#a lull in the sea discussion

[ohwaitimthewriter]

Touchy-feely human!reader headcanon/imagine

Pairings: implied!Caesar x reader & implied!Noa x reader

Warnings: the holy fluff, and well huh, I got a TINY BITTY carried away with Noa's.

Requested:

A/N: DON'T LOOK AT ME I'M DYING (from embarrassment)

Enjoy your reading 😁

Planet of the apes Masterlist.

Being physical to express your emotions may be second nature to you, but I think with Caesar it may have taken a while before you succumbed to the temptation.

I mean, he's quite impressive, let's face it, intimidating even! So being able to enter his personal space without shaking like a leaf or tripping over your own feet is complicated at first.

But Caesar is observant, so he'll spot this trait in you pretty quickly because you'll express it with other apes like Maurice when you gently put your hand on his shoulder to thank him for teaching you a few words in sign language, or with Rocket when you give him a light shoulder tap, laughing as Rocket tells you a funny story about his son and Blue Eyes, for example.

He'll spot the way you press your hand against the forearm of the apes you're saying hello to, or, when you're in a playful mood, the way you'll sprawl your full weight on Ash's or Blue Eyes' backs, arms dangling around their shoulders, as they sit chatting and you just want to tease and disturb them in whatever they were discussing.

And he's going to wonder. Why not him, you know? He'll even get a little jealous that you never dare to put your hands on him, because he's noticed it too, all those times when you have an impulse towards him but always end up retracting your hand halfway through, or whatever gesture you were intending to make.

And I even think that the first real contact will be initiated, or at least requested, by him!

I like to think of it like this:

It had been an exhausting day. You wondered why Ash and Blue Eyes had let you get involved in this crazy idea of teaching you to climb trees on your own.

Your body was aching all over. Your muscles were sore, and if your joints could talk, they'd translate the electric shocks that made every part of your body tense into salty insults.

You'd put your heart and soul into it, and you'd spared no effort, a little pride at having managed, after countless attempts, to climb halfway up a sequoia creeping into the center of your chest. Although, even stretching your muscles had become painful.

You sat cross-legged by the communal fire, forgetting to help yourself with a bowl of vegetables and fresh fruit for dinner, and let yourself be lulled to sleep by the flames, which reproduced an aerial dance, some stretching as far as they could towards the sky while others sprawled out and collapsed in on themselves.

Your lungs drew in a long sigh as your eyelids struggled not to close and let you drift off into the arms of Morpheus. The dance in which the flames twirled and waltzed didn't help you fight off sleep, and it wasn't until a bowl full of vegetables and fruit was placed at your feet that you came out of your somnolence, if only for a moment.

Caesar had just brought it to you and his green eyes caught yours. For a brief moment, they didn't seem to want to let go, as your irises were lost in the gentle waves of sleep that sought to draw you out to sea. A smile spread across your lips as you silently thanked him for his gift, and the effort caused you to close your eyes in another deep, peaceful sigh.

As you remained slumped, elbows resting on your knees to support your body on the verge of sinking into sleep, blindly grabbing a piece of fruit from the bowl to come and chew it languidly, you felt Caesar settle down beside you, his arm barely brushing yours, just enough to let you know he was there.

Caesar watched you slowly chew the apple you had grasped feebly. With your back bent, there was only your elbows on your knees to keep you from sprawling on the floor, and Caesar noticed the depth with which your chest rose and fell, leaving you in such a vulnerable state beside him. His presence didn't seem to upset your nervous system and, in fact, he could almost feel the soothing rush through your muscles as you struggled not to fall asleep.

And for once, Caesar wasn't thinking when he saw you rocking back and forth in the lullaby of sleep. An opportunity to show you that you could lean on him, and even to urge you to rely on him a little more, rather than those other apes to whom you dared to address a touch, a contact that supported your words or emotions. He wanted to show you that you could depend on him, and without a second thought, he leaned over, gently pressing his shoulder against yours to help you keep yourself upright and give you some stability so you could finish eating.

His fur came to tickle your skin along your arm and your body, numb with sleep, found itself irrevocably drawn to him, who transmitted his warmth to you in a shower of tingles where your bodies connected. And you couldn't do otherwise, so you closed the few centimetres that separated you from Caesar, slowly shuffling your way towards his warm form, and let part of your weight rest against his side. His warmth enveloped you like a feather blanket, and you were already ready to fall asleep against him if you didn't feel him moving his arm from time to time to eat, or his chest working to provide him with oxygen.

It was only when your head fell asleep against his shoulder that Caesar turned his eyes to you, his gaze softening only for you as he watched your sleeping form curled up beside him. A pleasant twist ran through his stomach and up into his chest, and if he didn't know better, he might have let it purr with delight because finally you were leaning on him.

In your drowsiness, and perhaps because your state no longer allowed you to keep your emotions in check, you draped your arm around his, your sleepy fingers sinking into his fur and unconsciously beginning to stroke his skin. And if you weren't sinking completely into the arms of Morpheus, you could have sworn you heard a soft moan as Caesar struggled not to show on his face the thousands of tingles that happily and tenderly enwrapped his heart.

And since that day, Caesar has had the honor of feeling your hands against his fur every time an emotion takes hold of you, and he never has to silently ask again, because that night you know he's given you permission to enter his personal space whenever you feel like it. A feeling of pride will make him even more impressive, appealing, when he realizes that you've stopped showing physical affection to the other apes, silently indicating to him that he's won the battle for your love because in reality, it's only him you want to lay your hands on or cuddle.

And he's very proud of it, almost bragging about it, not in words, no, but in the way he holds himself, his chest puffing out proudly when you're leaning on him to rest or when he's sitting down to discuss something somewhat important, you slip your arms around his neck and he can feel your chest pressing against his shoulder blades and your chin resting on the top of his head just because you want a hug and you've been waiting for him to finish talking for 3 hours but the conversation never seems to end.

His fur bristles where you're in contact with his body and he's not the least bit bothered by your weight on his back and just carries on his discussion with a pleasant little twist in the pit of his stomach, telling him that oh boy he should make you his mate right now, for all to see, while keeping his serious demeanor as he talks about solutions to the problems the colony is facing.

He may be trying hard to keep his face focused, but Maurice is no fool. He can see in Caesar's eyes that you're provoking a whirlwind of affectionate emotions in his friend's heart. A whirlwind you don't even seem to be aware of as you close your eyes, escaping a sigh of well-being as you rest even more against Caesar, knowing that no matter how much weight you put on him, he'll remain solidly upright, accepting with delight the sensation of your body pressed against his.

With Noa, I feel like it would be a lot easier and more natural. Like, we already see him being pretty physical with Soona and Anaya (thanks to the recently released deleted scene where we see even more of Noa having his hands hanging all over Soona and Anaya) in the movie. And so showing affection with physical contact with him would be a no-brainer.

And at first, these touches are perceived as simply friendly and almost normal. It's obvious to him that at some point, your hands are going to rest on him:

To thank him for helping you, and in these moments, you always slip your hand into his to give it a gentle squeeze, and every time he takes note of the delicacy of your skin against his, it fascinates him more and more until it becomes a slight obsession: he'll even go so far as to help you with random things you can do on your own, but no, he wants to feel your smooth, delicate skin against his, so he'll help you so you can thank him afterwards with your delicious touch.

To get his attention when he's working on something, and here he has the great satisfaction of feeling your fingers slip into the meanders of his fur at shoulder level, and if his fur bristles all along his spine in pleasant little tingles, he puts this reaction down to the fact that he wasn't expecting you to touch him. (Yeah, sure, it's only pure astonishment, NOA, as if he hadn't smelled you coming *winkwink*).

To say hello in the morning or good night in the evening, your hand fondly squeezes his bicep and, to Noa's delight (which he denies), sometimes you even wrap your arm around his arm in a small cuddle, leaning lightly against him, even if it's a very brief embrace, feeling the weight of your body resting against his creates a warm sensation that coils in the hollow of his chest and suddenly his lower lip drops loosely in a form of bliss, but of course this is completely NORMAL BETWEEN FRIENDS NOA YOU ARE IN MOST TOTAL DENIAL.

Hm. So, let's continue.

For Noa, it's natural and obvious that you're keen on the physical expression of your emotions. He even misses your touch if you don't see him during the day, or if you don't put your hands on him that very day.

No, where it gets interesting is when he realizes that he wants a little more from you than just friendship, and that making you his partner is seriously on his mind.

And oh boy, from this moment on, every physical contact you initiate will become an internal emotional turmoil for Noa beyond words.

And here's a little scene I'm imagining:

Noa wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up with your hands working along his fur near his shoulder. And he wasn't quite sure it mattered as he forced himself to keep his eyes focused on the ripples of the river at his feet.

He could hear you apologizing to him as your fingers carefully dug into his fur, removing the bits of mud that had embedded themselves there. The lapping of the water as you dipped your hands inside to clean them before returning to peck at his brown fur sounded like a melodious bird song in his ears. Occasionally, your fingertips would graze his skin underneath, producing a fine shower of tingling that would spread from the surface of his epidermis to the depths of his guts. And he had no choice but to take a deep breath through his nose, perhaps louder than he would have liked, to calm the sudden funny satisfying twist that came to tickle his stomach.

With the gentleness with which you worked, Noa's muscles tensed in eager anticipation of feeling your skin roam carelessly over his body, and each of your movements became a soft stroke that he silently craved for, as if it were his rightful due.

A damp piece of cloth slid down his shoulder and Noa was almost disappointed not to feel your delicate skin buried in his fur. Disappointed, but only for a short time, as once again your hands began to work, this time on the base of his neck.

You watched Noa tilt his head slightly forward, giving you greater access to the back of his neck, and you could have sworn you heard a rumbling vibrate in his chest as your fingers gently grasped the stained fur and pulled away the mud that had gathered there.

Noa closed his eyes to focus. These images of you draped around him as your hands would roam shamelessly around discovering his body and perhaps your lips would venture down his neck and he suddenly wondered what it would feel like, to feel your breath come crashing against his fur. And if the urge to sink his canines into your skin to claim you as his mate went round and round in his head, he wondered what it would feel like, to feel your smooth teeth, harmless as they were, come to grip the base of his neck. He was already anticipating the pinch he'd feel, not real pain, but the effort of proclaiming him as yours was already very alluring in his mind.

The pain that emerged along his jaw kept him grounded, and when your hand exerted a light pressure on his shoulder to draw his attention, he was desperately hoping that his thought-dilated pupils had retracted back to their usual aspect when he opened his eyes to look at you again.

Unlike your hands, your smile was like gravity, silently thanking you for being able to keep him grounded with a gesture as simple as stretching your lips on either side of your face in a benevolent manner.

"All done!"

The cheerfulness in your voice almost made him regret the end of the little grooming session he would have loved to lose himself in forever. And he swore that one day, when the time was right, he would return the favor with the firm intention of carrying on the session until you became fully his.

So I was saying… internal emotional turmoil.

[unholyhelbig]

https://www.tumblr.com/unholyhelbig/748001277238181888/ive-reread-the-entirety-of-oversight-again-and

i’ve done this as well. i think u should 😌😏😉☺️🥰

Title: Rose Colored Glasses [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Reader gets word that Natasha is hurt and rushes home to assess the situation.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): injury to nose & foot, slight blood, and shrimp

[a/n: Did someone request more oversight? Because I've got you covered. This is pure fluff, sorry for the lack of angst! It's short, and sweet, and not proof read because I don't have time :( ]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

A quiet house was never a good sign. Growing up in the foster care system teeming with other wards of the state had taught you that. Often, you were three or four to a room. There were bunk beds with sheets slotted against the ceiling or stuffed under the mattress above your own, just for some type of barrier. It was an illusion of privacy, most of the time. Because houses like that were never quiet.

When you’d moved in across from Darcy after your 18th birthday, things weren’t quiet. Above you was a Latin-American couple that would wait until just past midnight to turn on a slow, rhythmic song and dance. Their steps were soft, and calculated. They carved out time for one another every single night between shifts. Just for the two of them. You often let the thumping base lull you to sleep.

The city was just outside your window. In the summer, you could prop it open with a brick and let the sounds of cars become a backdrop. There were sirens, and when the fire hydrant on the corner was loosened, the world welcomed a cold blast of water, sprinkling into the street. That was the opposite of quiet. That made your chest feel light, and warm.

After marrying Natasha Romanoff, you settled into the loudness of her home. Your home. Veronica was constantly running around the twists and turns of the bottom floor, Clint or Kate or Darcy galloping after her with a big smile on their face. They slowed themselves to make sure they didn’t break anything, but they wanted her to win, too.

Yelena often came with the muffled sounds of Russian techno bands coming from the headphones around her neck. It was a staple to find her in the kitchen with her head down, slicing into an apple from the backyard with precision unknown. Natasha would tug the headphones off to get her attention, or to send her into annoyance.

The night that Natasha got hurt was stifled with the sound of rain. It had soaked you to the bone, dripping onto the linoleum floor and then the carpet as you ascended the stairs two at a time. You’d been at the docks later than usual, the storm that had plagued the side of the harbor was relentless and delayed shipments.

The captain of the shipping boat your family had utilized for decades wanted to discuss something over whatever crap coffee you could beat out of the machine in your office. He spoke with a thick southern drawl, his mustache was encrusted with salt and sand. You had shed your coat and tried to warm yourself up by hugging your mug to your chest. Nothing seemed to work.

While you weren’t opposed to giving the man a raise, you were not the final say. Natasha was, and you figured he could use the company more than anything. The captain flicked through books that were on the shelf, taking two or three for his next journey out to sea. It was like clockwork with him, and you indulged his need for quiet companionship each time.

When your phone rang, you never looked at the caller ID. Those who were privileged enough to get your number knew to talk without any of the pleasantries that they were used to. Clint’s voice came through the receiver in a smooth, hushed tone that made you believe he wasn’t supposed to be calling you in the first place.

“Look, y/n, there’s been an… incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

He was meant to escort her to one of the many cocktail parties that Carlos LaMuerto was throwing at his mansion that bordered the same body of water that you resided on now. They were lovely get-togethers that you often attended with your wife. This, however, was the fourth one this month and your stomach was turning at the idea of another cocktail shrimp and lamb pate.

Clint had offered, seeing the desperation in your eyes. And while Natasha was reluctant, she ultimately agreed. No news of a bust had reached you yet, nor had a gun blazing argument. While the Captain licked his dry lips and scanned the books in front of him, you continued in hushed tones.

“Nat’s hurt. It’s not a big deal, you can finish up your business. She’s just being stubborn is all.”

An escaped sigh “I’ll be there.”

No shit, she was being stubborn. Your wife was bull-headed and wouldn’t admit to the smallest defeat. It eased your nerves slightly, and only slightly, that Clint said it wasn’t a big deal. No gunshot to the back, or knife to the throat. It wasn’t good enough, however.

Natasha would be upset that you tracked mud into the house and left your boots sloshing by the door. You were panting by the time you reached the double doors that led to your bedroom. They were, of course, blocked by Clint and Kate. Yelena was leaning lazily against the railing that was parallel. She regarded you with an uninterested stare.

“You did not have to come here.” She said, “We’ve got it handled.”

“She kicked all of you out, didn’t she?”

“What? She certainly did not!”

Yelena’s voice pitched with her lie. Kate’s cheeks turned an off-shade of pink and Clint just rthe hallway, that was a good sign. Still, neither of the two moved to let you into your own room.

“If you’re not going to get out of the way, can you at least tell me what happened?”

There was a muffled reply from behind the door. With the way that the voice flitted, you knew that she was trapped on the bed. Otherwise, she would have leveled you with a glare right here and now. The words were simple “Do it, you die.”

“Oh, come on,” You whispered harshly, turning your attention to Kate instead. She was the easiest to break. “Katie, what is the harm in letting me through? I’m going to catch my death if I stay in these clothes.”

“Catch your death?” Clint scoffed “What are you? A poet from the 1800’s?”

“I’m about to be breaking your fingers if you don’t-“

“You can’t even break wind,”

The two of your voices combined as you kept at it. You didn’t’ miss the wary look that Kate shot Yelena. One way or another, you’d get into your room. You refused to be banished to the couch again, especially in wet clothes. If you had to threaten ruining the rugs with your muddy footprints, so be it.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” You held up both of your hands, silencing the chaos of the corridor. “Nat, you are my wife, you’re hurt. Whether you like it or not, I’m coming in. Does anyone have any objections?”

Kate went to raise her hand, but Yelena yanked it back down and shook her head no. You tore into Clint with a look that could drop him dead. He relented and stepped away from the door. While you had a moment of peace, you walked into the dark of the room. She’d turned out the lights, save for the half-moon that showed a pale pattern against the carpet.

When you reached for the light switch on the wall, Natasha let out a noise that was similar to a wounded animal. You halted, your actions and made out her form on the bed. She was folded in on herself, her silhouette rigid.

“Baby,” you cooed, closing the distance between you and the bed. She grunted again, this time in pain. She attempted to turn away from you. You lowered yourself onto the sliver of bed, approaching the situation softly. “Can I turn on a light?”

“No, I’m hideous.”

You chuckled softly “I highly doubt that, my love. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Natasha had never liked being vulnerable around you. It had taken a full weekend of you nursing her back to her feet after the incident on the pier for her to let herself cry. You held her for hours, her nose pressed against the small of your neck. She’d gripped onto you, as if you’d leave. But you never would.

Eventually, you saw her shadow nod. Before she could change her mind, you flicked on the lamp on the side table. It didn’t’ have a far reach, but the light was less harsh on the both of you. It was impossible not to notice the blood that had dried against Natasha’s nose, a split right down the middle.

You’d seen her with broken bones before, bruises that wrapped around her midsection. You’d put ace bandage around her ribs after drawing her a bath. This was nothing to be ashamed about. In fact, she often saw them as battle scars that would heal in a pink gash.

Her foot was wrapped up with a bag of peas and one of frozen carrots that Clint, or even Yelena had situated. There was bruising around her ankle, it looked painful and you internally winced at the coloring. She groaned into the small of her elbow.

“I want to die”

“Natty, it’s okay. This is nothing a cozy weekend inside can’t fix.”

She said something that was quiet and muffled by her arm. You didn’t understand her one bit, but she squeezed a single tear from her eye that you wiped away dutifully before it could reach the silk of sheets.

“What was that, baby?” You asked gently.

She threw both of her hands down and glared at the ceiling. Her fingers eventually found yours, squeezing your palm in reflex. Her words came out in a quick breath, “I tripped over a carpet at the stupid dinner party and hit my face on the catering table.”

You were effectively silenced. That was very un-Natasha. But lately, you and Clint had been pestering her about her eyesight, especially at night. It wasn’t something she wanted to hear. In fact, each time you brought up the idea of glasses, she would effectively silence you with a glare, or even a kick to the shin under the kitchen table if you had company.

You bit the inside of your cheek and ran your thumb over her hand. She clutched your hand tighter. Now was certainly not the time to laugh, and while you fought back the initial giggle, you were more concerned about your wife.

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“I bet you got right back up.” You said, pressing your palm against her cheek. “None of those fancy party types would dare question your influence on this city.”

“Shrimp went flying everywhere.” Natasha pouted.

“Everyone was tired of shrimp anyway, even the shrimp.”

She grasped at the collar of your jacket and pulled you closer to her, pressing her lips against your own. They were warm, the warmest thing that you’ve felt since getting caught in the passing storm. You were careful not to lean on her ribs, breathing in the rosewater scent of her.

Natasha pressed her forehead against yours, running a hand up your spine. She grimaced. “You’re all wet.”

“Well now I am,” You smirked against her jawline, leaving a little nip in your wake. “You need to get glasses.”

“Don’t change the subject. You’re getting the sheets all damp, and you smell like fish.”

“I smell like fish?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to the exposed part of her neck. You felt Natasha laugh too, using her hands to cover her face from the blush that was blooming against her cheeks. “We’re talking about me?”

She laughed harder, attempting to shove you off but you let your body go slack against her, not using your arms to hold yourself up anymore. “Yes! Go shower!”

“Mm, but you’re so warm.”

“You’re not going to be warm if I make you sleep on the couch.”

You gasped dramatically, pulling your head off her stomach and meeting her dark green stare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me. After the day I’ve had, I refuse to sleep next to my wife when she smells like a marina.”

Even while she said it, her voice was gentle, her fingers working over your scalp to brush the wet hair from your eyes. You pulled yourself up to give her another peck on the lips, careful to avoid the split nose and busted ankle.

“Fine, but only because you need more aspirin.”

She grunted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can’t believe I let you through my defenses.”

“Uh-huh. Get some rest. I’m going to go talk to your defenses about getting you an appointment with an optometrist.”

You turned to move towards the bathroom, already craving the warmth of a shower and some clean pajamas. Two steps from the doorway and you felt a plush throw pillow hit you directly on the back of the head. Natasha had amazing aim, always had, and always would.

You bent down and picked up the gold upholstered pillow, giving her a faux glare. “You’re not getting this back.”

“Oh, come on, baby.” She stuck out her lower lip “I have to prop up my foot.”

“You should have thought of that before you launched it at my head.”

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[chernabogs]

BERCEUSE

Inc: Meleanor, Raverne, Mallegg, Lilia, and Baby Silver Warnings: None WC: 1.3k Summary: Berceuse: A quiet song to lull a child to sleep (Promptober day 3)

She remembers it from her father. This fact often takes people by surprise when they first learn it. No one would have expected the former king consort, rest his soul, to be the type to hum lullabies to his daughter to soothe away nightmares—but he was. He was a calm man beneath the rough exterior of sea-born and battle crafted that he presented as. Softer, to balance out the typhoon that was her mother’s personality when it came to matters of ruling. 

Meleanor remembers very little of her father beyond the lullaby. On occasion something will trigger a memory of him—a certain smell, or a certain sound—but the image of his face in her mind appears to be held under water. His features are ripples, his voice like a hymn, and the phantom touch of his hand holding her own is a weighted reminder of loss. Many people passed condolences to her mother when her father died, but they all seemed to forget the impact it had on her, as well. She remembers standing at her mother’s side during the pyrrhic burning of his corpse, humming the lullaby to herself, only to be silenced by a hand on her head.

It was the last time she had dared sing the song out loud until Malleus had been born. Despite still developing within his egg, he was a restless thing, constantly shifting and squirming and making the egg tremble in precarious positions. If he was born a live birth then one would have diagnosed him as ‘colic’—crying and fussing for reasons. Raverne had joked one time, when the egg had nearly fallen off of its perch from the movement of the baby within, that Malleus was swiftly developing a typhoon-like personality himself.

Despite smiling, Meleanor had seriously hoped her boy was more like his father then the temperamental Draconia line. 

When Raverne disappears (not dead; she rebuked that notion) and she’s left to care for a war and a baby on her own, Malleus’ inability to remain still sends her to a near breaking point. It’s hard to divert your attention between making sure your nation doesn’t collapse and making sure your baby doesn’t crack his own egg open because he just has to get a move on. It’s in this borderline breakdown she’s having (in private, mind you) that she returns to it. She hadn’t forgotten the song over the years, but it had become a taboo to her, to consider forming the sounds with her voice once more.

But for Malleus—for the warm evidence of life and of love that she cradles—it’s a taboo that she’s willing to break. When she begins to hum the song in a voice that’s shaky from disuse and slightly out of tune, the movements she feels beneath the fragile shell exterior began to still, and the outline she can see of her precious son seem to settle in a fetal position. If she was to consider it, she’d say that he’s fallen asleep in her arms at the sound.

She becomes bold in its use after that. Alone in the throne room or before an audience of her court, if it serves as a means to comfort her baby, then she will use it. She won’t allow him to feel as cold and as forgotten as she had when she stood before that pyrrhic marker of an end. When the war escalates, she sings it. When the Silver Owls surround Wild Rose, she sings it. When the feeling of a blade cutting through the scales upon her breast drags her world to darkness, she sings it. 

A lullaby to soothe a son. A swan song to herald an end. 

_______________________________

He knew it from her. Lilia had spent many hours in the company of the royal couple before the picturesque life they lived was shattered, and in doing so he had been privy to many things. An engagement, a wedding, and the delicate bond between a mother and her son. 

He used to scoff at that bond. His lip would curl whenever his future of babysitting was brought up in discussion, drawing amused teasing from Raverne at the notion of ‘Uncle Lilia’—a title he would vehemently deny. He used to tell himself that he would never bring a child of his blood in the world, that there would never be a baby in his arms, and that there would be no ‘uncle’ for the future prince. 

He kept most of those intentions true. He never did bring forth a child of his blood, and he certainly was not carrying any ‘uncle’ title at the moment—another five-letter word beginning with ‘e’ and ending with ‘e’ serves in its place. 

He did, however, misjudge the second intention. 

Red faced and fussy, Silver is making it abundantly clear that he’s not to be disregarded in the moment. He’s wailing, and crying, and his pudgy cheeks are wet with tears as he refuses to be put down for the night. Lilia has probably paced around the kitchen for almost an hour at this point patting Silvers back, and kissing those cheeks, and speaking in the most soothing tone he can muster while trying to refrain from breaking down himself.

Lilia had never expected to come to love the little guy, but he knows it to be true by the way his heart is aching the more he sees Silver in such an upset. 

“Please, please,” he whispers softly, kissing Silver’s forehead again as the baby’s voice increased in volume. “Shh, you’re okay, little one. It’s all going to be okay. I’m right here.”

‘Colic’ is a term he read in a human parenting guide. The book defines it as the state in which a perfectly healthy baby cries for no reason beyond just apparently wanting to. Mind you, Lilia has gone through the checklist to make sure there isn’t actually something wrong. Silver was fed, had his position changed, was rocked, and was bathed. Lilia had shown him pictures and rubbed his back and even floated in the air with him for a while to see if that would work. He had tried a pacifier, and a baby swing, and all of the cuddles Silver could possibly need. Hell, he had even reached out to Baul, who was just as lost as he was on what to do. 

Silver, it seems, just likes to make his feelings known. 

“You are my sunshine… oh for fucks—fudge—sake,” Lilia sighs, looking up to the ceiling as he continues to bounce Silver gently. His exhausted mind scrambles for any other solutions that might be at his disposal until a memory finally resurfaces. It’s distorted, as though held under water, but the sound of it is as clear as day. In his final attempt to put his baby and his heart at ease, Lilia shifts to hold Silver just a touch closer, and begins to hum a song he had long hoped to forget. 

At first, Silver doesn’t buy it. He continues to cry and fuss in his fathers’ arms—until finally his auroral eyes open, still brimming with tears, and he looks up at the other in interest. His wails die down to the softest sniffles, his pudgy hands stop waving in the air, and he simply looks curious for a while. Lilia continues to hum and to rock his boy until Silver’s apparent ability to fall asleep with ease returns, and the baby goes from a typhoon of emotion to a picturesque infant. 

Lilia’s breath leaves him slowly as he presses another kiss to Silver’s brow and sends a silent word of thanks to the stars. In his mind, he can see Meleanor and Raverne’s smug expressions at the sight of this as Lilia carries Silver back to his crib. 

A swan song to herald an end. A lullaby to soothe a son.

[thezombieprostitute]

Professional

A/N: Written for @the-slumberparty's December Daze Challenge.

Prompt: hosting your first new years party

Warnings: Implied stalking. Please let me know if I missed any!

This was it. Time for the big leagues. Usually you were the second-in-command at events but with Lucinda down for the count with the flu, it's time for you to step up. It's not like you haven't prepared for this kind of scenario. And the party itself was pretty straight forward.

Well, except the fact that your clients were government agents. Higher ups in the NSA, CIA, and probably other acronyms. You remember Lucinda bitching up a storm about the background check requirements for every single person who'd be working at this party. Part of you had been scared they'd find something in your own past that you'd long forgotten about that would get you arrested!

As you worked you noticed one of the guests continually looking at you. He's certainly handsome; hair cut short, eyes blue like the sea, just enough stubble to encourage thoughts about how it would feel against your skin. Unfortunately, you need to focus. There are a lot of moving pieces for the party and you can't rest until it's all over. As much as you'd love to walk over and introduce yourself, you are a professional and you will behave as such. Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll stick around afterwards so you can talk to him.

After a couple of hours, with the clock ticking closer to midnight, he seems to get tired of just looking at you from afar and walks over.

"I'm Nick," he introduces himself with a smile that would normally have your legs weak.

You introduce yourself and warn him, "I'm afraid I don't have time to chat, sir. I'm working and there are lots of things that need my attention."

He smirks as he gives a gentle shake of his head, "are you always so professional at your events?"

"Of course, sir. Though usually I'm not the one in charge. Our company has an image to maintain."

"Any chance you'll be getting a break?"

"I'd be surprised," you confess. "I don't mean to be rude, sir---"

"Nick," he corrects you.

"I don't mean to be rude, Nick, sir, but I do need to focus on my work."

"Of course," his smile drops a little. "Maybe I'll see you closer to midnight."

Heat rushes to your face as you smile at the compliment. "Maybe."

It's a few minutes to midnight and your staff is starting to look around, hoping for their own New Year's kiss. You hate being such a taskmaster but there is still work to be done. At least the party is officially over at midnight. Unofficially you know you and yours will be there for at least a few more hours after. Maybe you can give them a minute or two for a kiss. It was only briefly discussed with Lucinda before she got sick.

Your thoughts get interrupted by Nick suddenly appearing in front of you, making you jump a little.

"Sorry about that," he smiles. "Consequence of training, I guess."

You smile back, "that makes sense. Can I help you?"

He looks to the TV screens watching Times Square, "it's almost midnight and I'm not one for kissing without consent."

Giggling you look around. There's no fires, no one's hurting, there's a natural lull in the party as everyone is counting down the seconds. "Okay, Nick. That sounds lovely."

His smile widens and, as you hear the party count down the seconds, he gently brings you in for a kiss. And oh what a kiss it is! You were expecting a quick peck on the lips but Nick is treating it like a first kiss after a date. You lean into him before you catch yourself and carefully push yourself away from him.

"That was...lovely," you breathe. "But I have to get back to work now, sir. Nick! Nick."

"Right," he nods. "Because you're a professional."

Nick watches you walk away, a smile on his face. Tonight's gone better than expected. When he did the background check on you he was intrigued. He wanted to get to know you better.

Seeing you running the show confirmed his decision to get your boss sick. He got to see you in top form and you were amazing. Now he's just gotta wait until your done with work before he can ask for your number, which he already has.

He's happy you seem open to his advances. For a minute he was worried he would have to go to plan C. But this will be much better for the both of you.

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly

[silkjade]

Plsss I need more of that wriothesley x mermaid!reader au !!!!!

cw: fem!reader, no pronouns mentioned a/n: continuation of this previous post

because of the whole primordial seawater issue, it’s not quite safe enough for you to return back to the waters just yet. to pass the time, you spend your days helping sigewinne in the infirmary, which wriothesley seems to start visiting much more frequently

“ah, head nurse! it seems i’ve burned myself on the kettle.”

“sigewinne, i’m worried this paper cut will get infected if it doesn’t get treated immediately.”

at some point she asks if she should just send you up to his office as his round-the-clock nurse... nevertheless, she patches him up with a smile

and before he returns back to work, he always asks you to kiss it better

most nights, you keep him company in his office while he burns the midnight oil, although you prove to be a pretty big distraction. with the way you're propped over the edge of the tank, clinging onto every word as he tells you of past prison stories--well, it really feels like he could talk to you forever

on particularly stressful nights, you'd sing him old sea lullabies and he'd peacefully drift off to the beguiling lull of your voice. he's not entirely sure, but sometimes he hears the words 'goodnight, your grace' in his dreams

and when the chief justice summons him to the palais mermonia for a routine discussion regarding the fortress, wriothesley invites you to tag along. afterall, the overworld does have much more to offer

“the meeting shouldn’t take too long, and we'd have the rest of the day to ourselves. so? how 'bout it?”

the toothiest grin breaks across his face when you enthusiastically agree

“alright, it’s a date then”

a/n2: ok dis is gonna be the last :’D

[starrylothcat]

♡ Home ♡

The Bad Batch Ask You to Live With Them Headcanons

Pairing: Individual Bad Batch x GN Reader.

Warnings: Fluff, fluff, fluff. Smooching. Everyone is happy on Pabu AU. 🫶

A/N: This is just some silly fluff I wrote at work today. It was hot AF and I’m still sweating so I apologize for any errors, not really proofread.

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Scenario: You and The Bad Batch have been settled on Pabu for some time. Long-held feelings between you and your Batcher finally had the opportunity to blossom as you eased into a peaceful island routine. You are happy, your love for one another secure and strong.

You’ve discussed moving in together, but island life is calm and your lives are no longer in a rush. You haven’t made that leap in your relationship quite yet, but little did you know your Batcher had plans…

Hunter

You were sitting on the beach, the sun’s last rays catching the calm sea as stars twinkled into view.

Hunter’s arm was wrapped around you, holding you close against him, his head leaning on yours.

“You know that cottage we walk by every day, the one with the garden?” Hunter mumbled, gently tracing his fingers up and down your arm.

“Yeah…I’m surprised no one has moved in there yet. It’s in a perfect location.” You murmured, his fingers putting you in a relaxed trance.

“It is perfect.” He said, his smokey voice lulling you further into a relaxed, carefree state. “I can’t wait to see what you do with the garden.”

You shifted your head to look at him, confusion in your expression, his fingers stopping their caress.

“Omega wants to try to plant meilooruns.” He met your gaze. “And she’s already picking out decorations for her room.”

“Hunter…” you started. “What are you saying?”

Hunter pressed his forehead to yours. “It’s ours. If you want.” He ghosted his lips across your own. “All I have to do is give the word to Shep.”

Your breath hitched.

“Hunter, you mean, that cottage…? It’s really ours?”

He nodded, gently tracing his fingertips across your cheek, the fading sun reflecting in his honeyed eyes.

“I love you, and Omega does too. We’ve spent so much time on the run, never knowing what comes next. It’s time…to put it behind us. Settle down for good. And I want you to be part of that. But if you’re not-“

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged him in for a passionate kiss, his arms immediately pulling you close to him.

“Hunter, yes.“ You beamed, breaking the kiss. “I love you, too.”

Hunter smiled, nuzzling his nose against yours, never having felt so content in his entire life, excited for this next chapter in your relationship.

Echo

You had just closed up your shop and were waiting for Echo. He promised to take you out tonight and told you he was planning something special.

He met you at your shop, kissing you deeply as his hello.

“Hello to you, too.” You giggled, slightly flustered at his kiss as he looped his arm with yours. “Where are you taking me tonight?”

“It’s still a surprise, mesh’la.” He winked, leading you down a a few quiet roads.

“There aren’t any restaurants up here.” You gave him a look, having no idea what he had planned.

Echo didn’t say anything, the evening lights flickering on throughout the island, casting warm glows onto the street.

A few more turns and Echo stopped. You stood in front of a cottage, a soft glow of light coming from the front windows.

“Echo-“ He just smiled, leading you up the cobbled path to the home.

“Echo, if your idea of a date is breaking and entering…” you teased, still confused as to what was going on.

Echo chuckled, opening the door to the cottage, surprising you that it was open.

“Just trust me, mesh’la.”

You stepped inside, gasping slightly. The cottage was empty, save for a blanket that was spread on the ground in what would be the living room.

A few candles were the only light source, highlighting the picnic that was spread across the blanket, and two empty glasses for the bottle of wine that sat in the middle of the spread.

You looked at him, still just as lost as before.

“It’s not much, but I figured we should celebrate the first night in our house.”

You opened and closed your mouth, processing his words.

“Our…house? Echo, you mean…?”

He wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tight.

“I love you and…I want to spend every moment together. Build a life…together. I saw this cottage was available and talked to Shep. It’s ours if we want it.”

Tears clouded your vision as you kissed him, overwhelmed by his words. You nodded excitedly against his lips, your heart ready to burst with joy.

“Me too, Echo. I love you. I want to build a life with you, too.”

He smiled, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

“Let’s crack open that wine then, shall we?”

Tech

Tech had been busy as of late, which is normal. He always had some project or idea that was occupying his mind.

But you knew something strange was going on when he kept hiding his datapad from you, or quickly pushing flimis under other piles of half-worked on gadgets whenever you walked into his room.

Finally, you decided to ask what he was working on, and what has been so intensely engrossing his mind the last few weeks.

“Can I ask what it is you’re working on?” You queried as you lounged on his bed in his room, watching him work.

He turned to you, and it looked like he was hesitating, and almost nervous to say something.

He let out a breath and fully faced you.

“We’ve been together romantically for some time now…” he started. “And we are happy, correct?”

You raised you eyebrow, nodding. “Yes, of course Tech. I love you.”

“As I you.” He stated. “So I have been pondering of what should come next, and I determined it was time to begin the next phase of our relationship, if you agree.”

Tech held out his datapad toward you as you stared at him, wondering what he was going on about.

“I began investigating homes we could share. There are plenty of available cottages throughout the island which I have researched thoroughly, though none are up to my standards.”

Tech adjusted his goggles as heat began to flush your cheeks.

“So, I took it upon myself to explore ways on how to build one myself.”

Your heart fluttered at his words as you sat up completely. “Tech, you want to build us a house?”

“Precisely. If you want to cohabitate with me, that is.” The last part of his statement came out quiet, as if he wasn’t sure of what your answer would be.

You peeked at the datapad, which had blueprint schematics of a cottage, all designed by him.

You looked back at him, not stopping the large smile on your face as Tech fidgeted, waiting for your response.

“Tech…” you said softly. “Yes, I’d love to live with you. I want it more than anything.”

You watched as his shoulders seemed to relax as you set down the datapad, closing the distance between the two of you.

Tech took your hand, his thumb gently tracing over yours.

“Of course, I’ll need your input on the final design, but I think you’ll approve of what I have so far.”

You smiled, leaning into him, his other arm holding you close. “As long as I’m with you, it’ll be perfect.”

Wrecker

Wrecker was giddy, practically dragging you down the road as he picked up his pace.

“Wrecker, where are we going?! Wait a sec, you’re walking too fast!” You could barely match his strides.

“You’re gonna love it, I promise! We are almost there!”

After another turn down a street, Wrecker finally stopped at the end of a row of small cottages.

“Here!” He exclaimed loudly, gesturing to you to follow him.

“Wrecker, what is this?!” You gasped, out of breath.

“It’s our new house! I know we talked about having our own place awhile ago and…here it is!” Wrecker excitedly tugged you in through the front door, your mind trying to play catch up to what he was saying.

You stepped inside, Wrecker eagerly pointing to different areas of the cottage.

“The windows in the kitchen are big, so we can have a great view while we cook together. That was the first thing I thought of…” Wrecker blushed as he turned, pointing to the door that led to a back patio.

“Oh, and look at the porch! Ya can grow all the herbs you’ve been wanting to! And wait until you see the view out the bedroom window-“

Wrecker stopped, noticing how quiet you were being.

You were gazing around the empty house, your mind spinning with surprise and happiness.

You were moved at Wrecker’s excitement and having a home to call your own, with him, not expecting this in the slightest.

Tears were sliding down your cheeks, and you didn’t even notice until Wrecker’s large hand was gently wiping them away.

“Mesh’la, I’m sorry, I got carried away. If ya aren’t ready I understand, or if ya don’t like this cottage we can-“ Wrecker sighed, thinking he ruined everything. “I’m sorry if it’s too much.”

You looked up at him, smiling.

“Wrecker, this is more than I could have ever wanted. I love this. I love you.” You placed your hand over his that was now cradling your face. “I want this.”

Wrecker smiled, relief washing over him.

“Now, tell me again about the kitchen?” You laughed, happy tears still running down your face as Wrecker kissed your cheeks, laughing with you in your new home.

Crosshair

You were laying with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as you almost drifted off to sleep, Crosshair’s arm keeping you close to him.

You noticed he had been a little on edge today, restless and fidgeting more than usual.

You suggested a nap, which he agreed to.

He continued to be restless, though, not able to get comfortable as you laid on him.

“Want to go for a walk?” He grunted, shifting under you.

You lifted your head, blinking a few times. “Sure.” You smiled sleepily, sitting up from your laying position.

You often went on walks in the evening, a ritual you began not long after you became a couple.

You walked quietly under the full moon, the streets silent. Crosshair’s hand found yours, enjoying one another’s presence as you strolled through the winding avenues.

You let Crosshair lead the way, and you walked up into a cluster of cottages that you often passed by on your walks.

You’ve mentioned before how you like this part of Pabu, this subset of cottages getting the best view of the sunset.

Crosshair suddenly stopped, still grasping your hand.

“Is everything ok?” You asked, wondering why he stopped so suddenly.

He looked at you as he lifted your hand, turning your palm up, his silver hair almost indistinguishable from the moonlight casting down on the two of you.

“I was going to wait until tomorrow, but here.”

Crosshair placed a small key in the center of your palm, closing your fingers around it.

“Crosshair, what is this?” You asked softly, confused as to what he was doing.

“It’s ours.” He stated. “The one with the blue door.” You glanced behind him at the cottage with said blue door.

You focused back on him, trying to piece together what he was saying, his expression unreadable.

“What do you mean?” Your voice quivered, clutching the key.

“You know what I mean, doll.” His tone was soft. “It has the best view of the sunset. I made sure of that.”

You practically jumped at him, swinging your arms around him and crushing yourself into his chest, tears pricking at your eyes.

“Crosshair, I-“

He leaned his head on yours, his lips brushing against your forehead. You didn’t need to finish your sentence.

“It’s ours, now?” You whispered.

“As of yesterday.”

You looked up at him. “How did you know I’d say yes?”

Crosshair smirked, his lips close to yours. “You did, didn’t you?”

You smirked back, his lips capturing yours in the moonlight in front of your new home.

Taglist: @littlemissmanga @secondaryrealm @sinfulsalutations @anxiouspineapple99 @secretthegriffin @idontgetanysleep @starqueensthings @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @dreamie411 @aconstructofamind @coraex @multi-fan-dom-madness @freesia-writes @kashasenpai @wanderer-six @blueink-bluesoul @the-cantina @king-chaos-world @wolffegirlsunite @523rdrebel @dukeoftheblackstar @pb-jellybeans @sleepingsun501 @sunshinesdaydream @din-miller

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

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

Chapter One Hundred

Despite the turmoil swirling around the realm, the days on Dragonstone seemed almost deceptively calm. The once heavy grey clouds that had hung over the island for weeks began to thin, allowing the sun to break through and bathe the volcanic rock in rare warmth. The sea that surrounded the fortress shimmered under the soft sunlight, casting fleeting illusions of peace. It was as if nature itself offered a brief respite from the tension of the looming war.

Maera felt that shift as well, both in her surroundings and within herself. The wound on her arm had completely healed, the scar barely visible now. The pain had faded, replaced by a newfound energy. She was no longer bound by recovery and was eager to return to the skies on dragonback, contributing to the war effort and finding time for herself.

Since Prince Daeron had flown south to the Stormlands, Maera had been assigned a new route—across the western side of the Narrow Sea. Her task was crucial: she needed to ensure the fleet of Morne was prepared and positioned for the eventual attack on the Capital when the time came.

Yet even though she embraced the odd tranquility, the betrayal of the Dragonseeds loomed over every decision. Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White’s defection had thrown their carefully laid plans into disarray. There was no longer a definitive timeline for the invasion. The uncertainty gnawed at the Green Council, but they were not without recourse.

A newly formed faction of nobles, led by the cunning Lord Unwin Peake, now called themselves the Caltrops. Their singular goal: to assassinate Hugh and Ulf and restore order. It was a delicate operation, one they carefully plotted, keeping the Green Council informed but biding their time until the perfect moment to strike.

Despite the complications caused by the rogue Dragonseeds, not all plans had been derailed. The Hand, Ser Criston Cole, had already departed for the Riverlands, where he was gathering and readying the ground troops. For now, all Maera and the other players in this intricate game of power could do was wait. It was a tense lull, the kind that stretched nerves thin and made every small action feel laden with weight amongst the remaining members of the Green Council.

In the meantime, Maera turned her attention to her other duties, filling her days with tasks that would otherwise have been mundane but now served as distractions. Her Ladies were a constant presence, helping her maintain some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. Lady Fossoway, ever diligent, had already begun making small preparations for the formal ceremony to name Prince Daeron as the official Prince of Dragonstone.

Though the event was still some time away, there was much to consider: the banners, the guests, the feast. Each detail needed careful planning, and Lady Fossoway took to the task with a seriousness that reflected the gravity of the moment. The announcement would solidify Daeron’s place within the Targaryen dynasty, an acknowledgment of his role should Aemond not have a son.

Lady Swyft, on the other hand, busied herself with Maera’s wardrobe. Having noticed that many of the Queen’s dresses had become uncomfortably tight around her hips and bust, she took it upon herself to remedy the situation. Seamstresses were summoned, and fabrics were examined, discussed, and chosen with care. The women muttered and measured, their deft fingers working to let out seams and add panels where needed. The changes were subtle yet necessary, for Maera’s figure had grown fuller once more.

The Queen’s lady assured her that it was normal, for a woman’s body to change after childbirth, and that noblewomen often found their figures altered even moons after they had given birth. Tiredness created hunger, she explained kindly, which led to eating more, and in turn, a little weight gain. It was nothing to be ashamed of, Lady Swyft insisted, even hinting that it could be healthy.

Maera tried to take comfort in her words, telling herself that it did not bother her. After all, she had given birth to Aemara, a child of dragon’s blood and royal lineage. Such changes were a small price to pay for the continuation of their house. Yet, each time Lady Swyft brought in a newly altered gown, panels and extra stitching added to accommodate her changing shape, Maera couldn’t help but feel a pang of self-consciousness. She saw it in the way the fabric hugged her now fuller hips, the way the bodices strained slightly against her enlarged bust.

In the quiet moments, when she was alone in her chambers, Maera found herself scrutinizing her reflection. The mirror offered an unflinching gaze at the woman she had become, a Queen in the midst of war, a rider of a gigantic and fearsome dragon, a mother to a Targaryen princess, and a wife to a king. She traced her fingers along the seams of her altered gowns, feeling every added inch as though it marked some personal failing.

Lady Vance, the elderly and old-fashioned courtier, took it upon herself to lecture the Queen on the matter of vanity and self-acceptance. In her stern and matronly manner, she insisted that such conceit should not be acknowledged, reminding Maera that women were as the Mother had made them, and it was a woman’s duty to accept her form with grace. Lady Vance’s words were filled with an unwavering certainty that came from years of strict adherence to tradition and piety, but they did little to comfort Maera.

One person who did understand Maera’s struggles on a personal level was Lady Tarth, who had become known by given name, Serenne. In the last few months, the young lady had become more than just the Queen’s secretary. She had become a confidante, a friend in the truest sense. The two women found solace in each other’s company, often spending time together when the other Ladies were busy with their duties.

Most of their time was spent in the large nursery of Dragonstone, a haven away from the prying eyes and expectations of the court. Here, they would sit on the plush rugs and thick blankets, surrounded by the soft sounds of their children at play. Aemara, now nearing eight months old, was beginning to explore the world on her hands and knees. The little princess crawled around on the carpet, her tiny fingers reaching out to grasp at the colorful toys that lay scattered around her. Her laughter filled the room, a sweet and innocent sound that brought a warmth to Maera’s heart.

Lady Serenne’s son, affectionately called ‘little Bryn’ by Maera, was just as happy to play amidst the abundance of toys that had been provided for them. He was a curious child, with eyes that seemed to take in everything around him with a quiet intelligence. While Aemara explored her surroundings with the wide-eyed wonder of a child discovering the world for the first time, Bryn was content to sit amidst his treasures, stacking blocks and inspecting each toy with a focused determination.

As their children played, Maera and Lady Serenne would engage in hours of conversation. They would sit together, sipping tea and sharing the latest gossip from court, their voices kept low so as not to disturb the children, who were diligently being watched by a nursemaid.

In these moments, the Queen felt a sense of normalcy, a fleeting escape from the weight of her crown. The discussions would range from lighthearted anecdotes about the children’s latest antics to more serious matters, such as the subtle undercurrents of political maneuvering that never seemed to rest, even in times of supposed peace.

Lady Serenne, with her kind blue eyes and empathetic nature, offered Maera a comfort that no one else could. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, the struggles that came with balancing the roles of mother, wife, and noblewoman. There was no judgment in her gaze, no lectures or admonishments about vanity or duty. Just a shared understanding that in this ever-changing world, they were both doing their best to navigate the expectations placed upon them.

In the nursery, amidst the laughter and soft babble of their children, the world outside seemed a little less daunting. For a few hours each day, the war, the politics, and the constant scrutiny faded into the background, leaving only the simple joys of motherhood and friendship.

“I cannot believe Bryn will be two years old this year,” Lady Serenne commented, her eyes crinkling with a smile as she picked up a small sandwich from the tray between them, taking a delicate bite.

The Queen nodded in agreement. “I know. Time seems so go quicker when you become a mother I think.”

As Maera spoke, her thoughts drifted inward, silently reflecting on just how much time had passed and yet how little it felt. It wasn’t that long ago, in her memory at least, when she had sat with Helaena, watching over Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor as they played together in the nursery of King’s Landing. Those moments, filled with laughter and innocent joy, were so vivid in her mind that they felt like they had happened just yesterday. It was a simpler time, before the war, before the loss and betrayal that had shattered their world.

The memory of Helaena, her old friend, and the soft peace they had found in those stolen moments, made Maera’s heart ache with longing. Those tender memories were like fragile glass, precious and breakable, and the reality that such moments could never happen again weighed heavily on her. Even if they did rescue Helaena, things could never return to how they once were.

Her reverie was abruptly interrupted by a high-pitched shriek of frustration. Maera’s eyes snapped to the scene before her as Bryn, determined and quick, toddled over to where Aemara was playing. Without hesitation, he snatched a toy from the little princess’s grasp. Aemara responded immediately, her face scrunching up in a mix of surprise and indignation before she let out an angry wail. The sound echoed through the nursery, drawing the attention of both mothers.

Lady Serenne was on her feet in an instant, moving to sit beside her son and scold him. “Bryndemere,” she chided in a firm yet gentle voice, pulling the toy from his hand and returning it to Aemara, who grasped it tightly, still pouting but quieting down under her mother’s comforting gaze. The Lady turned back to Maera, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” she said with a light laugh, trying to diffuse the situation with humor. “Clearly, my son has yet to learn the proper courtly etiquette when interacting with a princess.”

Maera chuckled softly, shaking her head. “No harm done,” she replied, her gaze softening as she watched the two children. Aemara, for her part, had already moved on from the slight, her attention now fixed on the toy in her hands, seemingly satisfied with its return.

Lady Serenne sighed, settling back down beside Maera. “In truth,” she mused, “I think his older sisters are happy to be rid of him at the moment.”

Maera giggled at the comment, shaking her head in amusement. “I think all brothers, older or younger, have an innate talent for being incredibly annoying,” she replied, her tone light and teasing as she pictured all of her brothers, some she loved with all her heart, others she was content with being away from.

Just as they shared a laugh, Maera felt a small tug on her skirts. She glanced down to see little Bryn gazing up at her with wide, earnest eyes, his tiny finger pointing eagerly toward the table where the food lay just out of his reach. Maera grinned, unable to resist the boy’s charm. She reached down to ruffle his golden curls affectionately before handing him a small sandwich. Bryn accepted the offering with a delighted smile, toddling away to return to his toys with his prize clutched tightly in his small hand.

“Well,” Maera began, turning her attention back to Lady Serenne, “do you and Lord Edmure plan on having more children?” Her question was curious, genuine interest in her voice.

Lady Serenne laughed, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement and relief. “Thankfully, the Gods have spared me from such a fate,” she replied, a hint of irony in her tone.

Maera tilted her head in confusion, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?” she asked, her brow furrowed slightly.

With a soft sigh, Lady Serenne explained, “I already have four older daughters, all so close in age. And when Bryn was born, it was… difficult.” Her eyes clouded briefly with the memory, but her voice remained steady. “The Maester said that due to the birth, it’s highly unlikely I’ll have any more children.”

Maera watched her face closely, expecting to see sorrow or regret, but to her surprise, Lady Serenne seemed content, perhaps even a little relieved. There was a peace in her expression, a quiet acceptance of her circumstances.

“And you, Your Grace?” The Queen was snapped out of her contemplations by the sound of Lady Serenne’s voice, cutting through the quiet with a playful lilt.

“How goes…making an heir for the King?” She giggled, her golden curls bouncing with the motion, and there was an unmistakable teasing light in her expression.

Maera rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a smile at her Lady’s cheeky inquiry. “The King and I are quite set on performing our duties,” she replied with mock seriousness, though the corners of her lips quirked upwards, betraying her amusement.

As they shared in the lighthearted banter, Maera found her thoughts drifting inwardly. Since Aemond had recommitted himself to her in the ways of Old Valyria, reaffirming their bond in that ancient and sacred tradition, it seemed as though their relationship had been forged anew in the fire of their shared trials and tribulations.

Their time together had become precious, a refuge amidst the storm. They cherished the moments spent with Aemara, watching their daughter grow and change with each passing day. And then there were the nights, the intimacy between them more intense and consuming than it had been in months. Aemond’s touch was both demanding and tender, their passion igniting like wildfire each time they came together. It was surprising, really, that she wasn’t with child again already, considering how often they indulged in their desires.

“Yet my moons blood has not come since I have given birth,” the Queen explained to her companion. While this was something that could worry some, she felt a sense of relief about it. The monthly bleeding was not something she missed. “And I’ve read that it returning means you are fit to breed again,” Maera added with a small, nonchalant shrug.

“I see “ Lady Serenne acknowledged quietly, but something in her tone made Maera glance at her. The Lady’s expression had changed, a frown marring her usually cheerful face. Her brows knitted together, and she looked as though she was deep in thought, her gaze fixed on the floor.

“What is it?” Maera asked gently, noticing the sudden shift in her demeanor. Lady Serenne continued to avoid her gaze, nervously biting her lip. It was as if she was holding something back, struggling with whether or not to say what was on her mind. Maera reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “You can speak freely, Serenne,” she encouraged softly.

The Lady-in-waiting took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before finally speaking. “Your Grace, it’s just… what you said about the moonsblood,” she began cautiously. “It happened to me, as well, after I gave birth to Bryn.” Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “It was how the Maester knew we could no longer conceive.”

“Oh,” was all the Queen could manage in response, her thoughts suddenly reeling. The information was startling, and she hadn’t considered the possibility before. The lack of her moonsblood had been a convenience in her mind, a reprieve from the physical toll of motherhood so soon after Aemara’s birth. But now, hearing Serenne’s story, it took on a different significance.

Sensing the Maera’s concern, Lady Serenne quickly waved her hands in a defensive yet reassuring manner. "No, no, Your Grace, please don’t worry," she said earnestly. "It may not be the case for you. After all, you are nobly feeding your daughter yourself, and I gave Bryn to our wet nurse as soon as he was born. That can make a difference, or so I’ve been told."

Despite her friend's attempt to soothe her fears, Maera couldn't help the worry that settled into the pit of her stomach. If Aemara was to be her only child, how would Aemond react? He adored their daughter, that much was certain, but a king needed a son to carry on his legacy, to secure the future of his reign. The thought of Aemond’s disappointment made Maera's heart clench. His desire for an heir, like all noble men, was strong, and though their bond had grown, the pressure of producing a son had always been an unspoken expectation.

The Queen chewed her lip nervously, the small, anxious habit surfacing as her mind churned with these possibilities. What if this was it? What if she was unable to provide the heir Aemond—and the realm—expected of her? The idea of failing in this duty gnawed at her. She imagined the whispers that would spread through court, the scrutiny that would follow her every move, the shadow of her own inadequacy haunting her steps. Would Aemond’s affection for her endure if she couldn’t fulfill this one crucial role? The thought sent a chill down her spine.

Lost in these worries, she suddenly felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, grounding her back in the present. Maera looked up to see Lady Serenne’s concerned yet supportive gaze. "If you’re truly worried, my Queen," she said softly, her voice filled with genuine care, "you should speak to the Maester. He might be able to give you some answers, or at least some reassurance."

Maera nodded, the tightness in her chest easing just slightly at the reminder that she didn’t have to navigate this uncertainty alone. "Thank you, Lady Serenne," she replied quietly, offering her friend a small, grateful smile. "I think I will."

A sudden, wild squealing echoed from the carpet, drawing the women's attention away from their conversation. Maera and Lady Serenne looked down in surprise. Aemara had crawled over to Bryn, her chubby little fingers wrapped around the boy’s golden curls in a surprisingly firm grip. She pulled harshly, her tiny mouth open in a giggle of delight. Bryn, caught off guard, screamed in distress, his arms flailing as he tried to escape the unexpected assault. The nursemaid was quickly at their side, attempting to pry the children apart, but between Aemara’s strong grip and Bryn’s thrashing, she was having no such luck.

The Queen and her Lady exchanged a knowing glance and a smile before both gracefully slid off their chairs to sit on the carpet. With a practiced ease, Maera gently grasped her daughter's tiny hand, loosening her grip on Bryn’s curls. Lady Serenne reached for her son, pulling him safely into her lap and smoothing down his tousled hair. Aemara let out a disgruntled little sound as she was lifted away from her playmate, her violet eyes wide with innocent curiosity about why her new toy had been taken from her.

Both women comforted their children after the ordeal, laughing softly at the small drama that had unfolded. Maera bounced Aemara on her knee, whispering soothing words as she smoothed down the girl’s silver hair, while Lady Serenne rubbed Bryn’s back, murmuring reassurances into his ear.

Maera chuckled as she gestured to Bryn, who was now snuggled against his mother, looking slightly sulky but otherwise unharmed. "It seems your son will have his hands full with his future wife," she said with a grin, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Lady Serenne laughed in agreement, a sparkle of mirth in her gaze as she glanced between the two children, imagining the future where this fierce little princess and the gentle golden-haired boy would one day be something more than playmates.

"Indeed," Serenne replied with a playful sigh. "It appears he may need to grow accustomed to a strong-willed lady at his side." They shared a warm laugh, the brief chaos on the carpet serving as a charming reminder of the small joys and trials of motherhood amidst the surrounding storm of the war.

“What has your feathers ruffled, my Queen?”

It was late afternoon, and the halls of Dragonstone had fallen into a hushed calm. After a long morning of play and a satisfying feed, Aemara had finally been put down for her nap. The Queen had watched her daughter’s eyes flutter shut, a peaceful smile gracing the little girl’s face as she drifted into sleep. With her duties as a mother momentarily set aside, Maera now had other matters to attend to.

The corridors of Dragonstone were dimly lit, the grey stone walls lined with ancient tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen. The heavy scent of sea salt hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of burning wood from the hearths that warmed the castle’s interior. Shadows danced across the walls as the sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting a warm golden hue over the cold stone floors.

Servants moved quietly about their tasks, the rustle of their garments and the soft patter of their footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. Maera acknowledged them with brief nods as they respectfully greeted her, her mind elsewhere, her thoughts spinning in a whirlwind of uncertainty. She walked beside her sworn guard and brother, Faran, whose vigilant eyes scanned the corridor ahead. His presence, usually a comfort, seemed to chafe at her now, only adding to the turmoil within her.

“Leave it alone, brother.”

Her earlier conversation with Lady Serenne had left her unnerved, stirring up fears she hadn’t fully realized she was harboring. The idea that she might not be able to bear another child had lodged itself into her thoughts like a splinter, small but impossible to ignore. Aemond’s expectations, the needs of the realm, and her own desires clashed within her, leaving her feeling trapped and restless.

Instead of confiding in someone about her growing concerns, Maera had chosen a different way to deal with the storm of emotions swirling within her. She had decided to work out her stress the only way she knew how to channel it—through physical exertion.

The Queen had donned her leathers, a comforting second skin that had seen her through many battles and training sessions. She pinned back her brown and silver curls with practiced ease, preparing for a sparring session with her brother. It was something they had not done since she was shot in the collarbone, but now with the wound healed, and the anxiety simmering within her turning into a boiling anger, she was determined to win this bout.

“Gods, there is a bug up your arse,” he chuckled, trying to provoke a response. “You better pray I don’t beat you today.”

But Maera was in no mood for his banter. Without looking at him, she firmly told him. “Faran, please, just shut up.” Her tone was icy, brooking no argument, and the sharpness of her words cut through the air between them.

Faran got the hint, his playful demeanor fading into a more serious silence. He respected her boundaries, for now, falling quiet for the rest of the walk to the courtyard. The silence between them was heavy, but Maera preferred it this way. She couldn’t talk about what was on her mind with him. He wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t. This was not a matter of battle strategy or court politics, but of something far more personal and profound—her worth as a queen, a wife, and a mother.

Turning a corner, Maera’s mind raced with thoughts of who else she could confide in. Her Ladies were supportive, but this was not a matter for idle gossip or comforting words. It required knowledge and discretion, and she was not yet ready to face the possibility of hearing something she wasn’t prepared to accept. The Maesters could give her answers, perhaps, but she was not ready to deal with possible bad news.

And besides, the walls had ears. She was certain Larys’s spies were scattered throughout the castle, their eyes and ears ever vigilant. If any whisper of possible infertility reached the court, it would be like blood in the water to sharks, weakening her position as Queen. It would give her enemies leverage, an opening they would not hesitate to exploit.

The siblings continued their walk through the corridors of Dragonstone in a heavy silence, the only sounds being the soft scuffs of their boots against the stone floor and the occasional distant murmur of servants. Maera was lost in her thoughts, mulling over the troubling possibilities swirling in her mind. Finally, they reached the courtyard, a familiar space where she could at least momentarily escape the chaos of her mind.

They began to warm up in silence, moving with the practiced ease of seasoned fighters. As Maera practiced her movements, her blade slicing through the air with practiced precision, she could feel her body falling into the familiar rhythm. Each swing, each pivot, was a reminder of her strength, of the control she still held over some aspects of her life. She lost herself in the movements, focusing on the feel of the sword in her hand and the way her muscles responded to each command.

But the silence was soon interrupted by Faran’s voice, cutting through her concentration. “Luthor wrote to me,” he revealed, his tone casual but with an edge of something else she couldn’t quite place. Maera’s brow furrowed, her rhythm faltering for just a heartbeat before she resumed her practice.

Their brother, married to one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters, had not written in a month, despite Maera reaching out. She had assumed he was preoccupied with his duties at Storm’s End, busy with the ongoing preparations and politics. Yet he had found the time to write to Faran, but not to her? It made her pause, her mind now split between the movements of her sword and the curiosity mixed with irritation rising within her.

The Queen hummed in response, her sword cutting through the air with a sharp, decisive swing. “Is he well?” she asked, a hint of annoyance slipping into her voice despite her attempt to sound indifferent. The idea that their brother had written to Faran, choosing him as a confidant rather than her, grated on her nerves. She did not enjoy being kept in the dark, especially when it came to family matters.

She heard Faran clear his throat, a hesitation that made her sigh inwardly. Pausing in her routine, she turned her head to face him, her green eyes narrowing in scrutiny. His expression was pained, lines of discomfort etching across his usually composed face. The sight of it only deepened her confusion. “He’s not in a good place, Maera,” the Kingsguard finally spoke, his voice low and careful. His words made her pause, lowering her sword as she tilted her head, frowning.

Faran hesitated again before speaking, as if weighing the impact of his next words. “Lady Cassandra… she became with child,” he began, watching her closely. “But she miscarried a few weeks later.”

The Queen’s frown deepened, her chest tightening at the news. The weight of his words sank in slowly, a wave of empathy and sorrow washing over her. Luthor and Cassandra had been married for some time now, and she knew they had hoped for a child, one that would be the heir to Storms End as Lord Borros still did not have a son.

The loss of that hope was a heavy blow. Luthor had doted on Aemara when he was at Dragonstone, and Maera knew he had always wanted to be a father. She could almost feel the pain her brother must be enduring, the grief and disappointment, the unfulfilled promise of a future that had been cruelly snatched away. It was an experience she could barely fathom, and yet it resonated deeply with her own recent fears.

If Maera herself were to become pregnant again, if she even could, there was always the risk of losing the child, a risk many women faced. She had read in the medical tomes that repeated miscarriages could be a sign of deeper damage to the womb, an idea that sent a shiver of dread down her spine. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one darker than the last, amplifying the uncertainty that had already taken root in her heart.

She shook her head, forcing herself to pull away from the spiral of her own fears. Guilt tugged at her, reminding her that now was not the time to dwell on her selfish concerns. This was about Luthor, about the sorrow he must be feeling. She took a deep breath and focused on her brother standing before her, reminding herself to be present for him, for their family. “How is he coping?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with the genuine concern that lay beneath her own anxieties.

Faran’s expression darkened further. “Not well,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground as if searching for the right words. “He’s taken himself off to the war front in the Stormlands.” The heaviness in his voice conveyed more than just worry—it was a mix of frustration and helplessness, emotions Maera understood all too well.

“War front?!” Her eyes widened in alarm, her heart skipping a beat. “He has no actual battle experience,” she said, her tone sharper than intended, a note of panic threading through her words. The thought of her brother throwing himself into the chaos of war, unprepared and driven by grief, was almost too much to bear.

“And yet that is where he wanted to be,” Faran replied with a tone of defeat. The weight of her brother’s grief pressed down on the Queen’s shoulders. This war was taking its toll on all of them, fracturing their family in ways she hadn’t anticipated. And now, with Luthor seeking refuge in the only way he knew how, the cost of their struggle became even more personal.

Her shoulders sagged, a heaviness settling into her bones. "Why didn’t he tell me?" she murmured, a mix of hurt and confusion in her voice. She and Luthor had always been close. Along with Faran, they had been the close knit trio of the large number of siblings, inseparable through childhood and beyond. The thought that Luthor was now facing something so devastating, and hadn’t reached out to her, cut deeper than she cared to admit.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder, drawing her from her thoughts. She glanced up at Faran, whose eyes were filled with understanding. "He didn’t want to worry you," he said softly. His words were meant to comfort, but they only stirred her frustration.

Maera scoffed, rubbing her face with both hands. "But now I'm more worried than ever," she exclaimed, her voice rising in exasperation. "He’s run off to battle, for gods’ sake!" The idea of Luthor, untested and grieving, throwing himself into the fray made her stomach twist with anxiety. She imagined him amidst the blood and violence, his sorrow pushing him toward reckless decisions.

She sighed heavily, trying to release some of the tension coiling inside her. Gently, she placed her hand over Faran’s, squeezing it in a silent gesture of thanks. "Thank you for telling me," she said, her voice steadier now, though the concern lingered in her eyes. "I’ll write to him soon, once things have settled a bit." She knew words on a page wouldn’t be enough to reach him in his current state, but it was something, a thread of connection that she could offer.

Faran nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he stepped back, a familiar, cheeky grin slowly spreading across his face. "So," he said, unsheathing his sword with a flourish, "do you still plan on kicking my arse, or has all this talk dampened your fighting spirit?"

Maera couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, a brief respite from the storm of emotions swirling within her. She unsheathed her own sword, the familiar weight of it grounding her. "Oh, I still plan on it," she declared, a glint of determination in her eyes. She positioned herself opposite her brother, ready to let the movement and focus of their sparring match drive away the worries, if only for a little while.

Notes: so we’ve got two or three more parts of Part Two left until we jump forward in time a lil bit. And it’s gunna get a hell of a lot darker 👀

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

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

[wardenparker]

In the Still of the Night, ch 7

Zach Wellison x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Grown up and looking to the future, Zach Wellison and bunkmate Shane Morrissey are working for a new cruise line that offers its guests a vintage Vegas experience on the Mediterranean. The romantic atmosphere is rubbing off on many of the crew members, and Zach finds himself to be no exception when he meets the beautiful lead singer of Shane's band.

But being wrapped in the seductive arms of an atmospheric cruise is a far cry from real life. How will their relationship fare on dry land? They can't know unless they try.

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 7.3k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this story include: Cursing, alcohol, food, cooking, eating, discussion of clothing/costumes. Mentions of prison time served, mentions of past homelessness.* Family death, unsupportive parents, unwelcome ex-partner, grief. Summary: Arriving back home in Oklahoma for your grandmother's funeral has a few more twists and turns than you expected. Notes: This week is for sitting with our grief, but looking to the future. As always, I apologize for an errors I may have missed. Have a lovely Sunday, all!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6

Getting into the airport is easy enough, although after nearly twenty hours of traveling you're feeling punchy and exhausted. Thank goodness for being able to sleep on the plane, as having your sleep mask and Zach's arm around you had finally lulled you to sleep somewhere over the Atlantic. Now you're somewhat rested, despite your emotional and mental exhaustion, and tracking down the desk for rental cars is less daunting with Zach holding your hand.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am.” The regretful expression on the desk clerk’s face is more from anticipating a fit than actual regret. “The last compact car was just rented. I’m afraid without a reservation, we did not know you were coming.”

Zach sighs, knowing that the glitch with the WiFi at ten thousand feet would cause issues, but it had said that there was a hold. Your shoulders slump and he decides to speak up. “Do you have any vehicles?” He asks, smiling at the clerk reassuringly. “We are trying to get to a funeral, and she’s exhausted and I just want to her home to be with family.”

“I see.” The clerk nods, not unwilling to help just locked into the parameters of their job. “We have two options still available. Luxury sedan or midsize SUV.”

“Let’s do the SUV.” He turns to you to see what you think. “More room to haul people and things if we need to?”

“Sure. That will be fine.” It would be better than rolling up to your parents’ house in an Audi or something, that’s for damn sure. Even if they knew it wasn’t your car they would still give you hell for flaunting your so-called money at them. Money that you most certainly don’t have.

He turns back to the clerk and nods. “Does that sound like something we can get done?” He glances down at the name tag. “Tasha?”

"Certainly." She goes back to her computer, types a few things into different fields of entry on the screen, and looks back up at you. "There will be a price increase, unfortunately, but I can discount the upgrade to make it as small as possible."

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

"I'm sorry you've had to come home under unhappy circumstances." Tasha seems to mean it, because she works quickly to put the reservation through and pulls a key out of the drawer under her desk just moments later. She hands it to you along with your license and double checks your email for the receipt to be sent over. It doesn't take ten whole minutes for you and Zach to be out in the parking lot loading your bags into the back of the SUV.

“Thank goodness they had a vehicle at all.” Zach takes your bag out of your hand sets it in roomy trunk area, along with his old sea bag. Wellison is stenciled on the side and for the first time, he wonders if he should have gotten a suitcase. Several times in the airport, someone had thanked him for his service and he was slightly unsure of how to handle that.

"I guess that's a better way to look at it," you agree, squeezing his arm in thanks for grabbing your bag and moving to climb up into the front seat. This damn car is huge, but at least it exists.

He is surprised that you don’t want to drive, but he also knows you are still emotional. Zach climbs behind the wheel and hands you his phone. “Will you put in the address so I can use the GPS?” He asks.

“Shit.” You hadn’t been thinking, and heave a sigh at yourself. “I should drive. Sorry. I’m—this is going to sound weird, but I’m not used to driving with my significant other in the car.”

He tilts his head, curious as to what you mean by that and he decides it a conversation best saved for later. “I’ve got this.” He promises, reaching for your hand and pulling it up and presses a kiss to the back. “You just put that in for me and then you take a trip down memory lane, cry, whatever you need to do. I’ll get us there safely.”

"Thank you." All you can seem to do right now is thank him for his support, and you lean back in your seat after plugging your parents' home address into the GPS and sigh quietly. If you felt better you might turn on your old favorite radio station, but for right now it still feels disrespectful to enjoy anything.

He doesn’t talk, knowing that you are lost in thought, so he decides to turn on the radio. Hoping the comfort of music will help soothe the raw feelings and ease your spirits. Keeping the volume low he settles on a station and hums as he pulls out of the airport car port terminal and onto the highway.

From the airport, out past the edge of the city, and on to the shitty little suburbs on the outskirts of Tulsa, Zach eventually pulls the rental car into the driveway of a little two-story house with peeling yellow paint and a gate around the yard that hasn't locked properly since you were in high school. "Home sweet home," you murmur wryly, wishing you had been able to bring him here under better circumstances.

You don’t sound exactly happy about it, but he knows that family dynamics can be the most painful of situations. “We’ll survive.” He promises with a smile as he looks over at you.

"I know I'll be okay." You squeeze his hand tightly before undoing your seatbelt. "I have you."

He knows you are still tired, despite getting some sleep, and probably craving a shower. “Let’s leave the bags and I can get them later.” He suggests. Wanting to make sure that you don’t need to get a hotel or something.

"We can bring them in after dinner." That is a slightly less disruptive plan, you think, since it's already almost dinner time. "Come on, let's go in. I texted that we were on our way so they're expecting us."

“We can do that.” He climbs out of the SUV and immediately rounds the front of it even though he’s closest to the front door, so he can be by your side.

The front door of the house bears a wreath that was definitely one of your mom's crafting projects, and just inside the door begins the barrage of family photos from all the years of your life as well as theirs. "Mom?" Your voice is tired, you can hear it, but it is what it is. No one can blame you for that. "Dad? We're home."

It’s a comfortable home. Lived in. Zach can tell it needs some upgrades, but it’s been well loved. He immediately looks at the pictures and smiles when he sees you, probably all of five, wearing an adult cocktail dress with a big feather boa around your neck. “So it started early.” He hums.

“Oh yeah.” The photo he has zeroed in on is more special than he knows. “My Gram took that. We used to watch old musicals and stuff together whenever she babysat me. Which was all the time. I was a five-year-old Liza Minnelli fan.” It brings fresh tears to your eyes, having just lost the incredible woman who helped raise you, but you wipe them away as your parents come into the living room from the direction of the kitchen.

Zach would pull you into his arms and let you cry, but he gets the feeling that you want to have a stiff spine right now, so all he does is put his hand on your back as you greet your mother and father.

A soft chorus of hellos is the start, and your mother looks like she hasn’t stopped crying in days. Even if she was sometimes at odds with her mother — your Gram — the loss has clearly hit her hard.

Your father inspects Zach first, ultimately offering a handshake after a few too many seconds of assessment. “So this is the soulmate, huh kiddo?” His question is directed at you, but with an edge.

“Oh, sorry, yes.” You had been distracted by hugging your mother, but you take a shuddering breath to recollect yourself. “Dad, Mom, this is Zach.”

He greets them politely, calling them Mister and Missus, rather than going for anything informal. He wants to make a good impression on them since they are your parents.

“You’ll find everybody in town calls my wife Miss June,” your father explains. “But Tom is just fine for me.”

“Mom works in the town library,” you explain, finally hanging your coat by the door and taking Zach’s to do the same. “Children’s room. So every kid in town knows her before too long.”

“That’s so nice.” He says, wondering what your father does. “I’m sorry that we are meeting under these circumstances.”

“So are we.” Your father nods, putting one hand around his wife. She’s always a quiet woman but it’s even more so now. “Well, come on in kids, dinner’s just about ready.”

He follows you deeper into the house. There’s an air of mourning that’s to be expected, but he knows that it’s a tough time for everyone. “While we are here, I’d be happy to help in the kitchen.” Zach offers.

“That’s right.” Your mother nods, moving across the room. “Bunny said you cook?”

“He’s a chef, Mom.” You mumble, your whole face burning at the unnecessary resurfacing of that particular childhood nickname.

“Bunny?” His brow tics up in amusement as he watches you squirm in embarrassment. “How did that nickname come about?”

“I really really wanted a pet bunny when I was a kid.” As an adult you understand they’re not great pets and you never could have taken care of it yourself, but at the time you had begged. “To the point where I tried to catch one in the backyard several times.”

“So she was honey bunny,” your father explains. “Then eventually just Bunny. We’ve called her that practically her whole life.”

“It’s sweet.” He hums, finding it absolutely charming. “I love it. It matches her perfectly.”

“Shane does not know.” And the obvious implication is that he never, ever should.

Zach grins, shooting you a playful wink. “We can negotiate that later.” He teases, although he would never tell anyone anything you didn’t want known.

“So you’re a chef, Zachary?” Who knows why your father feels the way he does about nicknames, but he seems to call everyone outside of the family by a full or formal name, making it clear he doesn’t count your soulmate in that number just yet.

“Yes sir.” He nods and pulls out a chair for you at the homey dining room table. “Head chef of the supper club where your daughter performs.”

Tom grunts, though it’s anyone’s guess if it’s disapproval or reaching for something on the top shelf of the cupboard. “Been doing that for long?” He asks, coming down with a set of four drinking glasses. The nice glasses, you realize a second later. For when you have company.

“For the last two, almost three years.” Zach answers, aware that he’s being interviewed by your parents. He’s expected it, and tries not to feel self-conscious.

“And before that?”

“Dad, can we not do this now, please?” You’ve facepalmed at the table. “We’ve been traveling for twenty hours. Let Zach get some rest before you give him the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Military.” Zach answers quietly, becoming aware that for whatever reason he might have, your father doesn’t exactly approve of him. You had told him that your parents weren’t soulmates and didn’t really like the premise of the bond, but he had hoped that they would just be happy that you are happy.

“He was a Marine, Tom, we knew that.” Your mother gestures toward you at the table after taking a large baking dish out of the oven. “Bunny’s got the proof right there on her arm.”

“Right.” The way he says it makes Zach shift uncomfortably in his seat. Obviously not approving of him being in the military either. Strike two.

"Can we not do this, please?" You repeat, pushing away from the table despite the fact that Zach had sat you comfortably in a chair. You cross the kitchen to grab the stack of plates and silverware from the counter and bring them back over. "The next few days are going to be hard enough without any extra stress."

“I was just getting to know your soulmate.” Your father tries to play innocent, but Zach is pretty sure that he doesn’t like him. “Let me help, sweetheart.” Zach jumps up to take the items from you. He can help set a table even if he doesn’t know where things are in the house.

"Thank you, baby." Zach is always helpful, and you squeeze his hand in thanks before turning back to the refrigerator to get the pitcher of lemonade that your mother always has at the ready. "Getting to know him would be asking about sports, Dad. Or where he's from. Not interviewing him like he's coming into the garage looking for a job."

“Now let’s not fuss.” Your mother huffs, “this is a family dinner.” She glances at the table and tuts. “Get another place setting, Bunny.”

"I already did, Mom. There's four on the table," you tell her with your face on the refrigerator. There's two pitchers in here so you bring both out – lemonade and iced tea.

“We need five, dear.” She tells you as she starts to set the dishes on the table. “Darrel said he would probably drop by.” She turns to get the salad. “He’s been stopping by, checking on us. Such a good boy.”

The way your face goes slack in shock is only matched by the absolute slump to your shoulders as you almost drop the two drink pitchers all over the table. "Please, please tell me you're kidding."

“What’s wrong with that?” Tom huffs, acting affronted. “Someone checks in on us. Not like you are here to drop by.”

"I've been out in the middle of the ocean, Dad. It's not like I live a block away and just refuse to drop in." A heavy sigh escapes you, and you debate how smart of an idea it was to come home at all. You thought you were coming for your parents, but they don't exactly seem happy to see you. Or Zach. "Darrel is my ex," you explain, plopping down in the chair beside your soulmate after grabbing another place setting begrudgingly.

“Oh.” That’s all Zach says before he sits down and bites his lip.

"It was a long time ago," you promise him. Clearly your parents are the ones who have had trouble letting go.

Zach nods, although he somehow feels like this is not going to be good. It can’t have been that long ago if your parents still cling to hope.

"Darry's family," Tom insists, and looks at you pointed. "Aren’t you the one who always that you can choose family?"

You exhale deeply, because it feels like he's intentionally misremembering what you say. "Family can include who you choose to love," you correct gently.

The feeling of inadequacy starts to dig into Zach’s skin. He doesn’t want to feel this way. He had hoped that your parents would love him, or at least like him enough to tolerate him.

You hand fits firmly into Zach's under the table and you squeeze it twice, silently promising him that unwavering support that you are for each other every single day. If you had known Darrel would be here in any capacity, you would have told Zach not to worry about coming with you just so he could avoid the awkwardness. "You guys are perfectly entitled to have whomever you like in your house, but I just want to make it clear that I'm not very comfortable with him being around a lot while I'm home."

“Why should you be uncomfortable?” Tom asks. “You almost married the boy. You’ve known him all your life.”

Zach tenses slightly and reaches for the lemonade that you had poured him. His throat dry and his nerves on edge.

"I haven't seen or spoken to him in almost ten years," you remind your parents sharply. "And when he asked me to marry him, I said no."

“He’s still single.” Your mother tuts. “Poor boy, he’s never gotten over you.”

"Well, that's too bad." Your tone could not be any drier if you tried. "I got over him a long time ago. As clearly evidenced by my committed relationship to my soulmate. Who is in the room with us. And you're being quite rude to."

Despite their desire to reacquaint you with your former lover, they have the decency to look ashamed. “Let’s put that aside for now and eat.” Your mother huffs.

Most of the meal passes in relative silence. You're grateful that conversation restricts itself to plans for the wake tomorrow night and the funeral the next morning. Logistics are better than opinions for the mood you're in now. You might even have called things fairly civilized until the front door pulls open as your mother is bringing a tray of cookies to the table and you're in the middle of brewing a pot of coffee.

“Tom? Miss June?” The cheerful tone makes Zach freeze. “I brought in a package that’s been left on your porch.” He calls out. “And Mrs. Johnson wanted me to bring this pound cake with her condolences.”

“Thank you, sweetheart, come on in.” Your mother sticks her head out of the kitchen to wave him in. “We just finished eating but there’s plenty left if you want a plate.”

It only takes a few moments and Darrel comes into the dining room. His tread is surprisingly light in work boots and he lights up with he sees your parents, a smile on his face.

An already painful week in Oklahoma has just turned into a nightmare, as far as you’re concerned. Your parents had always adored Darrel. Put your relationship with your childhood sweetheart up on a pedestal and fully expected that you would spend the rest of your life perfectly content to be his perfect housewife raising many grandkids. It’s not even that it’s a bad dream, or a bad future — it was just never your dream for your future.

And now he’s strolling into your parent’s house like not a damn thing has changed. Like he didn’t ask you to marry him in the park half a mile away only to be turned down. For that to be the thing the made you realize how close to being trapped in this little corner of nowhere you had almost been. He’s just here. As if all he had to do was wait and you would realize how wrong you were to leave him.

It’s salt in the open wound of your grandmother’s death and if you weren’t so paralyzed with shock, you would scream until your head came off.

His eyes shift to you, a softness and happiness making his eyes crinkle even more. The son of a bitch is handsome, much to Zach’s dismay. Rugged and looks like he works outside all day. The very opposite of him, in his own opinion. And still very obviously in love with you. He says your name and moves to greet you like an old friend, setting down the box and the foil covered platter than holds the cake and gathers you up into a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Hi Darrel.” The hug is as unwelcome as the rest of him, and you stiffen under the touch before backing out of his reach. If he’s as close to your family as he used to be — as close as your parents claim — then he’s grieving too and it would be cruel to treat him unkindly. But you won’t pretend to be happy to see him when you’re not. Instead you move back to Zach’s side and put your hand on his shoulder in a moment of instinctive connection.

The move makes Darrel aware of his breech in manners. “Oh man, where is my head?” He chuckles and wipes his hand on his thigh before he offers it to Zach. “Darrel Rodriguez.” He offers, sending him a charming smile. Bastard has perfect teeth. “Nice to meet you.”

"This is Zach." Your fingers dig slightly into the fabric of his shirt like you're trying to find purchase in the comfort of him. "My soulmate."

There’s a small pinch to his brow, a slight furrow before he swallows. “Soulmate?” He is obviously shocked, acting like it’s the first that he’s heard of this and for some reason, Zach doesn’t think he’s performing. It seems like your parents didn’t tell your old boyfriend that you had met your soulmate. “That’s…” he flounders for a moment but his hand doesn’t pull back and Zach takes it in a firm, but not aggressive handshake. “Wow. I can’t believe it. Soulmates.” He recovers and gives a smile. “Great to meet you.”

"Darrel, honey, sit down." Your mother waves him toward the table with the air of someone constantly bustling, which may or may not be true. It didn't used to be. Maybe it's nervous energy – the anxiety that goes with sadness over losing her mother. "Have some dinner."

“Oh, uh, I can’t stay.” Darrel tells her quickly. “I’ve got a heifer that’s about to calf. She’s got a big one, so I’ve got her in the barn. Need to be there in case she needs some help.” Of course he was a fucking cowboy. Zach doesn’t sigh, but he wants to.

"Oh, I see." She says in a tone that absolutely does not believe him. "Well thank you for bringing the cake by. I'll send Betty Ann a note."

“It was good to see you, Bunny.” His eyes linger on you for a moment before he looks over at Zach. “Nice to meet you.”

The room is stone silent except for the sound of the front door closing behind him, and once Darrel has left the house completely both of your parents turn frigid expressions of disapproval on you.

"What?" You defend, as angry with them as they are annoyed with you. "I said hello and I introduced my boyfriend. I was perfectly polite."

“You could have been a little nicer about that.” Your mother huffs. “You shocked him.”

"I can't imagine why he wasn't told, if he's around as often as you say." You know why. It's obvious why. And it stings that your parents are still holding on to this childish fantasy so many years later instead of being happy for you now.

“It didn’t come up in conversation.” Tom snorts. “Despite what you might think, we don’t spend every day talking about you.”

"I'm genuinely relieved to hear it." If it's a lie, it's condescending enough to be convincing, and that is fine with you for the time being.

Zach shuffles slightly and turns to you. “Sweetheart, do you want to….” He frowns. “Go get a hotel room?”

"I think that's probably a good idea." It's pretty clear that anytime you spend in your childhood home is going to be uncomfortable, so instead of sitting back down at the table, you move further away from it. "There's a few things I want to get from my room, that's all."

“Bunny.” Your mother looks positively devastated by the idea of you not staying here. “You don’t need to do that. I’ve already made your room up.”

To you, this is a two-person. So when you look to Zach for an answer and he doesn't have a clear expression on his face either way, you loop your hand around his arm in solidarity. "Can we all give it a try? Respecting each other and the relationship that Zach and I have? No surprise trips down memory lane or drop ins from Darrel while we're here? Keep the passive aggressive comments to ourselves, Dad?" That one is pointed, because your father is the king of the I'm just sayin comments when he wants to be. "We're only here for a couple of days to honor Gram, and then we have to get back to work. But if getting along isn't going to work, Zach and I will go into the city and find a hotel room."

“Of course.” Your mother quickly agrees but your father stays silent. “Tom.” She hisses, swatting at his shoulder and he sighs. “What? Alright, alright. We’ll be perfectly hospitable.” He grumbles. “It’s not like we knew you were serious about this fella. You’ve never cared about soulmate status before.”

"We started seeing each other before we knew we were soulmates." You had told them that, but apparently they hadn't remembered. Or at least your father hadn't. "We're together because we love each other. The fact that we're soulmates is like the icing on the perfect cake."

“Well, isn’t that nice?” Your mother coos, trying to salvage the evening and she points to the cake. “Why don’t we have a slice?” She asks. “Betty Ann makes the best pound cake.”

It's absolutely not the time to point out that your mother is surprisingly functional and upbeat for a woman who just lost her own mother, so you just file it away and look to Zach for confirmation of how you're both feeling. Exhausted. Same as you. "Maybe we should just head upstairs?" You offer. "Traveling is tiring and we should be at our best for the next few days. The arrangements will be hard enough without being tired on top of everything else."

“Of course.” She nods, understanding why as she deflates a little. “I’ve put you in your old room.” She reminds you. “And- well, Zach dear, we were going to put you into the guest bedroom, but I assume you want to stay in her room?” He doesn’t do anything but nod and she bites her lip. “Let me get you some extra pillows. I’ll bring them up in just a minute.”

"I can get them from the closet, Mom. I know where you keep them." You know she's trying to help but right now you're just even more exhausted than you were before. "We'll just get our suitcases out of the rental and head upstairs."

“I’ll get them, babe.” Zach knows you might need a moment with your parents, so he kisses your forehead and turns to go out to the SUV. Wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into as he goes.

You help your parents clear the table while Zach is outside. Dishes rinsed and deposited into the dishwasher, leftovers covered and put into the fridge in silence. It's odd how few of the regular signs of mourning there are, but you're still not willing to rock the boat tonight.

Zach drags the bags in, happy that each one of you only had one, but it still takes some maneuvering to get them inside without bumping into anything.

“We’ll see you in the morning.” Both of your parents get a hug, but you step away fairly quickly to meet Zach at the bottom of the stairs in the living room. “I can take mine, baby,” you murmur quietly. The night had gone from awkward to tense to downright uncomfortable very quickly and you’re not sure what to do or to say.

He lets you lead, since he has no clue where he’s going. Following you up and wincing when the second from the top step creaks horribly.

“It’s done that my whole life,” you laugh slightly but the sound feels awkward. Stilted. At the top of the stairs you turn right, and two doors down is your bedroom — still almost exactly the way you left it when you moved out. “I, um—” You sigh, letting the door shut behind him. “I’m sorry. About tonight. If I had known Darrel was still around, I at least would have warned you.”

“It’s okay.” Zach says automatically. He’s not quite sure how he feels, but he knows you had no ill intentions about this visit and he won’t put any kind of emotional baggage on you about it.

“Fair’s fair. If you have any questions, I’ll answer them.” Having never been anything but honest with Zach, you aren’t afraid of that promise. Nothing was being hidden from him and nothing about the situation could or would change your relationship.

He doesn’t say anything as he sets his bag down on the chair that’s just pulled out from the teenage desk you had probably spent a lot of time studying at. He doesn’t look at you. “He’s, uh, solid.” He says.

“He’s overbearing.” You reply, slightly unsure of where Zach’s mind is at right now.

“Overbearing?” He frowns at that descriptor. Looking up at you in concern.

“He has — or had — very certain ideas about what kind of life he was going to lead with his family, and that included his future wife.” It sounds stupid, almost a decade later, but that was the boy you knew. “I didn’t want to be a rancher’s wife with a brood of kids who deferred to her husband on all of life’s big decisions.”

“So your life goals didn’t match.” He can understand that, even sympathize with it. “He wanted the white picket fence.”

“Which is fine. It’s just not for me.” You shrug a little self-consciously. “I want a family. My spouse — you — and kids if you want them. It sounds beautiful. But I want to be able to contribute to our family and keep my music and have us be partners. And I’m sorry, but I hated growing up in the country. Even as close to the city as we are, New York is much more my speed.”

He smirks slightly, looking down at his hands and then back up at you. “So don’t have dreams of retiring to the country.” He quips, feeling a little better about the situation. “Did you ever want that? Even a little?”

“Maybe when I was young? If I did it’s so long ago that it was before I ever saw the big city in a movie.” A heavy knot of anxiety in your belly forms fast and pulls tight, and you step closer to Zach. “If that’s what you want, we can find a way to combine our dreams. I’d—” A soft sigh escapes you, and you reach out to slide your hands up his shoulders. “I’d do anything for you. Absolutely anything.”

Zach frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t want to live in the country.” He promises you. “Although the chef in me wants to see the grass fed beef on the hoof.” He jokes, relaxing slightly and reaching for your waist. “I don’t give a damn where I live, as long as it’s with you.”

“I really was hoping this trip wouldn’t be stressful,” you admit, letting your arms tighten around him. Standing there holding each other for a long moment feels like the most soothing thing you could possibly do. “Sad, sure. But not stressful. I’m sorry, my love.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” He murmurs softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Leaning your head on his chest, the steady beating of his heart reminds you to breathe. As long as he’s beside you, you can manage anything you need to. No matter how unwanted or painful the managing might be. “I—” The thought gets stuck in your throat and you hold back a shudder that might have also been a sob. “I really wish you could have met my Gram. She wouldn’t have put up with any of the bullshit that happened tonight. She’d have been so sweet and so welcoming to you.”

“I wish that I could have too.” He folds you against his body and lets you lean against him. Knowing that whatever feelings of inadequacy he might have are purely on him. You stood up for him, for your relationship, making it clear that you choose him to be your partner, being your soulmate is just a bonus to your connection. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

******

The wake is as somber as you had expected. Your grandmother’s book club friends of twenty years all give you tight hugs and welcome Zach to the family. They invite you around anytime. They promise to have supper for two extra mouths whenever you’re in town.

Your parents are quiet. Reserved. Accepting condolences with weary gratitude and shaking hands often. Darrel is there, acting like family, but he seems to have received the message the night before about Zach being your chosen partner. Or at least he accepts it enough to not make a scene at your grandmother’s wake.

Everything is relatively as expected until a man walks up to you and identifies himself as your grandmother’s lawyer.

Zach was talking to Ms. Betty Ann, complimenting her on her pound cake and hoping to get the recipe when he sees you motioning over to him. “Excuse me.” He pats her arm and smiles as he shifts past her to move over to your side. “You need me, sweetheart?”

“This is Tanya Flores.” You introduce the woman standing in front of you and take Zach’s hand tightly in your own. “She’s the executor of Gram’s will. Miss Flores, this is my soulmate, Zach Wellison.”

“Miss Flores.” He nods respectfully. “Mister Wellison.” She smiles somberly at him. “My sympathies for both of you, Bunny, of course because of your loss.” She hums softly. “Your soulmate because he never got a chance to meet her.”

“The more’s the shame,” you nod your head. “They would have gotten along well, I think.”

“From what she had told me about him, from you, I think you’re right.” She sighs softly. “Do you think you might have some time for me before you leave?”

“Of course.” Looking to Zach, he just nods and holds your hand a little tighter. “Should we find someplace more…private?”

“It might be a little better if you come to my office?” She offers, pulling her card out of her jacket and holding it out to you. “Anytime you can manage.”

“Sure, of course.” The card is emblazoned with a logo that reads Law Offices of Tyco, Keanes & Flores with her name and contact information below. “With the funeral tomorrow, I don’t know that we’ll be able to then. Can we come by Friday morning? Would that work for you?”

“Anytime.” She smiles and reaches out to squeeze your arm. “I am really going to miss her.” She tells you. “She was my client, but she also had come to be a friend. She would insist we have tea together at least once a quarter.”

“She was pretty fantastic.” It feels like not enough to say about the woman who helped raise you, but if you say any more in this atmosphere after hours of mourning with your family and her friends, you might just break down crying again.

She smiles again and turns to make her way over to your mother to offer her condolences. Zach sighs, “well, it’s a good thing we aren’t flying out until Sunday.”

“Seems like it.” You lean against him a little more heavily than you expected to, but Zach is a stalwart support. If this week has taught you anything, it is this man is here for all the bad and not just the good. “Gram had a big record collection that we used to listen to together when I was young. She, um…she always said it would be mine one day. So I’m sure we can ship it to Diana in New York and she’ll store it in the apartment for us.”

“Oh I have no doubt.” You had driven him by the house, but the locks had been changed and the keys held by the lawyer since she had died. “We will make sure that it’s safe.”

Summoning a smile, you tilt your head back to kiss his cheek. He’s literally been at your side ever since the news broke and you couldn’t be more grateful for having such a steady partner. “It’s nice that she talked about you. When I told her about you she seemed excited to meet you. It was more genuine than I knew.”

“Maybe she has a letter for you from your gram?” He suggests. “She was getting older and I’m sure she had organized things.”

“Maybe.” That idea brightens you a little. Last words from someone you looked up to would be a piece of closure you hadn’t expected.

Zach hums and pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your hairline since it’s not exactly polite to kiss you like he would want to. The suit he had bought is a little tight across the shoulders but it’s not too bad. At least he looks respectable.

“Maybe let’s go out for dinner tonight?” You murmur against his chest. “I’m not in the mood to go three rounds with my parents and I heard them asking Darrel if he was coming over.”

“We can do that.” He’s willing to agree to anything you want, but a dinner out seems like it would be good idea.

“Thank you.” For everything, says the silent second half of that sentence. Zach has known far more grief than you, but it doesn’t stop him from having compassion. Yet another thing to be grateful for.

“Of course.” He shoots you a small smile. “What are you feeling like? Any place special?”

“Oklahoma has the best beef in the world,” you nudge him, a little playfully, and shrug one shoulder upward in offer. “Organic, grass fed, straight from the ranch. Sound good, chef?”

Zach always loves a good cut of steak. It’s his favorite meal when he cooks for himself. “Sounds incredible. I just need to have a few cows shipped to the ship.” He jokes. “We could keep them in the study. None of the guests actually use it anyway.”

“I think the captain will be amused at the requisition request.” A tight squeeze of a hug comes with a sigh from you and you step back to straighten your shoulders. “When this is over, we’ll get my parents home and go out for dinner. Gram’s favorite place.”

“That would be a fitting tribute.” He agrees, kissing your forehead again. “I’ve got to pick up a few things for the funeral food after.”

"Thank you for helping." Of course if there was one thing that Zach was more than capable of helping with, but you know that your mother is trying too hard to put on a strong face and not asking for help because of it. Zach's willingness to step up in the name of family has made a huge difference. "Not that I doubted you would, but I'm still thankful."

“I know, baby.” He finds it relaxing to be in the kitchen, even if it’s not his kitchen and not equipped with his tools. “I think that your mom will like the fried pies. She said Apple was your Gram’s favorite.”

"It was. Apple and cinnamon anything for dessert." Good memories. It's better to stick to good memories. "She would have loved those apple tarts you made last week on the ship. With the caramel and cinnamon ice cream? That was right up her alley."

“You think I should make those too?” He asks, knowing that there will be plenty of foods brought over after the service, but your mother also wanted to have items that the family contributed.

"I can help, since you taught me how to make ice cream." Cooking lessons have become a sort of weekly ritual for you now, as Zach teaches you different techniques or recipes in his kitchen while he does prep for various menu items.

“If you want to help, I won’t say no.” He promises, actually enjoying teaching you how to do different things. It’s fun and you always joke around together. It might be what you need.

"I think it would be really nice." You agree, slipping one arm around his waist under his suit jacket. The nearness of him has been doing so much to keep the aching sadness at bay that you don't really care if you're clinging. "And I'll definitely help."

“That sounds good.” He smiles at you, happy to see just a bit of the grief that has been haunting your eyes is pushed away for a moment.

“Bunny.” Zach looks up to find Darrel standing there, holding two cups. “I brought you and Zach something to drink.” He offers. There’s an awkwardness to the gesture and he realizes it, the half sardonic grin on his face telling Zach that as he shrugs one shoulder. “Figured you could use it.”

"I–um, thanks." The gesture is more startling than it probably should be. Darrel isn't a bad guy, after all. The whole thing has just been so blown out of proportion. "It's...it's never easy." He knows that. They both do. And you look between both men with a sigh. "Darrel lost his parents pretty young. Had to help raise his brothers afterward."

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Zach can understand. “That couldn’t have been an easy thing to do.” He understands that Darrel is still in love with you, or rather the idea of you, but he’s not as self conscious as he had been when you first got here.

"It wasn't." Darrel nods. He can acknowledge a hell of a lot after all these years. "But I think they turned out okay in spite of it being hard. Anything worth having is worth fighting for, right?"

It’s an insight into Darrel’s outlook but he doesn’t dispute it. Zach nods in agreement. “I completely agree.” He hums, his fingers pressing in at your waist slightly as he looks at you, his eyes soft. “Right, sweetheart?”

"Absolutely." The silent signal doesn't escape you, but you would have leaned into Zach's side anyway. "I honestly do appreciate you looking in on my parents, Darrel. It's a nice thing to do and I know they appreciate it. It just...whatever friendship you have with them, that's all it is. A friendship with them. I don't have any part in it anymore."

He flashes a sad smile. “I’m getting that hint, Bunny.” He promises, chuckling slightly. “Might be nothing more than a dumb rancher, but I’m not that slow.” There’s a bit of regret in his tone, as if he still wished things would be different, but they aren’t.

"Whatever else you are, you've never been dumb." That much can be said for Darrel Rodriguez. Actually, a lot can be said for him. "You'll make a fantastic partner for some very lucky woman some day," you promise him. "She's just...not me. That's all."

“I guess it was just a pipe dream.” You’ve taken the cups from his hands so he shuffles them into his pockets. “Hard to let your first love – first everything – go, ya know?” It’s obviously not the same for you, but he doesn’t mention that. “Anyway, I— I’ll make sure your parents don’t bother you about that.”

“Okay.” There isn’t much more to say. Because he’s right. It had been hard to let go. It’s just that you went through that process of loss and acceptance a long time ago.

Darrel gives a nod and turns around to walk away, his shoulders rolled back and his back straight, holding his head up high.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

ItSotN: @greenwitchfromthewoods @copperhalfcent @ariavitiellos @spishsstuff @76bookworm76

[writingrock]

the pearl of my eye [2]

pairing: rafayel x reader (gender neutral) summary: in the darkness, the ocean carries you to meet a merboy who unexpectedly sticks around longer than they should

notes: childhood friends, mermaid au, childhood trauma, fluff, comfort, mentions of death, mentions of drowning

word count: 4.8k

chapter list

a/n: I advise you to read part one before reading this!!

A lot happened ever since that fateful night. Looking back at everything that happened since then feels like a blur.

In general, the whole incident was a lot to comprehend. You could still feel the salty seawater on your face as you gasped for air. You still remember how it felt when you were rescued— the glaringly bright searchlight shone on your limp body clinging onto the timber. Even behind your eyelids, you could feel the warmth and brightness of that light.

The immense relief you felt when your rescuers found you was indescribable. They had even wrapped you in the warmest towel you’ve ever felt. You could remember the rumbling of the rescue’s boat engine that lulled you back to sleep as they brought you back to land. 

Once you had reached land, your aunt had been anxiously expecting you. From the boat, you were able to see how your aunt walked back and forth on the docks, her arms holding herself together in order to comfort herself.

When reunited, the two of you wailed in each other's arms. Feeling thankful to be alive yet also grieving at the loss of your parents. The whole time, your aunt blabbered between sobs about how worried she was about you. If only your parents were here with you.

The discussion on where you would go was cut short by your aunt. She insisted fiercely that she would take you in to live with her. You didn’t oppose.

From the very beginning, there were plans to move here. You and your parents took that boat to visit the seaside town where your aunt resided. Merrowcrest, a quiet coastal town mainly known for their clear waters and peaceful lifestyle. A fresh start here by the ocean where your parents would have worked on their marine research. And as fate would have it, you do end up moving here. Although it happened in the way you weren’t expecting. 

Adjusting to your new life in Merrowcrest is— in one word, difficult. You’ve become the biggest subject in this small town. Poor little ten year old you, losing their parents at sea. The unfortunate child that all pitied. In the midst of the gossip, there were always a plethora of reasons why the accident happened. Whether it was the boat’s malfunction or some drunkard behaviour from the captain.

Or even, it was the curse of the ocean. That’s probably the most baffling reasoning you’ve heard. What happened to you was a tragedy and hearing the speculation behind it often made you churn in discomfort.

Your aunt’s house is foreign to you, with its different layout and odour. It fills you with a strange anger that the floor creaks beneath you sounds differently. The first night in your new room was rough, all you could do was lay in this unfamiliar bed staring up at the darkened ceiling. How absurd is it that the shadows and darkness felt different too.

You miss the comfort of your old room adorned with your favourite things and storybooks, you could remember the peeling posters decorated on the walls. You missed it when your parents kissed you goodnight. The walls in this room however, are empty.

To help you with settling in, your aunt has asked your relatives to help pack your belongings and ship them here. It’s been a week but they haven’t arrived yet.

School is a whole other ballpark to tackle. The new faces, the different routines, and the pressure to make new friends. Making new friends is probably the worst bit, seeing all the groups of friendships around you. The icky pressure to somehow squeeze yourself into those groups crawling up your skin.

Yet, a part of you does not feel the desire to make any. You only wish to be alone. Friends.. Your heart swells at the thought of friends. The only person you’ve been associating that word with is him. 

As days pass by, you think of your rescuer. Wondering if you would ever meet him again. It’s been two weeks since the incident. In your dreams, you return back to that creaky, waterlogged wooden pallet that kept you afloat to see him again. To go back and be in the arms of the mer-boy that saved you.

Is it crazy that in your dreams you go back to the worst moment of your life just to see him? Your fingers idly tap against your desk as you stare out at the open ocean.

The only thing you like about your school is the view you can see from the classroom. Framed with the wooden shutters, the sea stretches out to the horizon to kiss the sky. In the daylight, the sun glistens on the water’s surface, illuminating soft sparkles that dance on each wave.

Is he out there somewhere? Your newfound friend in the vast ocean. Chances of meeting him again seem unlikely to him but you want to hold out hope. Your eyes continue to admire the ocean, your mind drifting back to the conversations the both of you shared that night.

“My name is Rafayel. What’s yours?” The waves lapped gently as the two of you drifted on the flimsy planks of timber.

Under the soft light of the moon, the waves shimmered with a pearly glow. The waves sound softer creating a sense of calm amongst the wreckage. His voice sounded light, similar to a chirp of a bird. Everything in the memory is a blur but the merboy.

The clearest thing in this replay are his mesmerising eyes. Those dual coloured irises that first caught your eye. Every detail of those eyes etched into your memory. You remember giving your name to him, your voice a whisper as you shivered against his warm body.

Sometimes you wonder why he stayed for that long. He’s rescued you and he could have left you once you were fine. But he stayed till the morning until rescue came for you. In the midst of the night, he kept you company. He tried to make different attempts at small talk to calm you down and cool the ache in your heart. Most didn’t work until his last try.

“Shall I tell you a story?” His voice cuts through like a beam of light in the coldness. The boy only wished to make you feel better but you do not have the energy to reply. Rafayel took your silence as a yes. Not that it mattered. He would have told the story either way.

You sat there in his arms as he rocked you a little. The wind brushed past the two of you as he began his tale. As he starts his retelling of the story, his voice had such an enchanting feature to it- lulling you to pay attention. 

“Once, a prince fell in love with a mermaid-” 

“Are you telling me the story of ‘The Little Mermaid’?” You couldn’t help but interrupt. Somehow you had gathered enough energy to speak because you didn’t want to hear a story you’ve been told before.

You’d much rather hear something new if you could pick. Not that you were particularly in the situation to choose what you wanted.

“What? Just let me tell the story.” He shushed you, rather annoyed that you interrupted his storytelling.

His tail flicked in frustration, splashing lightly against the water. The wooden planks swayed gently as he cleared his throat to tell her a story once more. You let him continue and listen anyway, mainly because you were too exhausted to protest again. 

In the depths of the sapphire sea, lived a mermaid whose hair was the colour of midnight, flowing like ink in the water. Sliver sprinkled over her blue irises, reminiscent of the stars in the night sky. Her tail dripped in the hues of the ocean with a lustrous silver lining.

She was the guardian of a hidden cove, a place where the sea met the land in a secret embrace. Everyday, she would swims up to the cove to fulfil her responsibilities. However, one day, as she swam near the shore, a faint sound of music could be heard from the cove.

Intrigued, she followed the melody to see a young man, strumming a lute. From the rocks, the mermaid watched the young man strum his lute, admiring the way he played with the foreign instrument. The music he played felt otherworldly to her, putting her in a trance.

Unbeknownst to her, he was the prince of the nearby kingdom known as a charming, benevolent soul loved by all. But in this cove, he was just a young man invested in his art. 

The mermaid did not have the heart to confront him to make him leave her cove. So for the next few days, she simply watched him secretly and let him play his music to his heart's content. However, it did not last long as one particular day their eyes met.

The prince had caught sight of the cove guardian and his eyes filled with shock and fear. His treasured lute dropped onto the ground of the cove as he stepped back from the mermaid. But the gods had chosen to play with these two mere beings.

An inexplicable force drew them together and the prince’s fear washed over with one glance into the mermaid’s enchanting gaze. Something about her deep blue eyes swirling with sadness and fear.

He realised that neither wanted to hurt each other. So the two would meet every time he played the lute. Whenever she heard the sound of the lute playing, she’d rise up to the cove. 

They talked of their different worlds and of their desires. Occasionally bringing gifts from their different worlds for each other. The more time they spent together, the deeper they fell in love. Their bond grew stronger with each passing moment. The prince would teach the mermaid how to play the lute and the mermaid would in turn teach him about the ocean.

But their love was not meant to last. The people of the kingdom had noticed the prince's frequent absences, and rumours began to spread. Whispers of a sea witch who had ensnared the prince reached the ears of the king, and he was determined to save his son and kill the sea witch. 

One night where the stars twinkled softly in the night sky, the two of them met once again in their hidden cove. Talking as they normally whilst completely oblivious to the imminent danger.

The King’s soldiers ambush the two, catching the two lovers off guard. In an attempt to save the mermaid, the prince fought valiantly against them. But he was no match for the armoured men who had been sent to save him.

They seized him, binding his hands with chains, and turned their weapons on the mermaid. In the chaos, she tried to flee by jumping into the water, but she was struck by a spear.

The sharp point pierced her abdomen, writhing in pain as her body convulsed around the spear. The water above splashing aggressively. She cried out in pain, her blood mingling with the salty water turning the waters red.

Hearing the mermaid’s cry, a wave of adrenaline and urgency ran over the prince. He broke free of his restraints and rushed into the water, diving in to be with his lover. 

His arms wrapped around the weak body of his lover as grief and guilt welling in his eyes. Their time is up and the both of them know it. As one last act of their affections, he kissed her, their tears mixing with the sea, as the life slowly ebbed from her body.

During their last kiss, the prince reached for his lover’s back for the spear lodged into her body. Using his last strength to push it into him. With a swift motion, the weapon goes through his stomach. Deciding there and then that he could not live without her.

His body drifted into the depths of the ocean whilst she turned into seafoam. In the end, their love was swallowed by the sea, their bodies lost to the depths, but their spirits remained, bound together for eternity.

“Why does your story have such a grim ending?” A soft exhale leaves your mouth, letting the ending sink in. Your lips stretched into a frown as you shot a look at your new friend.

Rafayel is unfazed by your reaction, a solemn look on his face as he looks beyond the ocean. Soft thumps of his heartbeat lowly vibrated through his chest. Your ear memorised the low, unique beats of his heart as if it were music.

Rafayel’s eyes look lost in thought. You attempt to read his mind by studying his face. If only it were that easy. In the quiet, he finally speaks. 

“Because it’s real.”  

The school bell rings and you are brought back to reality. Pulling you away from the comforts of your memories. School’s finally over. The sharp sound of the bell echoes as everyone prepares to leave.

Rising from your seat, packing your backpack hurriedly. Shoving in your pencil cases and books. You could finally start the favourite part of your daily routine.

Wordlessly, you leave the classroom, brushing past the chattering classmates and your homeroom teacher. Slipping past them quietly so that no one would stop you. Swinging open the classroom door with such excitement as if you were escaping from prison.

The rubber soles of your sneakers gripping the polished floor with a slight squeak as you push onwards. Running down the hall past the other dismissed children. A cheery bounce in your step as you leave the dreary atmosphere of school.

You feel life flow through your face when the cool breeze hits you. Carrying the scent of seawater that acts as a trail towards the beach. The only good thing about your school is that it’s near the beach. 

Warm rays of sun shine down on you, your shadows drag by as your legs take you to the beach. Each step takes you closer, the distinct change of the concrete beneath your feet to the soft sand making a grin appear on your face.

The sand shifts under your feet as you remove your sneakers and socks. Just ditching them in the middle of the beach as you run to the shore. Your heart strums as you stop by the lapping waves. The very gentle, inviting waves that you’re afraid of. Hesitating to touch the waters. You stop by the edge, your feet not touching the ocean.

Your aunt didn’t understand why you came here every day but she let you. She figured it was harmless and it was your own way of healing.

So after school, she lets you go to the ocean for an hour before she comes to pick you up. Your eyes land on your feet and the water. Silently in your mental palace, you think of the recent events.

You hate the ocean. You’re terrified of it. Yet you come here for a chance to see that merboy again. Perhaps you’re naive and foolish. But you’re okay with that. Stepping back from the shore, you turn and run off into the further parts of the beach. Your feet felt cool against the sinking sand. 

Last weekend, you discovered this place. Tucked away from the town, shrouded by nature. You found it by chance, wandering through the coastal foliage with not much thought. Instinct guiding you to this hidden wonder.

As you emerge from the greenery, the cove reveals itself. A small, crescent-shaped stretch of sand bordered by rocky cliffs. The cliffs are rugged, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of wind and water.

Compared to the main beach, the sand here has a lighter shade and is of a finer quality. Smooth rocks and colourful seashells scattered throughout the sand.

The waters here are clear with a hue of turquoise. In a way, you feel that the waves here are much more gentle than the main beach. Soft pants leave your mouth as you reach the hidden cove in front of you.

Just like the one Rafayel told you about in his story. A part of you wondering if this could be the same one he talked about. This wasn’t your favourite part about this place though.

Turning your body to the left, you eyed the small cave in the cliff, just by the lapping waves. Wordlessly, you go forward to the cave. The first few times you came here, you did not have the heart to explore the cave.

But today’s the day that ends. You managed to sum up the courage for today’s little adventure. Because you had a secret weapon to conquer your fears. Swallowing the doubt in your throat, you march onwards towards the cave.

Moving closer, your eyes scanned the entrance of the cave, noting the hanging flora around it as if trying to hide itself from the world. This is it. You shake your body of fear one last time before going in. 

Inside the cave, the sound of dripping water echoes softly. It’s cool and damp in this rocky hideaway. Your hands reach for your ultimate secret weapon– the flashlight. Whipping it out with such confidence as your thumb turns it on.

A bright light cuts through the dim visibility of the cave. Your eyes take a second to adjust to the sudden change. Once your vision adjusts, your eyes scan the cave. The walls are adorned with ancient, weathered markings and drawings.

Stepping closer to get a good look, your hand touches the wall. Going over what was on the walls. You couldn’t really understand it but it was beautiful. Perhaps it was left by long-forgotten ancestors. They were too old to be recent. In the silence, you admired the ancient mural on the cave walls.

Lost in thought as you tried to fit the puzzle together. A splash interrupts your thoughts and fear strikes your body. You spin to the direction of the sound, your heart basically springing through your chest.

The loud sound of your heartbeat being the only thing you could hear in this moment. Your body trembles, the flashlight’s beam of light becoming shaky. Something internally urges you to go to the noise and investigate whilst your brain screams to reject that foolish idea. Another splash comes again and you shudder.

What is that? Slowly, you inch closer to the noise, anxiety spiking up as you take slow and deep breaths. Trying to calm yourself down.

Suddenly your secret weapon felt like a measly stick and there was regret sinking in you with every step. As you near the source of the noise, you come face to face with a natural pool of seawater. 

It’s a secret opening from the cave that leads to the ocean. Your eyes cast down to the mysterious pool of water, there was a magical quality to it. Almost like the pool was glimmering. But that's when you catch the sight of purple hair?

Something bursts through the surface of the water, earning a loud scream from you. Your eyes squeezed shut as you crouched down. But your loud scream caused whatever that emerged from the water to let a shrill scream too. You slowly open your eyes at the sound of the scream. Why is it screaming?

You slowly rise and look into the pool to see a familiar merboy. Both of your eyes meet, a shine swirls in both of your irises. A glimmer of fate in them. It’s Rafayel.

Both your screams die down and the two of you stand there in shock. Looks like Rafayel kept his end of his promise. A reunion sworn with the ocean as your witness. You tried to say something but you could only stutter with your mouth agape.

Rafayel, on the other hand, manages to form some words, “What are you doing here?” his voice echoes in the cave. Rafayel is flabbergasted. No one should know about this place– the hidden cove and this cave. How did you find it?

There’s some panic inside of him as words spill out of his mouth in a flurry. “You need to go, you shouldn’t be here!”

To which you only argue back that you weren’t leaving. For a while, the two of you bicker back and forth about staying or leaving. Squabbling like cats fighting for a can of food. 

Eventually it dies down and Rafayel gives up on his protest. You won by being terribly stubborn. The two of you start recounting the last two weeks of your lives.

Rafayel did in fact get in trouble for his late night adventure. Apparently the whole kingdom was in a frenzy, searching for the prince. His mother was worried sick and reprimanded him for being so reckless.

He didn’t tell her about the human he saved because he would have gotten into more trouble. His mother held a hatred for humans. In truth, the story Rafayel told you was about his aunt, his mother’s sister.

The two were close and had a deep love rooted in their sisterhood. So when she died, his mother fell into deep grief that could be felt through ravenous waves and storms. It happened way before he was born.

He has never met his aunt but his mother always told him that he held the essence of her dear departed sister. “Your aunt would have loved to meet you.” She always told him. She always believed that part of her sister reincarnated into him. Rafayel never knew how to feel about it.

In the conversations, he reveals this information to you. You silently listen to his recap of the past two weeks as well as the revelation that the story was of his aunt. You are silent as you absorb this new information. Looking at your friend as you gather some words to use.

“So is this the hidden cove in the story?” You ask quietly, sadness dawning upon you as the story plays in your head. You could almost visualise the story play out in reality.

“Yes, this is the cove,” he replies as he looks down at the water, “my mother was meant to take over as guardian but she refused to come here. So it’s been abandoned.” He explains, the sound of his mother’s wails echoing in his head.

“But I’ve been coming here in secret to nurture it back to health. I feel obligated to.” Young Rafayel confesses, perhaps there is a part of his aunt inside of his soul after all.

This is another secret he keeps from his mother because she had forbidden him to come here in fear of him meeting a similar fate to her sister. She wanted him away from humans. Naturally, he goes secretly. 

Soon enough it became your turn to talk about your new life. Once Rafayel finished talking about his life, you start about how you moved here. Your new life with your aunt and how she’s really kind to you. How much you appreciate her efforts in getting you adjusted to your new life. How you’ve become the talk of the town as well as how little progress you’ve been making at school.

It started being easy to talk, because you started to unconsciously rant about your suppressed feelings and thoughts about your new life. Rafayel listened intently, letting you process your emotions and speak.

He knows nothing of how you feel but he lets you go through your grief. Sometimes through the gaps of an unclosed door, he catches a glimpse of his mother crying. So whilst he doesn’t understand grief fully, he knows it's important for one to express it.

At some point of the conversation, you start talking about your fear of the waves. How after the incident, you’re not sure if you could look at the ocean the same way.

“You can’t go into the waters anymore?” Rafayel asked once more, unable to fathom the fear of the ocean. You nod once, ashamed of your fear. You had just told the merboy that you’re scared of the ocean. His home. He felt bad for you. The ocean is beautiful with the most breathtaking views underwater.

There was a hint of sorry in his eyes and you had to interject. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone already does.” You plead, a vulnerability in your voice, “Just.. I don’t want you to give me that look too.” 

Rafayel pauses at your words. Closing his eyes for a moment as he absorbs your words. He’s thinking deeply, taking a deep breath. Your eyes study him, waiting for his next words.

Suddenly, his eyes burst open with a mischievous twinkle, “I didn’t think you would be such a scaredy cat.” Something in the depths of your mind shattered as you replay his words. What did he say? Your eyes widened at him.

There was a sheepish smile on his lips as he continued, “I thought you were braver than that. Turns out you’re just a scared little human.” Something about his tease lit a fire in you. As well as a compulsion to throw the flashlight at the cheeky merboy. An air of arrogance and smugness around the purple haired boy.

Your hands grip the flashlight and you raise your arm, causing Rafayal to instinctively flinch, preparing to dodge if you did throw it. “Hey! Don’t throw it–!” He protests, waving his arms like a seagull as he moves side to side, making it hard for you to aim the flashlight.

“I’m not some scaredy cat!” You yell back, your arm still holding the flashlight as you ready your aim on the moving target, “now hold still so I can hit your head.”.

Rafayel felt his face fall when you told him of your intentions to hit his head. He shakes his head as he starts crossing his arms to form an ‘X’, doing everything to signal to not hit his face.

“Hey–! If you come here everyday, I’ll help you conquer your fear!” He manages to offer before you could throw the flashlight. The grip on the flashlight loosens slightly.

“I’ll help you. You don’t have to be scared.” the words leave his mouth in a careful as he starts to slow down. He's still swaying due to the fear of getting hit. You process his words and your arm lowers, giving him some assurance that he could now be still. 

Overcome your fear of the ocean? You contemplate on whether that’s possible or if you even want that. Your heart quickens at the thought of the ocean. With each thump of your heart, you see the flashes of that grave night.

The helplessness you felt when you were drowning. How close you were to the brink of death. Your heart thuds loudly at the knowledge that your parents bodies are still being searched in the vast ocean that swallowed them.

You need time. That short period of thinking resulted in cold sweat trickling down your forehead. You couldn’t give an answer as your heart raced. Rafayel studies your expression, letting you think before assuring you.

“You don’t have to answer me now. Think on it.” His words calms you down slightly, your skin easing from the prickly sensation that came with visualisation of the ocean. You softly mumble a ‘thank you’, your glossy eyes meeting his soft gaze.

“But for what it’s worth. You’re strong and I know you can do it.” Encouraging you with a hopeful look. You could only manage a small smile and nod. 

The both of you share a comfortable, easy silence, that’s interrupted by the sound of your watch. You started to set a timer for an hour when your aunt got worried because you’ve always overextended your visit to the beach.

She made you promise that you’d set a timer and make sure to meet her at the beach after one hour. Or you’d have to walk home. You would much rather sit in the comfort of her car. Springing to your feet, you know it’s time for you to go.

“Rafayel, I need to go but I’ll come back tomorrow! Same time.” You say to the merboy. The merboy nods and waves at you as you start getting ready to leave. Exchanging goodbyes as you sprint to the beach.

As you make your way back, the merboy too decides to head back. Both, returning to their respective homes, knowing they will see each other again. Throughout the car ride home, his words echo in your head. He believes in you. You softly purse your lips and close your eyes. Should you really?

In the end, you’re just a young child who went through a traumatic experience. Perhaps you need some time to think about this. Besides, Rafayel would wait on your decision. No matter how long it takes. Rafayel would wait for you.

a/n: there's probably going to be at least 4 parts to this short series. hope you rafayel girlies like this!

border credits: @enchanthings & @adornedwithlight

© writingrock 2024 do not copy, translate or repost.

[angelismmm]

Finally another arlan enjoyer! Could I get some hcs of a relationship with best boy?

(＾▽＾) relationship hcs ft. ARLAN !

☆ pairings. arlan x gn!reader

☆ synopsis. just relationship hcs w arlan, thats it lmao

☆ a/n. i just picked randomly with a wheel for which ask would i do while waiting for oshi no ko requests aksmdkasdm

⁂ how did it start?

again, like i specified in my other hc fic, or wtv, he meets you through asta! kind of seems like the type to not rly be all that social unless you already know him, or if its for business

kind of shy around you, like lowkey blushing when you both get to talk, but you probably can't really see his blush, the dark skin and stuff yk?! but when you cup his cheeks, they're so round and warm, that's a promise!

asta is such a silly, immediately noticed the crush he had on you, sort of stalked you guys honestly, it was for a good reason! she just listened in on a few conversations.. maybe more than few.. just for good measure, but she's never seen arlan stuttering over his words so much

putting one and one together, she already knew what was going down, and she just needed to get you both together immediately!

asta always has an excuse to leave you both alone after discussing whatever, "oh my, seems like my time is limited once again.. you both can just stay here and just chat for a bit, i'll be back!"

she never came back.

arlan kind of has a hard time trying to start conversations, so you gotta help a bit! be the first the talk, or start asking questions, he's kind of awkward and never really is good at socializing, but if you do the first step, maybe it'll even affect him a bit, and he'll do the first move!

⁂ what goes down (in the relationship)?

actual relationship hcs now, tbh arlan seems like the very clingy, will make it very not obvious though, on the days he really needs it, he'll ask you straight up, with a flushed expression, kind of looks away whenever he asks for this corny ahh stuff

"i just wanna-- i wanna ask.. i uh.. can we.. cuddle? if you're comfortable with that?"

such a sweetheart, i'm not even gonna lie, you probably caught him once or twice asking asta about stuff, like if you'd like these flowers, or if you like something else as a gift better,

will always be nervous when he asks you out, like a cheesy teen couple, he'll be holding out flowers, lowkey stuttering, and holding your hand at the same time

best bet, guaranteed, he has never been in a relationship before, the only reason he knows sooo much about dates is because of books! loves loves loves reading, would definitely be a fairytale irl w him when on dates, picks the cutest locations ever too, like a new cat cafe that opened up, sure!

super creative with gifts, he goes absolutely crazy with it ngl, but in a good way

kind of has a habit of just squeezing your hand while your fingers are intertwined with each other. just does it when he can't find the words to tell you how much he's missed you while you were gone.

probably would also tighten his grip around your waist when it gets a bit crowded in the streets, doesn't wanna lose you in the sea of people yk?!

likes it when you start to trace shapes on his palms or while you both cuddle, and start to draw little stars with your fingers on his back, really just lulls him to sleep, and feels comforted when you do that type of stuff.

finds it so attractive when you stretch, like it shouldn't be that attractive, but it is, he cannot help it, at all.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!

[danwhobrowses]

One Piece Chapter 1124 - Initial Thoughts

Well it's an early one and a late one it seems

early in that it's on Thursday for Scanlations but late as in it's very much nighttime for me, but we're in the lull between arcs as Egghead starts to officially wrap up

Let's see what the fallout is

Spoilers for the Chapter, Support the Official Release too!

Yamato's latest pit stop is the noble effort of stopping a kidnapping, I wonder if this leads to another met character

If he had people following him I'd have called it Oden-esque to how he picked up the scabbards

Starting with Morgans and he's ready to spin his little weave of tabloid hysteria

Vivi however continues to stand her ground against him, despite Wapol's attempts to calm her and remind her that they've found asylum with Morgans

Morgans also notes that since his flying ship means he doesn't touch the sea, he's safe from the flooding world anyway

He does thinly threaten Vivi though, implying his status will be greater because his ship can fly, but Vivi refuses to grovel even if it meant drowning with the world

Morgans does have all the other headlines to deal with too, the Yonko battles with Kid and Law, but unsurprisingly he's pinning Vegapunk's death on Luffy - despite Vivi's objections

The outside of Egghead is quite save for someone calling in a report

Sentomaru escapes on a small boat as the rest of the Navy's unconscious too, good, glad he wasn't captured

Kizaru picks up the Den Den Mushi, with an irate Akainu asking for a status report

Kizaru remains vague, noting everyone was laid out but they'll brief him when they come to

Akainu accuses Kizaru of 'slacking off' and it seemed to hit a nerve

In an uncharacteristic move, Kizaru talks back to the Fleet Admiral, asking if he's ever had to kill his best friend

Kizaru remembers meeting Vegapunk, a ruse of an arrest is seen through by Vegapunk, who asks what pay the WG is offering

We see him partake in the construction of Egghead, with Kuma, Bonney and Sentomaru, and then his perspective of killing Vegapunk

His shades barely show his eyes, but the veins are pulsing and the tears are just showing as he tells Akainu that if he has time to doubt him he can just see for himself

Akin to when the quiet kid lashes out in class, Akainu backtracks, calling him 'brother' may've been a bit much even for Kizaru

Back at the Longboat and Sunny and the tone is quiet, again uncharacteristically

Franky and Jinbe discuss how Luffy's not one to call off a party, he was dejected from the fact that they had failed their mission in taking Vegapunk from Egghead

Franky, sporting a cowboy look, reminds Jinbe and Zoro - who is drinking nearby - the odds that were stacked against them, which Jinbe agrees with

Zoro remains cold about it though, stating that Luffy can't take every loss as badly, which the other two point out as harsh

Lilith awakens, she looks weird without her jacket

Usopp, Nami, Chopper and Sanji welcome her awake

They were all resting on a lounge chair on the giants' ship, they needed a ladder just to get up

The group apologize to Lilith for failing to save the other Vegapunks, but Lilith says she already 'heard' what happened

Rather than explain, she bursts out crying

'How are you the Evil one again?' Usopp please that's low on the list of questions

Instantly she's back to being happy, and hungry since she's no longer connected to York, so the group point her to the fruit table

Luffy's there eating, but not with his usual zeal

Upset with having failed to save the Stella, Luffy's only mustered up 5 bunches of giant grapes

Lilith once again notes that she heard about it, but seems to avoid elaborating, instead she notes that she cried mourning their deaths but then shifted her perspective

She tells the group - to their surprise - that none of the Vegapunks are dead

The group are naturally surprised and confused, she clarifies that they're 'functionally dead' but nothing further

But she does put Luffy at ease in pointing out that he technically kept his promise

This of course leads Luffy into end-arc party mode

Robin's okay too, and looking forward to the prospect of seeing Saul

The giants ask for a toast, with discussions about Vegapunk's broadcast stating that whoever finds the One Piece will shake the world

Luffy remains adamant about his dream and declares that regardless of whether people are with them or against them, they'll be King of the Pirates

A new format of narration hits with a scroll design, venturing through to Elbaf

a shadowed person awaits on the land of Elbaf, as we seem to officially set up the next arc

Annnnd a break next week too, I guess it's a fitting time for it

That chapter kinda flew by for me

A lot of things were short and sweet or just beat after beat Seems a shame not to follow up with Stussy or CP0, plus we got nothing from York or Saturn this chapter. Also no Bonney and Kuma on the other side of things. We at least confirm that Kizaru was torn up about killing Vegapunk which, yeah it's nice to see him feel remorse but like...it's still murder you know? You had opportunities to not do that but you chose the oppressive government over your own morals. So it is hard to show sympathy for him, even if it is a little cathartic to see him snap at Akainu.

Morgans and Vivi's cagey dynamic will look to continue, though one would like to hope that Vivi finds her way to someone that doesn't anger her so much. Morgans is still a weird one, he seemed to place his chips on Luffy but he's also throwing him under the bus for sales, he has like 5 different major events happening he doesn't really need to falsify anything. I guess Oda's just drilling home to not trust the tabloids.

Seeing Luffy not wanna party was odd but I'm glad we did point out that the mission did technically fail, but I guess technically did not? Lilith hasn't explained so I feel like Oda's saving it for something else, saying 'functionally dead' makes me think that when the others 'died' they simply returned to the brain jar, since technically they are satellites and I guess their personality and character was pulled from Punk Records' wifi hive mind. We'll have to see when it's clarified, but it seems next will be Elbaf. I am worried that Robin will end up disappointed with hoping to see Saul, but given how insane Egghead has been anything can happen, would like to see more shine on the crew though; most of the crew didn't end up doing a lot this arc, the Monster Trio got their heres and theres but the rest felt written out or secondary so hopefully Elbaf is the place for the massive Yonko-level W.

All that's left is to wait.

[random-introverted-blog]

His Star - His Queen [Chapter 7 - Impromptu Rendezvous]

A King Deserves More

Summary: Astarion and you are finally (kinda) reunited (not fully). Tentative plans are discussed, a tournament commences and a wish is granted. Questions answered, (also kinda) and plenty more left to ponder (definitely).

You didn't think you were the only ones with plans, did you?

Link to the Tumblr Chapter Index

Warnings/Advisories: A fight scene, some uncomfortable witnessed kisses, a few mentions of blood. Creepy dialogue akin to Chapter 4.

A/N: We're getting close to a turning point in the story. Been sort of a lull period to establish what was set up in the first three chapters.

Thank you as always to everyone who supports this little adventure of mine! Hope the wait was worth it!

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After a quick visit to the Precipice for the enchantment to be recast on him, Astarion once again found himself outside that damned palace, amidst the bustling stalls and festival nonsense.

They had been watching, but neither was sure how to reach you. You were effectively surrounded. With that steward spawn Malacai glued to your side, three servant girls in your shadow and four of those palace guards in polished silver armor gleamed in the rays of the midday sun. If there was an attempt at subtly, it was done poorly. But that didn't stop you from casually browsing the jeweler's stand as the stumpy human man made enthusiastic and broad gestures, beaming proudly as he went on about his wide and varied selection. Evidently eager to be the one to sell you your engagement ring.

Just as evident as the fact you weren't wearing one, despite the announcement yesterday.

It was one of the first things he noted to Aric beside him when they spotted you exiting the palace. Accompanied by your small horde, the Ascendant had walked at your side, hands clasped behind his back and carrying himself with his chin held high. Jester - a fitting name for a gnome, he might add, muttered something about drawing the Godking away before he melted into the sea of people. Just moments later, a messenger arrived and whispered in the Ascendant's ear. And then he visibly excused himself from your company. Not that you seemed to mind his abrupt need to depart. But Astarion could have done without witnessing the brief kiss he gave you before he departed.

"If we don't reach her now," Aric muttered to him urgently, "we'll lose our chance." "The tourney is in less than an hour." Subtly reminding Astarion that he insisted on participating.

As soon as he embarked on this ill-conceived plan, he immediately regretted it, muttering, "Bloody hells." But he was never one for planning, anyway.

"What are you—?" The tiefling asked, bewildered, as the elf departed his side and strode toward the guards and servants.

Predictably, his path was blocked by two guards, their crossed spears serving as a clear message "By order of his Majesty, none may approach the consort. "One of them said sternly from behind their full helmet, concealing their face. By curiosity or chance, you looked up from the ring in your palm. Your face instantly brightened with excitement, but then fell, dejected, just as quickly. Worry etched lines on your beautiful face, but you turned to that tall steward of yours. Speaking quickly and urgently, judging by the movement of your lips.

Despite the incredulous expression on your steward's face, you pressed on, your eyes silently begging for understanding. Reluctantly, and with a clenched jaw, the human waved his hand, causing your small horde to retreat. Leaving the path clear for Astarion.

It was so sudden to him then how much he's missed you. How desperately he ached with the ferocious need to draw you close, to wrap you in his embrace, where the world's shadows couldn't dare to touch the warmth of your skin. Shield you the same way you've shielded him so many times.

He could sense that it had also occurred to you. But you pressed your lips into a thin line and shook your head. "I don't need to give him more reason to..." you whisper, your words fading away. Your attention shifts, and you start absentmindedly turning the ring in your fingers, lost in thought. "How come no one else is reacting to you?"

As you ask, you visibly tense up, your muscles tightening as if you're holding yourself back. The urge to run to him was strong in you as well.

"That's quite a long story, my dear. For now, it's a unique spell, or enchantment. That protects me from my... quirks. And my identity from anyone besides you and him."

While skeptical, you seem satisfied enough to let it go. Freeing him to continue. "Listen, Tav," he spoke, mindful of his volume, his voice barely audible over the bustling festive chaos, "we're working as best we can to get you—"

As you hold up your free hand, you cautiously inquire, "Who's we?" You quickly glance from side to side, ensuring that your steward and servants are nowhere nearby to overhear.

"There's a resistance, darling," Astarion whispers. "I've spent the past tenday in their company. They've gotten me mostly up to speed on the state of things in this world." Astarion explains quietly, ensuring his words were only as loud as they need to be. Gathering his courage, he ventures to ask, "Are you...?"

He watches your body tighten into a coil of raw nerves, unease sneaking over you like an unwelcome shadow. "I'm okay, Star," you manage to say, even though your voice betrays a hint of your inner turmoil. "Just tell me what I can do to help. Anything, if it gets me out faster."

With a weighty pause, he inclines his head. "Do you think you could slip out of the palace again? Venture into the city, perhaps less guarded?"

You pause, your fingers fumbling with the ring, as you visibly ponder the request. The burden of the decision lingers in the air, adding a layer of tension. Visibly pondering the request, you furrow your brows, a small crease forming between them. "I... yes," you finally respond, the words escaping your mouth with a hint of bitterness. They hang in the air, heavy and charged. "I can convince him to let me leave, perhaps under the guise of... the wedding arrangements." The words carry a venomous undertone, as if each syllable is laced with resentment and disdain.

Your eyes dart around but focus nowhere in particular, avoiding his gaze momentarily before meeting his eyes, silently seeking understanding. The magnitude of the task is evident in your expression, a mix of determination and uncertainty. "But I can't give you a definite time or location," you continue, your voice tinged with a touch of frustration. "I have to think about it, spin some webs. Another tenday, maybe two, for when he might let me out of the palace. I can't guarantee how guarded I may be, though." As you speak, a faint scent of freshly cooked meats and incense wafts through the air, mingling with the tension. You take a deep breath, as you silently question if that is enough time or if it's too much time.

"How do I even reach you to let you know? Have you any idea how restricted I am in that gilded plane of Avernus? It's not like I can just toddle out and send a letter by pigeon." You gesture to him with the hand holding the ring and suddenly look away. Hiding your eyes behind your well tidied hair.

Every fiber of his being longs to envelop you in his arms, offering the reassurance you so desperately need, and he has to remind himself consciously of the audience around the two of you. "You helped me take back my freedom. I will not leave you alone fighting to regain yours, my love." He pauses and eyes the jewelry pinched between your fingers. A black band, exquisitely crafted, sparkled with a delicate arrangement of petite blue and silver gems.

Like a night sky painted with graceful strokes of twinkling stars, crafting an mesmerizing display resembling a beautiful dance across the dark expanse of midnight.

"You have a servant girl you apparently handpicked."

"Elowen." You finish for him, still not returning your gaze. "I saw her with you yesterday."

"She has a sending stone for you. You can use that to inform me how your plan is progressing, and when we can expect your... appointment." Astarion offers. By the hells, where is that wriggling worm when he really needed it? Dormant? Is that what Illyndra said? "I have to go. The tourney is about to begin. Suppose I'll see you there."

With a slow and deliberate movement, you raise your head to make eye contact with him once more. Hardened. But with more than just resolve. The instinct for self preservation was starting to take over. A little more than a tenday and you were already well on your way to building your bulwark against pain.

Your primal survival instincts were already well underway, it seems.

It seems like your primal survival instincts were already well underway. "No." you respond, your voice devoid of warmth, your eyes distant. "I have another lesson on sovereignty or whatever to endure, followed by a dress fitting, much as I wish I could shirk those things. But he will be there." Your gaze shifts upwards and away, as if searching for an escape. Despite your casual tone, the words carry a warning. His involvement will expose his presence in this world.

Now aware of the human steward's slow approach, his hands tucked behind his back. Astarion pressed his lips together, realizing that you had noticed before he did. "Lady Ancunín," he chided, "that is not the proper way to speak of your affianced publicly." As he drew near to your side.

A fleeting glimmer of a glare that passes through your eyes before you swiftly bury it away, refusing to meet your Star's eyes and witness his shock at your unexpected title. You take one last look at the ring between your fingertips before pushing it back onto the wooden counter of the stall. "It was good seeing you." Lacking emotion, you mutter over your shoulder, your voice sounding even more lifeless than the vampire spawn.

Then you turn away. The vibrant hues of your flowing dress create an enchanting whirlwind around you, captivating the eyes of those who witness your departure. Beside you, Malacai effortlessly matched your determined stride, the click of his boots echoing in sync with your deep brown shoes, and the guards and servants followed closely. However, amidst the commotion, only one person breaks away from your shadow, venturing into the bustling crowd. With a lingering gaze upon the ring you had set down, he moves on.

Curious, Astarion followed her carefully. Barely moving through the crowd when he found her again. He wasn't surprised when he found her speaking to the Ascendant. The exchange was short-lived, a mere moment, before he brushed her off with a nonchalant wave of his hand. She performed a graceful curtsy before him, and then hastily made her way, presumably in search of you. He turned back to a familiar tall Elven man. "Ballar." Aric said as he appeared beside him. "His righthand steward. Out of all his advisors, generals... Ballar is the one he seems to lean on the most." He explains calmly while Astarion recalls his first day in this world, in front of the palace doors.

On his way to the tourney ring, Astarion swiftly shares the key details of his conversation with you. Noting the balcony overlooking the patch of fenced in dirt from above. Positioned next to each other were two magnificent chairs with ornate designs. Empty for the time being, but a handful of servants diligently clean the tables, meticulously polish the armrests and golden goblets, and arrange a spread of refreshments.

"Jester lured Ancunín away by tipping off the Noctis to a resistance hideout, but now he has to hurry and evacuate it before they get there. He told me to make sure you won. Apparently he has an idea for that wish." Aric explains next, surprising Astarion the lengths the gnome went to provide him an opening to meet with you.

If these Noctis Veil are as... efficient as he's been led to believe, it was not a risk he would have taken lightly. An elite subterfuge and espionage force blended with vampire spawn? Creative... and terrifying.

Not long after, the tourney began. He had expected more competition than those he had faced in the ring already, but they hardly stood a challenge against him. It was almost comical. As their gazes met, Astarion braced himself for a more pronounced reaction from the Ascendant, but was met with a calm and collected demeanor. His doppelgänger didn't seem surprised in the slightest.

What did surprise them both was when you entered the balcony from the door behind the Ascendant. Right behind you, Malacai discreetly positioned himself against the back wall, behind the chairs. While waiting for his next round, Astarion observed the "sovereigns" and could tell that the Ascendant wasn't thrilled to see you there, although he didn't appear eager to send you away either.

Instead, he gestured to the seat beside him, and you took the offer. Though Astarion saw your lips moving, neither of your voices reached his ears. But you made a show of eyeing and playing with your left ring finger as you spoke, and your vampire managed a sad smile. Still doing your best to communicate to him what was unfolding around you.

But then the monster turned to lock his glare to Astarion's. Cueing you to look as well.

Much to his surprise, the Ascendant let you watch most of the event before clearly dismissing you. Again, with a soft touch and a gentle press of his lips against yours, he sealed the moment with a brief, yet lingering kiss, unable to resist the allure of your beautiful, addictive lips. You didn't look at Astarion as you rose and left, avoiding his gaze.

However, the Ascendant did. His eyes gleamed with wicked delight as he leisurely crossed his leg over his lap, revealing a glint of his fangs beneath his lopsided, smug grin.

Aric's surprise at Astarion making it to the final round was clear, as he made no effort to conceal it. Though the combatants thus far have proven easy.

Once he enters the pit, he assesses his final opponent. The sight that greeted him was a striking half orc man, his tall frame clad in resplendent gold and silver plate armor. A longsword stood firmly planted in the earth in front of him. On one knee, deep in prayer. A paladin.

Rising, he turns to the balcony, his eyes filled with determination as he brings a tight fist to his chest. "My Godking," he said with utmost reverence, "I swear my undying loyalty and devotion to you! May your reign beside our queen be long and prosperous!"

"You can take him deeper down your throat, surely." Astarion mutters under his breath with a roll of his eyes, drawing his twin daggers from his hip.

The game-warden, true to form, delivers her usual verbose introduction for the two fighters, emphasizing the high stakes of this decisive match. And with two deafening blasts of the horn that mark the start of the final match, the paladin fearlessly charges forward with a resounding roar that reverberates through the air and mingles with the dying echo of the tournament horn, his footsteps echoing like thunder.

Radiant energy crackles along the length of his blade. Astarion moves with grace and ease, smoothly sidestepping the initial strike, a small grin already forming on his lips.

The sound of steel meeting steel echoes through the festive courtyard as Astarion effortlessly parries the next series of broad swings, his movements appearing almost otherworldly in their fluidity.

With each display of the behemoth's strength, his confidence grows, knowing that all he has to do is bide his time, find the perfect moment, and make the behemoth kneel before him with a blade at his throat.

But the ferocity of his assault doesn't relent, testing your vampire's stamina. A heavy strike descends upon his head, and with a swift, skillful roll, Astarion narrowly avoids the blow. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, confirming that the behemoth managed to graze him, marking the first sign of bloodshed.

Gods, what kind of idiot was he? Direct confrontation would never work. His opponent had brute strength and evident vitality on his side. But what he didn't have was speed and agility. He couldn't outmaneuver Astarion...

Filled with renewed determination, he deftly navigates around the hulking figure, launching rapid attacks whenever he spots a vulnerability in his armor. Aimed to soften his target, make him easier prey.

The paladin, feeling the taste of victory within his grasp, lifts his sword once more, unleashing a powerful cry as he gathers an overwhelming surge of radiant energy, preparing for a divine smite. With incredible reflexes and nimble footwork, Astarion skillfully evaded the attack, causing the half-orc to lose his footing and stumble ahead.

Astarion, quick as lightning, seizes the fleeting opportunity and launches a relentless assault on his opponent, the sound of his slashes and stabs filling the air as the paladin struggles to defend himself. Finally, one of Astarion's daggers finds a weak spot in the sturdy armor, piercing the skin and drawing blood. Despite his subdued appetite, the tempting aroma wafted through the air, teasing his senses.

Ignoring everything else, he stayed fixated on the momentarily stunned paladin, driving the pommel of his dagger directly into the half-orc's nose. He relished in the satisfying crunch and the resulting cry of pained astonishment. Employing a strategic technique, he disarms his adversary with the flat of his blades, following up with calculated strikes to immobilize the weakened areas.

Completely outmatched and devoid of weapons, it appears that even this arrogant brute accepts defeat as he humbly kneels before your rogue, surrendering without resistance. Silently acknowledging him as the victor.

The applause of the crowd faded into the background as he turned his attention toward the balcony. Astarion's eyes locked with the Ascendant's, who couldn't help but sport a sly grin as he arched one eyebrow in amusement.

He paid no mind to the game-warden once she let go of his arm, the one she had hoisted in the air, and he quickly made his way back to Aric. Only a little surprised to see the irritating gnome at his side. "Impressive for a foolhardy pretty boy."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Jester doubled down but shook his head. "Listen, we don't have long before you're summoned for your audience with Ancunín..."

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With a nod from the well-dressed servant, the guards stepped back, allowing him to open the door. The Ascendant commanded attention as he stood in the middle of the room, his back facing the onlookers as workers toiled to remove a grand portrait from the wall. Meanwhile, the Ascendant maintained his poise, casually holding a goblet between his fingertips.

It looked like you... but also not. Somehow.

His gaze lingered on them, studying their actions, before he turned his head to look over his shoulder and acknowledge his new arrival. "Ah, my favorite cockroach." Muses the Ascendant with a wry smile. Returning his attention to the workers, he commanded, "Leave us."

Astarion observed the workers exchanging uncertain glances, their hands carefully clutching the weighty portrait. Looking on, he could discern the Ascendant's eyes rolling and catch the faint sound of an impatient growl resonating from his throat. In a hurried frenzy, they carelessly released their grip on the item, hitting the floor with a resounding thud. The impact was forceful and reverberated through the room, shattering the delicate frame and inflicting irreparable damage upon the once-pristine portrait. Yet, a strange indifference permeated the room, as not a soul in the room seemed to care about the damage.

Once only the two vampires were in the room, the Ascendant turned to face him. "Quite a performance you put on today. And you didn't even spend half of it on your back." He taunts, flavoring the malice with a smirk as he elegantly swirls his goblet. Astarion's senses tingled as the intoxicating scent of fresh blood wafted through the air, a scent as pure as the first falling snow. It possessed a certain sweetness, a tantalizing whisper that hinted at its source - young, untouched... Virgin blood? The thought alone sent a shiver of excitement down his spine.

It was an obvious attempt to bait him. Salt his wounds and tease his instincts, his hunger. "Where is she?" Astarion demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.

Mimicking confusion, he gently tapped his chin. The furrowed brows cast a shadow over his piercing ruby eyes. "I know of many, but none named so simply as 'She'..." he mused, his voice trailing off with a hint of contemplation. As if lost in thought, he released a soft sigh, the sound barely audible. "You'll have to elaborate, I'm afraid. Small words, if necessary for you." He adds quickly near the end of his sentence. The words accompanied a slight wag of his finger, creating a sense of derision in the atmosphere.

"Where," your vampire's deliberate speech draws out each word, "is Tav?"

"Ah, you mean my consort and fiancée, Lady Tav Ancunín! Impressive, isn't it? She carries my name already, and she hasn't even decided on a design for her wedding dress! But I spare no time nor expense for my beloved treasure." He looks up and away, a wistful expression crossing his face and a sense of longing fills his eyes as he lets out a dramatic sigh, before refocusing on his Spawn-self.

"Even you can understand that, surely..." he uttered with a subtle hint of challenge in his voice and then casually lifted his goblet to his lips.

"I understand enough to know she detests being spoken of as some cherished possession." Astarion snaps, his voice sharp and full of determination, as he dares to take a single step toward the vampire lord. "She desires simplicity, quiet, a humble but peaceful life. Not," he gestures broadly to the large, opulent room, glittering chandeliers casting a soft, golden glow over the hardwood floor, "this. If you have any genuine care for her, you would have seen that by now," he argues with conviction. Lowering his chin, every one of his instincts urging him to rend this imposter limb from wicked limb.

Pausing, the Ascendant's piercing gaze locked onto him, an iciness emanating from his unmoving expression. The air grew heavy with anticipation, a silence so profound it echoed in the room. "She will learn," he asserts, his voice laced with an unyielding determination that cuts through the silence like a blade. "Already, the seeds of knowledge have taken root within her. And once she embraces the timeless gift of eternity, we shall have an infinite expanse to immerse ourselves in her tutelage."

Astarion's eyes widen in disbelief as he is taken aback by the shamelessness that emanates from the Ascendants' words. In that moment, his mind becomes a raging battlefield, a chaotic storm of countless responses swirling within him. Insults, questions, and a myriad of other thoughts clash violently in his head. But amidst the chaos, he hones in on the crucial information just revealed. "You actually plan to turn her?" He manages to utter with a focused glare, his words dripping with a blend of incredulity and scorn.

The scene before him unfolds like a vivid tableau, each detail etched into his consciousness, the Ascendants' smug expressions, his self-assured posture, all of it adds fuel to the fire burning inside him. Astarion can almost taste the bitterness of his own anger, a bitter tang that fills his mouth as he struggles to find the right words to respond. "She's to be just another pretty spawn to sit at your feet, then?"

"Don't be absurd," The Ascendant sneers, his lip curling in a disgusted expression. Shadows dance along the walls as the Ascendant's power emanates. The aroma of incense and polished floorboards lingers in the air, mingling with a hint of something sinister. "My power has surpassed that of a mere vampire lord," he continues, his voice dripping with a chilling confidence. "The bride of a vampire Ascendant, a king, a god... should transcend the lowly status of cattle and spawn." As he speaks, his eyes, a piercing shade of crimson, reveal a darkness that seems to simmer beneath the surface. The thought of his own immense power elicits a twisted satisfaction, sending a shiver down the spine of anyone who dares to meet his gaze.

"The depths of my intentions for my darling consort, my queen-to-be, are far beyond anything you could even begin to comprehend." With a dismissive flick of his hand, he turns away, his red and black tailcoat swirling behind him like a macabre dance as he gracefully moves towards a table - adorned with a vase of dark flowers and flanked by a pair of elegant couches. He takes a deliberate sip from his goblet. The liquid, a rich crimson, glimmers in the warm golden glow of light, embracing the room from the chandeliers above.

Setting down his cup with a gentle clink, he shifts his attention back to Astarion, whose feet seem glued to the ground. The room feels heavy with tension, as if it could be sliced with a knife. This bastard, with his unpredictable nature, unsettles him to no end. With reluctance, he acknowledges that his best advantage lies in staying close to an exit, much as he loathes to admit it. "My time is fleeting and precious, little rodent. You emerged victorious in the tournament, earning yourself a single wish. However, be warned, I possess the authority to reject anything I find unsuitable," he states, adjusting his attire to settle comfortably into the plush seat behind him. Draping one arm lazily over the backrest, lifting his other hand to inspect his impeccably manicured nails, a small gesture of indifference amidst the charged atmosphere.

Astarion doesn't hesitate. "The gravesite of your lover. Where is it?"

"The mausoleum—"

"The real one." Interrupting, he receives a look that is both amused and indignant from his imposter. "I know you hid the body."

"There was no body to bury, never mind hide." The Ascendant bites, sending a dagger of a glare up at Astarion. "The disintegrate scroll reduced it to ash, and her soul has no desire to return." His tone murmured as he allows his gaze to drift back to his nails.

"I concealed the remains by the beach, where our paths intertwined for the first time. I was not keen to share her, even then..." he murmured, his voice devoid of any excitement. A pat of his pocket to check the content and a precise motion, his fingers delved into the recesses of his exquisitely crafted pants, retrieving a weathered locket. Without a parting look, he stretched out his arm, offering it to Astarion.

Cautiously, he stepped closer and delicately lifted the small silver locket from his hand. Tracing their intricate, though simple engravings with his thumb, he marveled at their intricate simplicity. As he attempted to open the latch, a faint click sound sung through the air only to be met with resistance. The mechanism lay broken, refusing to yield.

Before he could gather his thoughts or utter another word, the grand doors to the room suddenly swung open with a resounding creak. In a state of urgency, a servant burst into the room, her breathing heavy and ragged and eyes widened in alarm. "My Godking, there is a matter that requires your urgent attention!"

With no interest in responding, the Ascendant maintained a distant stare, fixed on his nails. "Another one?" He mutters under his breath.

"It's Lady Ancunín, she... her parents...!"

In a swift motion, the Ascendant springs to his feet, his tailcoat flowing behind him. With purposeful, long strides, he makes his way towards the door, the sound of his boots echoing through the room. The air carries a sense of urgency as he sternly commands, "Escort our tournament winner out, he's received his reward." He remains focused, not glancing back at either of them.

Startled, her voice trembles as she stammers a quick acknowledgement and the guards flanking the doors from the outside move to stand beside her. The heavy footsteps of the guards echo through the grand hall, armor polished and shining in the well lit grand hallway. They stand beside her, their imposing figures reinforcing the command of their Godking, urging Astarion to comply.

As he delicately slipped the locket into his pocket, his feet remained rooted to the ground. His mind, however, raced like a wild stallion, galloping through a vast expanse of thoughts. You didn't have "parents"...

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

A/N: I know Bhaal is the Dark Urge's father, before we get in an debate to tell me something I already know...

Next chapter could be another Spawn chapter or we could go back to Ascendant. Seems like we're sort of doing a two-and-two sort of format and we can maintain that for awhile.

Would love to hear from you guys as always how you're enjoying the story thus far. Feel free to drop a reply or an ask, whatever floats your boat.

[bubblegum-blackwood]

Mermay VC - fishing net

My newest fic, Dirty Little Secret on AO3! @vamptember

Armand knew there was something in the water.

Seven years old and playing on the lakeshore with his two sisters, a slight salty breeze ruffling all of their auburn hair, a splash caught his eye, which he pointed out to the girls. Anna and Isabelle, twins, and two years younger than their brother, looked over at the sound of his voice, little hands still full of the shiny pebbles they had been searching the sand for to stuff in their little pockets. They all three stared in wonder, eyes wide, mouths slack, then they rushed back into the house clamouring over each other to tell their mother with tiny little voices raised in enthusiasm about what they had just seen - a mermaid, they declared! A pale hand sticking out of the water, the flick of a tail.

That was a little more than ten years ago, and Anna and Isabelle were convinced there was no mermaid - what they saw, they told Armand every time he brought it up (which was often), was probably just a seal or a dolphin come in from the sea or a simple trick of the light paired with the overactive imaginations of bored children of modest means. But no, he insisted, this was no ordinary creature, he knew what he had seen! Long after his sisters gave up on the idea of a mermaid in their lake, Armand held firm, sure of what they had experienced that day. This mermaid in the loch would not leave his mind, haunting both his dreams and his waking hours, and he read everything he could about them. His mother tended to indulge the requests of her children with much less persuasion than his father required, and she was much more tolerant of her son’s fascination, so it was to her he turned to beg and plead for more, and so she ordered all sorts of writing from far and wide so that he could feed his need for knowledge, and by the time he had hit puberty he was already sufficiently well-versed in magic and all sorts of magical creatures, though he dared not discuss any of it in front of his father.

He learned magic from those books, as well; that he told no one of, not even his mother. But he would go around on his early-morning walks and reach out toward a rock or stick or whatever he could find and whisper to himself and up it would go, and he would laugh to himself in delight and make it fly up and down, left and right, around his head, then he would set it back down and continue on his way. With more practice, he soon was able to stun small animals, field mice and little birds, and even get them to come to him. He could pull plants out of the ground without touching them then put them back in as if nothing had ever happened, light a small flame in the palm of his hand, and with enough effort he could even summon and banish storm clouds.

But through it all, he never forgot about the creature he and his sisters had seen in the lake as children. The more the girls told him it was not real, the more he fixated on it - he would even sketch it on the pages of his diary or in the margins of old books his father saw no use for anymore, imagining what it might look like up close, trying to recall how it appeared in his dreams. He would see it again some day, he knew it, he knew that it was out there! It had to be. For he already loved it so.

He couldn’t help but feel drawn to this creature, like they were meant to be. He had never been more sure of anything in his life than he was sure that he would meet his mermaid again some day.

And then it finally happened.

One day when Armand woke up in the early, early morning when the sky was that dull shade of bluish grey before dawn, he dressed himself and took a blanket and wandered the perimeter of the loch, eventually settling down on the sand with his back to a rock, eyes fixed on the low shimmer of the water as it made its gentle ripples by the light of the moon. Just as the sound and motion of it reached the point of lulling him to sleep again, something splashed up out of the water and onto the shore - there it was, the creature! He knew it, he knew it was real! Vaguely like a man it looked, a strong jawline with a thin nose, a mouth full of sharp teeth, large and almost bugging eyes of a piercing light blue, a mane of golden hair, broad shoulders, a sensual chest, toned arms ending in webbed hands with shining claws, and a well-built torso that melted into a thick-trunked tail in the place of legs, the peachy hue of flesh making way for white and eventually grey - all dolphin-like, down to the dorsal fin on its back which sent a grey stripe down the spine, eventually broadening out until it made up the whole tail. They locked eyes and both froze, some small, strange spark seeming to muffle the world and slow down time itself for those few electric seconds, then the creature gave a little gasp, eyes wide, and dove immediately back into the water, leaving Armand alone again.

Read the rest on AO3!

[amirofmanderlys]

who: @lucerysxestermont, @ryonwyl, @nasirofmanderlys, @jalabharmooton, @tionpeake context: the five great banking families of westeros speak on the rumours of the iron bank opening up a branch across the narrow sea - and the rumours it could be in the vale.

the chamber was dim, heavy velvet curtains muffling the daylight and creating a cloistered atmosphere. amir manderly sat at the long table, feeling out of place despite the rich sea-green of his doublet, the silver merman of his house gleaming faintly in the candlelight. the room reeked of pipeweed and ambition, a combination that made him restless. this wasn’t his usual arena—he preferred the simplicity of a sword’s edge or the honest chaos of a card game.

but his brother nasir sat beside him, calm and composed as ever, a steady anchor in these murky waters. he should be speaking, amir thought, resisting the urge to fidget.

the network was gathered in full today—mootons, estermonts, peakes, wyls, and, of course, the manderlys. the most powerful coin families in westeros, they liked to think themselves puppeteers of economies and alliances. amir wasn’t sure he believed that. the reach of the network always seemed to falter at the vale and the westerlands, and now, with rumors of the iron bank’s expansion to gulltown, it felt like the limits of their influence were being laid bare.

"gulltown...would be an issue, nah?" amir asked, breaking the lull in conversation, though his voice was quieter than usual. it felt strange to speak here, among people who seemed to measure their worth in ledgers and gold. it were not his usual manner of discussion. "it’s just... it’s hard to say what we’re even dealing with. i mean, rumors like this—they can spread like wildfire, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything real behind them."

he glanced at nasir for reassurance but found his brother’s expression unreadable. amir pressed on, unsure if his words carried any weight. "and if it is true—well, what then? what could we even do about it? gulltown isn’t exactly friendly to us. they’d probably see us coming from a mile away." he tapped his fingers against the table, the sound hollow against the polished wood. "maybe," he added after a pause, "maybe it’s not about stopping it. maybe it’s just... knowing for sure. someone should go, figure out what the iron bank’s actually planning. at least then we’d be dealing with facts instead of whispers."

the room was quiet for a moment, and amir felt the weight of the others’ gazes. he shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward nasir again. he’s better at this, amir thought. i can’t just sit here and say nothing. "anyway," he finished with a slight exhale, "that’s all i’ve got for you man." he gave a faint, self-deprecating smile, leaning back in his chair as the discussion moved on.

[bratzkoo]

doré | minjoon | part two

Author: bratzkoo  | Credits to: @jintherapper​​ for the banner Pairing: crown prince! namjoon x pirate! jimin Genre: fluff, angst, more angst Rating: 18+ Word count: 2.1k Warnings/note: cursing, mentions of death and killing, revenge, no proper pov TT, homophobic piece of shit king, bisexual jimin x bisexual namjoon... just saying, idiots to lovers?, jin being the best brother out there, jungkook is an impulsive boy and stupidly brilliant, yoongi had enough haha, it’s my first time writing a pirate! au and i do not know what i’m doing. to @written-in-flowers for @thebtswritersclub​ . part one here.

summary: jimin’s quest on clearing his name after he was framed for murder consists of making the crown prince fall in love with him. 

taglist: TT i can’t find my taglist, pls hit me up if you wanna be added.

-

The gentle rocking of the ship lulled Namjoon into a false sense of security. He found himself surprisingly at ease, considering his current predicament. The Crown Prince of the Empire, kidnapped by pirates and now willingly agreeing to help clear the name of their leader—it was absurd, really. Yet here he was, sitting across from Park Jimin in the captain's quarters, discussing their plan as if they were old friends conspiring over tea.

"So, let me get this straight," Namjoon said, leaning back in his chair. "You want me to vouch for your innocence when we return to the palace, but you're leaving the details entirely up to me?"

Jimin's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "I have faith in your creativity, Your Highness. Surely the Crown Prince can concoct a believable tale?"

Namjoon couldn't help but chuckle. "You're putting an awful lot of trust in someone you've kidnapped."

"Technically, Jungkook kidnapped you," Jimin corrected, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'm merely... benefiting from the situation."

"Ah, yes. How could I forget?" Namjoon rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind the gesture. Despite himself, he was finding Jimin's company oddly enjoyable. "And speaking of Jungkook, where is your impulsive first mate?"

Jimin waved a hand dismissively. "Probably trying to figure out how to sail the ship he stole. Don't worry, I've made it clear that you're not to be harmed."

"How reassuring," Namjoon deadpanned. He stood up, stretching his long limbs. "Well, if I'm to be your guest for the next three days, I might as well get acquainted with my temporary home. Care to give me a tour, Captain?"

Jimin raised an eyebrow. "You're taking this remarkably well, Your Highness. I half expected you to be demanding your immediate return."

Namjoon shrugged. "What would be the point? We're already at sea, and I've given my word to help you. Besides," he added with a wry smile, "this is the most excitement I've had in years. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts."

Jimin laughed, a sound that was surprisingly melodic. "Very well, then. Allow me to show you around our humble vessel."

As they made their way out of the captain's quarters and onto the main deck, Namjoon was struck by the organized chaos of ship life. Crew members scurried about, adjusting sails and checking ropes. The salty sea air whipped around them, carrying with it the cries of seagulls and the distant rumble of waves against the hull.

"It's... not what I expected," Namjoon admitted, taking in the sight.

Jimin glanced at him curiously. "And what did you expect, Your Highness? Bloodthirsty pirates swinging from the rigging with knives between their teeth?"

Namjoon had the grace to look sheepish. "Well, when you put it like that..."

Their tour took them from bow to stern, with Jimin pointing out various parts of the ship and introducing Namjoon to key crew members. The prince was surprised by the camaraderie he witnessed, the easy banter and shared laughter among the pirates. It was a far cry from the stuffy formality of palace life.

As they reached the ship's galley, a boisterous voice called out, "Oi, Cap'n! Who's the fancy gentleman?"

Namjoon turned to see a burly man with a wild beard and an even wilder grin. Jimin chuckled, clapping the man on the shoulder.

"Namjoon, meet our cook, Seokjin. Seokjin, this is... well, I suppose you could call him our guest of honor."

Seokjin's eyes widened comically. "Blimey, it's true then? We've got the Crown Prince aboard?"

Namjoon nodded, offering a polite smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Seokjin."

The cook let out a bark of laughter. "Well, I'll be damned. Never thought I'd be cookin' for royalty. You got any fancy tastes, Your Highness? 'Fraid we're a bit short on caviar and champagne."

"Whatever you normally serve will be fine," Namjoon assured him. "I'm not one for extravagance, despite what you might think."

Seokjin nodded approvingly. "A man after me own heart. Well, don't you worry, Your Highness. I'll whip up a feast fit for a king—or a prince, in this case."

As they continued their tour, Namjoon found himself genuinely enjoying the experience. The crew, while initially wary, seemed to warm up to him quickly. He listened intently as Jimin explained the intricacies of sailing, asked questions about life at sea, and even tried his hand at tying a few knots under the guidance of a patient deckhand.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow across the waves, Jimin led Namjoon to the ship's bow. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sky turn from gold to pink to deep purple.

"It's beautiful," Namjoon murmured, almost to himself.

Jimin nodded, his expression softening. "It is. No matter how many times I see it, the sunset at sea never fails to take my breath away."

Namjoon turned to study Jimin's profile, illuminated by the fading light. "How did you end up here, Jimin? Last I heard, you were the Archduke's son, set for a life of luxury and political influence. What happened?"

Jimin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "It's... a long story, Your Highness. One I'm not sure you're ready to hear."

"We have three days," Namjoon pointed out gently. "And if I'm to help clear your name, don't you think I should know the truth?"

Jimin sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're right, of course. But perhaps we should save that conversation for tomorrow. It's not exactly a pleasant bedtime story."

Namjoon nodded, respecting Jimin's reluctance. "Very well. But I hope you'll trust me enough to share it soon."

As if on cue, Seokjin's voice boomed across the deck. "Dinner's ready, you landlubbers! Come and get it while it's hot!"

The galley was a cramped but cozy space, filled with the mouthwatering aroma of Seokjin's cooking. Namjoon found himself seated between Jimin and Jungkook, the latter eyeing him warily.

"So, Your Highness," Jungkook began, his tone cautious. "No hard feelings about the whole kidnapping thing, right?"

Namjoon couldn't help but laugh. "Well, considering I'm enjoying a delicious meal instead of languishing in some dank cell, I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you."

Jungkook visibly relaxed, a grin spreading across his face. "See, Cap? I told you he was a good sport."

Dinner was a lively affair, with conversation and laughter flowing as freely as the rum. Namjoon found himself regaling the crew with tales from the palace, carefully omitting any sensitive information. In return, he was treated to outrageous stories of their adventures at sea, each tale more unbelievable than the last.

As the night wore on and the crew began to disperse, Jimin led Namjoon back to the captain's quarters. "You'll be staying here," he explained. "I'll bunk with Jungkook for the duration of your stay."

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. "That's very generous of you, but I don't want to put you out. I'm perfectly capable of sharing a room."

Jimin shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Nonsense. You're our guest, after all. Besides, I doubt you'd enjoy Jungkook's snoring."

"Fair enough," Namjoon conceded. He hesitated for a moment before adding, "Thank you, Jimin. For everything. This isn't at all how I imagined a kidnapping would go."

Jimin's smile widened. "Well, we aim to exceed expectations, Your Highness. Sleep well. We have a lot to discuss tomorrow."

As Namjoon settled into the surprisingly comfortable bed, his mind raced with the events of the day. He knew he should be more concerned about his situation, about the potential consequences of his absence from the palace. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that this unexpected adventure might be exactly what he needed.

With the gentle rocking of the ship lulling him to sleep, Namjoon's last thought before drifting off was of Jimin's enigmatic smile and the mysteries that lay behind it.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, the sun's rays filtering through the porthole to rouse Namjoon from his slumber. For a moment, he was disoriented, the unfamiliar surroundings causing a brief panic. Then the events of the previous day came rushing back, and he let out a small chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

A knock at the door interrupted his musings. "Your Highness? Are you awake?" Jimin's voice called from the other side.

"Come in," Namjoon replied, sitting up and running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Jimin entered, carrying a tray laden with what appeared to be breakfast. "I thought you might appreciate a private meal this morning," he explained, setting the tray on the small table by the window. "We have much to discuss."

Namjoon nodded, climbing out of bed and joining Jimin at the table. The spread was simple but appetizing—fresh bread, cheese, some fruit, and a steaming mug of what smelled like coffee. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I admit, I'm curious to hear your story."

Jimin took a deep breath, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the wooden tabletop. "It's not a tale I enjoy telling, Your Highness. But you're right—if you're to help me, you need to know the truth."

And so, as they shared their breakfast, Jimin began to recount the events that had led him to this life of piracy. He spoke of his father, the Archduke, a man consumed by ambition and greed. Of the pressure to be the perfect heir, to follow in his father's corrupt footsteps. Of the moment he discovered just how deep that corruption ran.

"I found documents," Jimin said, his voice low and intense. "Proof that my father had been embezzling funds meant for the people, collaborating with foreign powers to undermine the Empire's stability. I... I couldn't stand by and let it happen."

Namjoon listened intently, his breakfast forgotten. "What did you do?"

"I tried to expose him," Jimin replied, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "I thought if I brought the evidence to the proper authorities, justice would be served. But I underestimated my father's influence. Somehow, he managed to turn it all around on me. Suddenly, I was the traitor, the corrupt son trying to frame his innocent father."

"That's why you were exiled," Namjoon realized, the pieces falling into place.

Jimin nodded. "Exile was a kindness, really. My father wanted me executed for treason. It was only through the intervention of... a friend at court that I was allowed to leave with my life."

"And you turned to piracy?"

"Not immediately," Jimin admitted. "At first, I just wandered, trying to figure out what to do with my life. But then I met Jungkook, and well... the rest, as they say, is history."

Namjoon sat back, processing everything he'd heard. It was a lot to take in, and it painted a very different picture of the man before him than the one he'd previously held. "Jimin, I... I'm so sorry. What was done to you was unjust."

Jimin shrugged, though Namjoon could see the tension in his shoulders. "It is what it is, Your Highness. I've made peace with my lot in life. But now, with your help, perhaps I can finally clear my name and return home."

"Of course," Namjoon said without hesitation. "I'll do everything in my power to help you. But Jimin... why didn't you come to me before? As Crown Prince, I could have—"

"With all due respect, Your Highness," Jimin interrupted gently, "you were barely more than a boy when this happened. And my father's influence runs deep. I couldn't risk involving you then."

Namjoon nodded, understanding but not liking it. "And now?"

Jimin's lips quirked into a small smile. "Now, you're the Crown Prince in more than just title. You have real power, real influence. And, if I may be so bold, I believe you to be a man of integrity. Someone who will listen to the truth and act on it, regardless of the consequences."

Namjoon felt a warmth spread through his chest at Jimin's words. It was a heavy responsibility, but one he was determined to live up to. "I won't let you down, Jimin. We'll find a way to clear your name and bring your father to justice."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Jimin said softly, his eyes shining with gratitude and something else Namjoon couldn't quite identify.

As they finished their breakfast and began to plan their next steps, Namjoon found himself studying Jimin more closely. The man before him was not the carefree pirate captain he'd first appeared to be, nor was he the traitorous son Namjoon had once believed him to be. He was complex, layered, a man shaped by hardship and injustice but not broken by it.

And as the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting its warm light over the two men deep in conversation, Namjoon realized that his adventure at sea was becoming something far more significant than he could have ever imagined.

[helena-and-helena-meta]

James Ironwood headcanons pt3

HERE WE GO AGAIN BABYEE YEEEAAAHHHH

James Ironwood’s civilian clothing and his house clothes all have some type of star patterns, most of them are either midnight blue and gold or just dark blue and white.

James is the type of person to listen to astrology podcasts while also stargazing, we love astronomy and astrology girlies, and he also enjoys discussing these topics with anyone willing to listen.

I headcanon James as an orphan due to a Grimm attack, I also like to think that the only reason his family was attacked is because his mother had silver eyes.

James loves jazz and rock music, he also knows how to play the guitar.

James is very good at singing but he is self-conscious about it, his singing can easily lull someone to sleep.

His hair is very soft and silky, and while his beard is also soft it’s also somewhat scratchy.

James skips breakfast most days(Same) and then wonders why he feels dizzy at lunch.

Penny sometimes ties bows into James’ hair and beard as do kids from both Atlas and Mantle, James dislikes having to take them out of his hair and beard.

James has some of the worst phantom pains, to the point he can’t leave his bed for hours but he tries to fight through it.

James seldom takes breaks, he usually falls asleep at his desk and is very close to collapsing at work, to the point there is already a bed prepped for him not for if, but when it happens.

James is very scared of the deep sea.

James has auditory and visual hallucinations(Also same).

James has two types of coats, one of them is made of very breathable and stretchy fabric for hotter climates and some are made with thicker materials but they don’t hamper his mobility too much.

James dislikes very hard alcoholic beverages and only sticks with lighter types of alcohol.

James’ stomach is very sensitive.

James lost the left side of his body while trying to save some of his students from a goliath.

James’ neck is very sensitive, Qrow or Glynda usually take advantage of that, perceive that however you wish. :3