#i've had this drafted for days i just got. so swept up.

[sae-mian]

how does your wol's echo manifest itself? do they see visions as they happen? all at once? delayed? do they get any physical symptoms from it?

i love this question so much you have no idea—

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all of Atlas’ shards have the echo, though the way it manifests varies widely between them.

for nira’sae, they do not get the standard WoL AOE predictions we see ingame. they do get visions - but what they see varies wildly. It can be past, present, or future; it’s even been known manifest visions from other shards and timelines (fun fact. this is how minasha ends up joining the Throuple). visions vary in length and clarity - the longer and clearer they are, the more difficult they are to endure, oftentimes knocking them on their ass for a few minutes and leaving them with a nasty headache for a while after.

these visions can happen whether they're conscious or not, rarely coming as dreams when they sleep - and when they do come during sleep, they can project outwards, affecting nearby people. (fun fact. thIS IS HOW MINASHA ENDS UP JOINING THE THROUPLE--)

if we were to compare nira'sae's against hana's or no-one's, however, we would see a very different echo.

while hana can very rarely have visions, mostly his echo just gives him a glimpse into the emotional state of whoever he's focusing on; a very keen empathic sense, you might say.

no-one, on the other hand, gets a hit-list echo-emailed directly into their brain--

(it's complicated. don't worry about it.)

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pre-dawntrail wol questions

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Four

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Apologies for the wait. Life hasn't slowed down for me at all. As soon as I was finally in a good place physically and mentally, I got into a car accident. I'm okay. I didn't get hurt, and neither did the other person, but my car was totaled. I've been dealing with the insurance, and the head of household on the insurance could have been better in assisting me. It has not been fun. As always, thank you for your patience, and happy reading!

Chapter Warnings: drugging, mentions of miscarriage, Ser Criston Cole, we have an unhealthy relationship w/ our father.

The world around you was peaceful as you sank further into the throes of poppy milk. Candles softly hummed with the drafts that swept through the Keep, wood settled, and the fire within the hearth cracked. You did not have to think or feel anything other than the tincture slowly seeping into your marrow. Everything was calm and serene as your eyelids hung low, the orange glow of the flames blurry in your eyesight.

Jeyne sat on one of the lavish armchairs, a needle, and thread in her fist as she hemmed one of the summer dresses she had been putting off. You watched as her wrinkled hands worked, following the pattern of a blind hem stitch as she pulled the thread up and down in a hypnotic, steady rhythm. The shadows danced across her fingers with each tug, pulling you further and further into a deep trance.

Your cramps became a dull thudding in your back due to the milk, but the bleeding hadn't stopped, soaking through layers of fabric and onto your fresh bed sheets. Maester Orwyle warned that you would continue passing clots in the coming days and recommended that, along with wearing thicker, small clothes, you apply heat to your back and abdomen until the pain is gone. You chuckled at the thought, finding it ironic that the only remedies a man of medicine had were things your mother taught you, but followed them nevertheless.

Hours passed into the night, the wolf's hour gradually approaching, yet you never slept a wink. It was as if you were in a realm between the unconscious and conscious mind, awake yet unaware simultaneously. Jeyne had fallen victim to her body despite being ordered to keep watch. Her head hung low, and her chin tucked into her rising chest as she snored.

It was uncertain when your body came back to life. Your eyes opened as you scanned the dim room around you. The wind whistled into the night as you gazed out an iron-paned window, mouth thick. It felt like a thousand tiny insects crawled within your skin, tickling your muscles and sending shivers up your spine. The sensation is unwelcomed but not unpleasant, causing you to rise from your warm blankets and pace across your chambers.

You stumbled at first, knees crashing into the stone floor with a dull thud. Quickly, your head snapped to Jeyne, ears rushing with blood at the abrupt movement. Thank the Seven, the maid was still fast asleep, undisturbed by your grunts and hisses as you rose to unsteady feet again.

The floor ebbed and waved in your vision, your bones feeling like marble, vibrating with every step you took as you searched the plethora of the Maester's supplies for water, downing it in one greedy gulp. The world around you was still calm, a hue of yellow blanketing across your chambers as you listened to your audible breaths.

Longing pulled at your soul as your eyes fell upon your rumpled sheets. It reminded you of times not so long ago when you shared unbridled intimacy with the one you loved, a wistful smile on your chapped lips as you replayed the moments in your mind's eye. You couldn't understand why Alicent chose now to tear Aegon away from you. Could she not see the good you brought with him? Why did she not stop it sooner if she did not want you to grow as close to him as you had? Was the Queen indeed so cruel that she would tear away her son's only source of happiness simply because it no longer benefited her?

Alicent had created an impenetrable bond between two souls and now sought to destroy it, but oaths made of loyalty and love were hard to sever.

You were sure guards were posted outside your doors to stop you or Aegon from seeking one another, and the thought caused you to grimace. There were other ways to see each other, and you prayed that the Queen had not been wise enough to bar both. You did not desire to cause fuss or quarrels.

You needed to see him. That's all it was.

Gradually, you made your way to one of the numerous secret passages in the Keep, unbothered with the state of your being. No shoes nor gown covering was worn as your bare feet pattered over the dank passages. Though you did not emit your goal aloud, your muscles understood where to go as if the string of fate connecting two lovers' souls, bound together like the hands of marriage, pulled you toward one another. Shuffling your naked soles across the dirt-ridden path, you knew the way to Aegon's wing like the skills of the sword, not requiring a light as you advanced.

There was not a pathway directly to his chamber, or at least not one he or you had found, but thankfully, a small portion of the trek was a less traveled corridor until you reached Aegon's room.

Your sanity retreated, imagining joyful days filled with the sun's blinding rays atop Cannibal, the wind caressing your cheeks. The sticky, viscous sensation of blood running down your thighs was not a thought as those memories replayed, your limbs moving on their own.

The tender, yellow glow of torchlight came into view, reeling your body back into consciousness as the silhouette of a guard appeared. Ser Erryk caught you before you did him, rooted into his post, as he observed your shuffled gait with a curious expression. The smeared blood trail behind you caused his brows to arch in concern as you approached, the scent of smoke and something floral wafting in the air around you.

"Princess," Ser Erryk exclaimed, allowing himself to move a few paces forward. "You mustn't be here. The Queen said you were abed."

Giggling, you stopped before him, amused at the notion that the same person who forced milk of the poppy down your throat was concerned for your health. "Is that what she said?" you jeered halfheartedly. "I am confident that is not the only thing she expressed, as you are not immediately allowing me past those doors."

Your tongue felt like lead as you spoke, forcing your clouded mind to think twice as hard to get the words out.

Erryk stiffened, armor clanking in anxiety as he threw swift glances to the sides. His lips scrunched with indecision, battling an internal war with duty and compassion as you sway to the rhythm of your slowly beating heart.

"You are not permitted to see Prince Aegon, by her majesty's order, and he you," he admitted with a noiseless sigh as if this was as difficult for him as it was for you. You flashed the knight a countenance of pity, understanding the humanity within him conflicted with the soldier, fighting to be free. 

"Did she tell you what happened, Ser Erryk?" you questioned airily, your eyelids suddenly becoming increasingly heavy. With all your might, you hoped that your words would sway him, quickly sparing a glance down the path of your essence.

"His Highness explained to me the attack on your life and that my brother was sent to the Black Cells for failure of duty," he admitted. You could feel the pointed way his words meant, angered at what he felt was an injustice for Ser Arryk.

"He's imprisoned?" you asked, face wrinkled with worry. "I will see at once that he is back in his bed. Your brother was upset with me, but he did nothing wrong."

You could not feel the concern that you indeed should in a situation like this—an innocent man punished for someone else's sins. You could not feel anything except for the serenity that blanketed your being. You wished you could always be like this. Eternally calm, incapable of anxiety, anger, or sadness, and in the back of your mind, it worried you.

"Thank you, Princess," Erryk bowed, his back ramrod straight. "Prince Aegon confided the attempt on your life and the consequences of it. The death of a child is something more profound than any knight could endure. You have my condolences."

Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering. The memory of your agony, the cramping, the blood, the screams of a babe torn from their mother's womb echoed in your skull like an agonizing symphony. You focused on your steady pulse, pulling yourself back under the comforting spell of the poppy.

For just a while longer, you did not want to feel.

"Then you understand why I must see Aegon." Your declarations were too sober for one under the influence, and your nose began to itch, disarming Erryk as his internal war raged. "I have yet to experience the comfort of grief in the company of a loved one, Ser. The Queen took that from me," you voiced, your words becoming unsteady and rambled. "I am alone in this place. I do not have a mother or father from whom I can seek guidance. I have no true friends. Only political allies surround themselves with me because of obligation. I have Aegon, and that is it."

The confession slipped past your lips before you realized your voice was speaking, mouth thick with unobstructed emotion. "So, please, Ser. I pray you. Allow me to see him."

The battle between warrior and compassion ended, the goodness within Ser Erryk prevailing over duty as he pursed his lips, a sheen in his eye. You realized that was the difference between the two brothers, and perhaps you aligned yourself with the wrong choice. One was bound to serve the realm with a blind eye, not questioning commands no matter their inhumane contents under the guise of duty. The other was as much a devout servant to those he followed, yet he allowed his conscience to guide him in his actions instead of unseeing obedience.

You could feel the blood collecting at your feet, seeping into the cracks of the flagstone floor and staining the hem of your nightdress. It was as if Erryk could sense it too, blue orbs flicking down to the small crimson puddle on the ground, swallowing audibly as the groaning walls creaked in the silence. He opened the stalwart oak doors to Aegon's chamber, wordlessly bidding you in. You sent him a grateful look as you entered, promising to yourself that you would not let the milk of the poppy make you forget his kindness.

Aegon's bed chamber was unlit except for a handful of half-melted candles scattered haphazardly about the area, emitting a subtle yellow glow to the miscellaneous items discarded on the floor. Your lover was not in his usual spot, draped lazily on his sheets like a stretched cat, nor was he at the lavish furniture in front of the crackling fire. It wasn't until you heard the telltale sounds of hiccuping breath, a loud sniff, and a bone-shuddering sob that you turned.

Aegon stood in the same attire you recalled at the farthest corner of his room on the full-length windowsill. His back faced you, still unaware of another person in his chambers. A decorative glass wine decanter was within his grasp, taking large swigs of the reddish liquid as his body swayed on the ledge.

Though your reason clouded with a thick mist, muscles heavy with each movement, a rush of panic went through you as a harsh draft of the frigid night air nearly threw Aegon off balance before he righted himself.

"Raqnon?" (love), you called out into the darkness, toes catching on a rumpled pile of clothes as you stumbled towards him.

Aegon's cropped hair spun with him as he fell to his knees on the stone floor with a yelp, the glass decanter shattering. He mumbled something you couldn't decipher as you approached him with tentative movements, careful not to pierce yourself on any scattered pieces. You attempted to kneel before Aegon, but he stopped you with the wave of his hand.

"You-" he stuttered breathlessly, attempting to stand on drunk legs, "you should be resting. Get on the bed."

You could not deny the rush his command inspired and did not protest as you went, sitting on the edge and observing how Aegon stumbled over pieces of crystal with a concern scrunch to your brow. "You've been drinking," you stated rather than asked. You knew the answer, the clues evident that even the most inept of individuals could see. You wanted to hear him admit it aloud. "I thought you were limiting your consumption?"

Aegon's eyes met yours, a shimmering pool of amethyst within exhausted, sunken holes of indigo. You were sure you looked no better with a sallow hue due to the blood loss. They were both mirror reflections of each other's internal emotions.

"I think," he began, limbs tangled and gait like a newborn colt, "this situation allows me to have a little drink."

Your nose itched. A pesky little sign that tears were about to flow as you lowered your gaze to the small crimson stain on your nightdress. There was no reply to the prince, no words that would convince Aegon to take this situation more seriously than his mind would allow, and so you let the briny rivers flow, timidly nodding in acquiescence.

The profound feeling of failure mixed with dread crept its claws up your back, its fingers like knives as an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and lassitude tugged at your heart until it could no longer beat.

All that work and what did it get you... All the sacrifices you made, prioritizing the future of a realm that will not remember you two hundred years from now when the Targaryen legacy no longer has its hold over the land. What have you done but give your life— your body in service of your House? And what did you have to show for it? An immature prince who does not know how to cope without the aid of firewater. The overwhelming fear of the hereafter pulled you into an abyss you could not escape.

How would your father react to this? Your mother? Both would be distraught beyond comprehension, each showing it in varying ways. Daemon was always quick to anger and thirsted for bloodshed, acting with sharp words and swift blows with the sword rather than Rhaenyra, who had a matching fury but whose wrath and memory knew no bounds. You fretted for those who would fall victim.

Abruptly, Aegon's moonlight hair came into view. His arms trapped your lower legs in an iron embrace, and his forehead burrowed between your thighs.

"This is my doing. I left you alone after I vowed never to leave your side... to protect you," Aegon sobbed, tears staining the white fabric of your skirt.

"Do not be foolish," you retorted more harshly than intended as your hand instinctively went to his crown. "You seek to make it your fault within the confines of your own mind because you cannot fathom anything bad would happen unless it was influenced by you–because you think so lowly of yourself–because you have been told every waking moment of your life that something was not good enough because of you."

You could no longer retain your inner thoughts of Aegon's psyche and who helped influence him to be in such a way. You almost died, and you did not want to spend another moment keeping them within.

"The figures in your life that were supposed to guide you, shape you, nurture you failed tremendously, and yet they blame you for their shortcomings." You took Aegon by the sides of his head, forcing his bleary eyes to meet your focused ones, trying to impress the seriousness of your words. "It is not your fault."

The prince choked, mouth thick with excess saliva and mucus as he tried to speak. "I know it's not."

He did not know what you meant. Was it for something specific? Was it your poisoning and losing your child? Was it because of the heartache and shame he caused people? His actions and coping mechanisms? Or was it for anything and everything he forced himself to bear the conscience of?

You did not believe him, and the confession came too quickly to have entirely made an impact. "No, Aegon. It is not your fault."

"I know." He stared, lips tucked into a stiff pout, and attempted to pull away and gaze anywhere but you.

"Look at me, issa raqnon," (my love) you softly commanded, your voice tender and kinder than he had ever heard. His mouth twitched, glassy, and ametrine slowly dragged up your arm, chest, shoulder, neck, and face. "It is not your fault."

Aegon balked, light-colored lashes blinking as your words finally struck through the two decades of mental fortresses created by harsh words, unrealistic expectations, and emotionless love like a battering ram to the sturdy oak doors of the mud gate.

"Please," he whispered, for what he did not know. Perhaps a last-moment plea to halt the forthcoming emotions and memories he kept numbed and buried deep within wine, women, and gambling.

Nevertheless, Aegon's effort proved fruitless as a cry akin to a howl tore through his vocal cords, ripping his marred soul bare for you to finally see. He pressed his cheek into your stomach, ignoring the pang of discomfort that rolled through you as he wept as if he were a babe. You cradled him to you, stroking his matted silver strands as you rocked him with the other, your self-gratifying way to help ease your nerves.

It reminded you of your time in the Godswood underneath the heart tree, where Aegon laid his soul unyielding to allow you both to become one finally. Those stolen moments seemed like a lifetime ago, but much happened between then and now to lead you to this moment.

You were grateful that your love was finally actualized and did not regret a single moment spent together from when Ser Arryk discovered your affair to the present attempt on your life and the successful one of another. You had no choice but to feel again, despite your best efforts, nails scraping Aegon's scalp as the milk of the poppy waned, replacing the hollow loss with unfelt grief.

It was almost as if the pregnancy did not exist, and to those not within your chambers at that time, it didn't. There were no signs, cravings, missed moon blood, or weight gain in areas typical to term. To all who did not see you pass the blood clots with their own eyes, you had no reason to mourn. You could not get the image of your child torn from your womb, your skin, muscle, and innards tossed aside in search of something you did not know you carried out of your head, the screams of you and your child melding into one.

"Here I am, crying in a puddle of my own self pity when you are bleeding from your womb," Aegon sniveled, pulling away and rising onto one knee.

He placed a sticky palm over the affected area, your face crumpling with emotion. "That is not you speaking, dōnus taobus," (sweet boy). "We both hurt immeasurably today and in the past. We must mourn for what happened and what could have been," you replied, placing your hand over his.

Aegon's fingers dragged from your stomach, over your breasts, and onto your jaw, gingerly stroking your lower lip, brows scrunched in thought. He did not speak, letting an already wandering mind fester as his gaze studied the moist area.

"Do you believe in the tales of Old Valyria?" Aegon asked unprompted. "About the dragon gods bestowing dreams on people they deemed worthy?"

You nodded noiselessly, confused yet eager to know what he had to say as Aegon kept his gaze fixed on your mouth, slowly stroking the area. "I believe all cultures have their own belief systems, and one can be as valid as any. After all, it was Daenys the Dreamer who allowed us to live here today."

"Always the diplomat," the prince chortled, eyes crinkling with bittersweet mirth. "I believe Helaena is one of them," he said thoughtfully. "She has always said peculiar things–things I never paid much attention to until now."

You stared at Aegon in befuddlement, raising a brow as he continued his thoughts. "She said that you will grow old in love with me, that our union will be of love, and that the children will adore you as if you are their mother. That the dragon has three heads and that Aegon spent ten nights with Rhaenys for every one he spent with Visenya, but I will spend every night with you," he rambled, desperate to get the sentences plaguing his mind out.

It was a pleasant idea that sent heat to your ears to imagine that one day you would wed Aegon and no longer have to hide your love, but you knew it to be untrue. You were a bastard, and he was a married, true-born son of the king. Not only would it be against the law, but sin in the eyes of the Faith for one man to take two wives. It could fracture the relationship between the crown and the Citadel, and you did not wish for history to repeat itself.

Suddenly, a distant memory, one you had not thought of since it happened, appeared in your mind's eye. The confession took you back in time to the moment of Aegon's nameday feast, where you recalled bathed in glittering gold, loud, upbeat orchestral music, and the words, a sacrifice of her blood, peace reborn, chanting over and over in your head.

Aegon could see your thoughts etched into the worried wrinkles of your face, standing to his full height as he gave one final swipe across your moist lip. He ordered you wordlessly with the brush of your loose strands of hair out of your face to lay back onto his mountain of throw pillows. Swallowing tears, you turned onto your side with a groan, sudden lower body movements still debilitating as Aegon dutifully assisted you under the blankets.

The prince crawled beside you, placing one arm securely around your waist, careful not to cause any pressure, and the other underneath your body. He nuzzled his nose into your neck, releasing a sigh that held all his worries. He kissed your sweat-dampened skin, relieved to be within your comforting warmth. Your muscles relaxed your mind at ease and protected within the embrace of your fair-haired boy. Silence sat until your mind could finally form a response to his prior confession.

"I desire for her words to be true," you expressed, a longing for a life free of secrets and anxiety causing more tears to spring. A life you feared was not your future.

A screech broke throughout the orange and gray sky of King's Landing, rumbling the sleeping inhabitants' thatched roofs and glass windows. It was not unusual to hear the roars of dragons in the skies, and most paid no mind, simply falling back into slumber to hopefully catch what little bit of rest they had before the day.

The wings of Caraxes sliced through the late winter air as his rider descended at the mouth of the Dragonpit. Keepers scrambled on the packed dirt like disturbed ants from their hill, abruptly stolen from sleep. They could sense that much like his rider, the Blood Wyrm was in a state, snorting, stomping, and snapping at each of the Dragonkeepers as they attempted with difficulty to leash the winged beast.

Daemon did not wait until the handlers could properly restrain Caraxes as he dismounted from his ornate leather saddle. Jumping down the ropes on the side of his crimson scales, the Rogue Prince landed with dust under his feet, adjusting Dark Sister at his waist.

"Your Highness, we were not anticipating your arrival. Please forgive us," the headkeeper bowed, struggling to hold the agitated Caraxes at bay.

Daemon sniffed at the man and fixed his riding tunic unbothered. He had no time for people's false pleasantries and proper arrivals, nor did he want to.

"I need a horse," he cooly commanded, disregarding the Keepers' shouts in High Valyrian.

He paced along the edge of the Dragonpit like one of the beasts held within the cave, aching to fly, aching to be free. Gods knew if you were alive or not, whether those Green cunts had done away with you and framed it as a simple accident. The only thing that kept Daemon at bay was the letter. Though that piece of parchment was a harbinger of agony and worry, it meant that there was someone within those pale red stone walls who was an ally.

Daemon would tear those fucking vipers piece by piece until all that left of them were ash and bone. You were his daughter. An attempt on your life was just as good as his.

At times, he felt you were the only one within his family who understood him, the only one with whom he could fully be his true self. With his wife and other children, it was not to say that Daemon could not act honestly; he knew they loved him for who he was, yet the Rogue Prince did not want to scare them with things he felt inside. With you, his eldest daughter, he felt free. Your father could confide all his darkest thoughts, the anxieties that kept him awake at night that would send Rhaenyra into a panic. It was why he chose you to be the one who ensured a future with him beside the Iron Throne.

You were the only one who could tolerate his antics and give as good as you could receive. You knew when to put Daemon in his place and when to allow him to reign free. While Rhaenyra made him a good man, you made him a better one.

People saw that, and it was no doubt one of the reasons you were in this situation. The Rogue Prince was weak with his favorite daughter out of the way. He would not allow them to feel accomplished. If you died, House Hightower and all who swore to protect you would be eradicated by the morrow.

The whiny of a horse stole Daemon from his trance, halting his prowling as an unnamed knight strode on his steed.

"Your Highness," the Gold Cloak called, halting the chestnut horse with a pull of the reins. "Her Majesty, the Queen was not expecting you. Please forgive us for the lack of preparation. A wheelhouse is being prepared to take you to the castle."

The knight seemed out of breath as if he was the one who ran from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit as Daemon approached him. He was calm with his strides, leather boots thumping on packed dirt as he peered up at the man, the orange hue of the sunrise burning his eyes. He did not speak at first, seeming to size up the man before he lunged, grabbing the Gold Cloak by his weighted breastplate and throwing him off the startled horse. Daemon did not look to see if the aghast soldier was unharmed, clicking with the side of his cheek as he turned the animal toward Aegon's Hill.

"Where is she?" Alicent shouted at your eldest maid, tears of frustration and fear welling in her round brown eyes.

The screech of Caraxes woke every inhabitant of the palace, a sound the Queen believed to be in her nightmares until it boomed again. She understood it was only a matter of time until Daemon or Rhaenyra discovered what happened to their daughter, and now, it was about controlling the damage that would be left in the Rogue Prince's wake.

"I am not sure, your Majesty," Jeyne answered with a lowered head. She honestly did not know. Sleep had overcome her no matter how hard she tried to fight it.

"I entrusted you with the Princess's protection, and you failed. Now, for all we know, the assassin could have completed his mission. It will be your fault if that is the case," Alicent scolded the older maid, speaking down to the woman as if she were merely a child.

It angered Jeyne beyond measure. She had grown too comfortable with the respect you gave her and Fiora. Before she realized it, she was biting back, barely containing ire that would ruin her chances at a smooth life in the Keep.

"It will not be on my conscience if that is the case, my Queen."

Alicent balked. Plush lips agape with shock, digits twitching as if she wished to strike the insolent servant for her remark. Inhaling a calming breath, the Queen folded her hand across her abdomen, shoulders upright and chin held high as she spoke.

"You are dismissed from your duties henceforth," she declared with a furled lip as if the mere presence of someone close to you nauseated her.

Alicent could not hurt you in a way that would not arouse suspicion; she had tried that once before and failed, so she believed the next best thing would be to hurt those dear in your presence.

A woman from her station could not speak as freely as you did to Alicent. Her father was not the Rogue Prince, nor was she the lover of a crowned prince. The eldest maid was comforted that once you got wind of her reassignment, you would no doubt rain fire from the Seven Hells to get her back. Jeyne bowed humbly before the Queen, her chin held too high for the Queen's liking, and said nothing more as she exited the room toward the servant quarters, passing the guard stationed at your door.

The Queen sighed deeply, releasing tension she had not realized the conversation had created. She put her nimble fingers to the bridge of her nose. Her ramrod-straight posture slouched in her typical forest green dress, the ever-looming presence of the future shadowing her mind.

"My Queen!" An unknown guard barreled into your greeting room, his armor clanking and causing his limbs to throw all his weight. "Prince Daemon was spotted flying atop Caraxes over King's Landing," he breathlessly declared as if he had run across the castle.

"I know. I came to inform the Princess that her father had come to pay her a visit, but she is not here. Have the guards search for her in my son's quarters. Discretion is of utmost importance," Alicent commanded, her voice rich like velvet. She knew where you would go. You were still a girl in her eyes, desperate for a morsel of companionship in times of need. Alicent understood the feeling and recalled many times in her past when she had no one but herself. 

She had not felt nor sounded like the Queen she claimed to be within your presence until now. Her posture returned to its regal stiffness, her shoulders rolled back, and her scowl pulled her plump lips. How Daemon got word of your well-being was unknown, but she knew there was a traitor in the Red Keep. Someone or possibly more had deliberately gone against the orders of the Hand and Queen Consort. There was no telling what they would do should the untimely death of the King strike.

Paranoia wound into Alicent's gut, tying her insides into knots as the unnamed knight bowed to fulfill his duty.

The control the Queen grappled with her entire service was falling from her grasp like sand between one's fingers. Everything had gotten out of hand so quickly that she could not comprehend what to do next. The most heinous scenarios ran through her head at what Daemon would do with no one to steady the reigns. She recalled the stories of the Rogue Prince in the Stepstones—the betrayal, the horror, the bloodshed of returning to court with a crown made of his enemy's bones. He was an army of his own, and the death of one of his soldiers would not deter him from his purpose; it would only further his wrath.

Alicent could no longer be complacent in her terror. Her legs carried a twitching and trembling form across the silent halls of the Keep until she saw a streak of red. It appeared out of nowhere, trailing behind the culprit's path like footprints in freshly fallen snow. She knew it could only belong to one person, and a shuddering breath racked her at the realization.

Your dreams were pleasant, though you could not recall them, only the feeling they gave. The laughter of those you sensed were your loved ones, their smiles, the warmth of the sun, basking in its eternal yellow warmth, and the sturdy touch of what you believed was the ground beneath you. You longed to stay in this moment forever, realizing in your mind that it was a dream, but you didn't care. You just wanted to feel the joy that always seemed a finger-width away, even if it was under the falsehood of sleep.

Your dreams did not last long enough, suddenly ripped away from your blissful world to a searing pain to your scalp. Your eyes shot open as you released a scream, your sore body dragging across the Myrish rug on Aegon's floor, the fibers burning your flesh raw. You struggled within your assailant's vice-like grip to no avail, your prince startling awake as he tried to see through the eyes of sleep.

Fear gripped your heart, thoughts racing as to who would do this to you, your previous assailant coming to mind. You felt the slice of skin before you saw it, hissing in hurt as the shattered pieces of the wine decanter appeared next to you, a trail of blood leading from your foot. Without hesitation, you snatched the nearest piece, slashing the skin of your abductor's hand. They released you with a wince, your head thumping against the floor as you scrambled away.

The armor of a kingsguard glinted in the candlelight as a grunting Ser Criston cradled his bleeding hand. Fearful confusion etched your features as Aegon came rushing to your side, throwing himself between you and the enraged knight.

"You cunt!" Ser Criston cursed, clutching his fist to his breastplate.

"Criston!" Aegon shouted, running a soothing hand through your hair. "I'll cut your fucking tongue out for that! How dare you put your hands on her?"

Tears welled in your eyes, and an overwhelming sensation of helplessness that was akin to your childhood overcame you as you hid your face within Aegon's soft torso. You could not care about the shameless way you cried, sniffling and hiccuping as you did in your girlhood in your lover's embrace.

"Her father is on his way here as we speak. Do you want to be discovered with her in your bed?" Criston admonished, his words filled with an ire you always knew simmered below the surface.

Aegon growled an animalistic noise that rattled you to your core as he stood, your arms reaching out in search of his comfort. "You will leave us and never put your hands on her again or I shall tell the King of what you have done here."

Criston knew it was not an empty threat. He did not doubt the prince would run to his half-dead father about what he did. While the knight didn't have faith that Viserys would be lucid enough to enact anything, the memory of his frail body walking across the Great Hall during the hearing of Driftmark made him hesitant. But it did not matter. The Queen and the Hand ruled the kingdom in Viserys' sickness. To Criston, he was only king in name.

"I am on orders of your Queen Mother to bring the Princess back to her chambers. She was not supposed to leave on the Maester's command," he declared confidently, the pain from his cut dwindling as the blood began to clot.

"The Maester's command," you repeated with a sneer as you stood. Anger replaced any fear that made its home in your chest, coming to be beside Aegon. "You were not there as I was forced to drink milk of the poppy despite Maester Orwyle's protests. It was your Queen who wishes to keep us separated."

The revelation did not phase Ser Cole. He had no conscience when it came to the likes of a bastard whore. His dark brow was stern as he disregarded you. "Move, my prince, or you will be moved."

Rage burned hot in your bones, roaring into a flaming inferno that felt like it would scorch your insides if you did not let it out. Ser Criston had no right to the aggression he displayed with you. You had not done anything to him. You had barely spoken except for brief conversations of forced politeness when given no other choice, yet he still held hatred for you that you could never understand.

"You fucking celibate, craven, son of a-"

An abrupt smack across your temple cut off your words, ringing your ears momentarily as your vision swiftly faded.

"Criston!" a new voice shouted as your unconscious body toppled to the floor, a weeping Aegon following soon after. "What have you done?"

Alicent stood in the doorway, a shocked Erryk Cargyll standing stock-still beside her. Criston heaved, his shoulders rapidly falling up and down as his brown eyes drifted to your listless expression. He thought he preferred you that way, briefly imagining someone else in your place.

"Apologies, your majesty," he bowed modestly, returning to the humble White Cloak everyone knew him as. "In my efforts to return her highness to her rooms, I struck her in anger. Please, forgive me."

The Queen balked, doe eyes nearly bulging out of her skull as she saw the whisper of blood trickle from your scalp onto your cheek. She swallowed, head reeling with the thought of another consequence she would face when you came to.

Suddenly, an idea came to mind, something so conniving and wicked that it reminded her of her father. It sent a chill down Alicent's spine, sending a brief prayer of forgiveness to the Seven before clearing her throat as she spoke. "All is forgiven, Ser Cole. You've served my House steadfastly all these years, and for that you have my many thanks. Please, take her to her quarters and summon the Maester."

Her sworn shield bowed, ordering a silently begrudging Ser Erryk to restrain Aegon as he threw you over his shoulder with a grunt as if you were no more than a grain sack. Aegon shrieked in response, attempting to chase after you, but ran into the wall of Ser Erryk. He tried to push past, but it was no use. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, and no longer had the facilities to thrash against others.

"Please, my prince," Erryk pleaded, a sturdy fist placed against Aegon's chest. "You will see her again."

Her solution was temporary, that much Alicent knew, and would require the fear your father instilled in others to work. However, if she were as intelligent and cunning as her father, time and patience would be on her side. She just hoped that the Gods were, too.

Alicent understood you would only listen with great struggle. Now that you knew your father was here, you had another soul to cling to—one she could not control or manipulate. Those who served you would be tested on how much their loyalties ran when met with the highest order of the kingdom, and the Queen prayed fear flowed deeper than any bond did as she ordered the Maester for another tincture.

Leather footfalls echoed throughout the red rock walls of the Keep, intimidating those who were unsuspecting in the Rogue Prince's path. Stunned maids and manservants gasped and bowed in Daemon's presence as he passed. Each whispered words to one another behind glancing eyes and covered mouths. It should not be unusual for the king's brother to arrive unannounced, yet the years of tense relations with the Queen Consort and the Heir made his entrance something to gossip about.

He paid no mind to the common folk chatter. He was the victim of it all of Daemon's life. First with the uncertainty of Viserys' heir, then with his concubine Lady Misery when he gifted her and their unborn child a dragon egg, the next with rumors of him and Rhaenyra's uncouth relationship of uncle and niece, the suspicious death of his first wife, Rhea Royce, his marriage to his niece, and the legitimization of a bastard.

No amount of courtly yapping would affect Daemon. Not anymore. Especially not now when said daughter's life was in the grasp of those who openly despised his family.

He did not know where those traitors held you, how the Greens treated you, or if you were still alive, and that uncertainty shook Daemon to his core, though you could not see it. He was confident of one thing: where to find Otto. High atop the tower of the Hand would be where the snake resided, no doubt thinking of more ways to scheme himself into positions he was undeserving of.

Surprisingly, no guards stopped the Rogue Prince as he ascended the winding steps to the tower. Perhaps they knew not to mess with a sleeping dragon, ready to spit flames at anyone who dared wake it. Damon entered the Hand's chambers, giving no opportunity to properly announce a guest's arrival.

Ser Otto Hightower raised a wirey, unamused brow at the prince, unbothered by his lack of manners. He knew that Daemon was on his way and had prepared everything and everyone accordingly. He ordered your maids and Maester Orwyle into silence, and should they speak, incomprehensible outcomes would befall them. Alicent, Otto's ever-dutiful daughter, his favorite daughter,and his only daughter took care of her son's and your matters.

"Prince Daemon," the hand greeted him, yet he did not stand. "It is an unexpected pleasure to have you return home unannounced."

The prince ignored the covert jab at his lack of manners, his lips twitching into a scowl as his palm rested on the hilt of Dark Sister. "I do not share the same sentiment," he sneered. "I know what you have done to my daughter and it is treason. I demand to see her at once."

"It is unfortunate what has befallen you, daughter, but you must understand my discretion. She has had an attempt on her life, and we certainly do not need other members of the royal family fearing for theirs." Otto sighed, seeming like the conversation was with a petulant child, not a war-hardened machine.

"That is what you call ceasing communications with Dragonstone?" Daemon shook his head, rolling his violet eyes with a scoff. "It seems to everyone but you what exactly you were trying to do. A guilty conscience I presume?"

Otto paused, his dark orbs sizing up the enraged prince in his usual fashion. He was a man of patience and perseverance, proven over the decades. The Hand was indeed capable of action but not overtly like the Rogue Prince. He took time to understand his allies and even more so with his enemies, ensuring he knew things they did not know themselves. Inhaling a sharp breath, Ser Otto returned his gaze to the uninvited guest and spoke barbs disguised as silk.

"I understand your feelings on the matter, but you must understand that it is not only her that is in danger. If one member of the court were to catch wind of an attempted assassination on someone of her stature chaos would erupt," Otto expressed pragmatically. Daemon scoffed, intertwining his hands over his waist as he leaned a foot out in exasperation. "People would feel unsafe and have doubts in the king's capabilities to ensure his subjects are safe, let alone his kin. There would be a mass exodus within the Keep, notable Houses would pull their investments. It would tear the establishment down simply because of one girl's mistake."

Anger lit inside Daemon's chest at his words, spine straightening to his full height as he strode to the Hand's desk with menacing strides. How dare he speak about you as if you were just an animal? That you were nothing but one of the many pieces of parchment sat upon the wood for him to briefly read and discard. Dark Sister swung at the prince's waist, beating to his movements, the coattails of his riding gear flowing behind as he stood tall over the Lord's Hand.

Before Daemon could think better of it, rearing his arm back and connected his fist into the scruff of Otto's nearly trimmed beard, knocking the pompous man from his seat. The prince had longed to do this for decades, and now, with no one to rein him in, he could. It was a cathartic feeling filled with pent-up rage and jealousy for all the years Otto filled the seat he desired, whispering in his brother's ear to influence decisions in ways that benefited the Hightowers.

This was personal.

Daemon circled the spruce davenport and kneeled. The prince gripped his midnight-colored tunic, readying his dominant hand to bash the Hand's face as the door to the office opened. The Queen stood in the entryway, a horrified look on her visage as she screeched for the guards to separate them.

"No need," Daemon answered coolly as the Gold Cloaks entered, righting himself. He rolled his shoulders unbothered as if he were caught wrestling with a sibling rather than one of the highest Lords of Westeros.

Alicent swiftly went to her father, kneeling beside him as tears glimmered in her wide amber eyes. Otto gently brushed her dotting efforts away, refusing his fragile masculine pride to be further insulted with the aid of a woman. She opened her plump lips to order the guards to escort Daemon away, but he held his palm, halting the frightened Queen with what he might intend to do next.

"Where is my daughter?" he questioned, the smooth timbre of his domineering tone replaced with something almost... soft.

Alicent swallowed the excess saliva that accumulated inside her mouth with the threat of tears. Her gaze returned to her father, noticing the trickle of blood on his lip, no doubt split from the force of Daemon's strike. She waited for her father to speak, still thrown to the ground as he said to her in expressions only she could comprehend. When he assured her and himself that everything was in place without words, he nodded, Daemon's suspicious gaze examining them.

"She is in Maegor's Holdfast. I am sure you know how to conduct yourself in those halls," Alicent snipped, her voice velvety and moist, as she helped her pride-wounded father stand.

The prince gave her no more words, no looks that said he heard her before he was off, leaving a trail of destruction behind him, gait determined with only one goal in mind, and Seven help any poor, unfortunate soul who stood in his path.

Prickling anxiety stirred within Daemon's gut as he followed a young servant with bright, fiery hair. The nervous thing rang her hands together until her knuckles cracked, sparing fleeting glances behind her to ensure he had not abruptly decided to live up to his name.

Daemon imagined your fear and knew you must have felt betrayed, terrified, and distraught. He thought about how you needed him in your most vulnerable moment, only to find that there was no one. He was the one who set the foundations for your assault. He should have never forced you into this position. Your father should have kept you close and tucked away in his heart as he did everything dear to him.

Now, he would never let you go for as long as the blood of the dragon flowed through his veins.

Each realization strung him up further into his anxiety, feeling his heart beating at every point of his body. The moment's walk felt like decades of agony to him, as if Daemon was forced to fight a legion of soldiers alone with an arm tied behind his back. The servant, whom he did not care to know, stopped at a great wooden door, curtsying to him with her chin tucked into her chest and gaze lowered. Daemon stared at her dully, waiting for any further response or courtesy, but gave none, answering his question wordlessly as he opened the portal.

A thick blanket of invisible smoke covered your chambers, stinging his pale, violet eyes as he struggled to breathe. It blinded his senses, unable to think of anything other than the overpowering scent of incense. His vision did not immediately travel to you but to a dark-skinned man with modest gray robes. The Maester's back was turned to Daemon as he hunched over a table with supplies, mixing dried herbs to make what he assumed was a pot of medicinal tea.

He left the man at work, looking around the heavy room until he saw you. Daemon stared at you in disbelief at the heart-wrenching sight before him, feeling only the frantic pounding of his unsteady pulse.

His daughter lay under thick sheets of Hightower green, your face sallow and sunken rings of indigo under your eyes.

"They told me they found her within a puddle of gore. No attacker in sight," Orwyle said in a trembling voice, clearly afraid of his wrath. Daemon didn't listen to him, staring blankly at your listless expression.

He approached you slowly on trembling legs, feeling complete emptiness in his head. He breathed heavily through his mouth as Daemon kneeled beside a bed that did not belong to you, gently grasping your cheeks in his fingers and turning your face towards him. Your body was limp, your mouth slightly parted, your eyelids half open, and your gaze distant and misty. It was as if you were not here, not in spirit, wetting your lips as he heard your labored breathing.

"What happened?" your father asked in a whisper, terrified of how his voice and body were shaking. His heart threatened to burst from his ribs, his throat and stomach squeezed so tightly that he had trouble filling his lungs with air.

He heard your quiet sigh as you struggled to train your gaze on him, looking at your father as if you were thinking about something and unsure if what was happening was a dream or true. It has been so long since you last saw him that you wondered if you had truly gone mad after everything.

Relief did not flood Daemon at discovering you were alive, and it was when he looked at you closely that he noticed your right temple was swollen, a tiny sliver of broken pink flesh decorating the top. The wound was fresh, blood still glistening, and he understood it must have happened within the last few hours. He felt tears of shame under his eyelids and overwhelming rage at the thought that someone had dared to hit you.

His daughter—his flesh.

"Father," you whispered so quietly that he barely heard you, stroking the soft skin of your face. Daemon felt an unbearable squeeze in his throat at your voice, his eyebrows arched in pain, eyes burning from the tears that wanted so desperately to run down his visage.

"I am here." The Rogue Prince whimpered with difficulty in a tone breaking with pain and grief, pressing his nose against your hair. He cried out loudly, never feeling so helpless before in his life, for his dearest daughter, his favorite daughter, was dying in his arms because of him, betrayed and abandoned.

"Who did this to you?" he questioned thickly, words echoing in the cavernous expanse of your guest chambers. This place has been your home for two years.

You spent two years with only written correspondence. A father's duty was to protect his kin and make the proper decisions that ensured their success and safety in life, but he was ill-fated. Daemon was your guardian, the only person in this forsaken world in whom you should place your unwavering trust, and he failed—not only as a father but also as a man.

"The Stranger," you muttered in response with great effort, eyes rolling back into your head and lids closing as you released a profound sigh.

He knew that your mind was not in its proper place, nor did he expect it to be. You escaped the clutches of death within a house that prayed at every chance for your downfall. Your father put you in a cage inhabited by rabid wolves seeking to devour every morsel of prey that walked within the halls of the Red Keep, but you were not an easy meal. You were lined with scars and teeth marks of the past, hardening your hide from each predator who attempted to sink their claws into you.

Daemon turned a young lamb into a dragon, and they would soon feel your fire's scorching heat.

"Talus mandus ñuhus. Jorilagon sesīr," (My gentle daughter. Rest now.) he muttered, feeling the warm tears run down his cheeks. He looked only at you, stroking your crown as if you were a small child.

Daemon considered the Hightowers, Alicent, and Otto conniving snakes in the grass bound by piousness, servitude, and duty for their wealth. This was what upholding the realm was—death and destruction for their betterment.

He stroked your cold skin with his thumb, confident that no force would tear him away from his child. No force would make him leave you, and if anyone tried to do so, he would kill every fucking one of them.

Masterlist of Series

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte , @silverslive , @prettykinkysoul , @legolas017 , @iiamthehybrid , @dd122004dd , @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfild , @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @prettywhenicry4 , @justarandomflowerchildofthenight , @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @existential-echo , @priyajoyy , @valaenatargaryensdragon , @merovingianprincess , @candy12110 , @w3ird11 , @ruhjkie , @somemydayy , @marikkjj , @zillahvathek , @sunfyresrider , @heavenly1927 , @hjgdhghoe , @im-sidney , @aurorathi , @marihoneywk , @xitsemm , @justbelljust , @qardasngan

How did you all like the reunion, even though it wasn't much of one? I'm glad we got more of a look into Daemon and the reader's very unhealthy relationship. Don't we all want a daddy like him, though?

I always like to remind people that Alicent's relationship with the reader is a mirror reflecting on her. This raises the philosophical question: If you were faced with your actions of the past and present, would you like them? Would you still support and commit to them again? Or would you hate them, hate what you've done, hate that it's you that you're seeing, and refuse to accept it?

Well, anyway, thank you for reading and your unwavering devotion. I hope you will stick with me through my literary journey, even when I finish this story and move on to the next.

[f1-stuff]

Girl dad Carlos please! I miss that fic so much 🥲

Okay. So.

I mustered up the energy to write a little vignette of this AU bc I also miss it and bc I didn't want to leave you two hanging! This is skipping ahead quite a bit to halfway through the season, but I'm still planning on writing and fleshing out that portion. I've just known for a while that this was gonna be an important part of the story and that I could jump into writing it right away!

It will probably be edited and adjusted for when the actual chapter is posted on ao3, but this is the 'rough draft' I guess! (Disclaimer: I know zero French and I haven’t had someone look over that bit yet!)

Anyway, enjoyyyy...

When there’s a knock on his door about two weeks into the summer break, his brain doesn’t compute for a full minute after he’s opened it.

Because why would Charles, his teammate, be here? In Spain? At his apartment? During their summer holiday, when they’re supposed to be ignoring any and all people and things related to F1, recharging their batteries, and remembering there’s more to life than racing cars? He and Charles have barely ever even texted during the summer break, let alone seen one another. So, again, why would Charles be at his front door.

Also, he’s a bit sleep deprived and delirious, so there’s every chance he’s hallucinating this.

“Uh...” he says, rather eloquently.

“Hey,” Charles says. And there’s a tentative smile on his face that Carlos can’t even begin to parse the meaning of. His brain isn’t just one step behind, it’s five steps. “Can...I come in?”

“Oh.” Again. Eloquent, Sainz. “Eh- yeah. Yes. Come in.”

“Sorry to stop by without a warning,” Charles is saying. But Carlos is too busy looking around in barely disguised panic at the absolute trash heap that is his home.

It’s not that he didn’t realize how much of a mess the apartment was before, but he sees it now through Charles’ eyes and feels a little like curling up and dying. There are bowls of half eaten food and dirty dishes piled in and around the sink. Various toys, games, books, and drawings are strewn over almost every surface, along with clothes (mostly socks, so many socks) littering the floor. Boxes and boxes of Lucy’s things that he hasn’t had time to sort through are stacked against the walls and in the corners. One of the only exposed walls by the couch has colorful marker all over it, Ana having done that particular masterpiece when he’d accidentally nodded off during Peppa Pig. (He’d been too tired to even properly get angry about it, which was perhaps a bad precedent to set if he didn’t want a repeat performance.)

It looks like a tornado has swept through his apartment. A tornado named Ana.

Not that Charles is much neater on a good day, and he doesn’t even have a kid as an excuse. But Carlos has a feeling that if this is the current state of his apartment, the state of his own appearance is probably no better. He hasn’t properly showered, shaved, or slept in days, and he doesn’t think he’s looked in the mirror in all that time either. For all he knows, he’s still got remnants of the braids Ana put in his hair yesterday. He certainly can’t remember taking them out...

Charles, on the other hand, looks fresh and groomed and sunkissed - everything Carlos would expect during the summer break.

He smells good, he thinks, unbidden. Then, immediately, Stop it.

Charles takes in the space around them, his eyes eventually settling on Carlos with an amused (and maybe slightly concerned) expression. But just as he’s opening his mouth to speak, there’s the sound of the bathroom door opening down the hall and the smattering of tiny feet running across the floor, before Ana declares in her tiny, yet surprisingly bold voice, “I didn’t have a diarrhea!”

Carlos doesn’t even have enough shame left to be embarrassed by his kid. His first instinct is just relief.

“Stomach virus,” he mumbles to Charles, by way of explanation. Then, to Ana, in Spanish, “That’s great, mi niña! Did you wash your hands?”

“Yeeeees!”

“Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Good, because we, eh- we have a guest!”

It’s quiet for a moment, before Ana’s head pokes around the corner slowly. But her face lights up as soon as she sees who it is.

“Cha!” she shouts, but then immediately looks embarrassed by her own show of excitement.

“Coucou, Ana,” Charles says, amused. He kneels down and encourages Ana closer, accepting the tentative hug she gives him.

No matter how much they had bonded last time, it’s still been a while since they’ve seen one another, and some of Ana’s shyness has clearly returned. Still, it’s huge that she’s even initiated a hug, and Carlos feels a telltale twinge in his sternum at the image they both make.

“As-tu été bon pour papa?” Charles asks, cuffing her gently on the chin. Ana grins and nods. “J'ai un cadeau pour toi.”

Charles reaches into a bag that Carlos hadn’t even noticed he’d been carrying until he’d set it down to hug Ana, and he pulls out a pink rectangular thing, that Carlos squints in confusion at for a beat. He realizes what it is simultaneously with Charles’ next words.

“C'est une caméra. Pour que tu prennes des photos de ton papa.”

It’s a pink camera for kids, a unicorn adorning the front where the lens peeks out. Carlos almost rolls his eyes - of course Charles, with his recent photography kick, gifts his kid a camera. But the way Ana’s expression transforms with wonder as Charles demonstrates to her how it works is pretty precious.

Charles hands it over to her and she immediately points it at him. He pulls a silly expression, making her giggle. They both examine the photo, heads bowed close. Ana points it up at Carlos next.

“¡Sonríe, papá!”

He sticks out his tongue and her little finger presses the capture button. The joy on her face as the photo pops up on the screen, tilting it to show them even though it’s upside down, fills Carlos with so much warmth and love that he legitimately almost tears up.

God, he’s so freaking tired.

Ana bounds off to her room to gather her stuffed toys to take a ‘family picture,’ and Charles straightens back up, smile lingering on his cheeks even after Ana has disappeared down the hall.

Carlos wants to kiss him so bad. Becoming a father has turned him into such a sap.

“Ehm,” he clears his throat. “Thank you. That was- a nice gift.”

“No problems.”

“You know, you don’t have to buy her something every time you see her,” he says, humor lacing his words.

“I want to,” Charles insists, simply. They smile awkwardly for an extended beat, listening to the sounds of Ana down the hall in her room, talking to her animals. Charles’ eyes stray to his hair. “You have...something in your hair. Is that a braid-?”

“What are you doing here, Charles?” he asks, choosing to ignore the comment. “I thought you would be in Corsica, or somewhere.”

“I was. But I heard you and Ana had to cancel on the trip to Mallorca and-”

“Heard, how?” Charles looks sheepish, triggering his suspicion. So he repeats it. “Heard, how, Charles?”

“Your mum texted me-” 

He sighs, eyes shutting briefly in frustration. He wishes his mom would just stay out of this whole- thing with Charles. But, clearly, she knew he wouldn’t accept help from anyone else. And that he wouldn’t be able to turn Charles away…

“She didn’t tell me to come,” Charles rushes to say. “She was just worried because you refused to let her stay and help, and that you hadn’t found a sitter, or someone, yet. So I just offered-”

“Charles, please...” He breaks off with another sigh, rubbing his temples to stave off the oncoming headache. But it’s already too late, if the subtle pulsating pain, slowly increasing in intensity, is anything to go by. “You should not have come.”

“Carlos, don’t be stupid,” he scoffs. “Anyway, I am here.” And he supposes that’s true. Nothing can be done about it now. “You look tired.”

He huffs a small laugh, dropping his hands from his temples to meet Charles’ gaze.

“This is what someone looks like when their kid catches a stomach virus and then they catch that same virus from their kid, just when their kid is starting to feel better-”

“Why didn’t you let your mum help-?”

“I’m her dad,” he interrupts, breathing hard. But he softens his voice with his next words. “I can do this on my own. I just wanted to...”

He doesn’t really know how to finish that sentence, though. It sounds stubborn and stupid when he starts to say it out loud. None of this should be about him. It’s about Ana. And if he’d really needed help, he should’ve asked for it. For her.

Charles seems to know that he doesn’t have to say it - that Carlos is already thinking it. So, instead, he just claps a hand to his shoulder and squeezes.

“I think,” he says, “-you should get some rest.”

“Charles-”

“No, I’m serious. Go to your room, Mister Sainz.” A slow grin pulls over his features. And along with the genuine concern in his eyes, it’s almost enough to break through Carlos’ resolve. “You are exhausted. Ana will be fine - I will watch her. Just...rest for a minute. Okay? You don’t look like yourself.”

And he knows that must be true. He knows that he needs a lot more than just a few hours of sleep to feel somewhere close to normal again (a shower would be a good start). But it’s hard to even think of himself when he’s been so worried about Ana for days - researching how to get her fever to die down, trying to get her to drink fluids, watching her fitful face in sleep, his heart in his throat despite how the pediatrician had assured him she’d be fine.

But, then, he’d gotten sick, too. And instead of focusing on his own recovery, he’d had to fit in sessions of retching over the toilet in between caring for his kid and making sure she was properly fed. And the two of them had managed, even if it wasn’t ideal. They’d grown closer, he thought, by virtue of her needing him so much.

He couldn’t keep it together forever, though. Eventually, if he didn’t take a break, he’d fall apart completely.

It takes him a stubborn moment, the urge to argue bubbling up inside despite how glorious resting his head on a pillow sounds. But eventually he nods, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Thank you.”

Charles just looks at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “You are welcome, Carlos. Now, go. You look like you are going to fall over at any moment.”

“I feel like I’m going to fall over at any moment.”

Charles laughs under his breath, pushing Carlos’ shoulder gently to aim him toward the hallway. “Well, fall over into bed, then.”

“I’m going,” he insists, letting his tired limbs and the heavy touch of Charles at his shoulder guide him toward his room.

He can deal with how insane this situation is - Charles showing up here, and what the hell it means that he’d come at all - once he’s had some sleep. For now, he’ll happily take it for granted.

He doesn’t even really remember climbing into bed before the exhaustion takes over, his body surrendering to fatigue now that he knows his kid’s in good hands. Trustworthy hands. Charles’ hands.

He thinks he can hear the faint sounds of their French floating down the hallway. It makes him smile with the last vestiges of energy he has left.

God, he is in so over his head.

----

WIP ask game

Link to fic on ao3 -> (x)

[spectersgirl]

i love love love any and all domestic harvey specter posts. i have pots which causes me to faint sometimes (but i love the attention so it’s whatever). what would it look like if harvey had a wife with pots? much love xx

"but i love the attention" I am CRYING LMAO

I actually had to research this a bit because I've heard of it but didn't really know what it was. if anyone else is curious, this is the article I read!

I'm sorry this is so late, I really didn't know where I was going with this so I just had it rotting in my drafts

I hope you enjoy it, I probably was not super accurate but I tried!

Tough Days

Harvey Specter x Reader

--------

The morning sunlight streamed through flowy white curtains as Harvey Specter woke up to find you already stirring in bed. He blinked away the remnants of sleep, taking a moment to appreciate your beauty.

"Morning, gorgeous," Harvey greeted, his voice warm with affection as he propped himself up on an elbow.

You smiled softly, though there was a hint of exhaustion in your eyes. "Morning, handsome."

He could tell it was going to be one of your tough days. You had been diagnosed with POTS a few years ago, and while you and Harvey had learned to manage it together, some days were still more challenging than others.

"Need anything?" Harvey asked, already shifting into protective husband mode.

"Just some water and maybe breakfast in bed?" You replied with a faint grin, voice laced with tiredness.

"Consider it done." Harvey slipped out of bed, tucking the duvet around you and dropping a kiss onto your forehead before heading to the kitchen.

He returned with a tray bearing a glass of water, a bowl of oatmeal, and a side of fruit. Setting it down carefully, he made sure everything was within your reach. Harvey sat on the edge of the bed, watching you eat.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked gently, concern visible on his face.

You sighed, setting the spoon down. "Dizzy and fatigued, but I'll manage."

"You shouldn't have to 'manage'" Harvey said firmly. "You've got me."

You smiled gratefully, reaching out to take his hand. "I know, and I'm thankful for that every day."

Harvey leaned over, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. "Let's take it easy today. I'll cancel my morning, we'll just relax and take care of you."

You snuggled closer to Harvey, feeling the warmth of his presence soothing you. But suddenly, a wave of dizziness swept over you, and your vision blurred. Before you could even voice a warning, the room spun, and your strength wavered. You struggled to sit up, gasping for breath.

"Y/N?" Harvey's voice was laced with worry as he noticed the change in your demeanor. In an instant, he was upright at your side, steadying you.

"I'm okay," you managed, though your words were shaky.

But before you could finish the sentence, the world tilted, and everything went dark.

Panic surged through Harvey as he caught his wife, your body slumping against him. "Y/N! Hey, baby, stay with me," he urged, laying you gently on the bed.

Your eyelids fluttered weakly as consciousness returned. You blinked, disoriented and weak, trying to focus on Harvey's concerned face.

"Easy, take deep breaths," he coached, his voice calm despite the worry etched on his features.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, feeling embarrassed and frustrated by your body's betrayal.

Harvey shook his head gently. "No apologies. You don't have to apologize for something you can't control."

He quickly ran to get a cold towel and placed it on your forehead, helping you sit up slowly. He monitored your pulse and made sure you were comfortable, something he'd done countless times before on days like this.

"You scared me for a second there," Harvey admitted softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

You managed a weak smile. "Sorry you have to deal with that."

"Don't be ridiculous," Harvey replied firmly. "You're my priority, always."

He stayed by your side, ensuring you had fully recovered before he even considered leaving you alone. As you regained your strength, you felt grateful for Harvey's unwavering support.

"Thank you for being here," you murmured, leaning into his comforting presence.

"For you, always," Harvey assured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

As the morning passed, Harvey stayed by your side, making sure you had everything you needed. He adjusted the room temperature, brought your favorite books, and even ran a warm bath to help ease your discomfort.

"You're spoiling me today," you teased as Harvey helped you into the bath.

He chuckled softly. "With everything you do for me all the time, it's the least I can do."

Once you were settled, Harvey stayed close, chatting about anything and everything to keep your mind off the discomfort. He'd perfected this art, knowing when to distract you and when to let you rest.

Later in the evening, as you settled back into bed, feeling a bit better, you looked at Harvey with gratitude in your eyes. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out," he assured, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "I'll always be here, taking care of you."

And as they curled up together, you felt a wave of love and appreciation wash over you for the man next to you. He always put you first and made sure you were taken care of, and while this felt unnatural to you at first, you'd learned to stop fighting it and just let him care for you.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

In the Dead of Solstice Night (Pre Coming Home Oneshot)

Azriel x Reader

Hiiii! Merry Christmas, to all who celebrate it <3 I really wanted to get something out in time for Christmas (and while I'm finishing up the next part of Fireleaf), and I've had this in my drafts for a while.

This is a oneshot set in the Coming Home universe, before reader ever went travelling - a sort of reimagining, where something happens between Az and Y/N on Solstice night one year. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: SMUT.

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The silence was stifling, considering the noise that had filled the Town House only a matter of hours before. 

The sounds of laughter, of talking, of the roaring fire — all of it had been swept away by the late hour and replaced by a peaceful quiet. The day of wonderful chaos should have made it easy for you to drift off to sleep — but there you were, laying in your bed, your eyes pinned wide on the ceiling. 

Down the hall, in their own respective bedrooms, Rhys, Mor, Cassian and Amren were already sleeping soundly, their bellies full of food and drink — or blood, in Amren’s case. Your fae hearing easily picked up on the sounds of their heavy breathing, the occasional rustle of the sheets if they tossed or turned in bed. 

And it made you all too aware of the fact that Azriel hadn’t ventured up to his own room. 

Not that you weren’t already hyper aware of his movements, fae hearing or no. 

The two of you had been the last ones left in the sitting room after everyone else had retired, talking until the embers of the fire were dying and even the faelights had begun to dim. And when you’d decided to turn in yourself, you’d bid Azriel goodnight and left him to bury his nose in the book you had bought him, his wings draped over the armchair he was curled up in. 

The hours had passed, and sleep had evaded you. You’d waited to hear the sounds of his feet climbing the stairs, the creak of his door opening, but—nothing. Maybe he’d fallen asleep reading. Or maybe he’d gone flying, as you knew he often did when he was too wired for rest.

Curiosity got the better of you. 

Before you could reason with yourself, you were slipping out of bed and shucking on a loose silk robe. You tried to be as silent as possible as you padded from the room and headed for the stairs. 

The rational part of your brain questioned why it even mattered to you that Azriel hadn’t retired to bed. He was just…your friend. Your older brother’s best friend. One of the few people who had been a constant in your life. 

But you’d undoubtedly been growing closer, nearing your twentieth year of life. You enjoyed his company — perhaps a bit more than anyone else’s — and you found yourself thinking about him, wondering what he was doing, in idle moments of quiet. 

Gods, you probably annoyed the hell out of him. He probably merely tolerated your clear attraction to him because he did care for you, because you were Rhys’s sister. Maybe he hadn’t stayed at the Town House at all, and had, in fact, wandered off into the night to get up to the Mother knew what. Maybe he’d secretly met with a lover you knew nothing about—

You stepped off the bottom stair, the heat of the fire still breathing through the sitting room and snaking out into the hallway. Through the gap in the door, you could just make out the dim winking of the faelights. And the dark figure hunched in the armchair, the shadows around him just as still. 

The bite of relief you felt was shameful. So he hadn’t wandered off for a secret rendezvous

Not that it was any of your business.

You gently pushed the door open, taking in the sight of his sleeping figure. His dark hair fell about his perfect face with his head angled back, the book you’d gifted him still open and pressed against his chest. His chest rose and fell steadily, gently. 

He looked so…peaceful. So rare, to see him so at ease, so vulnerable. Beautiful. Your heart thudded in your chest at the mere sight of him. 

You were almost as stealthy and as silent as him as you walked with careful steps, grabbing a thick throw from the back of the sofa and turning to him. Gently — as gently as you could, so as not to wake him — you eased the book from his hands. 

You’d barely turned to place it on the coffee table when one of those hands grabbed your wrist, and Azriel was shooting upright, going ramrod straight in the armchair. His eyes were blown wide, seeming to search for any potential threat, before they landed on you. 

“Hey,” You breathed, trying not to wince at the tight grip on your wrist. “It’s just me…”

Azriel blinked at you, his heavy breaths audible. It took him a moment to recognise his surroundings, to realise there was no danger — only then did his shoulders relax, his hand letting go of your wrist. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” You studied him cautiously. “I was just grabbing you a blanket…and putting your book down…”

Az rubbed his eyes, shifting in the armchair. He glanced at the blanket still in your hand. “Thank you. I didn’t—” He sat forward, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You slipped your hand behind your back. “No.”

“Let me see,” He reached for it, scarred fingers brushing yours. 

“Az, it’s fine—”

But he was already pulling your hand towards him, his eyes checking the delicate skin of your wrist for any indication that he’d been too rough. When he found no such thing, he seemed to relax even more. 

“Thank you—for the blanket.” He inclined his head, letting go of your hand. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep down here.”

“I figured—I mean…I was awake…and I didn’t hear you come upstairs. I was worried you were…cold.”

Gods, you wanted to kick yourself, to go running out of there and hide. It didn’t seem to matter how long you’d known him; speaking to Azriel, gazing at that gorgeous, chiselled face, turned you into a stumbling, stammering mess every time. 

He glanced up at you, his hazel eyes sweeping your face and meeting your gaze. You could feel yourself blushing underneath the intensity of his stare. You cleared your throat. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” You murmured, stepping back.

But he grabbed your wrist again. Gentler, this time. The touch feather-like, as though he was doing everything to tamp down on his own strength and be delicate with you. 

“Stay.”

You stared at him. Swallowed. Never…never had it been like this — whatever this was. He usually politely ignored your blushing, the way you stumbled and rambled like an idiot. Usually spoke to you like your clear attraction to him wasn’t a giant elephant in the room. 

But this — now — was different. Not in a way you could place a finger on. A strange tension shrouded the two of you, and it seemed to bring his shadows alive. You watched as they coiled around him and slowly reached out towards you. 

You blinked out of your thoughts. Tried to remember how to speak. “What.” Was all you blurted.

“Stay.” Azriel repeated quietly. “If you can’t sleep. We can talk.”

Oh. Oh. That was all this was. The two of you talked all the time, and he was just…thoughtful. Not wanting you to be alone while sleep was evading you, even though he’d been slumbering happily himself, moments before. Your thoughts ran away with you for a second there—

“I had fun at Rita’s the other night.” The words fell from your mouth unprompted.

Az’s lips twitched. “I noticed.”

Your cheeks burned with what felt like the heat of a thousand suns. Rhys finally relenting and letting you join the others for nights out in Velaris was a relatively new thing, and maybe you’d let a little too loose. Had a few too many drinks. 

“Was I embarrassing?” You grimaced. “That faerie wine is something else—”

“You weren’t embarrassing.” Azriel cut you off. “I liked it — watching you enjoy yourself.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. And his were…smouldering…fierce, as they bore into yours. A soft smile tugged at your lips. “I was hoping you would dance with me.”

“You weren’t short of offers. You didn’t need me wading in.”

“…You were the only one I wanted to dance with, though.”

Silence. Your candid admission was met with utter silence. Never had you been so…so forward. 

Your feelings for Az were undoubtedly blatant, but…they’d always been an elephant in the room. Something you tiptoed around and never openly acknowledged. 

Until now, clearly.

You met his eyes again. Found him just…staring. Staring deeply at you. He licked his lips and glanced down. 

“It’s late.” He said quietly. “We should both get to sleep.”

You pursed your lips, the dismissal stinging. “What happened to talking?”

“I think it’s best that we call it a night.” He swallowed. “Before we get ourselves into trouble.”

You frowned down at your hands. Trouble. Was that how he saw you? A fine line teetering on the edge of danger, of poor choices?

“I don’t see how we can get ourselves into trouble by talking.” You said. 

“You know what I’m talking about, Y/N. Get to bed before we forget ourselves—”

“I’m not a child, Azriel. I’m a grown female and I’m perfectly in control—”

“It’s not your control I’m worried about.”

You felt yourself falter. Go still. Because never…never had Az been forward like this. Not that you knew what he was saying, exactly. Your mind was more muddled than it ever had been. But it sounded a hell of a lot like…like maybe he—

“Just go to bed. Please.” He gritted out, his voice gravelly. “Before you say anything else that puts everything at risk.”

He must have read the hurt that stung your eyes. Perhaps that was why he lowered his gaze, refused to meet yours. And why he still didn’t look up as you rose to your feet. 

“Fine.” You rasped, pulling your thin robe around you. Suddenly, you felt colder than ever. “I’ll go to bed. I’m sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.”

His response wasn’t a comfort. Nothing could stop the way your face burned and your eyes pricked with tears — tears of pure humiliation — as you strode to the door. 

But some slither of candour still remained inside you as you turned at the threshold, wanting — needing — to get rid of the truth in your mind. Your eyes landed on Azriel again. He hadn’t moved. 

“You know…” You said quietly. “One of those males I was dancing with asked me to go home with him tonight.”

The fact that you caught the slight shift of his body told you just how unguarded he currently was. He was usually impossible to get a read on, even after years and years of trying. But right then — in that moment — you glimpsed it. It was subtle, but…there. 

He seemed to correct himself as he bit out, “Well, perhaps you should have — gone home with him.”

A laugh void entirely of humour left your lips. And though the sensible thing would have been to leave the room and return to bed, before this — whatever this was — got out of hand…you shut the door, instead. Pressed your back against it as you faced him once more. 

“Is that what would make you feel so much better, Az? Is it what you want? For me to go around sleeping with any male who offers to buy me a dri—”

Your words died in your throat as he launched himself from his seat. With ridiculously big strides, he was in front of you in seconds, his hands slamming too loudly against the door, either side of your head.

“What I want,” he hissed, “is to strip you bare and fuck you until you’re hoarse.”

The slightest stagger of a breath escaped your lips, but that was about all you could manage. His body was so close to yours, so easy to reach out and touch—

“What I wanted,” he continued through gritted teeth, “was to march over to that male you were dancing with in Rita’s and rip his damn hands off. That is why I didn’t dance with you. Because I know what I fucking want, and it wouldn’t have stopped at just a dance.”

“No,” you breathed, “it wouldn’t have done.”

It was perhaps the boldest move you’d ever, ever made as you reached a hand up. You pulled Az’s head down towards yours, and pushing up on the tips of your toes, you pressed your lips together. 

The kiss you gave him was hungry — the kiss you’d thought about giving him for years and years. One that communicated everything you wanted him to know. That you saw him, wanted him, loved him. That you weren’t some fragile little thing for him to dance around. 

There was a split second before a growl was ripping from the depths of his chest. And then he was kissing you back, his hand coming up to tangle within the strands of your hair. He tipped your head back just slightly, his tongue teasing the seam of your mouth. 

“These fucking lips,” he groaned against you. “You have no idea how much I think about them.”

His words had you weak at the knees. “You like my lips?”

“Far more than is sensible.”

“Then why,” you kissed him quick, yanking him against you, “have you never kissed them before?”

He stopped. Held you still as he pulled back — not by much. Just enough to stare down at you. His eyes flickered down to your lips and then back up to meet yours. His tongue swiped over his mouth like he was lapping up the taste of you.

“You’re Rhys’s sister.” He said gruffly. “…But you’re also every single one of my fantasies.”

And fuck if those words didn’t set you on fire. You swallowed, staring up at him. You wanted to show him…to make him see just how much he was every one of your fantasies. 

How much you thought about this. Him. 

You maintained eye contact with him as you grabbed his hand, moving it to your breast. He swallowed hard, his eyes dipping down.

But you didn’t allow him to hover there. Still holding onto his hand, you dragged it down. Down your stomach. Down until it reached the hem of your nightdress. 

His fingers brushed the material, his eyes fluttering shut. It was the only barrier between him and your wetness. No underwear. Nothing to stop him brushing—

Those deft, brilliant fingers dipped beneath your nightgown, and you lifted your hips towards him. Until his hand was at the apex of your thighs. 

“Gods,” he whispered, “you’re soaked.”

“Yes.” You breathed. “This is what you do to me, Az. And I’d much prefer your hand to my own.”

Your words seemed to send a shudder through his body, and he hissed between his teeth as the pads of his fingers found your wetness. He cupped his hand over your sex, slicking himself with your juices. A gasp fell from your throat.

“Is this what you want?” Azriel asked you, his thumb inching up to rest on your clit. “There?”

You hissed, hips jerking, and Az smirked. But there was no chance for you to breathe another word — or another sound — as he dipped his head and lowered his mouth to yours once more.

His kiss was firm, bruising, as his thumb began slow, indolent circles on your clit, made all the more delicious by the scrape of his calluses. You heard yourself whimper against his lips, felt him smile at the sound. 

He broke the kiss, teeth grazing your lips. “And what else do you want?” 

The slight pressure he applied had your hips bucking again. “You,” you gasped. “Your fingers. You. Inside me.”

“Fuck, Y/N.”

His hazel eyes flared, and never had you seen them so burning, so vibrant, like your words awoke something in him. And his fingers…gods, his fingers were more skilled than you could ever have imagined. He’d done no more than rub at your clit, and already your legs were trembling. You grabbed his arm, steadying yourself.

“Please,” you pulled his head down to meet yours again. “I want you.”

With a growl, he was all over you, his lips clashing against yours as he slipped a finger inside you. The moan that escaped you was lost immediately in the huff of your heavy breathing, mingling and twining with his.

“If we do this,” Az breathed, pumping his finger, “there’s no going back.”

“Good.”

That was what you wanted. Him, in every which way possible. Against the door or the wall, or on the sofa or the floor, upstairs or downstairs—

Az seemed to read those very thoughts on your face, and with an animalistic noise that had you clenching around his fingers, he pulled his hand from between your legs and hoisted you up into his arms, locking you tightly around him.

He didn’t stumble with you far, tucking his wings in and perching you on the back of the sofa. He slotted himself between your thighs. And went still. Stared down at you.

“Y/N, I—” He cut himself off, swallowing. “I want — need — to know that you’re sure about this. This could change a lot….”

You’d spent so many years wanting him, craving him. Thinking about him and watching him. Knowing that he discreetly took lovers. Knowing that he was probably keenly aware of your feelings this whole time. The fact that he was even questioning your certainty seemed ludicrous…

And yet, it made your heart flip and thud. Because it was Az all over — caring and attentive. Loving. Always, always good.

You met his gaze. Raised one hand to cup his cheek. And used the other hand to reach for the buttons of his trousers. 

“I’ve never been more sure about anything.” You whispered, fingering the top button. “I’ve wanted you, Azriel, for a very, very long time.”

His eyes fell down to watch your fingers, and you could have sworn you heard his heart picking up and thudding. Heard a shuddered breath slip past his lips. 

And then he was kissing you once more. Soft. Slow. His hands gently rubbing your arms. He left enough space between you for you to undo every button. And you did.

And then you were shoving those trousers down to the floor. Watching his cock spring free. You found yourself gulping at the mere sight of him. 

All those jesting speculations you’d heard about wingspan correlating with the size of other body parts. It didn’t seem much like speculation to you. Az was thick…long…hard.

You wanted every inch of him inside you.

Slowly, you wrapped a hand around his cock — or tried to. Az hissed between his teeth, his eyes not once looking away. His hips jerked as you began to languidly pump his shaft, your thumb circling the head and mopping up the small pool of moisture that had gathered there.

“Gods,” Azriel choked. “No—no games.”

You hummed, trilling a soft laugh. “No?”

“No—I want to be inside you.”

You smirked, dipping your head. Your lips were inches from his cock as you flicked your eyes up to meet his. But he made no move to stop you. He merely watched, his chest heaving, as you poked your tongue out and swirled it around the head

He grunted, hips bucking. He seemed to be using every bit of his willpower not to thrust right into your mouth. No matter how much you wanted him to—

“No games,” he repeated, gently threading his fingers in your hair. “Wicked little thing.”

“You don’t want—”

“I want,” he pulled you up, kissing you quick, “you. I want you.”

Words you’d waited so, so long to hear, and they were as much of a song as you’d fantasised. For years. In the dead of night, with your hand between your legs. Or sometimes at sadder moments, when you’d cried and considered the possibility that Az would never, ever say such things to you. 

And yet here he was. Saying them. Sending a shiver coursing through you.

He cupped your face in both his hands, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. And he was so gentle, so tender. There was nothing but pure adoration in the delicate way he handled you.

Az took the reins from there, ruching your nightgown up around your waist. He kissed you again and again and again. As he hoisted your legs up around him. As he grabbed his cock in his hand and dragged it through your folds, slicking himself up with your wetness and giving a few slow strokes to your clit. 

As he aligned himself with your entrance and pushed in. 

Just the tip. Even that stretched you, had a bite of pain pinching you that was strangely pleasurable and had you gasping against Az’s mouth. His hips stilled, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. 

“Want me to stop?” He whispered.

“No.” You immediately shook your head. “No. Keep going.”

A soft smile tugged at his lips, and he cupped the back of your head, threading his fingers within your hair. His lips found yours again as he pushed in a little further.

Stilled. 

Pain and pleasure. Pleasure and pain. It was heady and wonderful, and you didn’t know whether you wanted to kiss him or cry his name or touch him all over, all at once. 

A little further. He pulled out to the tip, pushing in again. Again.

He took his time allowing you to adjust. Allowing that pinch of pain to shift into full-fledged pleasure. And when finally — finally — he was pushed in to the hilt, he tore his mouth from yours and gazed at you.

The gaze was…gentle. Loving. Open. And you were more grateful for that than he could ever imagine. That he was willing to be open with you. Willing to bare himself like you were baring yourself.

And then he pulled out to the tip once more. And truly began to thrust. 

“You don’t even know,” Azriel gasped, hips rolling, “how much I think about you. How much I try not to. You’re always there — on my mind.”

You did know. Gods, you did. Az had been consuming you since you’d been capable of harbouring such feelings. He was everything. Absolutely everything—

“Gods, you feel so good around me.” He groaned. His rough hands grabbed at your hips, hoisting you up. 

The two of you were frenzied and unstoppable as he pounded into you, and it took every bit of control you possessed to keep your voices down, to maintain your moans and noises in hushed tones. 

But Az inside of you was like nothing else you’d ever felt. And as his thrusts picked up, his hips moving faster, harder, you became him and he became you. One unit of nothing but unbridled elation and pleasure.

You pulled him flush against you, your nails grazing his wings, and you felt his hips falter, his face burying the crook of your neck. You heard him whimper, the chanted “gods, gods, gods” as he slammed into you and reached between you to rub at your clit. 

You lost it, then, release an unforgiving force barrelling through every single part of your body. Your head fell back, and a cry tore through your throat that Az smothered with a hand, cupping his palm over your mouth as his thrusts, somehow, picked up even more.

“I can’t—” He choked, slamming his other hand against the sofa to steady himself. “Oh gods.”

That was all the warning you got before he thrust three more times, hard, fast, his skin slapping yours, before his hips staggered. And then he was coming deep inside you, huffing breathless moans and noises into your neck. 

He collapsed against you, and you held him, utterly spent and utterly blissful. There was something soothing in the heavy rise and fall of his chest against you – like you and he were the only two people left in the world. All other sounds and images and smells had melted away, and it was just you. You and Azriel. The way you had dreamed it one day would be.

You were surprised to find a tear rolling down your cheek as you cradled Az’s head to your neck, your eyes screwed shut and your fingers stroking his hair. He was everything to you; a ray of light amongst so many horrors. A reminder that there was still beauty in the world.

And maybe – you hoped – you could be that for him.

“I love you, Az.” You whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “I love you.”

Azriel’s body went still, rigid against you. His head jerked up, hazel eyes blown wide and meeting yours. He was undoubtedly a sight, with his tousled hair and flushed cheeks, his swollen lips.

He blinked at you, those swollen lips parting. “...What did you say?”

“I–”

But there was no chance for you to repeat the admission.

Not as the door flew open.

Az jerked away from you, yanking his trousers up. And you had the sense, somewhere in your roaring mind, to shimmy your nightgown back down.

It was all entirely pointless, though. If the sight of you both didn’t immediately give away what you’d just been doing, the smell of sex in the air certainly did.

And Cassian knew that, as he stood in the doorway, his hair mussed from sleep and just a low-waisted pair of lounge trousers hanging on his hips.

He stared between you and Az. Took in the sight of you both. Azriel cleared his throat, fastening the buttons on his trousers. Ran a hand through his hair for a good measure. You could practically feel the panic rolling off of him in waves.

But Cassian’s lips kicked into a smirk. He glanced between you once more.

“Well.” He snickered. “It would seem the two of you have had a happy Solstice, indeed.”

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[dual-cetacean]

"Arthur Pendragon, the newly crowned King of Britton, is weary of the new life he leads. The battle that solidified his rule drained him of his vigour, and he aches to be carefree once more as he was as a mere squire. He treks into the Dark Woods to unwind from a stressful exchange of power. Unaware that this moonlit night would forever change his life."

Heyo! Here I am with the poll winner from last week (and a few more days)! It's Sonadow hours (Arthlot? I don't know their ship name, but it's King Arthur/Lancelot)

You can find the backstory for this fic under "Keep reading," as I go off on a tangent about its historyfic.

Please enjoy!

This fic is older than all of my other sonic fics. I am not kidding; I've had this draft lying around in my backlog for so long that I have screenshots of its layout and how I was supposed to present this on AO3. The date is September 2023, but my document files say December 2022. Since I usually type fics together in one document before deciding it can have its own document, so it is even older than that. This was supposed to be up ages ago, but I never found the courage and got swept away by the excitement of Sonic Prime. Even though I call myself a recent Sonic fan, that's not true. I grew up with Sonic X and read Sonic fan fiction on Fanfiction.net. (Oh, where has the time gone.)

Bit of a trigger warning for incest and statutory rape. As in mentioned, nothing is talked about graphically.

Now, while I am very particular about using canon as a guideline and knowing the source material like the back of my hand, this is one of my works where I will not do that. A lot of fucked up shit happens in the original compiled story of L' Morte d'Arthur (The Death of King Arthur). I will explain further in the ending notes of the fic, but for one, Arthur is aged up to 19 years old. As in the original legends, he is just called young, which is very vague. He is rewarded sex by a tavern woman for winning the battle, but it is implied she is much older than him. His age is unknown, but an opposing king calls him a beardless boy playing at being a king, and while there are plenty of men who grow a beard well into their adulthood or never, the implication of Arthur's youth and inexperience with life makes me deeply uneasy. So obviously, none of that shit is in here. Canon or not, fanfiction is here to have fun, and I won't write what makes my skin crawl.

I put this on the poll, not knowing if people would want to read this. But seeing as the poll was held on Tumblr, I should not have been surprised that it won by a landslide. I had forgotten how popular this niche ship is within the Sonadow community. And hey, I'm not complaining! I'm all too happy to share this. I read Sonadow since I was a teen, and Lansoni was a guilty pleasure of mine. I am all too happy to add to the collection! Although it is not really Lansoni as it is Sonic as King Arthur, and not actually Sonic being isikai-ed.

I am probably going to go on a SATBK binge after this. It is so weirdly nostalgic for me.

[lokidokieokie]

A New Feature

"Y/n! How much longer on your piece?"

You huffed, chair tucking back into your desk. "Not too much longer, Audrey. Just doing the final edits."

"Hurry it up, please! Got something excited to share."

Many people would say that working as a journalist would mean researching and writing about boring events that happen on a day-to-day basis.

Yours definitely wasn't.

You were fortunate enough to work for TuneIn Magazine, the biggest pop culture news outlet in England. You got to study and write about your favourite characters, movies, comics, and whatever else you desired. It truly was your dream job.

Giving your article a final glance, you save it and send it off to editorial.

Pushing your chair back, you start heading over to Audrey's office, making sure to stop off at the staff kitchen to grab a biscuit.

With a quick knock on the door, you head in, "You wanted to see me?"

A girlish squeal was all you heard before Audrey made her way over to you.

"I'm going to be the bestest friend ever!"

You roll your eyes, "You're also my boss, Auddie."

She grinned, "It doesn't matter, I'm going to be the best of both!"

"Alright, hit me. What crappy article am I doing this time? The Bacon-Flavour Era? Who never did their ice-bucket challenge after being nominated?"

She gave you a quizzical look, "What? No?!"

"Then what am I here for? We've still got three hours left, and I've got that article on Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock series to finish writing."

"He's just so dreamy! Have you seen those baby-blues?" She wiggles her eyebrows a few times.

Chuckling softly, "You've always been obsessed with that man."

"I know, but who doesn't?" You raise your hand.

She scoffs, "Well, you're just weird."

"What did you actually call me in here for?"

Audrey's eyes seemed to gleam with excitement, "Remember how we've been brainstorming about changing things up here? Not just focusing on the characters or fandoms?" You nod. "Well, I've got something that will knock your socks off."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued, "Do tell, Auddie."

She leaned across her desk, trying to act conspiratorially, "You, my dearest friend, are about to embark on an exposé of a lifetime. We're talking about a piece that will send shockwaves through the fandom community."

You leaned forward, "Keep going..."

"It's time to pull back the curtain on none other than Thomas William Hiddleston himself!" She exclaimed, a wide grin prominent on her face.

You blinked, slightly taken aback, "Tom Hiddleston."

Auddie nodded, "That's right! The enigmatic heartthrob, the charismatic actor -- we're delving deep into the man behind the roles."

A multitude of emotions flickered across your face, though you managed to remain neutral. "I see..."

If she noticed you weren't as ecstatic as she was, she didn't mention it; too swept up in her enthusiasm. "I can't wait to see what you manage to get out of this? This is going to be huge!"

"And get this," Audrey continued, barely containing her excitement, "Mr. Hiddleston himself has agreed to cooperate with this exposé. You'll have exclusive access to him for all of your interviews...multiple times!"

Your heart sank at the thought of seeing Tom again, but you plastered a smile for Audrey's sake. "Sounds like quite a good opportunity."

As Audrey launched into a flurry of ideas for the article, you couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension gnawing at you. Interviewing Tom Hiddleston multiple times was definitely not part of your plan, but it seemed fate had other ideas.

~~~

A/N AHHH! I've finally done it. This idea has been in my drafts for 2 years!

no tags yet..lemme know if you want to join it :)

[johnslittlespoon]

Omg the new tas chapter was amazing!!! Im lit so obsessed its so well written ughhhh

Also i was just wondering if u are considering continuing the “you’re a dog im your man” fic? Absolutely NO PRESSURE AT ALL and i read and love everything write so i hope this doesn’t come across as demanding. I was just wondering cause i was rereading that fic today haha. Anyways hope u have a great day ❤️❤️

HI okay! first of all thank you SOOO so much omg :')) <3 i promise it doesn't come across as demanding at alllll, i really am so grateful for how chill 99% of anons have been in my inbox 😭💗 and i hope you have a great day too!!

this might be a little long–winded bc i don't think i've made a proper post about this (i might've and just forgot lol my bad), but you're a dog (i'm your man) has not been abandoned, i promise!! <3

i know it's been stupid long since the last chapter, like four–ish months atp? at first i just got very swept up in tough and sweet (clearly lol), but then when i sat down to start yadiym chapter seven, i just could Not get something i was happy with. it's not even writer's block, because i know exactly what is going to happen in every chapter, can see it play it out in my head like a movie and all, but everything i put down on the page just wasn't doing the vision i had in my head justice. :/

i think i've rewritten and scrapped ch7 three or four times now lol and it sucksss. i care so so much about this fic, it's really what got me to fall back in love with writing and it means a lot to me, so it makes me even more picky about making it as good as it can possibly be. my tentative goal is to put out a new chapter before the new year... december is gonna be pretty busy hence the 'tentative,' but i'd be really really happy if i could get something into a doc that i'm happy with by then. :')

chapter seven is currently a completely blank doc and i haven't touched it since the last scrap lol, but i've been pouring over the whole drafting doc the past month to get my brain back into dog coded mode and i do feel hopeful that this next attempt will be something i feel better about <3 who knows, maybe i will be able to hop on here on christmas and be like 🤲🏻 merry christmas here's ch7 🤲🏻

that's the dream anyway :-) again gotta say thank u to anyone who's still stayed interested in this story and has been so very patient and chill with me, i'm so thankful and it really is motivating/kicking my ass into gear to know that anyone's actually still waiting for an update!! insane to meeee <333

[sun-aries]

Heat

This WIP has been sitting in my drafts forever and it’s still not finished but maybe some of you will get a kick out of it. Rated T for suggestive themes. Enjoy!

Heat. It embodied the room that blissful summer afternoon, where the sunbeams fired through the glass windows and cast the queen's study in an idyllic golden glow. Closing the curtains was little to no respite, for there was little light without the hearth burning, and so they opted to leave them open, sacrificing any chance of cold for the light needed to get through their planning.
With the wedding only weeks away, it was crucial for the young couple to go over the plans. Though there were more than a dozen staff working to ensure their wedding ceremony and reception were worthy of royalty, Zelda and Link needed to approve every little detail, from the greenery in the centerpieces to the inlays of dishware and the embroidery of the napery. Though Zelda was well-versed in such drab subjects, Link could hardly care, finding that the heat of the room matching with the utter boredom of the topics made it hard to focus.
Instead, he found himself looking at her. A bead of sweat formed at her hairline, trickling down her temple, heading for her jaw before her hand intercepted. It was swept away by her index finger, dressed in satin gloves, and he absently wondered how she wasn't boiling. She always wore what must've been pounds of cloth, dressed properly and sitting primly, but he hadn't ever thought about what a nuisance it would be on such a hot and heavy day. Not that he was one to talk particularly, dressed in layers beneath his simple tunic, but he reasoned that he was more immune since traversing under the desert's sun.
"Given the surplus of blue samples Chancellor Foster has given me, I'm inclined to believe he has a preference. It is the color of our crest, after all, but I personally admire the simplicity of the ivory," Zelda said, flipping through the square samples of satin. "What do you think?" Receiving no response, she turned to look at her fiancé. She found him staring at her, eyes dazed and lips parted just a little, and she knew he was lost in thought. Her lips twitched as she tried to suppress an amused smile and she shook her head. "Link."
He startled at the sternness of her voice. "Huh?"
"Have you listened to a word I've said?"
"Oh…yeah, something about blue, I think." The queen rose a brow. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to focus…It's so hot. Aren't you hot?"
She placed the samples on her lap and sighed. It was a bit bothersome, the heat, but she typically forged ahead. Hazarding a glance out the window behind them, she squinted at the blinding sunlight pouring in. "Yes, it is quite hot."
Resigned, she gathered her long hair and swept it over her shoulder, inadvertently revealing the stretch of bare skin from her jaw, to her elegant neck and shoulders up until her pauldrons. 
Link tensed, his fists clenching around the hem of his tunic. His eyes were hyper-focused on Zelda's neck, watching another bead of sweat travel down the length of it, down towards her collarbone. He ached to reach out, to sweep it away with his tongue.
It disappeared down the neckline of her dress and it was then that his eyes met hers again. Suddenly, he realized how intently Zelda watched him watching her, and though he was flustered by it, he was locked in on her gaze. He thought he would die if he didn't touch her right then.
"I don't suppose you'd mind if I..." She paused, reaching for the hem of her gloves.
His eyes followed the movement, widening upon realization. Then, shaking his head, he tried to say, "No," but his mouth had gotten dry and it came out embarrassingly hoarse.
There was a flicker of a smile on her lips, perhaps of trick of the light, before she started to peel the glove off. When they got bunched up at the elbow, he habitually reached out to help before he froze, fingers twitching, hot and flustered with the thought of taking her clothes off. It was a measly glove, for goddesses sake, but it made him blush anyways.

[zinda-his-eyes-red]

Here's my Star Trek Winter Gift Exchange (@startrekwintergiftexchange) for @raddocwrites! I hope you enjoy it (and sorry for posting so late)!

Their promt was: Seven & B'Elanna bonding platonically.

Here's the link on AO3 and full text is below that:

The Art of Conversation

Gen | 1.6K | No warnings | This is just a little scene set early- to mid-Season 4 of Star Trek: Voyager, when Seven has been part of the crew for a little while.

***

"One Rigellian sunrise," Neelix announced as he pushed a highball glass forward on his makeshift bar.

Two humanoid hands reached toward the drink. One was half-Klingon; one, half-Borg. Well... not Borg anymore.

"That's mine."

B'Elanna whipped her head around to face the stiffly-upright blonde in front of her. Her eyebrows shot up.

"Oh, Seven," she sounded discombobulated as she tried to correct the sternness of her speech. Her hair bobbed as she looked back at the cocktail.

"Wait, you're having a Rigellian sunrise?"

Effusions of orchids decorated the glass, as per Neelix's usual aesthetic, and enticing skewers of fruit (origin unknown) protruded from the top. The drink itself was a swirl of purple above and orange below-- a nearly deadly mix of liquors if Harry's reports could be trusted. He'd gone hard the previous night with some of the other Ensigns, on day one of Neelix's Crew Appreciation Festival. He had Beta shift this evening, and Tom had had to take a hangover draft to his room that morning just to get him vertical. B'Elanna was hoping her Klingon blood would hold her steadier than the humans.

Neelix smiled broadly from behind the mess hall counter he'd decorated with a colourful fabric table-skirt and some more flowers.

"Don't worry ladies," he interjected, "I've got another one coming right up!"

Seven of Nine eyed B'Elanna's face and body language, searching for answers.

"I was unaware that you had ordered the same drink," she offered, stiffly.

"Oh, well. Um, look," she scanned the room, hoping Seven would take the cocktail and go, "you can have this one if you like."

Seven took the proffered glass. "It looks... unlike other drinks I've had here." The flowers were intended to make it look nice, she guessed.

Neelix grinned as he shook a Boston shaker (newly-replicated and borrowed from an unwilling Tom) til beads of condensation began to appear on the stainless steel.

"That's because it's a cocktail, dear!"

"A cock...tail?" Seven looked mildly concerned.

Neelix leaned over the bar as if he had a secret to divulge. "It's a delicious mix of alcohol with fruit juice or bubbly liquids, and it puts the 'Festive' in 'Neelix's Crew Appreciation Festival'!"

He turned and scuttled to the back to fetch another highball glass.

"And," B'Elanna continued in a low voice, "it's about the only thing Neelix makes that actually tastes good."

She turned back to Seven, her eyes shining. "Don't tell him I said that."

"Here you are, a second Rigellian sunrise for our esteemed Engineering Chief! Now," he said, making a waving movement with his hands as a group of Ensigns came through the door, "go and enjoy the party, ladies! I'm going to have a lot more orders coming in very soon..."

"Well, see you!" B'Elanna called behind her with a shake of her bob. She swept past the crowd of Ensigns to find a table, greeting one or two bright eyed hopefuls as she passed by.

Seven looked at her drink. Now what was she supposed to do? Drink the drink, she guessed, but then what? What was everyone else doing? If she had been able to walk slowly enough she could have observed carefully, but the group of Ensigns were pushing into the bar and forced her out into the crowd. Out into open space.

How was it you were supposed to recognize other humans again? Human/non-human first (that was easiest), then shirt colour, hair colour, hair style, eye colour, skin tone... sometimes voice would give someone away. That's why B'Elanna was so easy to spot-- half-Klingon and that singular, shoulder-length bob. She was unmistakable.

"Give me a break. Did you follow me?"

Seven was shocked for a second. She guessed she'd been staring.

"Fine, just join my table. You look like a lost baby targ."

B'Elanna looked slightly steamed, but Tom was nowhere to be found (Seven had been warned about interrupting "dates"), so it seemed fine.

"I accept."

Seven sat, observing B'Elanna sipping from her straw. People were bustling around their table, but Seven was in her seat, like a ship in a hanger, her refuge from the crowds. Being so close to those she wasn't mind-linked with was still difficult.

She tried putting her mouth on the straw like B'Elanna had.

"It's not working."

"Huh?"

"The drink. It's broken. Yours is working."

The Chief's temper flared. "Oh for-- You're just putting your mouth on the straw, of course it's not going to work."

"Yes, that is what I'm doing," Seven remarked incredulously. This crew was so imprecise in their observations. Why could they not explain with more efficacy?

"What is it I'm expected to do?"

"Well, you just, you know..." she mimed sipping from the straw.

Seven blinked at her blankly. "I do not, regrettably. That's why I was asking for some direction."

B'Elanna practically rolled her eyes. "Um... look, why don't you just drink directly from the glass, Seven?"

She examined the glass. Removing some flowers would give her enough access to the rim. Yes. Satisfactory.

"That is satisfactory. I... thank you for your help. I am not yet accustomed to all the ways of consuming by mouth."

Her counterpart seemed to smirk.

"It sounds so great when you say it like that. Well, why not try it?"

She did.

B'Elanna reached over to slap Seven on the back as her coughing and spluttering cleared the aisle near their table.

"Maybe you should just stick to fruit juice for now. Neelix's experimental home brew is not exactly the thing you want to cut your teeth on."

"Cut my..." Seven spluttered, "...teeth?"

"It's an old earth expression. Stick to the fruit juice." Seven nodded, pushing the drink aside.

Not having anything to do, Seven looked around, trying not to closely observe B'Elanna sipping her drink.

"So how was your day?"

The redshirt passing by took half of B'Elanna's mouthful sprayed over his shirt before she regained control, hastily swallowing.

"I'm so sorry," she called after him, not bothering to wipe it off as that would obviously cause him more embarassment. It was perhaps more Klingon than human manners, but she still resisted being worn down into human ways.

"Are you well?" Seven queried B'Elanna. It seemed she was not the only one having difficulties consuming this liquid, she reasoned.

"Ah-- yes," B'Elanna responded, "What did you say just now?"

"I believe I asked you, 'How was your day?' Harry said it's a way of expressing interest in an interlocutor and a good way to begin a conversation."

B'Elanna snorted. "He said all that?"

"I paraphrased."

"Hmm," she sipped her half-empty drink, trying to decide if she was buzzed enough to take on this conversation. Ensigns were falling over after a few sips of Neelix's cocktails, but B'Elanna's constitution was proven to be made of stronger stuff.

"Well, okay. How was my day? Um... frustrating, to be honest. No one understands how important the plasma conduit cleaning is. Grunt work as it is, we need crew members that are relatively experienced to do it properly, especially with the eccentricities of design on this ship. I just can't have them continuously breaking down on--"

B'Elanna stopped short, her eyes drifting up to Seven.

"I'm sorry."

Seven looked confused. "For what?"

"I guess my day wasn't very interesting."

Seven tilted her head, "How do you mean?"

"Oh," B'Elanna shook her head, looking down at the plastic table-top, "Tom is always getting mad at me for talking about work too much. I'm supposed to talk about my 'feelings' or something."

"I was not uninterested in the topic at hand."

B'Elanna raised her head.

"Oh. Really? Usually when I talk about the plasma conduits, people run for cover." She stifled a laugh.

"I do not understand why they would run."

"The thing is," B'Elanna sighed, ignoring Seven's implied question while struggling to put her thoughts into simple terms, "usually when you talk about your day it's supposed to be an overview instead of focusing on one thing. Tom encourages me to mention positive as well as negative aspects of the day. Which I find... difficult."

She grimace-smiled. "It irritates Tom when I rant."

Seven considered for a minute. "Does Tom himself engage in this optimal behaviour you've described: 'mentioning the positive as well as negative'?"

B'Elanna blinked. "Um. Hmm. Well now that you mention it..." She frowned, trailing off.

"In fact, I found your previous topic quite intriguing. The differences between Borg ships and Voyager are extreme. Plasma conduits appear to be a supremely inefficient system but I'm interested to hear what you have to say about their care."

"Really? You are?" B'Elanna's expression was bemusement. Was this a prank? It was Seven. The woman had no concept of what a prank even was.

"Yes, as I stated previously. I am interested."

"Huh."

Seven broke B'Elanna's gaze to survey the room.

"I find your demeanour far more pleasing than that of many on this ship, with the exception of Tuvok who has excellent communication skills."

She turned back to B'Elanna.

"I find you honest, direct, and unlikely to mislead. I might say that conversation with you is quite pleasant."

B'Elanna gaped. She felt heat creep up her neck.

"W-well. Thanks I guess."

"I would like to return to the previous topic of plasma conduits," Seven stated, trying to steer the conversation back. "If you are amenable to it, of course."

B'Elanna smirked.

"Okay, you're on. But first," she slurped up the end of her drink, "we're going to do something called 'refreshing our drinks'. You better get some fruit juice you can actually stomach. Come on, back to Neelix."

"Will we not lose our hangar? I apologize, I meant table."

B'Elanna bellowed at a couple of Ensigns sneaking close to their vacated seats.

"Anyone who takes our table is on plasma conduit cleaning! Chief Engineer's orders!"

She turned back to Seven.

"Now where were we...?"

***

Thanks for reading! I love comments so please leave one here or AO3 if you like!

[hopetorun]

“it’s almost just like how it was before” for the made-up fic title meme!

my first thought for this was actually leon goes to tampa futurefic but the @msmargaretmurry did this in a response for the same meme so i'm going to take this in a different direction.

our story starts in buffalo, new york, on june 24, 2016. draft day. auston matthew goes first overall to toronto, and patrik laine goes second overall to winnipeg. and then, instead of what actually happened that day, it goes the way people thought it would: jesse puljujarvi goes third, to columbus. and edmonton, picking fourth, takes the guy whose nameplate they already have velcroed to an oilers jersey: matthew tkachuk.

so matthew trucks his way up to edmonton, with aspirations of adding "winger for connor mcdavid" to his resume. now i'm gonna level with y'all: the oilers made me very, very mad in the summer of 2016 and hockey in general made me very, very made in the fall of 2016, so i've memory holed a lot of the details of the next couple of years. but luckily i'm not writing this story for real, so i can fudge and slur my way through that part!

matthew's career trajectory in edmonton isn't all that different from in calgary -- he's good pretty much from the jump, and with some ups and downs improves as he gets older (and a little calmer). he does get to add winger for connor mcdavid to his resume, but he ends up sticking mostly on the second line, as one of leon's wingers. there's a lot of reasons for it, but in part it's because it just drives the other teams bananas. annoyingness/60 off the charts. and matthew and leon are both having a blast the whole time.

i don't think they click instantly when matthew shows up in edmonton in 2016, because matthew's a hotshot, high draft pick, legacy, the whole nine yards, and leon's still feeling a little insecure about his place with the oilers. at least matthew's not a center.

so they don't click instantly, but it comes pretty quickly. matthew's a friendly guy, when he's not antagonizing every flames player on the ice (which frankly leon thinks is very funny), and he's smart about hockey, and a fun guy to hang out with.

and so we get a few years of the mcdavid-draisaitl-tkachuk era in edmonton. a lot of goals, and maybe not as much defensive responsibility as everyone wishes, a lot of people on twitter and capfriendly's gm tool getting stressed about the contract math. and they're right to be stressed about the contract math -- that's a lot of high-end offensive talent to have stored up, and it's gonna get pricey.

and then it's the 2021 offseason. matthew's already been a holdout, and he got his deal but everyone knows the next one won't be any easier, and mcdavid and draisaitl have their long-term deals but they're only going to get more expensive. they've been swept two years in a row in the playoffs. the front office wants results, and cap flexibility (that flat cap is already hurting). so matthew gets traded.

now, i don't think he and leon ever dated or anything at this point, but they were kind of dancing around the possibility for a while. another few years, or maybe one good solid playoff run, and it would've happened. (and by it i do mean falling into bed without actually talking about anything, but they would've talked eventually. both of them are too soft and serious about important things.) so for leon, matthew is this possibility. someone he almost got to have. it haunts him a little, when he lets it. and he misses the camaraderie he had with matthew, and how well they clicked on the ice. but that's just the business. he makes new friends and finds new guys to click with on the ice, and sure none of them make his heart beat too fast in the same way but he shouldn't be looking for boyfriends amongst his teammates anyway.

they keep in touch, a bit. it's hard with the grind of the season, and the time difference (matthew's on the east coast now) that doesn't even get any easier in the summers. leon fills up the space matthew took up in his life with other friends. more time with connor. other teammates. a dog. (it's a hassle, without someone living with him, but he's got a very generous neighbor and a big backyard and money to burn on fancy kennels if he wants.)

leon dates someone else, eventually. pretty seriously, living together kind of stuff. it is easier to deal with the dog this way. he learns just how annoying it is to play against matthew, and he tries not to laugh when matthew stares him down. the two of them get dinner with connor when the oilers are in raleigh (hey, we're playing the it almost happened game here anyway) and talk about the oilers circa 2017 experience. none of them win cups, but matthew gets the closest. leon determinedly isn't jealous, and sends him a nice text when the canes wash out in the conference final. again. but you know, it's not like leon misses him daily or anything. just at odd moments, when a play breaks down and he ends up with the puck, and he spins to find matthew on the ice, because matthew would've seen the same thing he did. and matthew's not there. matthew hasn't been there for years.

he doesn't ever ask if matthew's dating anyone, and matthew doesn't volunteer the information. he thinks it'll sting too much to find out, even though he is dating someone, and he hasn't told matthew about it.

matthew finds out, though, at an all-star game down the road. they're both there, and leon's boyfriend is too, and leon doesn't even introduce them. matthew's just saying hi to everyone, the way he does, and leon's boyfriend says leon invited him, and from the look on matthew's face, he doesn't even have to say boyfriend because matthew's got it all figured out. that shouldn't bother leon, and it bothers him a hell of a lot. (matthew's dated people too, but no one seriously enough to do something like this, and leon is right that he'd be hurt if he found out.)

leon signs a contract extension in edmonton. thinks about the possibility of retiring as an oiler. gets dumped, because his boyfriend gets tired of the late nights at home alone. the core of players he was striving for a cup with in edmonton is slowly breaking up. early-ish retirements. trades. the usual stuff. and leon wants to win, and he's starting to think that isn't going to happen in edmonton.

there's two years left on his contract and, well. he's looking, a bit. eyeballing other teams, looking at where he thinks he might be able to help the most. he has a full NTC, now, and the oilers won't be happy if he asks to be moved, but he thinks they'll make it happen. he can be flexible, a bit. he's good enough to command a decent return. connor will forgive him. he'll resent it, the freedom that his presence has given leon to do things like bail on the oilers when the going starts getting tough again, but he'll get over it. the deadline is creeping up now, and the oilers could still make the playoffs but it's looking more and more like they won't, and on the other side of the continent matthew's still -- well, he's not tearing it up like he used to, but he's putting together a decent season on a competitive team. and leon's jealous.

so he finally puts in the request. feels a little guilty but not enough to not do it. this is a business. he wants to win. he's won everything else, individually. maybe they've even won the president's trophy once or twice. but he wants a cup. the cup isn't the first thing he thinks about when all the chips are down and he's going to be matthew's teammate again.

it takes some getting used to, when it actually happens. matthew doesn't just plop back onto leon's wing and learn to read his mind all over again. matthew's an established guy on the team, he's already got a line. leon's playing a bit of wing, a bit of center. leon knows better than to have expected everything to just slot back into place but there was a stupid part of him that kind of wanted it anyway. it was so easy before! and now matthew's got a whole life here and leon's the interloper.

i think from here leon spends a while being in his feelings about it. not wanting to push too hard and upset the balance of this team, because they're winning. they're playing well. it feels good. but then the team's 2c gets hurt and he ends up slotting in, matthew on his wing again and oh, oh, that's the thing they used to have. leon is totally swept up in it, and along with it the crush he used to have on matthew. the thing that always felt like it could happen is still there, simmering under the surface. leon feels it when matthew slams him into the boards in a hug, and he feels it when matthew compliments him in a scrum and he feels it at the bar after the game, drink in hand and matthew leaning in close and grinning too wide.

it's not the same, exactly. they're both comfortably into their thirties now. older. more settled. matthew has a house in raleigh, which he never did in edmonton. even leon, uprooted midseason and in a new area, feels older and more stable than he ever did at 22.

they still don't act on it. matthew thinks leon got over it. leon doesn't want to rock the boat. but leon can't stop himself from pushing a little. touching when they don't need to. knees pressed together on the plane.

matthew does realize leon isn't over it somewhere in here. he's not an idiot. he knew what the vibes were back in edmonton, and he knows that leon's hand on his back at the bar isn't platonic. but leon doesn't push, and matthew's careful about these things. and they're winning, winning so much. winning in a way they weren't when they played together before, and it feels incredible.

gonna go big romance here and say this one ends when they win the cup. neither of them's on the ice but they pile off the bench together when the buzzer sounds, and after they've had their turns with the cup -- it feels even better than leon thought it would -- and after the night has finally wound down, leon grabs matthew by the wrist the way he's wanted to since matthew was 20 years old and so transparently trying to make everyone like him.

matthew comes toward him easily, until they're nearly touching, and leon finally, finally kisses him.

[singingkestrel]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who reblogged something from you! get to know your mutuals and followers (ू•‧̫•ू⑅)♡

Thanks @robo-dino-puppies! An excellent exercise for a workday lunchtime, I think.

Hmmm. Things that make me happy. Let's think. I'm very lucky in that I have lots of things in my life that make me happy, but to avoid getting too heavy or too schmaltzy about this, I'm just gonna list some things that made me happy in the last couple of days.

The days getting longer in spring. I live at a latitude where we have very clear seasonal changes without things being too extreme (I've worked up in the Arctic during both summer and winter and I can positively say that I would not want to live there). I love the rhythm of the year, the way seasons slide from one into another and bring different paletes of emotion (ick, that sounded douchey) with them. Spring gives me a feeling that falls somewhere between hope and nostalgia. And the extra daylight is good for everyone's mood, obviously.

Games and gaming. No surprises there, then. I like figuring out puzzles, coming up with strategies, beating the bad guys - all of that - but more than anything what I really love about video games is getting swept up in - actually being - part of the story. In the very best games, anyway.

A really good pint of beer. A proper, well crafted draft ale served in a proper pub/freehouse at the proper temperature is one of life's simplest but most enjoyable experiences. During the first Covid lockdown, which lasted months, we all had to content ourselves with bottled stuff. Which is, y'know, fine. But then, a couple of months in, one of my local breweries started making their beer again, specifically for delivery. Draft beer to your door! I drank it in my back garden in the sunshine on a bank holiday weekend and I swear to god it was the sweetest thing I'd ever tasted. I didn't even realise how much I'd missed it. Would've been even better had I been able to share it with friends, mind.

Learning. I love learning stuff. A day without learning feels like a day wasted to me. It doesn't really matter too much what it is, so long as it keeps building up my knowledge base. Trying new foods, hearing new words, finding out about what plants I could grow in a particular part of my garden, it all counts. It's probably why I picked marine science as my career - I'm constantly having to learn stuff as part of my job (today it's all about the taxonomy - and parataxonomy - of deep-water crinoids), and I love it. Science, they say, is never finished. Thank goodness.

Hugging my partner. Okay, I got schmaltzy on this one. I'm not the touchy-feeliest of people, but nothing - nothing - releases that good ol' oxytocin faster than a really good hug with my bf. It really is the fucking best.

[emerald-truth]

James Bond character playlist! This is really just a general playlist of songs I associate with James, maybe I'll make some more specific ones later . . . The playlist is on spotify, but all the songs and artists are listed in the playlist notes below the cut if you'd like to listen to them other places. I've also written explanations for why I chose each song.

Ausländer (Rammstein) - This song is in German but it’s a good introduction to the kind of person James is on the surface and what he does (travel around the world seducing girls). 

Sharp Dressed Man (ZZ Top) - Continuing the trend of putting jokey ZZ Top songs on my character playlists . . . This is pretty much in the same vein as the previous one; it’s James as he presents himself to the world, stylish and sexy.

Big Space (Espacio Grande) (Suzanne Vega) - This is where we start to get into the more emotional stuff. I associate the whole Days of Open Hand album with Pussy Galore so I think this is James from her perspective. This is also where I got the name for the playlist, from a stanza I think is one of the best descriptions of James: “Beyond the duty and the discipline/I'm sure there's anger in a cold place/All feelings fall into the big space/Swept up like garbage on the weekend.” It speaks well to the way he’s a bit hard to read but under the surface he has a lot emotions he’s trying not to show or really even feel. He says he does his job out of duty, but there’s often something deeper driving him on his missions.

Northern Attitude (Noah Kahan) - Stick Season is a James/Felix album to me, but this is definitely a James song. It’s about growing up in New England but it could work for Scotland too. And we know James’s childhood has had a big impact on his life, and the things he went through could be part of the reason for his closed off nature and unwillingness to get close to people. I also think it’s interesting the song mentions losing a wife as that’s something James and Felix have in common.

Night Flight (Led Zeppelin) - Not all of this song is relevant (it’s about the Vietnam War) but I think some of the sentiments about being drafted as a soldier can apply to James, especially the line “Someone pushed a gun into my hand/Tell me I'm the type of man/To fight the fight without inquiring.” James seems to enjoy his work, but I wonder how much of his violent nature was really there from the start and how much has been encouraged by MI-6 culture and how much he questions that. He’s always in a sort of balancing act with authority there. I also enjoy the first line about “my brother across the water” because clearly that’s Felix.

No One Loves Me and Neither Do I (Them Crooked Vultures)- I’m kind of obsessed with this song but I also think it gets at a central part of James’s character which is how unloved he is despite his many sexual conquests and how he uses sex as an escape from his relatively lonely life.

FANCY (TWICE) - If you read my Bond kpop headcanons you’ll know I think Lazenby’s Bond is a TWICE stan and this is my favorite TWICE song. I associate it so heavily with him and Tracy I had to include it. I think the way its innocence stands out in this playlist is also representative of their relationship. It’s one of the few times James has had a real pure love with someone.

Cherry Waves (Deftones) - This song is perfect for James and Vesper’s relationship, especially with all the references to death by drowning and themes of trust. The narrator, which would be James in this case, would swim down to save their lover from drowning but they’re not sure if the other person would do the same.

Jaws of Life (Wintersleep) - This is a very Skyfall song with the idea of wanting to find comfort in childhood things when the world is falling apart, and thus I associate it with Judi Dench’s M, but I think it’s relevant to any of the few people James can relax and find comfort with.

A Favor House Atlantic (Coheed and Cambria) - Honestly this song is mostly here on vibes, but it could make a good James/Alec song especially with the second verse: “Run quick, they're behind us, didn't think we'd ever make it/This close to safety, in one piece/Now you wanna kill me in the act of what could maybe/Save us from sleep and what we are” and generally being about people who are in between being friends and enemies.

Lonely in Your Nightmare (Duran Duran) - Probably the most James Bond coded song I’ve ever heard. I particularly associate it with License to Kill and Felix but it’s pretty much always applicable. Like all the lyrics. Just read all of them. I know Duran Duran did an actual Bond song but this one fits better imo.

However Much I Booze (The Who) - Of course a reference to James’s escapist alcoholism and how poor a coping mechanism it is. I also adore the line “I’m just a well fucked sailor” especially because of James having been in the navy.

Miracle (Bad Omens) - This song is mostly in here for the line “But nevertheless, I’m fucking depressed, I hide it with sex and drink til it’s fatal” but the idea of looking for something beautiful you’re really willing to die for when you’ve led such a violent life is also interesting. No Time to Die vibes.

One Little Victory (Rush) - I basically had to include a Rush song as they’re one of my special interests so here’s the one I picked. I think this song explains what it probably takes for James to continue in his job for so long and so well, and in the context of the band it was about overcoming grief to do what you love again which has been relevant to James after losing various people like Tracy, Della, or Vesper. Although we don’t always get to see his grief in full, he always picks himself back up again.

Growing Sideways (Noah Kahan) - Another song from Stick Season. This is a song that’s very relatable to me personally and it describes a lot of the reasons I relate to James: burying your feelings to survive.

Nerves Normal. Breath Normal (Wintersleep) - No one makes me feel things like Wintersleep and that’s why they have two songs on the playlist. Also this song is just such an ominous vibe. They have so many songs about having a weird relationship to your body and this is one of them. I can’t explain why it’s about James. It just is. I really can’t express how Wintersleep makes me feel half the time I’m sorry.

[folliesandfolderols]

Writing prompts day 87

From this prompt list. If you’ve read this far, I’m not sure you need any explanation, but the short version is I hadn’t written any fiction since 2019, I set a goal to write at least 150 words/day in 2024, and this list was my way to restart. Also I abruptly decided on day 2 I would write an entire Tim/Damian story connecting all the prompts, because I am Good at Judging My Limits. /sarcasm Anyway, I finished the rough draft a while ago and am now unlocking the old entries as I edit.

Read from the beginning here, or on ao3 here.

Days 85-86 here

***

84. “Oh, the things I'd do to you if we were alone right now...”

***

But seriously? Going to her rooms? What the hell did he expect to get done there, except fucking her? Protocol dictated they should go to rooms Damian had already swept and secured for himself, which hadn’t been possible for Katarina’s place.

He seethed about it all through patrol, and maybe his punches had a little extra force behind them, because at one point Bruce switched to a private channel to ask, "Did something happen earlier?"

Tim grimaced and jumped off a gargoyle, firing his grapple gun when he'd swooped down a few stories. Arcing to the next rooftop, he replied, "No, nothing. Why?"

"Just checking. You've been quite . . . enthusiastic, tonight."

Tim grinned, though he felt no amusement. "What can I say? I love my job."

Bruce was silent for a long while, nothing but the Batmobile's engine in the background. Then, with a "hn," he clicked back to the regular comms.

Thanks for the check-in, Bat-dad, Tim thought. He hoped he'd been convincing because otherwise Bruce would be standing on his windowsill when he got home. He snorted with suppressed laughter at the mental image.

What he found at home instead as soon as he returned wiped the possibility of amusement from his mind entirely. Jason, coming up in the elevator on his security camera, Damian's arm wrapped around his shoulders.

Tim flew out his front door to meet them just as they rounded the exit from the elevator alcove. Damian was scowling with the determined concentration of the very drunk, while Jason looked fairly entertained for someone who was currently a human crutch.

"What happened?" Tim demanded, grabbing Damian's free arm and wrapping it around his own shoulders. "I've got him. You hold the door."

"She drugged him!" Jason responded cheerfully. "Some sort of sedative combo the analyzer didn't recognize but it has a lot in common with roofies. He seems to be more with it than he would if it were that. Didn't want to try an antidote when I wasn't sure of the exact composition."

"She did not drug me," Damian contradicted, face screwing up in indignation. "I volunteered to be drugged. 'S very—very different."

"Of course, you're right, that's completely not the same thing," Tim soothed, trying to keep him upright as he nearly bent backwards. "We both know you could never be roofied without consent."

Damian nodded and tripped over Tim's feet while Jason angled past them to close and lock the door in their wake. "Said sh'd be in trouble. S'pposed to blackmail me. 'S the whole reason they sent her. Had to do it."

Tim hefted him back up off the floor and directed him towards his bedroom. "Yeah, there's no way you could have, like, faked drinking it."

Jason chuckled at the sarcasm, but Damian's scowl deepened. "Too many cameras! Too risky. She didn't do anything though. We talked for a while at her apartment while she faked trying to get me undressed, then I pretended to get confused and walked out and Todd got me." He tumbled face-first into Tim's unmade bed. "Why's it smell so good every time I'm in here?" he groaned into the comforter bunched against his face. "Must be you."

Tim was pretty sure his face looked like a tomato. He didn't dare look at Jason, who gave a gleeful cackle. Slipping Damian's Berlutis off his feet, he said, "You need to sleep this one off. Here, scoot more on the bed." He grabbed Damian's shins and rotated his body so it fit on the mattress entirely. "There you go."

Damian flipped to his back and looked Tim over from head to toe with a sleepy appreciativeness that had Tim's face heating for a different reason. “You always look ridiculously good in your costume." He rubbed one foot against Tim's thigh, coming perilously close to his crotch. "Oh, the things I’d do to you if we were alone right now . . .”

Tim, gaping in horror, caught him by the ankle, and Jason burst into full-fledged guffaws. "Don't tell him till I'm gone, buddy." He backed out of the room, pointing at Tim. "I fucking knew it, by the way! I knew there was something going on." His voice faded a little as he moved toward the front door again. "Dammit, now I wish I would've gotten the others to lay bets on who Damian was dating. Everyone would've gambled on Jon and I would've made a killing."

Tim sank down to sit on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands. "Please don't tell anyone!" he called, though he didn't bother to keep the resignation out of his tone.

"Eh, I don't give enough of a shit to tell," Jason lied, like a lying liar, and slammed the door behind him.

A tentative touch to his elbow had Tim twisting to check on Damian, who batted his big green eyes at him in a way that made that ridiculous melting feeling return to his chest. "Wanna lie down with me?"

Tim sighed and patted his hand. "I do, but I've gotta shower first. Give me a few minutes, okay?"

When he returned, Damian had stripped to his underwear and was sprawled on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled, faintly snoring. Tim shook his head and turned off the light. Once he climbed into bed, he pulled Damian toward him till Tim could curl around his back big-spoon fashion. He kissed between Damian's shoulder blades and closed his eyes, but before he fell asleep, he murmured, "Dami. I kinda would've gambled on Jon too."

Damian slept on, dead to the world, and Tim willed his mind to stop poking at the hurt long enough to do the same.

day 88 here

[sdyuteiaok]

Man, I've felt like throwing up for a couple days now...just this perpetual moil in my stomach. It's not so much that we lost generally, but just having to brace for all the horrendousness and the absolute lack of accountability--certainly during the ensuing four years, but, I hate to say it, in any subsequent administration. I think highly of Joe, but the one thing that I detest about him was picking Merrick Garland. We needed an absolute bulldog AG, and instead we got an eggshell walker, when we needed to make crystal clear illegality was intolerable. But in general, I feel numb. I finally got to sleep after the consecutive Inktober and campaign marathons, and it's been so long since I've had a "normal" day, I can't even remember how a regular old day goes. I drafted Duskmourne just to sorta jolt myself into a different mindspace, but even then, I could feel some real-world stuff seep into it. It didn't help that I just completely ate it in the draft--they always had the removal or blocker exactly when I needed to dodge it one turn in order to run away with the game. So my mood is always worse when I lose at Magic, but that also means crashing back to Earth. But I remember I used to play Magic, then study, then draw, so I'm trying to force myself back into that pattern. But the inevitable distraction of worrying how these villainous cartoon characters are going to irreparably damage or even destroy the country and the world is impossible to escape. We can't rely on their incompetence or any semblance of hesitance in deference to norms tripping them up, when it'll just be up and down radical idiots. A part of me, of course, wants it to be as worse as possible for those who voted for this, but I absolutely loathe that everyone else has to pay for their ignorance and stupidity. I could not possibly care less what happens to these idiots--whatever befalls them, I do not care and have not cared since 2016. I hate, absolutely hate, that everyone else must get swept into this, and then on top of that, the idiotic media will play along as if they are immune or wise, faultless observers, when they are complicit in making all this stuff feasible, palatable, and actionable. I want to focus on art, I thought I'd finally be able to just tunnel vision on that, get serious about it. It's hard even to remember how to use CSP at this point. I'm hoping muscle memory and routine will get us there, but my gosh, I feel utter disgust and numbness. I can't even think clearly enough to make a compelling or even just decent landscape. I hope I can bounce back soon, it's far too easy to wallow in misery. I hope things can hang on.

[plantedandgrowing]

Day 2 of Attempting My Daily Routine:

Oh yeah, I saved day 1 to my drafts but apparently it didn't actually save and now it's lost forever, but on day 1 I didn't complete some things, like exercise, nighttime routine beyond bathing, and waking up early... I wokeup at 10am, so today I'm aiming to complete more!

The WIFI is still down but I'm hoping it's fixed by tonight so I can do some schoolwork.

· Wokeup at 8am. It definitely took some self-disipline to peel myself out of bed.

· Brushed my teeth, rinsed my face with cold water.

· Followed an energizing yoga routine while my baby slept.

· Fed the chickens, collected a mushroom to create a spore print.

· Made myself some potatoes w/ onions and fried eggs for breakfast. Lyla had apple sauce mixed with baby oatmeal.

· 10:50am - I spent about an hour nurisng Lyla while she napped, finished a load of laundry (dirty rags), straightened up some of the kitchen to get ready for a deeper cleaning.

· 11:50am - Read a story to Lyla (from The Brownies book), put a load of our clean clothes away, straightened up the bedroom a bit. Went to the kitchen and properly wiped down all the counters and organized more. Wiped down the kitchen table & living room tables. Started on the dishes till Lyla demanded to eat, so now I'm taking a rest and nursing her.

I think she's extra grumpy today cause we wokeup earlier than usual; we were getting into a bad habit of waking around 10am - 11am.

· Lyla wokeup at 12:25pm.

· 12:50pm - Finished all the dishes. Played with Lyla.

· 1:00pm - Finished day 1 of the 30 day workout challenge; I did the squats and lunges while holding my 20+lb 7-month-old.

· 1:32pm - Swept livingroom. Tidied up the main bathroom. Made mop water.

· 2:50pm - Mopped the living room. Swept the kitchen and dining room. All my roommates showed up and started cooking so I decided I'll mop the dining room and kitchen later (or tomorrow). Also!! The internet has been fixed so I'll be able to do schoolwork again. Lyla is nursing and taking another nap.

12AM - I finished everything on my daily routine list except for schoolwork (and I didn't moisturize myself, but I slathered Lyla in lavender lotion).

I will definitely prioritize schoolwork tomorrow - I just have to get back into learning mode. Forcefully. It always feels nice when I do, I just don't like to start. Nearing the math portion of things is always daunting, too, but I've got this.

Anyway, Lyla and I had dinner. We bathed. I brushed her teeth, and then mine. Flossed. Started watching The Queen's Gambit. Nursed Lyla, got her to sleep. I'll try to get myself to sleep soon.