Yves listens as his footsteps recede. His sinuses are starting to feel like they’re slightly waterlogged, and the pressure from behind his eyelids is back, throbbing.

The tickle in his nose heightens, momentarily, and he finds himself muffling another set of sneezes into the bedsheets. He desperately hopes it’s quiet enough to not be disruptive. It’s hard to be fully quiet when whatever he has leaves him sneezing so forcefully, but he’s determined to try. 

The coughing fit that follows leaves his throat feeling like it’s been nearly scraped raw. He clears his throat quietly, though that hurts, too. He takes another small sip of the water, though it goes down his throat with such difficulty he finds himself coughing again.

Two more days. He just has to make it through. He’ll grab a pack of cold and flu medication from the convenience store downstairs—the kind that’s supposed to smother all the symptoms—and then he’ll be good as new, he’s sure.

Yves shuts his eyes, turns to the side, and tries his best to get comfortable. He’ll be less disruptive if he’s asleep. It’s just getting there that’s the problem. He’s exhausted—that fact only seems to become more evident the longer he stays awake—but every time he finds himself drifting off, he’s jolted awake by another untimely sneeze which wrenches him back into consciousness.

In college, whenever he was up unreasonably late for some reason, Erika used to tell him to Stop worrying, Yves, I can hear you overthinking from the other side of the room. Ask anyone else and they’d say that Yves has his life reasonably put together—being the eldest of three does that to you. He’d spent his formative years growing up trying to be the sort of person Leon and Victoire could lean on—the kind of person impervious to the sorts of stressful situations he’d gotten regularly thrown into—and for the most part, it’d worked.

He’d learned, early on, that it is not really that difficult to keep things from people. He likes to think of himself as reliable, even if that means that whenever something does come up—something that feels frustrating and insurmountable—it doesn’t really hurt any less when he goes through it privately.

Erika had always been good at seeing through his bullshit. It was one of the things he liked about her—that he could lean on her if he needed to, without worrying that it’d take its toll on her. That she’d take a look at his problems, which always felt so all-consuming in the moment, and make them seem simple and solvable and almost trivial.

It’s hard not to miss her, now, when he’s alone in the dark, devoid of any and all distractions. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just having someone he didn’t have to hide from.

Yves wonders, faintly, what Vincent would’ve said if he were more honest with him. He and Vincent aren’t actually dating, but he thinks maybe Vincent would understand. He thinks that they’ve been getting along well, as of late—he might even consider them friends.

But then again, hasn’t Vincent agreed to do all of this—lying to Yves’s friends and family, falsifying their relationship, letting Yves drag him from one celebration to the next—because it’s easy? Because he is willing to tolerate going to a party, or a housewarming, or a wedding, where there are no strings attached, when after the night is over he can drop the act cleanly?

It’s a lie that they’re telling, but it’s a self contained one. The moment they step foot out of whatever event they’re attending, there’s nothing left to pretend. Yves can go back to living his own life, and Vincent can go back to living his. Would Vincent really have agreed to do any of this if that weren’t the case? 

It’s going to be fine, Erika would have said. Just breathe. She’s not around to tell him this, now, but he still tries.

The medicine will be enough to get him through today, and the day after. It has to be.

—

When Yves falls asleep, it’s the kind of restless sleep that sits somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He dreams in fragments of scenes—him at Aimee and Genevieve’s wedding, the details hazy and illogical and unusually bright, the weddings he’d been to in the past all superimposed into one.

When he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, it’s to a pounding headache and what he’s certain must be a fever. He can’t seem to stop shivering. It’s already bright out—the curtains in the bedroom are pulled shut, but light streams in from the sliver of space between them.

He feels too cold and somehow entirely devoid of energy, though he doesn’t remember doing anything particularly tiring. Sitting up makes the throbbing pain in his head sharpen, so painfully that he has to grip the side of the couch to steady himself, blinking against the dizziness. If Aimee saw him right now, he thinks, she’d send him straight home—he’s in no state to attend a wedding, and he’s not sure if he’s in any state to pretend that’s not the case.

He breath hitches. He raises an arm to shield his face, habitually, even though there’s no one here to witness—

“hhEhh-’iZZSSHH’Iew!” The singular sneeze is, unfortunately, far from relieving. The tickle in his nose is irritatingly persistent, even when he reaches up to rub his nose, which is starting to run. “Hh-! hhEH-!! HEHh-’IDDZSCHh-yYew! hHEHH’iDDSCHh-iEWW!hhEhH-! H‘IIDzZCH-YIIIEEew! Ugh…” The sneezes scrape unpleasant against his already-sore throat, leaving him hunched over as he muffles cough after cough into his arm.

There’s a small packet of cold medicine on his bedside, along with an uncapped bottle of water, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. The medication is a relief. It’s strangely thoughtful—a part of him is a little worried that Vincent’s only gotten this for him out of a sense of obligation—but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless. 

It’s exactly what he needs. Surely if he takes something for this, his symptoms will be, at the very least, tolerable enough for him to function as usual.

He picks up the packet, squints down at the instructions. The text is inconveniently small, and he’s always been better at speaking French than he is at reading it, but he gets it eventually. It’s supposed to last six hours. If he times this right, he can take a dose that will last him until the end of the rehearsal dinner tonight, and then—if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow—take another before the wedding starts. 

It will be fine. He uncaps the bottle by the cabinet, downs two pills, squeezes his eyes shut, and sits there for a minute, forces himself to breathe, waits for the uncomfortable pressure in his temples to subside.

Then he shoots off a quick text—

Y: thanks for the cold meds :)

Y: sorry i essentially left you with some strangers (again)

Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh

Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:

V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon

V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch

Yves blinks. That’s a little surprising. But come to think about it, Vincent’s plans with Genevieve’s friends aren’t until dinner time, so it makes sense that he’s out doing something else.

His second thought is: he is definitely in for an earful from both Leon and Victoire.

Y: jealous! have fun! 

His phone buzzes not long later with Vincent’s response.

V: I considered waking you, but I figured you could use the sleep

V: Do you want me to bring anything back?

Sure enough, when he checks his unread texts, Leon has texted him, are u alive????? And then, a few minutes later, ur sick? dude worst fucking timing ever 😦, to which Yves types back, thanks for your glowing reassurance

Victoire has sent him, vincent told me you’re sick :((( and, feel better soon (preferably before 3pm tomorrow!!), to which Yves says, thanks, fwding this to my body. hope it gets the message ✌️

Then he sends back to Vincent:

Y: i’m good, but thanks for asking! enjoy lunch 

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that, which means that he’s probably busy. Yves makes a note to thank him in person later. And again, much later—when all of this is over.

He just has to get the next day and a half to go according to plan.

—

The wedding rehearsal is mercifully uneventful. They walk twice through the processional, and then twice through the recessional. Yves picks a seat near one of the back rows, shivers through thirty minutes of run throughs, and tries to cough as discreetly as he can. He stifles every sneeze into a vague approximation of silence—he’s never been good at stifling—and does his best to ignore the mounting congestion in his sinuses, the persistent ache behind his temples.

It's easy enough to ignore all of those things in his excitement. He’s happy to be back—here, in France, surrounded by his whole extended family A part of this still feels unreal to him. He’s really here, in a place that feels familiar and simultaneously so novel, to watch someone who’s influenced him so fundamentally get married. 

They’re all dressed for the spring weather. For the wedding rehearsal, Yves picked out a gray blazer over a dress shirt, chinos, and dress shoes. It’s not quite as formal as what he’s planning to wear tomorrow—the shoes are the only item he’s planning to rewear—but he finds himself distinctly grateful for the blazer jacket when the wind threads through the trees, knocking his tie slightly out of alignment.

It’s not unusually cold out—this would probably be considered temperate weather here, in March—but the wind is cold enough to offset the otherwise agreeable temperature.

The cold medicine helps, too—it keeps him feeling well enough to stay upright, which is already an accomplishment. He’s congested—his sinuses hurt a little, like everything’s a little waterlogged—but at least he isn’t sneezing as much as he was last night. His head still feels heavy, but the pain is a little duller, a little more muted; he’s tired, but he thinks right now he could stay awake on pure adrenaline alone.

“Dude, you sound awful,” Leon says, after the rehearsal ends.

“Thadks,” Yves says, muffling a fit of coughs into his elbow. “You always kdow just how to flatter me.”

Leon looks him over with a frown. “Are you sure you’re good for tomorrow?”

Yves doesn’t know. “Let’s hope so,” he says. “I don’t have any contingedcy plans for if I’m not.”

“I’m sure Aimee would understand if you told her.”

“I’m sure she would.” Yves looks over to where Aimee’s standing—she’s in the middle of a conversation with Yves’s parents and some of the adults on Genevieve’s side of the family. He’s too far to make out what she’s talking about, but she looks happy—she’s gesturing animatedly, her eyes bright. Every so often, he sees her flash a smile at Genevieve, as if to make sure Genevieve is following along.

Leon seems to understand that Yves has no intention of telling either of them, because he sighs. Yves changes the subject before he can say anything. “How was ludch with Vincent?”

“I like him,” Leon says, brightening at the question. “He’s surprisingly pretty funny. I hope you guys stay together.”

“Just because he’s funny?”

“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” Leon says, grinning. “But you work with him, right? If he’s a nice person while he’s looking at like, tax forms, or whatever, he’s probably a great person when he’s doing anything else.”

“Yves! Leon!” someone waves them over. When Yves turns, he sees it’s Roy, one of his younger cousins from his dad’s side of the family. “Pictures!”

“Coming,” Leon shouts back. 

Yves has no idea why there are pictures happening today when the wedding is tomorrow, but he fixes his tie hastily and heads over to join them both.

—

When dinner rolls around, Yves finds he has no appetite, but he eats what he can and spends the rest of the time making conversation with some of his aunts and uncles. He’s always found this kind of small talk to be more enjoyable than it is tedious. They ask about his job, about his workload, about life in the states, about his parents, about Vincent—all things that he knows intimately, and has no problem speaking on. He thinks that speaking in French makes him a little more deliberate with his answers, partially because he has to spend some time formulating the sentences when they get more complicated, and he likes that, too. It has all the camaraderie of a family gathering—warm and crowded, welcoming, a little chaotic.

He finds Genevieve after dinner, sitting out on the steps.

“Hey,” he says, in French. She looks up, and he motions to the steps beside her. “Do you want some time alone before you get swamped with codgratulations tomorrow, or can I crash your alone time early?”

She smiles up at him. “You can sit here,” she says.

He takes a seat on the steps—a few feet away from her, because he doesn’t want to risk passing whatever he has onto her. He doesn’t know Genevieve very well. He knows her best through Aimee—through the stories Aimee has told about her, through the way Aimee’s entire disposition seems to change around her—but he’s exchanged very few words with her outside of that, all over the summer during their yearly family reunions in France. His extended family is large enough and the family reunions hectic enough that he can probably count the number of conversations he’s had with her in person on one hand.

“So,” he says. “How are you feelidg before the big day?”

“Do you want the good answer, or the honest answer?”

“The honest one,” Yves says. “hit me with it.”

For a moment, Genevieve doesn’t say anything. Yves zips his jacket up a little higher, just to have something to do. Genevieve pulls her legs in towards her chest.

“I’m terrified,” she says.

“You think somethidg might go wrong?” Yves asks, surprised. “You guys have planned this all out so thoroughly.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s more like—this is probably going to be one of the most important things I’ve ever done,” she says. “You know, when something is really important to you, so it’s just that much more crucial that you don’t mess it up?”

“You’re the bride,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I don’t think you can mess up. Unless you like, hheh-! hHheh… HEH’IIDZschH-YIEEW! snf-! Unless you get cold feet and say no when you’re supposed to be saying your vows. I wod’t forgive you if you do that, by the way.”

She laughs. “God, no. I’d never do that. It’s just—there’s all this perceived… I don’t know. Like, fragility around the moment. Like you’re just waiting for the moment to crystallize, and once it sets, it will be like that forever, so you have to make sure that it crystallizes right.”

“I’m guessing you’re ndot a fan of, like, pottery,” Yves says. He tries thinking about what other kinds of art carry the same lack of tolerance for backwards revision. “Or sculpting.”

“I haven’t tried either of those things,” she says. “Though I would probably be bad at them.”

Yves looks off into the distance, towards the countryside, the rows of verdant green hills which unfurl before them, the white cobblestone paths, the houses lining the winding roads all the way to the horizon.

“I think you don’t have to be so concerned about what it’s supposed to be,” he says. “You can give yourself permission to just—live it. Enjoy it, free of expectations. Who cares what you think about it after, right,” he says. “You’ll have a ring on your left hand. That’s good enough to offset any—well, awkwardness, or clumsiness, or anything, because as the bride, you are sort of incapable of doing anything wrong, by default.”

“I guess,” Genevieve says.

“It’d be a disservice to Aimee if you spent the wedding worrying about how to get things right idstead of like, just living,” Yves says, turning to face her. “What’s the worst that could happen? Like, you spill your drink during the wedding toast, or your mascara smears a little, or you trip on your wedding gown and you have to be helped up by the woman you love most? I think that almost makes it more romantic,” he says. “Because however the moment crystallizes, it’ll be you.”

“Did you learn all of this through pottery and sculpting?” Genevieve asks, wiping at her eyes. She looks a little better than before—she’s sitting up straighter, and the tension in her shoulders is less pronounced.

Yves grins at her. “I have a younger brother and a younger sister,” he says. He clears his throat again, though it doesn’t really do a good job at making his voice sound less hoarse. “It’s exactly as bad as you think it is. I have to be the one to talk them out of their stage fright like, all the time.”

Genevieve laughs. “It must be lively,” she says. “Your whole family is very accommodating.”

“They’re certaidly a handful,” Yves says, with a laugh that tapers off into a short cough. “I love them to death. And I’ll be happy to have you as part of them.”

She smiles at him. The evening light strikes the windblown strands of her hair gold. “Thanks for this.”

“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”

They sit for awhile in silence. Yves crosses his arms in an attempt to conserve warmth and tries his best not to shiver too visibly.

“How did you kdow it was her?” he asks—a sudden, impulsive question.

As soon as he says it, he feels the urge to take it back. Genevieve is already stressed out enough about the wedding without him asking her difficult, abstract questions the day before the ceremony. He opens his mouth to apologize.

“There was never any doubt,” she says.

When he looks over at her, her expression looks a little wistful.

“Like, one day I woke up and I realized that whatever future I imagined for myself—in Marseille, or elsewhere; as a copywriter, or a journalist, or a director, or something entirely different—she would always be there.” Yves understands that—back when he’d been dating Erika, he’d felt like that too. That she was going to be the last person he’d ever date. That there was no conceivable future for him that didn’t involve her.

“Those kinds of revelations would come at the most insignificant of times,” Genevieve says. “I’d look over her halfway through morning coffee, or I’d watch her pick groceries from the aisle, or I’d watch her fiddle with the radio as she drove, and then it would strike me.”

“That you wanted to be with her?”

“That I was happy.” Genevieve tilts her head back to face the setting sun. “I’m really happy. It sounds like such a simple thing, and it is, but even a few years ago I’m not sure if I could’ve told you that that was true. And I think that finding someone who makes you feel that way—like they’d guard your happiness under any circumstance—is really something special.”

“You were the one who proposed to her,” he says. He remembers Aimee texting him about it, the night after it’d happened, remembers how he’d excused himself from dinner somewhere or other, ducked out of the room to get on call with her. She’d sobbed recounting it, the engagement ring on her finger.

“I was,” Genevieve says. She smiles. “I knew that if I gave up this chance I’d be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.”

—

When he gets back from dinner at last, it’s late.

The cold/flu medicine he took from earlier is starting to wear off. His whole body aches—spending the evening outside in the cold probably didn’t help with that—and even in the relative warmth of the hotel room, he finds that he can’t stop himself from shivering.

He takes a hot shower, which feels pleasantly indulgent in the moment, but not long after he shuts off the water, he finds himself shivering again. The absence of the hot water makes him a little dizzy—he finds himself gripping the tiled wall, pausing for a moment behind the shower curtain to catch his balance.

His head really hurts. It’s the kind of sharp, throbbing pain that makes him all too aware of his heartbeat. He gets changed, towels his hair dry, and steps out of the bathroom.

Vincent is sitting on the bed, reading something. He must’ve gotten back at some point while Yves was showering. At the sound of the door, he puts the book down and looks up.

“How was the wedding rehearsal?” he asks.

“Great,” Yves says. He clears his throat, but clearing his throat irritates his throat enough that he has to muffle a few coughs into his elbow. “How was dinner with Genevieve’s friends?”

“They were very nice,” Vincent says.

“Ndicer than my friends in New York?”

“I felt less like I was being evaluated,” Vincent says, with a smile. “But if they were to express their disapproval of me in French, I would be none the wiser.”

Yves laughs. “I’mb sure that even if you learned the ladguage in full, you wouldn’t hear any disapproval from them.” He takes a seat on the couch, if only because he can’t quite trust his legs to keep him upright for the entire course of the conversation. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Lots of things. Life in France,” he says. “Life in the states. Individual freedom and the formal institution of marriage.”

“Do you believe in mbarriage?”

Vincent looks at him. “I think I believe in it just as much as everyone else does,” he says. Then, after a moment: “It worked out for my parents.”

“The busidess competition proved to be a good edough reason?”

Vincent traces a finger down the spine of the book, over the gold lettering. His shoulders settle. “They weren’t in love when they got married,” he says. Hearing him state it so plainly comes as a surprise to Yves. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure if they ever were in love. But I think they came to love each other eventually.”

“What about you?” Yves asks. “Do you think you’ll fall in love someday?”

“Is that really something I’d choose?” Vincent says. “It either happens or it doesn’t.”

“Sure, but there are plenty of ways you can seek out love actively.” 

“If I found something worth pursuing, I’d go after it,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “That’s very like you.” he wonders what kind of person Vincent might be drawn to enough to see as worth pursuing. Wonders if, after all of this is over, he’ll even be in Vincent’s life for long enough to know.

His head hurts. The slight prickle of irritation in his sinuses is already tiringly familiar.

“hHEh… HeHh’IIDZSCH-yyiEW!” The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist, messy and spraying. He reaches for the tissue box Vincent left him this morning, still nestled into the crook of the couch, and grabs a generous handful of tissues. “Hh… hehh-HEh-HhehHh’IIzSSCH-iEEw! Hh…. HEHh’DJSCCHh-IEew!”

The sneezes leave him coughing, afterwards. His throat feels raw and tender—he raises the tissues back up to his face to blow his nose.

“You sound worse than you did last night,” Vincent says, with a frown.

Yves opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself coughing again. He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to be seen when he’s like this by someone who’s usually so well put together. “I’b a little prone to losidg my voice when I’m sick,” he admits. “It’s pretty incodvedient.”

“I’m probably not making it any better by talking to you,” Vincent says. That might be true—Yves is half sure that any time he does lose his voice, it’s because he typically makes no effort to converse any less than usual—but Yves likes talking to Vincent. Besides, they haven’t talked all day. 

He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Vincent asks: “How are you feeling?”

“Good as new,” Yves says. When Vincent raises an eyebrow, at that, he amends: “Good enough for tomorrow, at least. The ceremony doesn’t start until three, but I’ll probably be up earlier to see if there’s anything else Aimee and Genevieve ndeed help with.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “If anything comes up, I can help.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”

“I can handle it on my own. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I— hHHEh’IDJZSCHh-yyEW! snf-! I’mb really fine. I swear.”

“Yves—”

“I’ve done this before,” he insists, which is true, too—he’s certainly been through worse. It would be wrong to put himself first, to take things easy when he might be needed still. “It doesn’t have to be your problem.”

For a moment, there’s something there, to Vincent’s expression—a flash of something that looks suspiciously close to hurt. Then it’s gone. When he blinks, Vincent’s expression is carefully neutral, as usual. He wonders if he’d imagined it.

“Okay,” he says. He sets the book gingerly on the bedside counter, and pulls the cord on the lamp. Darkness engulfs the bedroom. “You should sleep soon, if you’re able to.” A pause. The rustling of sheets. “Goodnight.” Yves wants to say something. He has a feeling that he’s messed things up, somehow, though he’s not entirely sure how. 

But what can he say? He just—he just wants, desperately, for all of this to be okay. He wants the wedding to go just as planned, wants to be as present and as reliable as Aimee deserves for him to be. All of that responsibility falls on him and him alone, doesn’t it? 

“Goodnight,” Yves says, instead.

[ Part 4 ]

[cosmicanamnesis]

little self-indulgent fic that I'm posting without proofreading, enjoy

steddie, modern AU, idiots to lovers | read on ao3

"It's not a big deal!"

Eddie's crush on Steve was a secret both short-lived and ill-kept. His first mistake was telling the band. Well, no, his first mistake was forgetting that Gareth and Will were dating and that Gareth had the physical inability to keep his fucking mouth shut. But Eddie telling his closest, most trusted friends about the guy he liked was definitely Up There on the list of mistakes.

Which was how Eddie found himself mildly hungover drinking black coffee in his living room while Dustin paced up and down the length of the trailer, berating him for not confessing his doomed love to his alleged "favorite child" sooner.

"HOW is it not a big deal, Eddie?" Dustin said, just a few notches too loud for Eddie's looming headache.

"Because it's not! He doesn't like me! He's never gonna like me! I'm an adult, dude, I have critical thinking skills. I know how to pick my battles."

"It's not- Eddie," Dustin suddenly went stone faced. "It's not about your chances with him. You're moving in with him. He deserves to know."

Oh yeah. There was that. Robin was starting college and there was no way she wasn't taking her Emotional Support Pretty Boy with her. The only place they could find was a 2-bed just slightly out of their budget, and had asked Eddie if he wanted to join them, finally striking out on their own in the city. The agreement was that Steve and Robin would share the bigger bedroom, and Eddie would get the smaller room to himself. Their move-in date was less than a week out when Eddie made his inebriated love confession at his quote-unquote Going-Away-Party.

"It's not about what he deserves, man!" Eddie said, sinking back into the couch. He rubbed his eyes hard to try and relieve some of the pressure building in his head and sighed. "If I don't say anything to him, nothing changes. If I tell him, everything changes!"

"Oh, please. Steve's an adult too, dude, if we tell him you like him but you're well aware that he doesn't like you, he won't make it weird!"

"Wait wait wait, hold up. Rewind. We? Who is we?"

"You and me!" The boys stared at each other in bewilderment for a moment. "Oh come on, Eddie, we both know that if I don't sit here and watch you do it, you're just gonna lie and say you told him when you actually just hid under a blanket listening to Metallica and wishing you had the balls to-"

"OKAY!" Eddie yelled, loud enough for the very shock of his volume to trigger his headache in full force. "Jesus H., kid, you don't need to call me out like that. Fuck. Fine. I'll do it right now, how about that?"

Eddie pulled his phone out and Dustin dropped down hard on the couch next to him, arms already crossed, smug satisfaction already settled on his face.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Dustin scoffed. "Here's what you should say-"

Eddie held up a hand to cut him off. "I'm not listening to you anymore. You had one long distance girlfriend ONCE, you're not some kind of Cassanova here… oh, son of a bitch."

"Son of a bitch what?" Dustin asked, scooting closer to read over Eddie's shoulder.

"I can't do this right now… The last thing I sent him was asking his opinion on the D&D movie and he hasn't responded yet."

"What the absolute fuck does that have to do with any of this?"

"Well I can't be like hey what's your opinion on this movie you know I love because I'm the one who told you to watch it, also I'm in love with you but it's no big deal. Like, what the fuck is that?"

"Oh… Yeah, you have a point." Dustin shifted back away from Eddie, covering his mouth with one hand in concentration.

"I mean… It can wait-"

"It can, but it shouldn't, dude! Shit… I mean, I could tell him, if you want."

Dustin had expected an outright "no" and was shocked when Eddie paused, apparently seriously considering the option.

"Actually… Yeah, could you?"

"Sure, but I'm not letting you see what I say until after I send it."

"You drive a hard bargain…" Eddie said, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Fine. Go for it."

Eddie stood and grabbed his coffee off the table, wandering slowly towards the kitchen, both to find some ibuprofen and to quell his temptation to watch Dustin quickly type a message to Steve.

"Okay. Sent. Now you can look," Dustin announced, beckoning Eddie back over as he downed the medicine. Eddie felt like he'd never moved so fast in his life. The message read,

Eddie wants you to know, before you move in together, he has a crush on you. he won't make it weird if you dont

As Eddie read, the three dots that meant Steve was typing popped up. Suddenly Eddie regretted ever agreeing to this, and pushed Dustin's hand and phone away so he wouldn't have to see Steve's rejection first-hand.

"He responded… Do you wanna know what he said?" Dustin said. Eddie was leaning hard against the armrest of the couch, staring into nothing, imagination running wild.

"Yeah, hit me," he said.

"Oh, alright. Thank you for telling me," Dustin read. "I don't feel the same way about him. I assume you talked to him about telling me."

"So he gets back to you right away but he won't tell me- oh. Never mind. He just responded to my text." Eddie was doing his best to not feel completely devastated by Steve's frankly predictable response to Dustin's text.

"So… What did he think of the movie?"

—

"Uh… Rob?"

"Yeah?"

"Um… Come here and… Just read this."

Steve and Robin were taking a break from packing up Steve's childhood bedroom in preparation for the move when Dustin's text came through. She quickly chugged the last of her soda and came around to Steve's side to see what he was seeing.

"Oh," she said, not bothering to conceal her surprise. "I mean… We knew this was a possibility."

"Yeah, I guess, but… What do I say? I don't like him like that."

"Then say you don't like him like that, dingus. He's probably breathing down Dustin's neck right now waiting to see what you say."

"Yeah, you're probably right…" Steve said. He typed and backspaced and typed something else until Robin got sick of watching and grabbed the phone out of his hand to answer Dustin's text for him.

"Just trust me!" Robin said, actively walking away from Steve as he sputtered indignances, chasing after her halfheartedly. As soon as she sent the text, she turned and shoved the phone roughly back to Steve's chest.

"Oh… Yeah, okay, that makes more sense than anything I was trying to say…" Steve conceded, reading the text Robin sent on his behalf.

—

Steve, Robin, and Eddie saw each other next when they were loading up the U-Haul. No one said anything, and Steve tried as hard as he could to act like nothing was different. It put Eddie's mind at ease while simultaneously driving Robin nuts.

Since Dustin sent the secondhand confession, the only thing Steve had on his mind was Eddie, and how he definitely didn't reciprocate Eddie's feelings, how he was definitely bisexual but Eddie… Eddie wasn't his type. He was pretty, sure, but he was so… Himself. He was loud and unapologetic and into things Steve had never even heard of. They had nothing in common besides their love for the kids.

But Robin saw it coming a mile away.

"It" finally came to fruition a month after they had all moved in together.

It turned out, Steve and Eddie were practically the same person. Same sense of humor, same taste in TV, they even took their coffee the same way. They really only differed in their music tastes, fashion, and theater snack preferences. 

Robin got the text in the middle of her French class.

shmuck: i think i have a crush on eddie

bobbin: FINALLY. please just kiss him and put me out of my misery

Steve came out of the kitchen, bag of chips in hand, to see Eddie just as he'd left him: cross-legged on the couch, demolishing a bag of Sour Patch Kids to the tune of the Criminal Minds theme music. He tucked his phone into his back pocket and rejoined his maybe-crush to watch trash TV until Robin came home.

He didn't know why he was so nervous. He knew Eddie liked him. There wasn't a chase here, he didn't have to flirt or try to win Eddie over… He just had to say yes and Eddie was his. It was different from any other relationship he'd ever been in. Maybe that was why it was so scary. Because it was new.

They watched the episode and bantered back and forth about it, same as always. But before the next episode could start, Steve hit pause.

"Bathroom break?" Eddie asked, hugging a throw pillow to his chest.

"No, uh…" Steve started, unable to even look Eddie in the face. "No… Can I… Can I kiss you?"

Eddie didn't answer right away, which finally inspired Steve to really look at him. His expression was completely unreadable.

"Uh… Yeah, I mean. Yes, absolutely. Um. But what happened to you don't like me like that?" It was such an Eddie response, Steve could almost laugh.

"I, um… I guess I spoke too soon," Steve laughed, trying to be cool and suave and everything else people thought he was in high school. Eddie brought the pillow up to hide his expression.

"Really?" he asked, muffled behind the pillow so that Steve almost couldn't hear him.

"Yeah, really. Just… Since you told me-"

"Dustin told you," Eddie corrected.

"Whatever… I dunno, I guess it put the idea in my head and now… I haven't been able to stop thinking about it… About you- what?"

Eddie was giggling quietly behind the throw pillow, gently rocking himself back and forth as Steve talked. 

"Nothing," Eddie mumbled into the pillow. "Go on."

"You're such a pain in the ass, y'know that?" Steve laughed again. "Can I kiss you or not?"

Eddie slowly moved the pillow away from his face to set it aside, revealing himself to be smiling like an idiot as he turned slightly to face Steve better.

"You understand I've been uselessly pining after you for like, two months now, right? Please kiss me, oh my god."

—

Dustin's phone lit up with a Snapchat notification; a message from Eddie to the D&D group chat. He expected a meme, or for Eddie to ask Jeff for a ride somewhere because his van broke down again.

Instead, it was a picture of Eddie looking smug, leaning against Steve's chest. Steve, apparently unaware he was having his picture taken, had his fingers tangled up in Eddie's curls. The text overlay simply read "hey guys guess what."

The first reply came from Gareth, a picture of him leaning against Will in the exact same position as Eddie was with Steve. "Gross," it said.

Dustin rolled his eyes. Eddie was about to get so much more insufferable.

[honeyglz]

</3 Breaking up w/ mha characters + little snippets </3

A/N - Let me know if you guys want full length fics for any of these cause I may or may not do some. Im starting this off with the main three but hopefully Ill do more characters later. Also Shoto's is a lil shorter than the rest my bad. Yk the drill on rpoof reading.

Reader- GN for Bakugou and Deku, fem used for Todoroki (Though it could be veiwed as more of a Afab reader instead, just mind the pronouns) , She/Her, You/Your/ Yours

Disclaimer- I do not own any of the characters aside from my depiction of Y/N.

Pairings (separate) - Bakugou x (engaged)reader, Deku/Midoriya x (dating) reader , Todoroki x (engaged) reader

Warning- Mentions of violence/death/injury (No abusive relationship is written in this it is just part of their jobs as hero's). Arranged marriage for Shoto's

Category- Angst Check Master-list for follow up's for each character.

-♡- ✮Bakugou K.✮

Reason: He didn't care enough to make time

Plain and simple.

He's a busy guy, esp once he becomes a pro hero

It starts off small too

He misses the good morning kiss he usually gives you

Next its coming home late

At first you thought maybe he was just tired.

Until he starts blowing off dates. Here you were. Sitting in your chair uncomfortable with the amount of whispers that you could hear. 3 hours you had been waiting. Pity glanced brushed off your shoulders as you sighed flagging down a waiter. "ready to order?" the waiter said in a small voice as he watched you try to cover the sadness in your tone "Yea.. Ill take.."

Katsuki arrived home later that night. Covered in soot and ash as he lay on the couch.

You found him in the morning, still fast asleep.

You sighed as you let it slide, he was busy, surely it was a one time thing right?

Wrong

So so very wrong

He had missed a total of 20 dates

20 .

2

0

It wasn't until you finally had enough of being second place to his job did you try and talk to him...

Bad idea. It was late. The glow from your alarm clock light your face, dried tears staining your checks. You looked down at the sliver ring on your finger. Unaware of the door to your shared apartment having been opened. Katsuki's footsteps were heavy, sluggish movements as he kicked off his boots. His gauntlets thrown carelessly onto the couch noticing the dim light from your shared bedroom. Tracking his way into the room he noticed you staring down at your ring, twisting it nervously as you spaced out. A low grumble snapped you from your thoughts as you stared up at him, eyes devoid of the warm glow he fell in love with. "Bakugou. We need to talk." His thoughts came to a halt at your words. Why the actual fuck were you using his last name? He rubbed his eyes tiredly as he sighed clearly annoyed at the shit you were trying to pull. "Can this wait, Im fucking tired and-" he huffed only to be cut off "It can't wait." There was a cold sadness to your voice, foreign to his ears. He had to be hearing things. He watched as you stood only now taking in the rest of the room. Your things were missing. "Did we get robbed or sumthin- where the fuck is all your stuff" He said making a vague gesture to what now felt like a very empty room. Katsuki's eyes landed on the packed suitcase. Everything clicking in place now. You were leaving. He felt a lump form in his throat as he looked you over. You looked almost as tired as him. You kept your eyes low fidgeting with the ring once more before speaking. Your words calm and thought out. "I think we should take a break" Now. Katsuki has grown alot in the past years. But something inside him snapped at hearing the dreaded words fall out of your mouth. To him you were giving up on him. Like everyone else. Emotions swirled through his scarlet eyes before an anger bubbled over them.

Yeaaaa.....

Safe to say you both didnt recover from that. -♡- ✮Midoriya I. (Deku !!)✮

Reason- He's too scared of leaving you that he kept you at arms length.

You heard me right folks

Poor bby is scared that one day he wont be around and he'll leave you all alone

Solution?

Leave you all alone while he's still alive :D

Being fr tho ever since he became the new symbol of peace he's had this unconscious state of "Any moment may be my last"

Thing is he didn't really develop this until one night.... There had been a villain attack, one far more catastrophic then anyone would have predicted. Izuku came home hours later battered and bruised beyond belief. Walking into the your shared house it wasn't until he heard muffled cries that he snapped out of his daze rushing to the source only to find you, clutching his shirt, tears streaming down your face as the sound of the news blasted through the room. You turned your head to see your boyfriend, leaning against the door frame, splattered with blood and dirt his clothes torn with wounds oozing the horrid crimson liquid. Your glossy eye's met forest green and you sprang to your feet tripping as you fell, hands gripping his. That night Izuku fought tears while he watched you try to scold him between sobs about how he should have called you. How scared you were and how much you needed him to come home after stuff like that. Something in him switched that night. He never wanted to see you cry like that again.

And so he distanced himself

AND I DONT WANT ANYONE BEING LIKE

"Oh why dont u just come home early when stuff like that happens or be more careful"

At the end of the day there is no guarantee he'll be able to call you.

Or that he'll always be safe

There's no guarantee He'll be alive at the end of the day.

Its the realistic statistic's of his life

And of course being the symbol of peace, he had to accept that

But the thought of leading you on with the rest of the world

Leading you to think that every night he'll be there to lay next to you.

Allowing you to feel so much pain if he ever did leave.

The thought alone had him uneasy.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

Letting you leave first. You sighed as you packed your things, Izuku watching out of the corner of his eye, trying his best to act indifferent to it all. "I think that's the last of it..." You said gripping the handle as you looked over to the man you had loved for years. The man that you thought you would marry. The man who now wouldn't even spare you a glance. A uninterested hum echoed through the house. Utter shock painting your face as you scoffed biting back tears that threatened to spill once again. You turned on your heel hand hovering over the cool steel of the door handle before you stopped. "You're not the man I fell in love with, not anymore." You turned the handle leaving the shattered man behind. The slam of the door making the hero flinch. He did it. He kept you save. So why was he still crying? -♡- ✮Todoroki S.✮

Reason - He never gave it a chance

You two had been young when your parents arranged for you both to be wed.

You were told since day one about it.

Shoto, not so much.

It wasn't until he turned 18 was he told of this.

His first thoughts?

He hated it.

He hated the whole idea.

He despised it so much that he fought tooth and nail to get out of it. "You're not listening to me- I don't want to marry someone I've never met!" Anger filled his body as he yelled at his stoic father. The man never once cracking a look of sympathy for his son. Instead he stood up, firm eyes trailing down to the duo coloured ones below. "She had no problem with it. I don't see why you're making such a fuss, its for the family's blood line and-" Shoto felt flames crawl up his skin as he listened to his fathers ramble. Tired of it all he left leaving the man talking to thin air. He paced his training room before sending the room into a pit of rage filled flames. Ice covered the windows as he let out all his pent up anger. Cursing aloud at how foolish anyone would be to marry someone they didn't know.

Safe to say he didnt even want to meet you.

But you did and eventually got engaged.

But it was all a lie.

He didn't love you. He made sure you both knew it -♡- A/N I ran out of room. :/ I can redo Shoto's if yall end up liking this idk

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter XXIV

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 4.9K

22 Welona

Someone was crying. 

She wanted to reach out and quiet the person—hold them until their distant sobs grew silent.

But her hand wouldn’t move. 

It laid beside her. Heavy, tingling. 

And then the pain hit.

Agony along her spine, burning, contracting.

A pounding in the back of her head, hammer-like.

Excruciating ache in her neck, tightening, stabbing.

Her eyes tried to open. Light blinded her. Watery images floated around her.

A little girl off to the side, curled on the floor, sobbing. 

Two pairs of legs nearby. 

A face so familiar it hurt; a yearning so poignant her heart strained for him, a hand trying to reach for his own, tie itself to his. 

She tried to smile. But darkness swarmed her—a colony of bats fluttering at the edges of her vision. 

Through it she saw someone at the door. A man, gruff and aged, his smile weary yet tender. She hadn’t seen that face in seventeen years. 

A reminder.

A reminder that the happiness she had experienced, she didn’t deserve. Because she wasn’t kind to him in his final moments, and she knew, this was her comeuppance.

This was what she deserved.

So she closed her eyes.

23 Welona

Orchestral music ebbed from the aircar’s radio, a ballad, presumably a recording of an Inner Rim symphony. The lilt and flow of the woodwinds told a tranquil story, a necessary breath before the intensity of the story’s final moments and ultimate tragedies. 

“Your sister’s still ill,” Carinthia said. A hand on the wheel, she lowered the music further. “But her healer said rest and food will have her back on her feet tomorrow. The day after, at the latest.”

Kazi loosed a shaky breath. Soreness trickled through her muscles, a dull throb slowly bouncing behind her eyes. 

“Wolffe kept you updated?” she asked, rubbing the dragon pendant between her fingers. The necklace’s chain slid across her wrist, cool to the touch.

“Yes.” Carinthia slid her a sidelong glance. “He was…demanding when he first commed Fehr.”

Outside, rain drizzled from the ashy sky. The trees bordering their route shuddered, their green subdued from the fog crawling across the hilly landscape. 

Pressing a hand to her temple, an attempt to massage away the building ache, she asked, “Demanding?”

“More like threatening,” Carinthia said, amused. “What were his exact words? Oh right: You fucking owe her.”

Kazi grimaced. “He didn’t.”

“He did.” Carinthia’s chuckle sobered and she clutched the steering wheel tighter, the drizzle outside harshening. “There was no need for such theatrics. Fehr would have helped, regardless.”

“Wolffe will never believe that,” Kazi said quietly. At Carinthia’s probing silence, she shrugged. “He doesn’t trust any of you.” A moment passed, and she added, “I don’t blame him for it.”

The music filled their silence, and Kazi pressed a hand to her stomach, telling herself she wouldn’t vomit. Her thumb swept across the dark-green dragon pendant, again. She wanted… 

Well, it didn’t matter what she wanted.

Four hours ago, she awoke in the med center, her shoulder and back still healing from an expensive bout of bacta supply. Apparently she had caught herself falling, wrenching her shoulder in the process. But it saved her from breaking her spine. 

The med droid’s main concern was her cracked skull. Bacta stitches were required. Even now, she could feel them, cool and relieving at the base of her head. A look in the mirror before she left the med center revealed the faded abrasions lacerating her back. Her neck was still stiff. 

However, it was the weariness drilled into her bones that bothered her the most. A somber weariness leeched into her soul. A weariness she couldn’t shake. 

“I heard something of interest,” Carinthia said. Nausea coiled in her stomach and Kazi fisted her hands beneath her thighs, nodding for Carinthia to continue. “The network has dismissed Ceaia for larger operations.”

“I know.” Kazi tried to concentrate on a spot in the distance. Impossible, considering the dark drizzle. “I saw the update.”

“I wasn’t aware that you remain updated on Ceaia.”

“I didn’t—don’t.” The fog thickened and the aircar slowed. Her skin burned too hot, and she gritted her teeth, swallowing a lump of bile. “But I saw a random update last month.”

With a disbelieving look, Carinthia turned the aircar onto a dirt path. “There’s a contact on Ceaia. She informed me that some Ceaian towns are harboring rebels, refugees, those persecuted by the Empire. It’s all hushed, and only a few can be protected.” Carinthia paused. “But I have heard they’re willing to protect former Imperial supporters.”

Kazi mulled her words. Tried to analyze the heavier note in Carinthia’s tone. However, she couldn’t parse the intent through the nausea twisting in her gut. Or maybe she didn’t want to.

“You could return,” Carinthia said. 

“I can’t.” The tunnel of trees widened and the house emerged, a white stain amid the dense fog. Tucking the necklace into her pocket, she said, “Ceaia is in the past. I’ve moved on.”

The aircar stalled and Carinthia glanced her over, skeptical. “Have you moved on? Or are you running from something?”

A snarky remark was on the tip of her tongue but Kazi swung open the door, leaned over the side, and vomited. It was mostly bile. Wiping her mouth, she glanced at Carinthia.

“Thank you”—Carinthia scrunched her nose—“for doing that outside.”

“Thanks for the ride.” The front door opened and Wolffe strode down the porch steps, a poncho shielding him from the rain. Kazi stared at him. Her heart beat faster; tension she hadn’t even known existed eased, faded. “And tell Fehr thanks, too. I appreciate what you both did.”

Wolffe had reached the car by the time she was stepping into the drizzle, bundling her into an overlarge poncho. He steadied her as she straightened. His eyes roved across her face, searching, relieved, and then he nodded at Carinthia. The door slammed shut. With a wave of her hand, Carinthia disappeared into the fog.

Outside the front door, the porch roof protection from the rain, Wolffe faced Kazi. Dark circles bruised his under eyes; harried lines worried his forehead. His hands cupped her jaw and he studied her. 

“Kazi,” he whispered hoarsely.

At the tenderness in his touch, the gentle concern in his expression, Kazi could only bury her face in his chest, trembling at the onslaught of emotion. Cold, persistent like the drizzle. 

A hand nestled into her lower back. Held her closer. Tired muscles uncurled, and her body seemed to sink into him, to seek him. To rely on him. 

“She pushed me.” Swallowing her tears, Kazi breathed him in, letting his familiarity soothe the sudden ache in her heart. The bruises marring her very soul. “She pushed me.”

“I know.” Wolffe surrounded her—his warmth, his scent, his hold unyielding, his chin nuzzled to the top of her head. “We didn’t tell her. And we didn’t tell Neyti. They think you fell down the stairs.”

“Good.” She burrowed further into his chest, for just another moment, and then she straightened, lifting her chin. “I don’t want them to know. Ever.”

Pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to her forehead, he released her. “Neyti has been…distraught.” Kazi winced, and he sighed. “She’s eager to see you.” He scrubbed his jaw, bristles coating his skin. “I wanted to see how you were first.”

“I can see her,” she said. 

Based on the narrowing of his eyes, he seemed inclined to disagree. So she brushed a swift, grateful kiss to his cheek, squeezed his arm, and then stepped into the house.

Warmth seeped into her bones. The lights were dim and welcoming, and a strong aroma of roasting vegetables wafted through the air. Shucking off her boots and poncho, Wolffe hanging the latter on the rack, she made her way into the living area.

A film played on the holoscreen—her favorite. In one of the armchairs, Fluffy sat on Nova’s lap. Both canine and man were watching the screen intently.

On the couch, Neyti was curled beneath Nova’s quilt, the dark gray panels as tumultuous as the storm raging outside. But it wasn’t Neyti’s somber countenance that surprised her. It was the man holding her. Fox. 

The little girl’s cheek rested against his chest; a large hand splayed across her shoulder, tucking her into his body.

As if he could feel her stare, Fox looked over his shoulder, meeting her gaze. His chin dipped. 

Before Kazi could analyze the situation, Fox was tapping Neyti’s shoulder and gesturing to her and Wolffe. Neyti’s head snapped around; she stared at Kazi. Her lower lip started to tremble. Tears filled her gray eyes. 

Stumbling from the couch, Neyti hurried toward her, hesitating half a meter away. She wrung her hands.

“Hi,” Kazi said, smiling. She knelt and, cautiously, Neyti stepped into her, tucking her face into her chest. Kazi closed her eyes, hugging the little girl tightly. 

“I missed you,” Neyti whispered. 

“I missed you, too,” Kazi whispered back. 

A quiet sniffle; a tiny hand gripping her sweater, like the little girl was too scared to release her. Ignoring the ache in her back and the throb worsening behind her eyes, Kazi held Neyti. Let her cheek rest atop her hair, her twin braids disheveled. Hugged Neyti tighter because she was shaking.

Eventually, Neyti leaned away, and Kazi reached into her pocket, retrieving the dragon-pendant necklace. “I found this on my bedside table when I woke up.” She peered into Neyti’s face. “You know something about it?”

“I put it in your pocket.” Shyly, Neyti accepted her necklace. “I wanted Vaeloria to watch over you.” 

Emotion burned the back of her throat, and Kazi squeezed Neyti’s shoulder. “She did. She watched over me.”

Satisfaction lit her face and Neyti tucked her necklace into her trousers’ pocket. Slowly regaining her feet, Kazi looked to the kitchen. Cody was pouring a boiling pot into the sink. A timer neared its completion. 

Her stomach lurched at the thought of dinner, and she grimaced. 

Wolffe must have noticed her unease because he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and then crouched in front of Neyti. He tapped a knuckle to Neyti’s chin. The little girl ducked her head with a bashful grin. “I’m gonna take her upstairs”—he gestured to Kazi—“and I need you to get the table ready. Got it?”

Shifting between her bunny slippers, Neyti cast a worried glance at Kazi. Before Kazi could comfort her, Wolffe tugged on Neyti’s braid. His voice was low, secretive, as he said, “She’s not going anywhere. I’m gonna keep her safe. Remember?”

Neyti nodded, looked Kazi over once more, and then she raced for the kitchen. 

Kazi watched, for a moment, as Cody helped Neyti grab the plates. Still, that weariness gnawed on her bones, shark teeth jagged and painful.

Soon, Kazi found herself in her sister’s room, her hair leaking down her back. 

Wolffe had offered to help her with the shower but she refused. Everything had happened so quickly, from her waking at the med center, to the droid pestering her, to Carinthia picking her up, that she needed to be alone. To compose herself.

The heat of the shower’s water had warmed her muscles. Yet her inner self remained drained. Exhausted. 

Kazi let her gaze sweep across Daria, her sister sleeping, though Daria’s fingers spasmed occasionally. 

A note—Healer Natasha’s most recent update from that morning—sat on Daria’s nightstand. Kazi read through it. Dread sluiced her body at the last comment: 

I have increased the dosage of morning/evening potions. They have reached their maximum. The disease will nullify their effectiveness, primarily in regards to memory loss, in the next three months. Succumbing to terminality is expected soon after.

The note fluttered from her hand and Kazi could only stare at Daria. At her little sister. 

The back of her throat tightened. Something heavy constricted her chest. 

She had been so fucking stupid these last few months. She had been happy, fucking happy, avoiding the inevitable because she was selfish and she took everything—Wolffe, Neyti, her sister—for granted.

“Fuck,” Kazi hissed. She pinched her arm. Pinched herself until she wanted to cry. 

Why was her little sister sick? Why not her?

None of this was fair. It wasn’t fucking fair—

The door tipped open and Kazi stiffened.

With a nod in her direction, Cody stepped into the room, approaching Daria’s bed and reaching for her sister’s hand. Kazi frowned at the device wrapped around Daria’s wrist: small like a wrist-chrono. Numbers flashed across its screen. It was new. Unfamiliar.

She gritted her teeth and took a step forward. The bed separated her from Cody. “What are you doing.”

“I’m checking her vital signs,” Cody said, tapping the device’s screen. “I’m keeping a log of noticeable symptoms. For Healer Natasha.”

“That’s my job,” Kazi said flatly. Another step forward but Daria rested on the opposite side, away from her. Away from her care. Her jaw ached, the spot behind her eyes pulsed faster, as she clenched her jaw harder. “You’re not needed. I’ll take care of it.”

Surprise furrowed his brows and Cody straightened. Slowly, he said, “Do you know how to operate it?”

She fisted her hands behind her back. “We don’t need you.”

“That so?” he drawled. A burst of restrained anger ticked in his jaw, but it quickly disappeared. Sighing, he lifted a hand. “I’m more than willing to do it—”

“Why are you here?” Kazi looked him over. “You don’t get to pretend like you care about Daria. You’re not her family, I am. And we don’t need you.”

“I may not be family,” Cody said calmly, lethally, “but I still care for her.”

Kazi scoffed. “The only thing you care about are your missions.” His nostrils flared, and she huffed a mirthless laugh. “You think she isn’t worth committing to and it’s fucked up—”

“That’s enough.” Rage glinted in his eyes, and his shoulders grew rigid. “Have you asked her about our situation? Have you asked her what she wants?” 

“She told me—” 

“Did she? Or did you assume you understood what she was saying?”

“I know my sister,” she said.

“I don’t doubt that.” Releasing a heavy breath, Cody held her glare. “Daria and I have discussed these things. I would never hurt her. And I have made my intentions clear from the beginning. We have an understanding. That’s all you need to know.”

The finality in his tone—his fucking composure when her little sister was dying—grated on her nerves, and Kazi dug her fingernails into her palms. 

“You know she’s going to forget you,” she said quietly. Cody tensed, and she laughed, the noise choked. Broken. “She’s going to forget you. She’s going to forget Neyti. She’s going to forget me. She’s going to forget all of us.” Her vision started to blur, and she gulped. “Are you going to be here when that happens, Commander? Are you going to ‘check on her’ when she looks you in the eye and is scared because she doesn’t fucking recognize you?”

A tear scorched her cheek and she swiped it away. Her breaths sharpened. Loud and ragged to her ears. Placing a hand against her chest, she tried to breathe. It was hard. It was so fucking hard. Like her lungs didn’t want to cooperate.

“She’s going to forget you,” she repeated hoarsely. “She’s going to forget all of us. And then she’s going to die, and she’s going to die not remembering she was my sister.”

For a long, silent minute, they stared at one another, and then Kazi turned on her heel and locked herself in Daria’s refresher. 

She collapsed to the floor. 

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and she bit. 

She bit into her skin, muffling the sobs trying to choke her. Bit her wrist and squeezed her eyes closed, refusing to cry. 

Because she wasn’t allowed to cry. Her little sister was suffering, and she had no fucking right to cry.

The ‘fresher door opened, and someone was kneeling beside her, and strong arms were pulling her into a chest.

“It’s okay,” Wolffe murmured through her harsh pants. “It’s okay.”

“She’s going to forget me,” she whispered brokenly. A metallic taste filled her mouth and she shoved her hand away, ignoring the smidgen of blood. “She’s going to forget me.”

Lightning crawled across the sky, the white lighting the bedroom for long, unnatural seconds. Tucked beneath her covers, Kazi watched the storm. 

Beyond her bedroom, the house was silent. Wolffe had tucked Neyti into bed, and the men were downstairs, enjoying a horror film Nova recommended. All except Wolffe. He was drawing shapes on her arm, seemingly content to endure her silence, as he had the last hour.

Another burst of lightning purpled the night sky. 

Kazi knew she should talk to him. Explain. However, embarrassment kept her back to him. Embarrassment and shame. She owed Cody an apology for attacking his character, and she owed Wolffe an apology for not being competent. For not being in control. 

But she was too tired, really, to care about apologies. And why bother when she didn’t deserve the possible forgiveness? 

“I was scared.” 

The words, though softly spoken, startled her enough she jumped. Looking over her shoulder, she found Wolffe staring at her ceiling. His expression was haunted. 

“I watched you fall. And I couldn’t get to you,” he said. “I heard your head hit the edge of that stair and I thought…I fucking thought…” His throat bobbed, and his eyes sought hers. “What happened can’t happen again.”

Kazi flinched at the tremble in his voice, and she turned over, lying on her back.

“Daria will need better care soon,” Wolffe said. Beneath the covers, his finger caressed her hand. “Will that be 24-hour care?”

Massaging her temple, she blinked at the ceiling. “Yes. I need to figure out the specifics. I haven’t done that yet.”

“Kazi.” Hesitation lengthened the silence between them and then his hand engulfed hers. “You don’t have to do this alone. You have me.”

Lightning splintered and fractured. A low roll of thunder echoed across Eluca’s jungled hills.

“It’s not your responsibility,” she said. “You have your own concerns with your missions and keeping your brothers safe. You can’t concern yourself with my family’s issues.”

Rustling sheets drew her gaze back to Wolffe. He’d pushed himself upright, leaning against her headboard, a knee bent. He regarded her with a hard look. 

“We’ve reached a point where we need to be honest,” he said. “I’m here. I’m in this with you. And I’ve got your back.” His hand twitched atop hers. “All you need to do is let me in.” 

It was determination in his features. Determination and tenacity. And yet a hint of hurt belied the steadiness in his demeanor. 

And she knew. Her insistence to maintain a semblance of distance—her insistence to rely on herself rather than rely on him—had hurt him more than he would ever admit.

Slowly pushing herself to a seated position, she gripped her knees and met his gaze. The combination of his unflinching stare and flickers of lightning left her bare. Open and vulnerable. A gutted fish abandoned on the deck of a sailboat. 

“I have spent a majority of my life relying on myself,” Kazi said quietly. Her hands started to tremble and she tightened her grasp on her knees. “I don’t want to burden you.” 

“You’re not a burden,” Wolffe said. A hand warmed her shoulder. “How have I not proven this to you?” 

She shook her head, her half-smile exasperated. Self-deprecating. Because it wasn’t his fault. He was so, so good, and it wasn’t his fucking fault for her conflicted, irrational feelings. 

“I don’t know how to let you in.” She wanted to pull away from his hand. From the heat scorching parts of her she didn’t want touched—dormant parts of her too sullied for him to see. “I don’t know how to rely on anyone but myself.” 

“I know.” He sighed, refusing to release her. “But you told me you would trust me.” 

“I do.” 

“Then trust me. Rely on me.” 

“What about you?” she demanded. Bewilderment scrunched his face and she scoffed. “You’re always so composed, Wolffe. You’re always in control. You never have any burdens—”

Wolffe snatched the black, worn notebook from her opposite nightstand. He flipped open the first page and shoved it into her hands.

“These are names,” he growled. His hands were shaking. “These are names of everyone I care about. My general. My men. My brothers.”

A white flash highlighted the inked names on the first page. Some were crossed out. The blood drained from her face.

“When I wake up in the middle of the night”—he flipped the page and even more names were crossed out—“or when I get stressed on a mission, I have to read these fucking pages to reassure myself that not everyone I care about is dead.” 

Thunder droned outside the house and Wolffe swallowed.

“I can’t look at raw meat. I can’t smell it. I can’t fucking eat meat anymore because it reminds me of the bodies…” Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. “Fireworks remind me of Abregado. When I see Neyti sparring with my brothers, I immediately look for Nova. Because I need a fucking medic on hand just in case she gets hurt.” He exhaled a sharp breath. His eyes hollowed. “I count the minutes until you return from work. Because I’m scared you won’t return.”

More pages riffled. Only one or two names remained unblemished. 

Kazi started to flip another when Wolffe halted her. Even in the darkness she could see more names written on the next page. They must have been personal, if he didn’t want her seeing them.

“This what you want, Ennari?” He tapped the book. “To know that I’m so fucked in the head I need a book to keep my fucking thoughts straight?”  

“Wolffe…” Kazi searched his face, the exhaustion and resignation dulling his eyes.

“I think I’m stained,” he said quietly. Gently closing the notebook, he returned it to her nightstand. “My hands are stained. And every time I get in your bed, I’m reminded that—” His shoulders hunched and his mouth pressed into a flat line. 

A scowl marred his features, an attempt to guard his vulnerability. And it was vulnerability, raw and honest, rounding his eyes and wearying his face. So she offered him her own vulnerability.

“I hate med centers.” A humorless smile pinched her cheeks. “My father was brought to one right before he died. And ever since then, I’ve hated them.” She fiddled with the hem of her sheet. “I know it’s stupid, but waking up there…” 

Seeing Neyti’s necklace was a comfort when she first awoke. A comfort that calmed some of her initial panic. 

“Being there today reminded me of what’s to come for Daria,” she whispered. “And I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared to lose her.”

Purple lightning lit her room and it was then that she noticed the small object on her nightstand. Gray petals. A thin, long stem. Another tear trickled down her cheek.

“She didn’t recognize me, Wolffe. She looked me in the eye and didn’t recognize me,” Kazi whispered. A few seconds followed, and then she added, “Ever since I first learned about her disease, I’ve numbed myself to any thought of it. I thought it would go away”—she scoffed—“and it was so fucking stupid of me. But I really thought if I ignored it and avoided any thought of death it would disappear. It wouldn’t be my problem.”

The gray flower mocked her. Innocent. Delicate. A vestige of life.

“I’ve failed to protect her,” she said. “I failed her.”

Wolffe cleared his throat. “You can’t protect your sister from a disease. That’s outside your control.” 

“I should’ve researched more—”

“You can’t control certain things, Ennari,” he said. Her lips pursed, and Wolffe ran his tongue along his teeth. A wildness lit his eyes, desperate and raging. “I sent men to die. Men who I shared blood with. I ordered them into battle, and not all of them made it. I couldn’t protect them all. Do you think I should blame myself for their deaths?”

Her grip tightened on her sheets. “No.”

“Then stop blaming yourself for Daria’s disease.”

The decisiveness in his tone brokered no room for further argument. But it was the guilt in his expression—the guilt still gnawing on him—that convinced her to let it go. 

Settling beneath her sheet, she rested her head on a pillow. Wolffe lowered himself to the mattress, too. Tension thrummed from him, and she reached for his hand, brought it to her mouth. Softly kissed his palm. Kissed his fingers. Held his hand close to her heart as she closed her eyes.

Sometime in the witching hour of night, Kazi woke. The storm had settled, and the moons limned the darkness, and a cloud of lightning bugs flitted across the sky formerly bearing their namesake. 

Like one of those bugs fluttering to a new place, Kazi made her way to her sister’s room. Warm light seeped from the cracked door. She peeked inside.

Daria and Cody were speaking, their voices quiet, their touches purposeless until Daria noticed her. With a small smile, her sister beckoned her inside. Kazi nodded at Cody, and she hoped he could see the apology in her face. He vacated his seat. On his way out, his elbow knocked hers. Gentle. Reassuring. Remnants of her guilt eased, and she sat in his chair.

To her surprise, Daria reached for her hand, her sister’s fingers a cold blanket around her own. Her grasp was weak.

“Cody said you fell,” Daria said, her eyebrows knitted in concern. “He said you fell down the stairs and you had to go to the med center.”

Kazi mustered a smile. “I’m fine. A little sore, but the pain meds should make it go away within the next day.”

A few seconds passed in stilted silence as Daria scrutinized her. “I’ve never known you to be careless.” 

“I fell from the boat’s mast once,” Kazi said. “Luckily I only sprained—”

“Your ankle.” Daria licked her lips, the usual pink paled. “I remember.”

Hesitation worried the lines of Daria’s face. Squeezing her sister’s hand, Kazi murmured, “I tripped, Dee. Things like that happen.”

“But you’re always so careful,” Daria said. “The stairs at the lighthouse never tripped you up. I remember…” Her eyelashes quivered, and it was then that Kazi realized some of them were missing. “I remember one of the steps gave out. But you caught yourself.” 

“I was young,” Kazi said. “I had more mobility—”

“You’re still young. And you’re as athletic and agile as you used to be.”

A single sweep of her sister’s face and the mistrust haunting her gaze told Kazi everything she needed to know. Her sister surmised the truth.

She could try to convince Daria otherwise, but, ultimately, it would be pointless. And she wasn’t interested in isolating Daria again—jeopardizing the relationship they were still nurturing. Instead, she rounded the bed and slid beneath the covers. 

While Daria sipped from a water glass, Kazi surveyed her sister’s nightstand. A dragon carving reared, its wings splayed, its wood a sea glass reminiscent of the ocean on a calm day. A frame housed an old, faded photo.  

“Do you miss them?” Kazi asked quietly, studying her parents.

“I do,” Daria murmured, her smile wistful.

“Did you ever write them letters?” 

A tradition in Traditionalist and Reformist culture: When a loved one died—whether a family member, friend, or even a pet—you wrote a letter. Well-wishes. Reflection. Gratitude. Issues laid to rest. 

The letters were private. Only for the dead and the stars to overhear. They were a formal plea to the dragons—to guide a lost soul to the afterlife.

When the moon was full, the letter was read. For Ceaians believed all humans were formed from stardust, and it was to stardust the dead returned. 

The letters were also a reassurance to the dead. A reassurance that their loved ones could continue onward, without them.

Kazi never wrote her parents letters. 

“I did,” Daria said. “I read them, and I burnt them.”

The one differentiator between Traditionalists and Reformists: The Traditionalists drowned their letters at sea, and the Reformists burnt them. 

The former believed drowning the letter allowed a piece of their dead loved one to remain on Ceaia. A burial. The latter believed burning the letter symbolized an individual’s readiness to continue. To keep living.

Staring at Daria’s dragon carving, Kazi frowned. “Are you…afraid of dying?”

Understanding softened her features and Daria smiled sadly. “Not anymore.” 

Daria closed her eyes, and Kazi knew, without being told, that her sister was imagining Ceaia. Most likely their old home on the beach shore. 

“I lived,” Daria said softly. “And while it wasn’t the life I envisioned for myself, I still had the chance to truly live.”

For a while, Kazi mused her sister’s answer, and as Daria’s breathing started to even, she whispered, “I’m starting to remember what it’s like. To actually live.”

“It’s terrifying,” Daria whispered back. “But so, so exciting.”*

Later, Kazi made her way back to her room. 

The moment she rejoined Wolffe beneath her covers, he wrapped an arm around her front and pulled her into his body. His breath warmed the back of her neck. A few seconds later and he was asleep again. She soon followed him.

Masterlist | Chapter 23 | A Muse

A/N: Kazi and Wolffe in the last scene.

By the way, just in case people don’t know, I wrote this version of Wolffe before we even knew that Wolffe would be in season 3 of TBB. So my portrayal of him is not reflective of the storyline pursued in canon Star Wars post-TCW. 

* Line inspired by Night at the Museum (2006): "It's time for your next adventure." "I have no idea what I'm going to do tomorrow." "How exciting."

[lalazeewrites]

What are your personal favorite Gallavich fics?

OKAY, BUCKLE IN!

I actually answer this fic and Tumblr like glitched and deleted it and I was crushed about it, but now I'm back. Ready to tackle this again!

First off, I have 90 Gallavich fics bookmarked. So let's start with the fact that I have a lot of fics that I LOVE and I'm going to link you right here to my Gallavich Bookmarks, should you want to look. I didn't add to my list any purely smutty fics and I have A LOT of amazing ones Bookmarked.

That being said, here are my personal standouts. I'm NOT putting these in order of how much I like them, because I would simply die on the spot under that kind of pressure.

BELOW THE READ MORE: 25 FIC RECS & SHORT RAVE REVIEWS

Life, or Something by @palepinkgoat

This fic encapsulates a lot of things that I crave in a fic that is designed specifically for my tastes. Personal journeys that begin rocky and work toward healing. Dark themes that are treated in a very matter-of-fact way instead of rolling in angst. The growth of mental health. You'll probably see those themes a lot in the fics I love. I also have a fascination with all things death, as someone who has almost died many times and who struggles with a chronic illness. This fic is so. . .beautiful? Articulate. FEELING. I love everything about it.

Belladonna by devovitsuasartes

Oh, THIS. Oof. Okay, this is fantasy HOW I WANT IT. So intricate, so unique, so embedded into the world-building that isn't word-dumped on us with exposition, but SHOWN to us. Witches and forced familiars, complicated family dynamics, rough pasts, coming full circle between the beginning and the end. Emotional journeys, coming back from tough experiences, PINING. This is the fantasy for ME.

Is There Somewhere by andchaos

Soulmates! Soulmarks! Mute Ian who is really fucking funny and sweet and Mickey who doesn't think he has a soulmate because he has no 'first words said to me' mark. I love the dance, I love their rapport, I love how warm this fic is. I've read it several times for comfort.

You Can Bite Me by @goodkwuestion

It's easy as breathing to love all of this author's fics, but this is the one for me, and it has nothing to do with the fantasy vampire aspect. This is one of the only fics that has made me cry. I don't cry from fics, almost ever. The write in this goes from hilarious, witty, clever, and sharp, and then swoops you into appreciating the beauty and sanctity of life, traversing the journey of loss and grief, embracing the passage of time, welcoming love into your life, and simply embracing what it means to be human. This fic touched me in ways I'll never be able to express without a five page essay.

Etherized Against The Sky by Snarfle

A canon-divergent story from 1x09 onward. I couldn't put this into words if I tried, because it is EVERYTHING. Everything that I could ever want in a canon compliant type of fic. Holy shit, does this make me ache. It explores so many facets of their growth, mental health, self-acceptance, found family, rebuilding blood family, and learning how to live in the world of Shameless, but this time, thriving. A complete work of art.

You make me feel human by Dragona

Listen. LISTENNN. Are you listening? Anything that is considered a 'dark' AU is going to be my jam. Anything that dips its toe or severed foot into Hannibal or Murder Husbands type worlds are not just up my alley, but they're leading right up to my fucking house and knocking on the door. This is it, folks! This is the one! No one did it like this fic did it! PLUS: A happy ending? Bitch, I'm on the ground.

My Nine Lovers by @annatrow

While we're talking kiss kiss bang bang gun boyfriends, let's just slap this fic right down here, because holy fuck, I have read it at least three times. The pining? The smut? The secrets? SEXY MURDER BOYFRIENDS TURNED HUSBANDS??? Yeah, honey, I'm here in the front row with my little #1 fingie! My Bookmark comment says "This was so fucking clever and reverent and heartening and joyful."

The Mask of Insanity by @annatrow

Yeah yeah, I am trying to pick only one per author, but I simply cannot with this one. It's so fucking gritty and smart and sharp and emotional. Full of depth, character growth, strange life coincidences, bad boys and good guys and where they fall in between together. I'm big on fics that make you fall down, get scraped up real good, then pick you up by the armpits and say, bitch, we're got more to go!

Conflict of Interest by @thisdivorce

Everyone and their mom knew this was coming. It has everything I crave in a fic. Exceptional characterization. Deeply flawed, real humans living through real life events. The struggles of being queer and unsupported, specifically within the trans community. Journeys through mental health and the pitfalls of navigating the world when you don't see it as clearly as others might. Tearing and screaming out of the confines you've built around yourself, even if they're comfortable and safe, but knowing it's no longer right for you. This fic as everything and more and I've read it three times now because it fills my heart.

(And since this author is possibly probably my fav ever in this fandom, check out WIPs Reckoner and Change Like Shifting Shadows because their writing speaks to my pain and love on a bone deep level.)

Burden of Proof by DodgerBear

Okay, I really fucking like crime fics. Whether on the good side, bad side, or grey side, I love crime fics. This one is soooooo good, and I LIVE for the pining, the draw between them, the SPICE. Please! This is so fucking well done! Whip smart and sexy!

(and shout out to WIP by the same author, Quatervois, for which I will wait an eternity to update, I don't care, go read it NOW.)

Wild West Ian and Mickey by 09cityskylights

Always always always, I will be invested in Western AUs. Any fandom, anywhere, any time. I love for Westerns and this author does it so perfectly. I fucking adore this journey and I can't recommend it enough.

Can't Figure You Out by Crimson_Bebop

If I'm going to pick one office AU from the lot (and there's so many good ones, check out this post for more), it's gonna be this. It's nerve-wrecking, hot as hell, an emotional rollercoaster. You're rooting for both of them so badly, but they both require different but equally important things in their lives, and finding that middle ground is MESSY.

Dancing After Death by @squidyyy23

Oh man. Oh shit. I don't know where or hot to start, because this combines two of my fav things, Sons of Anarchy with Shameless. It combines them, yes, but more important, this is completely it's own beast with an incredibly detailed timeline of events. It's hot as all HELL, it's gritty, it's real, it's loving and tender and difficult and highly charged with emotion and struggle. LIVING FOR IT. I have read this three times.

Teenagers Scare The Living Shit Out Of Me by Mellow_Yellow

Oh hey, we're back at the Lala Loves Murder & Crime Show, and yeah, this one is FULL of it. It's so fucked up. It's so well written. The character growth is fucking A+, the murder reveal is exceptional, the mystery is FRAUGHT WITH DANGER. Guys! It's so fucking GOOD!

Teenage Dirtbag by @celestialmickey

Hah. . .I have read this three times. I'll never have read it enough times. Ian is 17 in 1999 here and I was 12 at the time, so everything this fic speaks to speaks of my entire adolescence and I just. Deeply cherish every moment. I savor every chapter of slow build. I revel in their victories. I sing along to all of their songs that I already know by heart, I wiggle in my seat to the Spotify soundtrack, I live for the vingettes of their happy ending. This fic is so magicl and wias written with such love and care.

you'll never see us again by @spoonfulstar

Okay okay okay, listen to me. Yes, we ALL love Intro to Quantum Dating by this author. I fucking adore it. I open it up at random chapters just to read and make myself smile. But THIS FIC??? THIS ONE??? You have got to be kidding me. I cried. I fucking yearned. I hurt, I hurt so bad down to my toes, and I smiled when things went right, and I teared up when it didn't, and I hoped and prayed for a happy ending, and yes I got one that was fulfilling and beautiful and poignant. Did the fact that I am a kidney transplant recipient play into my deep-seeding feelings about this fic? Absolutely. Do I think everyone should read this fic to grasp what exceptional storytelling looks like? BIG TIME.

Solid Skies and Slate-Blue Earth Below by @sentimentalspiders

This is one of the weirdest fucking fics I"ve ever read and I LOVE LOVE LOVE IT. Best alien!Ian! Exceptional, fascinating, vivid writing style! The narrative is articulated in such an ethereal, out-of-the-box way that is perfectly fits a story that is about an alien and a very lost man. It's SOOO COOL.

Brand Spanking New by J_Q

I don't know what to tell you. Micky gets sent to a fuckin' retreat when he gets professionally spanked (by Ian) to fix his horrible behavior. He gets out of there and then he and Ian start a very detailed BDSM relationship. This is SOOO my wheelhouse of JOY, but if it is not yourself, y'know uh. I mean, I still recommend it anyway. It's so wildly delightful and hot as FUCK.

That's a Wrap by @crossmydna

Am I biased because this was written for me as a gift? Shut the fuck up, of course I am. But also, no, because well before Cross took on prompts, they were working on The Menagerie which is in my top five favorite Gallavich fics of all time, and I read it all the time AND YOU SHOULD TOO. Anyway, back to this fic. What can I say, it's EVERYTHING I WANT. Actor AUs! Meet Ugly, the hottest smut imaginable, banter that's sharp and strong, badass Ian & Mickey, everything everything everything.

The Stargazer by crazynadine

Hey yeah, hi, welcome to my Daddy Kink. There's a lot of it. Let me show you around, its got scrappy heart of gold sex worker Mickey, it's got age difference bearded and jaded by life Ian, it's got panties and road side motels, and secrets, jealousy, and hot hot hot smut, like holy shit. But if daddy kink is not your jam, then y'know. . .ahem.

The Question of Normal by blue_newman

Ian is a prison counselor and Mickey is in prison. The way that I LIVE for Ian breaching any of his professional protocols to help Mickey (this goes for so many fics in my bookmarked fics) is unholy, but how about you five me a fucking break okay. I just like it when they break the rules, as they should, because this is Shameless LOL. But seriously, this is so thoughtful and heartening and left me feeling really fucking right in the world after I read it.

Well, I hope this helped! This is only about a fifth of my Bookmarked fics, and I wanted to write about SO MANY MORE. Anyone is always welcome to ask me to rave about fics, I am always here for it lol.

I said this in the begining, but I have bookmaked A LOT of smut fics that I think are exceptional works, so I suggest you filter my Bookmarks by works under 10,000 words and you're gonna find 'em all.

[caspersickfanfics]

Appreciation Post #1

(This is my way of thanking other creators! If you're mentioned here please know that I appreciate you and your work has made my day (probably multiple days, actually). Having said that, if you don't want to be in this post, please let me know and I'll be happy to edit it!)

Through the Snow by @dutifullyshamelessearthquake

Warnings: vomiting, standard sickfic stuff Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Cyno, Tighnari Highlights: long!!! (almost 20k!!!), attentive/gentle Tighnari, suffering/clingy Cyno, slow build-up and pacing

Excerpt: Cyno coughed violently into his hands, before his body lurched with the motion. Tighnari cringed, hearing liquid splatter on the wooden floor. Cyno's back heaved violently beneath his hands, and there was more splattering. He coughed wetly a few times, before inhaling a sharp, shuddery breath. The air smelled sour.

There was no question that this would be in the list this week - what an absolute dream to have a multi-chapter Cyno/Tighnari sickfic! The excellent pacing and general progression of the writing paired with extremely attentive caretaker Tighnari makes this work one of my all time favorites. Overall just a great mix of hurt and comfort!

Very Important Bonus Note: There's also some amazing art for this fic here and here by @relevantlucidity which I revisit frequently and even more art for it here by @myfriendscallmeasimp which is so precious!!!

Unfortunate Circumstances by @imill

Warnings: vomiting (induced and natural), scat/diarrhea, standard sickfic stuff; incomplete fic Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Scaramouche, Childe Highlights: long - about 7k of pure misery, balances complex emotions - fear, worry, guilt, disgust, pity - extremely well, wonderfully descriptive diarrhea + vomit combination if that's your thing, 2 sick characters for the price of one

Excerpt: Childe gasped, his chest tight as he looked at the trembling figure in front of him. He had thought semi-conscious, carsick Scaramouche looked horrible but this one looked even worse. Without a second thought, he pulled the smaller harbinger into a hug, fingers gently running through his wet hair. And Scaramouche didn’t try to fight it, he didn’t have the energy. He sobbed into Childe’s chest, mentally cursing himself out for being so fucking weak.

The number of times I have reread this fic specifically is frankly concerning. If you're into the emeto/diarrhea combination, it's a must-read. It's heart-wrenching, brutal, and ultimately really sweet and comforting. I don't always like fics where the caretaker is also ill, but this one feels realistic without minimizing either characters' pain. It's just an absolute treasure and I adore it.

Scaramouche Art by @warmmilkytea

Warnings: vomit/emeto art Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Scaramouche Highlights: lovely + comforting art style, captures the ✨ angst ✨ so well, such a great visual depiction of the buildup before being sick

This entire blog is right up my alley to be quite honest. I'm really not knowledgeable about art but these works make me feel things!! Wonderfully comforting things. When I look at these pieces, it's easy to picture a narrative around them and I adore that. This one specifically does such a lovely job of depicting one of my favorite bits to write - the buildup. I visit this blog often and just scroll through when I'm struggling with inspiration to write, so I'm very grateful that it exists!

Sharing a Receptacle by @danafeelingsick

Warnings: vomiting, food, standard sickfic stuff Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Tighnari, Cyno Highlights: extremely high quality writing, beautiful balance of dialogue / body language / descriptions of the internal world and emotions of the characters

I've been waiting for a month to recommend this fic, I've read it so many times it must be tattooed to the back of my eyes by now. I'm struggling to say what I want to about this fic because as I'm trying, I keep wanting to read the whole thing again. I don't know, it's just a masterclass in balancing the external world with the internal, emphasizing the hurt and the comfort just exactly right, and managing two sick characters on top of it all. I love it more with each reread!

Bonus Note: Dana's writing is the reason I started playing Genshin so everyone thank them for unintentionally reviving my desire to write after 5 years of writer's block XD They also have a bunch of incredible artworks which will likely appear in future appreciation posts (if I can ever stop waxing poetic over their writing).

A (Flame)light in the Dark by @aeryssickfics

Warnings: literal torture, mentions of blood (specifically coughing and vomiting up blood), vomiting, mentions of wetting and messing, vomiting on oneself, being chained up, mentioned force feeding, hallucinations Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Kaeya, Diluc, Aether, Lumine Highlights: intense whump/angst makes the eventual comfort and caretaking feel even better, very unique fic, intriguing combination of plot and hurt/comfort, depicts Kaeya/Diluc nuances really well

Upon rereading this fic for, genuinely, probably the 10th or so time, I just now picked up on a really interesting parallel between the sibling pairs in this fic. So now I love it even more because I am nothing if not absolutely weak for well written subtext and themes. I'm not usually big on whump fics outside of emeto stuff, but this one hits the spot. It flows very nicely, depicts some challenging perspectives and topics with the weight that they're owed, and I just highly recommend it to anyone who's curious and who doesn't mind the warnings!

[endcrman]

Allostasis

(Chapter 2)

As a general rule of thumb, Grian doesn’t do public servers for a multitude of reasons. This one hadn’t even made it onto the list.

TW for implied sexual assault, PTSD symptoms, Self-Neglect, and minor Disordered Eating

Read the whole fic here.

-

Grian woke to more messages. Some from hermits, but he didn't bother looking at those too closely, too preoccupied with the hours-old notification in the universal chat.

samgladiator: griannnnnnn

samgladiator: i know you havent blocked me grian cmon

samgladiator: are you mad about the redstone thingy? i was just goofing and gaffing you know what im like lol

Grian laid his head back against his pillow, eyes closed as he tried to figure out how to respond. His eye hurt. He didn't want to get out of bed. He didn't want to build, he didn't want to fish, he didn't want to work on anything right now. He was tired.

His comm buzzed again.

GoodTimeWithScar: hey grain, how are you doing after yesterday?

Grian: bit tired, but just fine! thanks for checking in

He was tapping out a lie before he could even think about it, not wanting to worry Scar. He had enough to concern himself with even before Grian was involved, he didn't have to add any more stressors to his plate.

Scar said something else, but Grian had closed his messages already, opening Sam's again, staring at them. What was he even supposed to say to that? Call him out on his bullshit? Laugh along with his shitty excuse of a joke? A voice in the back of his head was telling Grian to block him, but that would just make Sam mad, he reasoned.

Grian: what do you want sam

He regretted the message the instant he sent it, flinching as he turned off his comm again. Why was he so stupid? Why couldn't he leave well enough alone?

Grian turned over on his side, pulling a pillow over his head with a groan as the communicator buzzed. If only he hadn't just woken up, then he could fall asleep again and ignore all of this for even longer. 

Of course, Grian had no such luck. Instead he laid there, staring at the blank wall in front of him.

His comm buzzed yet again and Grian let out a bitter laugh, he could almost imagine Sam staring in anticipation at his own comm, waiting for Grian to get back to him after all this time. It was kind of pathetic, if that was what he was doing. How lonely was he?

And yet, Grian was reaching over to read his messages anyways.

samgladiator: i'm sorry.

samgladiator: like for real. no jokes. i know we were really messed up as kids and ive been working on it i promise. i guess i saw you and it just felt like we were kids again. fucked up but still in it together. i didnt mean it

He was still trying to process the words when another message came through, automatically populating the chat.

samgladiator: you can keep ignoring me if you want, i get it :( but if youre ever willing, i wanna make it up to you. text me whenever

He was going to throw up. There were a few panicked moments as he dug through his chests, silently pleading to anyone listening that he actually had a bucket up in his base, not just lost in his chest monster down below. His wishes were answered luckily, however unneeded, as he curled over the metal bucket on the floor, retching and dry heaving. His stomach was already empty, bile burning his throat, but that wasn't enough to curb the ill piercing it's way through his entire being.

Grian wasn't sure how long he sat there, bucket in his lap as his body tried to evacuate his stomach's non-existent contents. He was trembling when he finally managed to stop gagging, the bucket empty aside from a couple stray tears that had made their way down his cheeks. He was so tired again.

Shakily, he set the bucket down on the ground, easily accessible just in case. The sound of metal meeting the wooden floor was so, so loud in his ears, echoing around his base, making him flinch. Grian took a deep breath, carefully getting up on two wobbly legs before rolling into bed again. He should eat. 

He didn't get up, falling asleep again.

-

I'm sorry. Sam might as well have written those words on the inside of Grian's eyelids, as often as he was stuck thinking about them. Sam didn't apologize, that was part of what made him so insufferable to begin with, always convinced that he was in the right. So what the hell was this?

Grian wasn't sure how long it had been since he received those last messages from Sam, not really bothering with the passage of time. He'd spent most of said time thinking, turning over what had happened and what Sam had said in his head, picking at pieces of food he had laying around the base, and making up excuses to not have to see any other hermits.

He knew he was in a sorry state, and he knew he had to pull himself together before anybody saw him. Unfortunately, the universe seemed to have other plans.

“Grian!” Joel's voice was loud, Grian almost didn't recognize it as his own name, directed towards him. He pulled a pillow over his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe if he ignored him, he'd go away.

That was too much to hope for though. Why would Joel ever go away when he could cause problems instead?

“Grian! It's Sunday!” His voice was getting closer, and all Grian could think to do was hold the pillow even tighter over his head. “It's Sunday and you're not at the permit office! Get your butt out here! Or else I'll come in, and drag you out of your birdhouse by your scrawny little ankles, I swear to-'' Joel's voice peaked in both volume and proximity the same time it petered off into uncertainty. Then, it was quieter again. “Grian?”

Grian just groaned in response, holding the pillow even tighter over his head, maybe he could suffocate in it. Then he would respawn, Joel would laugh it off, call him some names for being stupid enough to do something like that, and everything would go back to normal instead of whatever else was about to happen, whatever lecture he was about to receive.

No such luck. Instead he felt a touch on his forearm, something he instinctively rolled away from which left him looking up at the other, wide eyes meeting even wider. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t force anything to come out. He noticed too late to stop just how tightly he was clutching the pillow to his chest, he must look like a mess.

Joel slowly withdrew his hand, and judging by how his brows furrowed and ears flattened against the top of his head the mess part was definitely true. Without wasting another moment, Joel schooled his expression into something more neutral— as if his tail flicking back and forth didn’t give him away— and sat bodily onto the foot of Grian’s bed, bouncing on the mattress.

“You seem busy, the permit office can wait,” he said with a shrug, not looking directly at Grian. He sat cross-legged, pulling his tail into his lap to brush the fur into place, pulling out a leaf and dropping it on the floor without even checking if Grian would care. His wings itched at the reminder of what could be. “Impulse’s wall is starting to get some graffiti on it, have you had a chance to see? Gem’s got a real good tag up there, I think you’d like it.”

Grian was silent, pulling his legs up just a bit so they weren’t in Joel’s way and shifting onto his back to look up at the ceiling instead of the tanuki in front of him. He couldn’t tell if this was better or worse than if the other had just confronted him about what was going on.

“I’ve actually been thinking about what I want to put on it,” Joel continued after a moment, as if the other actually had responded. Grian’s muscles ached from the sudden movements after what felt like days of disuse, leading to him stretching his legs out again, around Joel this time, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I need to put something up over by my base, I couldn’t stand it if it didn’t match my build, even if it was undeniably fantastic.”

He just kept talking, filling the empty air with his voice. Grian wouldn’t admit it, but it was sort of soothing, having somebody else around instead of just jumping from thought to thought, getting lost in them and feeling worse and worse.

It did start feeling awkward after a little, having Joel sit while he laid in bed, so Grian forced himself to sit up even as his muscles protested, at least a little, leaning back against the headboard of his bed.

“Thought you might have fallen asleep or something,” Joel joked once Grian had settled, making him look away in embarrassment. “I wouldn’t have blamed you, you look blummin’ tired, huge bags under your eyes. Something bothering you?” He asked, as if the answer wasn’t obvious. Grian only shrugged, not trusting his voice after so long, thankfully Joel didn’t push for an answer beyond that, coming to the same conclusion. “Stupid question, sorry. New question, when’s the last time you got out of bed?”

Grian must have made a face at that, because Joel laughed before managing to catch himself, snapping his mouth shut, which pulled the quietest huff of laughter out of Grian in turn. Just that by itself made his throat hurt a bit.

“Don’t laugh at me, I’m trying to be a good friend here.” Joel’s tone was light, and his smile made it clear he considered the small noise a success. “Hey, bed boy, let’s get you up and clean, how’s that sound? You go shower, and I’ll make you some real food.”

He wanted to protest, but his throat felt all closed up, and his traitor of a stomach growled at the thought of something other than stale bread for the first time in forever. Instead he pouted, petulant, and held his hands out.

“Yes!” Joel pumped his fist, making Grian roll his eyes. This was so stupid. “Sorry, come on, let’s get you moving again.” He slid off the bed first, taking Grian’s hands and helping him stand up. He almost fell at first, leaning far too much of his weight onto Joel, his legs wanting to do nothing but lay down again. “Careful, can you stand by yourself?”

It took a couple hundred ticks for him to stop swaying, and a couple more for him to finally stand on his own, wings spread just a bit to help him keep balance. He took a deep breath, trying to think of anything but said wings.

“Good job, you’re doing great,” Joel murmured, and it didn’t sound mocking at all, but Grian couldn’t help himself from ruining everything good that happened to him.

“I’m not a child,” he croaked out, voice rough from disuse, it almost didn’t sound like him.

Joel must have thought the same, because he looked shocked, though he quickly gathered himself again. “I know you’re not,” he scolded gently, too kind, “but you look like you’ve been through hell and back, and I want to make this as easy for you as possible."

And now he felt bad, guilty, for ever considering anything different than that. “Sorry,” he managed, even quieter, but Joel shook his head.

“Go get cleaned up, alright? I’ll make some food for you.” He brushed Grian’s hair out of his eyes, brows furrowing again, and he only pulled away when Grian nodded, throat hurting too much to say anything else at the moment.

He didn’t think Joel was going to find anything to make in his base right now, having neglected to actually fill many of the chests, Grian was lucky to have had enough bread to last him as long as it had. Regardless, he made his way to the tiny shower he’d managed to cram into the base, cranking the water heat up as high as it could for now and carefully pulling his t-shirt he’d been wearing for void knows how long off over his wings. He crinkled his nose, imagining the smell he’d become blind to and immediately feeling grateful that Joel hadn’t said anything about it.

Grian kicked off his pants without much fanfare and immediately dove into the shower, melting under the hot water. Now that he was made aware of it, he could feel the layer of grime that was surely there covering his skin, burning water finally melting it away. He carefully sat on the floor of the shower, barely managing to fit in the small space, especially with his wings. He took a deep breath, resting his head on the wall behind him, and just soaked it up like a fish left out of the river for too long, he chuckled softly to himself at the comparison.

He must have dozed off or something, because he jolted awake at the sharp knock on the door, and Joel's voice coming from just outside of it. “You alright in there Grian? Food’s almost done!”

“Y-yeah!” He called back before even thinking about it, regretting it immediately, voice scratchy. His throat hurt, but he didn't have time to worry about that, fumbling for the shampoo among the other bottles in the shower with him.

He definitely spent too much time just sitting under the water, so he tried to properly clean himself up as quickly as possible, so Joel wouldn't be left waiting. It wasn't long before he was out again, towel around his waist, hair and feathers dripping as he peeked out the door into the rest of the base.

“Joel?” He tried not to speak too loudly, not wanting to irritate his throat more, but he needed the other's attention. It seemed the other wasn't wandering far though, with how quickly he reappeared. “Can you-” He coughed. “Can you bring me clean clothes?”

Joel brightened up the more he spoke, nodding quickly as his tail swished behind him. “Of course! Be right back!” And he was off again.

He was back just as quick, and Grian didn't have the energy to ask him how he managed to find everything so easily, and whether or not his closet was left in decent state. Instead he closed the bathroom door again, pulling on clean clothes and already feeling a bit better. The sweater topped that feeling off, covering him like a security blanket. He shook the water out of his hair and wings before padding out into the main room again, catching a whiff of something that smelled amazing.

“Hey,” Grian's gaze fell on Joel, who was setting up a place for him to sit. “Your hair's a mess still.”

He blushed, shrugging his shoulders. He sat down before Joel even suggested he did, feeling tired.

“I can brush it for you,” he offered, setting down a grilled salmon in front of Grian, whose mouth was watering already. “I've done it for Lizzie before, I promise not to pull.”

“Did you catch this?” Grian asked instead, forcing himself to slow down before he ate the whole thing immediately.

“Borrowed one of your poles, figured you wouldn't mind too much,” Joel explained, setting a steaming mug down in front of him too.

He hummed softly in response, forcing himself to slow down after a couple bites and taking a sip of the tea Joel had made him. Far too sweet.

“I added some extra honey,” either Joel was reading his mind, or he'd made a face without realizing. “Your throat sounded pretty rough, it'll be good for you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, truly meaning it, whether it sounded that way or not. Joel was pretty quiet while he finished eating, puttering around the small base, occupying himself. Eventually he finished, pushing the plate away for later, and he heard Joel coming up behind him.

“I found your brush, mind if I take care of your hair?”

Grian sighed, a little smile creeping onto his face. “I guess, you promised not to pull though,” he reminded the other, head tilting back a bit.

“And I meant it!” Joel sounded offended, though he snickered after a second. “It'll help, you'll feel more like a person,” he murmured, and Grian felt him starting to work his fingers through his hair.

“You've been helping a lot already,” Grian admitted softly, relaxing easily into the touch. How long was his hair now? It couldn't be too much longer than he usually kept it.

“Glad to hear,” for once Joel didn't sound smug or full of himself, just genuinely glad. “How long have you been out of it?” The brush started working it's way through his hair.

“Dunno,” Grian mumbled, taking a deep breath. “Since… Since I last went off server,” he felt himself tense a little at the reminder, wings twitching.

“With Scar and Mumbo?” Joel kept his tone even, non-judgemental for once. “They mentioned your eye, was that what happened?”

A hand suddenly flew up to his eye, gently touching the skin near it. “P-part of it. Is it still there?” He'd been avoiding looking in the mirror since.

“Barely,” Joel assured him, and the motion of the brush through his hair started relaxing him again. “I only noticed because I knew to look for it. You said part, what else happened?”

He felt like his throat was closing up, eyes watering a little. “My- my wings,” he managed out, taking a deep breath. “Something happened.”

“Something,” Joel repeated, hands never stopping. “Are they alright? Nothing broken at least? They don't look broken.”

“N-nothing broken,” Grian confirmed, feeling them tremble, just a little. “Don't really wanna-”

“That's fine,” Joel murmured, and it was quiet for a moment. “With me? Or with anyone?”

He didn't know how to answer that, opening his mouth to begin speaking, only to close it when he couldn't think of anything. No, not Joel specifically, but he wasn't sure who, if he would anyone.

“I usually braid Lizzie's hair when I'm done,” Joel said nonchalantly, the brush regretfully leaving Grian's head, “but yours is pretty short. We could try a little ponytail if you want, I think it'd be fun.”

Grian shook his head, reaching for the mug of tea again. Knowing Joel, he'd gather up all the hair in front of his head, pull it all together right on his forehead… Though maybe not today specifically.

There was silence for a bit, comfortable, until Joel decided to speak again. “Would you tell Mumbo?”

Grian froze. Would he? He could. Mumbo knew the kind of stuff he went through when he was young, even if just vaguely. He was scared though, there was always the chance, no matter how small, that Mumbo would scold him when he found out just how deep that rabbit hole went.

“Careful, you'll shatter that,” Joel warned him, moving to take the mug from his white-knuckled hands, setting it down on the table again. Grian hadn't even noticed how tightly he'd been holding onto it. “Not Mumbo then, what about Scar?”

Scar. Scar didn't know any of it. At least, he knew less than Mumbo, he'd have less context clues to put it all together, he'd be reliant on the details Grian told him, and only those.

“... Maybe, I don't know,” he answered honestly, tracing the grain in the table with his finger.

“Maybe is better than no, or trying to shatter a cup of boiling tea all over yourself,” Joel was being dramatic, it wasn't even steaming anymore. “Why don't you take a nap? I'll get him over here in the meantime, I think he'll help, even if you don't tell him.”

Grian hadn't even realized how tired he was again, the thought of a nap sounding much more pleasing to him than it usually would. He didn't even think to argue, nodding as he carefully got up from the table, a yawn escaping him.

“Careful now,” Joel warned, helping him to bed. Grian would have taken offense at that were he not so exhausted, and the second he was laying down again he was out like a light.

[kinardsevan]

I have read all your stories in ao3! I love them. Will you be continuing the works in progress you have even after 806?

I actually answered this the other day, but for reference:

the plan is to at some point, yes. right now, i'm not super clear on when that will take place, mostly because of how raw last week feels still. i really need to see how the next few episodes pan out, and i'm also going into finals, so I have a lot going on in general. to that end, i don't have any plans to rush through any new updates at the moment. i'm still working on the new chapter of Empty Bones, but I haven't touched it since last week. It honestly took me a few days just to be able to get writing at all.

beyond empty bones though, i know that aneurysm fic means a lot to people, and while I do have plans to finish that story, it's not high on my list right now. part of that is because i'm in the final weeks of my degree, and part of it is because, as i've stated, the way that story ends is so god-damn happy for them and right now i just don't have it in me to write it. if i had to with how i feel right now, it wouldn't get there proper, and, in the vein of Stephanie Meyer after Midnight Sun got leaked in 2012, I'd probably do something off-kilter like make Evan irreparably ill. Given all that, it needs to be able to sit until I'm ready to deal with it, which really isn't right now.

god willing, it'll be something I get back to over hiatus and get finished, but only time will tell on that.

as for The Devil Doesn't Bargain, that one's solely a timing issue. Eventually I will get back to it to wrap it up. and finally, with Your Arson's Match, (lol) I know where that story goes next, I just got wrapped up in other stuff.

As for Never Til Now, again, I know where that goes, but it's something that's so fucking happy that I just can't do it right now. If I decide at any point that I'm fully done with any of them before they get done, I will post what's left of them. But for now, I just need time.

[becauseanders]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

ahhh hi thank you! (finally answering this!) 🖤

It Took the Night to Believe: chapterfic, complete, 100k. dragon age ii, anders/male hawke. pacific rim au. i am honestly really fucking proud of this fic, like i thought it was great even though it didn't do super well kudos-wise and i did notice that i definitely did lose readers as it went on. i truly have no idea why, this fic is fucking great. it's got angst, it's got comfort, it's got near death experiences, it's got fluff, it's got kaiju—what's not to love??

No Wound as Sharp as the Will of God: chapterfic, complete, 99k. dragon age ii, anders/female hawke. canonverse, post-da2. it took me seven years to post a second chapter of this and a total of eight years to finish it, and the whole time i was writing it after i picked it up again i was so unsure of it, but turns out i really like it. very heavy content, please do mind the tags. takes place while hawke is with the inquisition. anders positive, justice positive. a very intense, very deep, very affectionate friendship between anders and fenris is an extremely important part of the story. like, seriously, the platonic fenders is just as important as the romantic handers. a lot of angst, like so much angst, but the hurt/comfort is real. the b-plot pertains to my theory that justice cures anders of the taint. cole is there. the emotions are high and you can feel them strongly in the writing. again, be careful, but this is a good fic.

A Thing With Feathers Now, Elevate: one shot, 11k. dragon age: origins, alistair/female amell. canonverse, takes place over the course of da:o. this fic is a fucking masterpiece. another that didn't do well numbers-wise but this is easily one of the absolute best things i've ever written and is quite possibly one of the best fics on ao3. i am so fucking proud of this one. the prose, the metaphors, the handling of trauma, the found family—this one deserved way more love than it got. like, i'm serious, this fic is amazing.

It Means Tumult: chapterfic, wip, 349k (yes, you read that right). dragon age ii, anders/female hawke. modern au. okay, obviously i've got to mention this one. i have been working on this fic for eight years and i am very sorry to everyone who saw this go from updating multiple times a week and asking me how the fuck i write so fast to three years without a single update and then i think only one more in the past two years. i'm working on the penultimate chapter, i swear i am, i'm just super stuck right now. this fic is…this fic. i'm not going to lie, i don't really know if this is any longer some of my better writing, but the premise is fucking solid and i have been told more than once that it's clear this is a labor of love and that this is endearing. au where the obvious metaphors are made reality: the circles are psychiatric institutions and being mentally ill is a crime. a lot of angst, but a lot of love. pay no mind to how much better of a character and person aveline is when i write her. i also do admittedly use this fic to deal with my own demons frequently. an andrea gibson poem helped me write one chapter and i later got to tell them about it and they hugged me. this is also very heavily centered on music and has a lengthy soundtrack. please ignore the fact that when i first started writing this i used british english when i typed because i thought it looked better, as i had started doing as a teenager, which tbh i still kind of do but i also realized that's just fucking pretentious to do when you're american, and it was already so long by the time i stopped doing it that there was no way in hell i was going back to editing all of that (as i actually did do with nwasatwog). so that's just the way it is. but yeah, there's a lot of feelings happening here. also the only fic on this list that has an original title instead of song lyrics despite being the one with the most music involved, lol.

Through the Fall and the Feel: chapterfic, wip, 52k. dragon age ii, anders/male hawke. modern au. this is the one i'm working on most right because that's just where the brainworms are. hawke is a teddy bear doctor and anders goes to see him because instead of a pillow from his mother he has a stuffed cat, and she has seen much better days. this fic has a very wholesome premise but has gone into some pretty heavy angst already and i did not mean for eating disorders to be as important to the story as they have become, so be mindful of that. but this fic has a lot of heart and it's absolutely tanking, so if this piques your interest maybe go give it a look? this is also my second foray into m!handers and i am again having fun writing them. but yeah, i actually like this fic a lot and i do recommend it.

[aliveinacoffin]

Master List

Of the .1 fics that I've written/posted on here

⋆｡°✩ Spider-Verse ⋆｡°✩

( ´ཀ` ) Miguel O'Hara

Lunch Date - PT1 PT2 - Fluff/Implied F!Reader, can be ignored if you squint

↓ All somewhat connected, neither have to be read to know context, though, I would rec to read top first↑

Come Back To bed - PT1 PT2 - Angst little comfort/GN!Raader

A Difference In Fate - F!Reader, angst no comfort,

Coffee for us - GN!Reader, fluff

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ My Hero Academia ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

✩࿐ General

Boyfriend Imagines - Gen!Reader/Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Eijiro Kirishima, Shouta Aizawa, Denki Kaminari, & Hizashi Yamada - fluff, headcanons, just tooth-rotting fluff :>

ᓚᘏᗢ Aizawa Shouta/EraserHead Hospital - GN!Reader, angst/fluff comfort, TW suicidal talk, and dying) Strawberry Fanta - PT1 Introduction - (Rest On Ao3! Finished) - NSWF!F!Reader, TW yandere, stalking, violence (his name isn't spelled right I don't think? I'm so sorry) Orange Fanta - PT1 - Story and context on Ao3 - NSFW Fem!Reader, TW Yandere, violence, sexual content, dubious consent/noncon Silent Nights Exhibition - No reader, only zawa NSFW: public nudity, gremliness My own mirror - PT1 - PT2 - no reader, 3rd pov TW: Suicidal thoughts, smoking weed, implied abuse, parent death, brief mentions of ED With my whole heart- GN!Reader, angst/little comfort/none, TW: Yandere, violence, mentions of kidnapping, drugging, staking Hating you as well - PT1 PT2 PT3 PT4 - F!Reader, little angst/mostly just the sillies - you just wanted to make friends, but one GUY keeps making that impossible for you, it was like he fucking hated you! And for what!!

❆Shoto Todoroki♨

Deja ya de llorar - GN!Reader, tiny angst/major comfort just cute all around

♬♪ Present Mic/Hizashi Yamada

You're Not Just Him - Pregnant!F!Reader - Fluff - You make your husband take a break from work and have a family day with you and the kids.

✰ ✰ ✰ All Might/Toshinori Yagi

Important To You - Toshinori & Daughter!Reader - angst/no comfort TW! Neglect, parental abuse, depressive episode, mentioned eating problems, bullying, and mjc death - Being the daughter of such an important man was already hard, but after he gets deathly ill and the death of his best advisor? Forget about it!

༺｡° .ᘛThe Last Of Us 1&2ᘚ. ° ｡༻

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ Ellie Williams

Ellie Band Au Headcanons - no reader- nsfw & sfw parts

☀︎ Grand Theft Auto V ☀︎

Wedding Ring - F!Reader- Smut, cursing, manipulation - Michael De Santa has ghosted you for moths, and now he shows up to your house unexpectedly.

My Ao3!

Unfortunately, I do have unfinished works, and new ones in progress, but it's okay because I guilt myself enough for the both of us.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Requests are OPEN! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Won't do: Scat, water sports, puke (in that way, if ya know what I mean lol). Thats kinda it :)

Will do: Pretty much everything else lmao Post dividers by @cafekitsune

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Fandoms I can do!

MHA

Undertale

Across The SpiderVerse

Rick and Morty

Grand Theft Auto 5

SouthPark

The Last Of Us&1 (Games 2)

Harry Potter

Adventure Time

The disastrous Life of Saiki K

F is for Family

Mystic Messenger (Though, I will warn you I haven't completed the game 100%, so I'll go off what I know so far/what I've seen from the fandom.)