#it floors me how clever this song is god DAMN | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rattyoakenbitch · 4 years ago

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❝𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞❞ ─ 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨

hey, it's not like you ever tried to stay . .

❥ content ; gn reader, angst, dark themes, yandere themes, toxic relationship

❥ warnings ; sxlf hxrm & mxtilation, swearing, verbal abuse, manipulation, slight nxdity lol

❥ synopsis ; all you wanted was his attention. and by the gods, you were going to get his attention by any means.

❥ a/n ; first mello fic (: i've been wanting to write something dark for a while and ig i finally got the opportunity lol. i thought i got out of my death note stage but i'm back, so please don't be afraid to send requests or ask to be added to my nonexistent taglist! alsoo while this oneshot does include s/h, i am in no way glorifying or romanticizing it!!! but i do tend to write angsty and dark fics. again, this is a work of fiction and i don't intend for anyone to take this too seriously and let this influence them.

The loud crash of a glass echoed throughout the room as a vase went flying through the air and collided with the wall, just a few feet from where you were standing.

You didn't flinch. Didn't scream. Didn't cry. Didn't react. You were used to Mello's fits of rage by now, months into your relationship. If you could even call it that, at this point.

You knew Mello wouldn't dare lay a finger on you; if he did, he'd cut off his own hands and have live with the guilt forever, knowing he brought you harm. Which is why you didn't react.

However, he didn't seem to have a problem when it was only verbal.

"I don't fucking get you!" Mello spat harshly and continued to rant, "Why did you think that was okay?! Did you once consider how I felt?! I was worried sick that some asshole hurt you but you come back a day later and tell me you were at some boy's house!"

You only scoff, leaning against the wall in a relaxed manner, eyeing the remaining shards of the vase carefully. Just like Mello, you were incredibly stubborn.

"Answer me, Y/N!"

"Okay, Mihael," you state cooly, using Mello's legal name and causing him to listen more intently. "First of all, I don't know what you expected me to do when you invited your weird mafia 'friends' over while I was trying to sleep. Second, he's not 'some boy', his name is Y/F/N and he's one of a few people I can trust. I don't know what you think of me."

"You could've gotten a hotel room, that's what!"

"With what money, Mihael?! What fucking money? You forced me to quit my job and then practically lock me up in this hell hole that I can't even call 'home' anymore!"

Mello huffed. "Pfft, you should be grateful. I've kept you safe all this time, away from the dangers of the world. You're alive because of me. Me. You're mine."

"Yeah, some fucking life, right?"

"I provide for you, I protect you from the monsters out in the world, but you still decide to go and whore yourself out to your little 'friend'," Mello sneered, his sharp voice dripping with venom.

You stared at your boyfriend in disbelief. All words, all arguments and nasty retorts expiring on your lips.

"I.." You start, but laugh pitifully. "I don't even know what you're saying. I don't know if you even know what you're saying. Honestly, Mello, just when I thought you couldn't surprise me anymore, you start spewing complete and utter bullshit out of your mouth." Mello's silence only egged you on. "It's no wonder Near always came in first place." Aaand there it was. You snapped.

If looks could kill, you'd be dead. Mello's eyes widened in anger at the mention of Near, reminding him of his inferiority.

In a completely different situation where he wasn't on the receiving end, Mello would be smiling proudly, listening to your clever retorts and comebacks. You've always been as stubborn and hot headed as him, and he really liked that about you, fuck that "opposites attract" bullshit. (I ACC LOVE THAT TROPE LOL IM SORRY) However, considering you were both extremely toxic people, it was far from entertaining when it was you who got in a fight with the other.

You didn't stop, though. If he was gonna play that who-could-be-more-toxic game, you weren't gonna back down.

"I don't know if it was the explosion or you've really always been that stupid, but you need to get the fuck over yourself and stop throwing tantrums when you find out that I have a life, too, and I have friends. Friends who actually give a damn."

You stare down each other in silence, a heavy tension hanging in the air. Still, after a few moments, Mello didn't make any effort to speak or react, other than walking out of the room.

Days, weeks went by. Mello hasn't spoken a word to you. Hasn't even looked in your direction when you passed each other or walked into the same room. You didn't exist anymore, and it worried you.

Mello was never like this. Within a few days or even hours after an argument, you would easily kiss and make up. Had you gone too far this time?

Besides the fact that Mello was intentionally giving you the cold shoulder, he was also busy with work, and was out of the house from midnight to early afternoon. During that time, you would stay at home and carry out your every day mundane tasks and chores.

Even now, you didn't seek comfort in your family or friends. You were either busy keeping the house clean, sleeping, or entertaining yourself on social media. But it was all a sad attempt to keep your mind occupied on anything else other than Mello.

And one day like any other where Mello was out doing whatever the hell mafia dudes do, you snapped. You decided you were sick of the silent treatment.

If Mello was gonna play dirty and ignore you, you were gonna give him something to react to.

Mello came home some time after sunset. Kicking off his boots as he walked in the front door, he immediately knew something was off. It was quiet - too quiet. Despite the fact that you were practically taking some sort of forced break after the argument, you acted the same. You went about your day and didn't bother acting shy or timid around Mello. You still hummed earworm pop songs to yourself or put on a podcast to fill the tense air. But now there was nothing. Just Mello, the walls, and the silence.

Mello cautiously walked around the house and searched for any signs of you, fearing the worst.

As he frantically looked around, he stopped abruptly at the sight of blood smeared onto the hallway wall.

Blood.

His heartbeat began to thump loudly in his ears.

Then he noticed more blood. And more, smeared up on the wall, and eventually a trail picked up. He followed the bloody trail as it lead him through the hallway and stopped outside of your shared bedroom that he hasn't been inside for weeks.

Mello shakily inhaled and braced himself for whatever gruesome scene he would walk into.

He reached for the doorknob, twisting it and letting himself in.

Soon as he did, he ceased all motions, his breath caught in his throat as he tried to process what his eyes were showing him.

There, you sat on the bed, nothing on but your underwear and one of Mello's shirts. On one hand, you loosely held a pocket knife. On the other, you had your sleeve rolled up, your inner arm facing Mello's direction.

Your doe eyes looked up from the floor and met Mello's panicked ones. He was finally looking at you again. Despite the gorey setting and the stinging in your arm, you smiled. You were real to him again.

Multiple cuts oozed blood and trickled down your arm, onto your now dirtied clothes and the once satin white sheets below you.

As Mello got closer, silently freaking out, he could now see that these weren't just cuts - you carved out words. Sentences, onto your arm.

Among the many bloody 'I love you's' and pleads, one word stuck out to him.

It was his name.

He felt sick. Distraught. Guilty. Afraid.

"Y/N," he choked out shakily.

His gaze trailed up your arm, your body, and fixated onto your seemingly innocent face. Your face was rested and gentle, your eyes still staring up at him with adoration and desperation. If it weren't for the blood that painted your whole body and surroundings red, he would have found comfort in your presence.

"I did this.." You ran your fingers along your fresh wounds, not once wincing or drawing back in discomfort. "For you."

You continued, a sick sweetness in your voice. "Jus' wanted to show you how much I love you.. You've been leaving me so lonely, Mello." You frowned. "It was only a matter of time before I had to do something. And now you're finally here.. And you won't leave me again."

#mello x reader #mello x y/n #mihael keehl #death note fanfiction #death note #death note mello #death note near #death note angst #angst prompts #angst dialogue prompts #angst #sh tw #tw s/h #yandere mello #mello yandere #death note yandere #death note oneshot #death note imagines #rattyoakenbitch

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nagipops · 4 years ago

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hi! i just saw your shikamaru x smart reader piece and it's so clever and sweet and cute!! can I request kakashi or shikamaru trying (poorly) to cook for a gn!reader?

IS IT COOKED?

FEATURING: shikamaru nara!

SUMMARY: in which you and your lazy, culinary-challenged boyfriend attempt to cook up an edible meal.

WARNINGS: food, profanity

A/N: thank you so much, ari :D lowkey feel like kakashi would be a god in the kitchen, so have shikamaru <3

“What a drag...” Shikamaru sighed, draping over your shoulders as you dragged his limp body into the kitchen.

“C’mon, Shika, I’m feeling lazy today.” You turned so that your chest was facing him instead of your back, so his arms slipped around your waist instead. “Plus, I wanna taste your cooking! I’m sure you’ll be great at it.”

He whined with his face buried in your chest. “Finee... but only ‘cause I like you so much.”

You giggled, ruffling his dark hair and wrapping your arms around him. “Like me? What are we, grade schoolers?”

“Like like you.” He pulled himself upright and planted a hand on your head as he entered the kitchen, pulling you in with him. “Okay boss, show me how it’s done.”

Grabbing ingredients out of the fridge and placing them on the countertop, you folded your arms in front of your chest. “Nope. You’re doing this on your own, Shika.”

His jaw crashed to the floor. “On my own?”

You nodded in satisfaction. “Yup. I told you, I’m feeling lazy today. C’mon, show me what you got.”

Shikamaru’s jaw was still on the ground as he gaped incredulously at you for a whole minute before he picked it up off the floor and stared dumbfounded at the heap of veggies and meats in front of him. “What am I… wha…”

Snickering at the fact that you finally caught your smart aleck boyfriend at a loss, you hopped up onto the opposite countertop, swinging your legs back and forth in amusement.

Your boyfriend gave you an exasperated look, slumping his shoulders. “(Y/N)…”

You flashed him a cheeky grin. “I believe in you! Whatever you make, I’m sure it’ll be delicious. I’ll help you out if you reaaaally need it.”

He trudged over and draped his arms around your shoulders, sighing heavily. “Fine… that cute face of yours is gonna be the death of me.”

A blush creeping up your neck, you smiled and hugged him back. “Mhm. Flattery’s not gonna get you out of this one, though.”

“Damn it.”

The crackle of noodles hitting the pan accompanied by the greasy aroma of cooking oil wafted through the kitchen as Shikamaru fumbled with a stir fry spatula while simultaneously attempting to halve an onion.

“Shit.” The wooden paddle clattered to the ground with a deafening crack amidst the cacophony within the kitchen. Meat was sizzling in the pan next to the noodles, the sink was running over the colander of broccoli, countless bowls, measuring cups, and ingredients were strewn about the countertops. You were running out of room to sit.

Biting back a grimace, you piped up quietly. “Shika, I think you got a little ahead of yourself…”

“I am doing perfectly fine, (Y/N).” He huffed, beads of sweat forming above his furrowed brows as he swiftly stirred the yakisoba noodles back and forth in the scalding hot pan. An earsplitting pop followed by a tall fume of smoke sounded from the pan of meat. Eyes panicked, he hollered, “Uh… your help would be greatly appreciated, though!”

Sliding off your tiny sliver of countertop in the blink of an eye, you rushed to your boyfriend’s side and clamped a lid over the pan before flipping off the burner, heaving a relieved sigh. “My god, Shika, you almost burnt our house down!”

He chuckled sheepishly, stirring the noodles more hesitantly. “Ah… sorry ‘bout that. Looks like I need your help, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, lightly flicking his temple. “Even if you burn the whole house down, you aren’t getting my help. That was a one-time save.”

The end of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. “Is it, now? Should I do it again?”

“Try me, witty boy.”

Shikamaru eyed you with a challenging stare, raising an eyebrow. “Whatever you say, boss.” He reached over to remove the lid from the previously flaming pan as you stood rooted to your spot. Clouds of smoke and the acrid fumes of burnt meat instantaneously corrupted your senses as your boyfriend grabbed a pair of tongs and flipped the bright pink slab of meat over so the impossibly charred side was upright.

The two of you stared at the pitch black block of… what could maybe— possibly— pass as meat.

“Well, it’s definitely… cooked?”

“Ugh… Choji would be utterly disappointed in me, huh?”

“Incredibly disappointed. Keep going, though. This is… still edible. I hope?”

Shikamaru heaved an exhausted sigh. “C’mon, babe, isn’t this valid proof that I’m not built for this cooking thing?”

“Careful, those noodles are going to burn too.” You guided his hands back to the non-burning pan, allowing him to stir them back and forth once again. “Timing is everything. You started the noodles too early, and now the veggies aren’t going to be chopped up in time.”

“Constructive criticism, please. Constructive.” He stirred the noodles with a bit more diligence and effort this time as they turned golden brown.

You giggled, carefully grabbing the knife and chopping the abandoned onion in half. “Look, turn off the heat. I’ll watch the noodles for you, you have to cut the vegetables. Sound good?”

Shikamaru whistled in relief as he flipped off the stove. “Music to my ears, boss.” He slyly snaked his arms around your waist as you organized the countertop for him. “Man, this is exhausting,” he whined into your ear. “How the hell do you do this three times a day?”

You smirked in satisfaction, reaching an arm behind your head to ruffle his hair. “I ask myself the very same question. I think we should cut it down to two, no?”

“Noooo… your cooking’s too damn tasty…” he pressed a soft kiss to your neck as you felt his body get limper and limper.

You clicked your tongue, slapping the side of his head. “Hey, no sleeping on the job. Get to work.”

Digging his chin into your shoulder as he unraveled his arms from your body, he sighed, “Aye aye, captain.”

After an abundance of eye watering slices, near finger amputations, and arguments over if “julienne” is a name or a knife technique, Shikamaru was finally completed with his masterpiece of a dish.

A makeshift blindfold fashioned out of a random scarf was fastened around your eyes as you awaited his creation at the dinner table as your boyfriend rustled around the kitchen.

A deafening crash sounded from a few feet away, and your heart leapt out of your chest. “Umm… Shika?”

“I’m fine!” He shouted, his voice wavering ever so slightly. “Uh, just some— shit— just some technical difficulties!”

Stifling a laugh, you eased into your seat once more. “Okay, I’m waiting!”

After a few more minutes of clattering and curses, you heard the tune of your favorite classical song whistled by none other than Shikamaru. “Welcome to the Narastaurant, (Y/N). For today, I present you with…” His fingers hastily fumbled with the knot at the back of your head. “Wait, shit…”

You heaved an amused sigh as a grin formed on your lips. “You need help there?”

“No, I— I got it…” A sharp tug pulled your head backwards as the scarf unraveled into his hands.

“Shika!”

“Shoot, sorry ‘bout that.” He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your head. “Anyways…”

Your eyes were drawn to the colorful plate in front of you. Meticulously arranged into a rainbow of nearly charred veggies perched atop a heaping pile of noodles and half-pink-half-black slices of meat was a steaming plate of yakisoba. A gasp rose in your throat. “Shika! This is incredible!” You whipped around to face him as he stood proudly over you. “How did you plate this so well?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Growing up with that flower pig Ino taught me a few things about color theory and spacing and whatnot.” He rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. “As for taste…”

You raised your eyebrows, turning back to the plate in front of you. “Ah, yes, the taste…” Clasping your hands together, you gave a quick thank you for the meal before snapping your chopsticks in half and digging into the colorful dish. You raised a well-balanced bite of meat, veggies, and noodles to your lips and were instantly overwhelmed by the pungent, bitter taste of burnt oil. Pursing your lips as your lungs begged for oxygen, you forced yourself to get it down your throat. “Ahem, ahh, this is… this is something!”

Not one to get offended over his mistakes, Shikamaru only chuckled from behind you. “No kidding. Let me have a try.” Whipping out his own pair of chopsticks, he grabbed a bundle of noodles and two slices of charred meat before raising it to his lips, nearly coughing it back up as soon as he did so. “Oh— oh, god, oh god that’s bad.” Both of your hacking coughs rang throughout the dining room. “I feel like I just ate Satan’s ashes.” He whispered in between strained coughs, tears forming in his eyes.

Laughter welled up in your throat in between coughs as your eyes began to water as well. “I mean—” Cough. “I mean, Satan might like this?”

“Gee— thanks, babe. I’m sure he’d love it if we— we showed up to his annual potluck in hell with burnt pieces of who-knows-what.” Shikamaru was laughing too, gripping the edges of the table as he attempted to regain his composure.

The two of you laughed and coughed and laughed at his failed debut as a chef, teasing and poking each other at the dinner table.

Let’s just say you definitely didn’t eat Satan’s ashes for dinner that day.

if you enjoyed this post, likes and reblogs are much appreciated :) feel free to request here, and make sure to read the rules first! have a lovely day everyone <3

#shikamaru #shikamaru nara #shikamaru x reader #shikamaru headcanons #shikamaru nara x reader #shikamaru imagines #shikamaru imagine #shikamaru fluff #naruto x reader #naruto imagines #naruto #naruto headcanons #naruto imagine #naruto fluff #gn #this is just pure crack help me

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ashes-in-a-jar · 4 years ago

Text

And I Owe it All to You

Hello! This is a fic I wrote based on @speakerunfolding 's wonderful Jonmartin scottish cabin comic which I couldn't stop looking at.

I wrote this while watching Dirty Dancing for the first time in many years. Quite an experience xD

Summary: It's a night in for Jon and Martin in the cabin and they decide to pop out the wine.

Rated: T

Word count: 2.2K

Tw: alcohol, drinking and being slightly drunk, minor injuries

Maybe it was the fact that neither of them had gone out much in the past few months. Maybe the Fears prefer their avatars lightweight. Maybe Scottish alcohol tended to be stronger than English alcohol. But the sparkling wine they bought on a whim at the village store shouldn't have had the effect on them that it did.

Having emptied two cups each (Jon was actually drinking out of a mug, since they found only one wine glass, and he conceded the honor of feeling classy to Martin) they have already become giggling messes over some dumb joke regarding one Peter Lukas and a computer that refused to boot.

It wasn't even that funny. But there they were, acting like complete fools leaning against each other on the couch, legs propped up in a completely uncomfortable position on the small living room table (dangerously close to the now nearly empty bottle), holding their cups precariously in one hand and holding hands with the other.

And enjoying every moment of it.

The giggling subsided. They took a moment of comfortable silence to regain their breath and enjoy another sip.

"Can't believe he didn't know he could just u-unplug and replug the whole thing. Even I know that." Jon's speech was ever so slightly slurred, his leftover wine sloshing in his cup.

Martin hummed and then snorted.

"Jon, you barely know how to do that either. I had to teach you how to open new tabs in the same internet window for christ's sake."

"It was a new laptop! All of the buttons were in the wrong p-place." Jon protested weakly, starting to hiccup.

"Sure."

"Prick." Jon nudged him fondly. "You underestimate my vast knowledge of 'modern' things."

Martin snorted again. "Modern, you say?"

"Yes Martin, what do you take me for?"

"An old geezer." Martin tousled his hair gently. Jon leaned into the touch. Then, the words sunk in.

"Hey! Why do you and Georgie keep thinking that? I can know pop culture!"

"Oh yeah? Tell me, what do you know?"

"Uh..." Jon struggled to straighten himself, which resulted in actually sliding further off the couch. "Um...I know S-Star Wars! And uh, Matrix? I think. I've seen it once. Oh! That, that dinosaur movie! And... Titanic?" He finished unconvincingly.

Martin looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Really, Jon? You're just naming movies now. And not even new ones. Did you actually watch any of those?"

Jon avoided his gaze "I... I may have fallen asleep during uh, during some of these?"

Martin gave him a long look.

"Yes alright, I fell asleep in all of them."

Martin huffed "Thought so".

Jon gave up trying to salvage his dignity, taking a final long gulp from his mug, a small drop trickling down his chin. Martin swiped it away, absent-mindedly licking his finger, not noticing as Jon hiccuped, his face heating up considerably.

"I-I did like the Princess Bride though— that was a nice film, if a bit sensational."

"Hang on. You watched the Princess Bride? And liked it?" Martin asked, incredulous.

"I'm allowed to like things, Martin. B-besides, Georgie made me watch it. Said it was a- a core staple of cinema history o-or something."

"Oh yeah? Did she make you watch those other movies as well?" Martin asked casually, swirling the liquid in his cup.

"Unfortunately yes. She would cruelly shake me awake when I finally managed to get some shut-eye for once in my life. I-it's not my fault the only times I could sleep normally were during those, those damn films! She woke me up for that ridiculous scene with the, uh, the bullets in the Matrix. And that lifting scene in that unseemly dancing movie."

"What lifting scene?"

"That movie with all of the dancing? Th-the one where he lifts her at the end in the middle of the crowd with that song? At least, uh, at least I think there was a lot of dancing, I wasn't actually, hmmm... Focused at the time."

"Oh my god Jon, do you mean Dirty Dancing? You fell asleep during Dirty Dancing?" Martin's delighted incredulity was plain on his face.

Jon scrunched up his nose. "That's the name of the film? Good thing I fell asleep then."

"Jesus Jon. That's incredible, good on Georgie! Heh, at least you woke up for that scene. It's iconic, you know."

"Yes, yes." Jon waved at him dismissively, reaching unsteadily for the wine bottle. Martin gently took it away from Jon and with a much steadier hand, poured the remaining bit of wine into his mug.

"Thank you Martin," Jon mumbled into the cup.

Another warm silence fell on them, lulling Jon into a half drunken stupor. He nearly threw his cup in the air when Martin's words startled him back into awareness.

"I can do that scene you know, that lifting part." He was looking intently at his glass.

"R-really?" Jon hiccuped. "How?"

"I… I had a boyfriend who wanted to try it. So we did. Turns out that I'm good at balancing large things that aren't stacks of paper."

Jon hummed. He suddenly imagined very vividly Martin lifting someone else in that way and felt a pang in his chest. What was that?

Another beat of silence.

"Do. Do you want to try?"

"W-what?"

"Do you want to do that lifting scene with me? I'm sure I could lift you." Martin suddenly sat up, his tone excited and anticipating. He looked at Jon.

Jon shifted. "Uh, I-I guess it's fine? Sure."

"Okay! Let's do it then!" Martin got up on his feet, swaying ever so slightly.

Jon looked up at him surprised. "W-wait, now? Shouldn't we wait? You know, to be less uh, inebriated? Don't you need to see the scene again for a reminder?"

"Mmm. We don't have reception so I can't exactly watch the scene again. But, but I'm pretty sure I can do it now, definitely sure! Come on." He held out his hand expectantly.

Jon took it, stumbling only a bit as he got up. Martin took out his phone .

"I might even have the song saved. Let me check."

A moment later he gave a whoop of success and the song began to play, filling the main space of the cabin with its soft, if slightly tinny sound.

Jon stretched, releasing the tension in his muscles. "All right Martin, where do you want me?"

"You need a bit of a running start, and then you need to jump high right as you reach my arms, so stand over there." He indicated towards the door of the bedroom.

"Right." Jon stumbled only once as he made his way towards the designated spot. Martin moved across the room stopping right near the kitchen door.

The song kept playing calmly in the background, slowly building up towards the upbeat chorus.

Jon looked at him again "I dunno Martin. A-are you sure?" He suddenly felt a bit more fuzzy than he did sitting down. He hiccuped again.

"Please Jon, you're thin as a rake. Have a little faith." His face wore that determined look that Jon couldn't help but love.

"Alright, as you wish." He grinned, proud of his clever reference as he took his stance.

Martin rolled his eyes as well as his sleeves. "Steady on Westley, this is the part."

Jon felt a rush of excitement as he caught Martin's enthusiasm. "Ready?" He asked, bouncing a little on his feet in preparation.

"Ready." Martin crouched a little, holding out his arms.

As the chorus neared Jon, with a wild drunken energy, took his running start, jumping up as he reached Martin, grabbing on to his shoulders for support. Martin firmly gripped Jon's hips, bent his legs and with a strained grunt lifted Jon in the air as the song reached a crescendo.

Jon was flying.

He laughed giddily, stretching out his arms in elation.

As Martin continued holding him in his strong grip he looked down at his beautiful boyfriend. Despite the exertion, Martin looked up with the softest expression as the song kept playing for them in the background.

For a moment everything was perfect.

And then Martin leaned backwards a bit too far.

In hindsight, they should have known this would happen. While Martin was better at hiding it, he was as drunk as Jon. And Jon's already impeded balance certainly didn't help.

As they went down, Jon idly wondered if they could also recreate the rest of the dance if they practiced. And then he hit his nose on the floor.

After a moment of stunned silence the pain rushed in and Jon grunted.

Turns out that while most of him was protected from the fall by Martin's soft and sturdy body, his knee also missed the mark and crashed into the floor as well.

Muffled by Jon's body above him, Martin squirmed. "Ugh, Jon, are you okay?"

When Jon didn't respond, Martin groaned and picked himself off the floor, lifting Jon in the process.

"Oh my god, Jon! You're bleeding!"

Jon's face throbbed. And so did his knee. His hazy drunken state began fading away as the pain sharpened.

"I-I think I hit something."

"I'm so sorry Jon! God, where are the tissues?" Seemingly having sobered up considerably, Martin picked Jon up and carried him bodily into the bathroom. Jon allowed all of this to happen as the shock of the fall dissipated. He let Martin easily lift him onto the sink counter as he shoved a towel into his hands.

"Hold it against your nose while I... Jesus, your knee too?" He stepped back now hurriedly lifting the stained pant leg to reveal the damage.

"God, Jon I'm so sorry. Hold still, I'm going to find the first aid kit. We shouldn't have done this. This was a complete disaster."

He kept muttering irritably as he walked away. Jon sighed and pressed the towel to his throbbing nose. His foggy mind still felt as though it was trying to catch up to the recent chain of events. He spoke slowly, attempting to convey himself with clarity.

"Martin, it's fine. Honestly, I think we both know I've had worse-"

"You nearly broke your bloody neck! God, where's that goddamn kit." He shouted from across the cabin as Jon heard the rattling of drawers being forcefully pulled open.

"Martin, please I-I'm okay. It's just a little bit of bruising. It honestly already feels better."

And it actually did. In the chaos after the fall, they both forgot Jon's... situation. Jon watched as the cut on his knee slowly closed up, leaving only the drying stain of blood behind. The pain in his nose was slowly vanishing as well.

By the time Martin came back holding the bag, Jon already put down the towel and was tentatively poking at the previously bruised spot.

Martin stopped in front of him, looking at him with a mixture of emotions Jon couldn't parse out. He smiled at Martin hesitantly.

"See? Good as new. No harm no foul, I say."

Martin let out a long suffering sigh and took the towel out of Jon's hands. He quietly dampened it in the sink and stepped closer to gently pat at his face.

Jon looked at him. This close he could practically count his faded freckles, follow every line and trace every mark that was so beautifully Martin. He let himself smile.

"I must say, I'm quite impressed by your strength, if we weren't so inebriated, I'm sure you could have kept me up there for quite a while," he said quietly, enjoying the fluttering touches.

"It wasn't because I was drunk." Martin muttered.

"Pardon?"

"I said it wasn't because I was drunk that I dropped you," he said a little louder, oddly flustered. "I was looking at... At you. You just looked... I dunno, happy, I guess? I just never seen that expression on you before and it..." He trailed off, concentrating intently on Jon's knee, finishing up cleaning up the blood.

"M-Martin, look at me. Please look up here." Jon gently tugged at his shoulders to pull him up. At this height, sitting on the counter, he actually came face to face with Martin, seeing his blush and ruffled expression right in front of him as opposed to slightly above him like he normally did

He lifted his palms to bracket Martin's warm cheeks.

"There you are," he whispered and leaned in for a quick kiss. He then leaned back slightly. "You know that I'm perfectly happy. Here with you. Y-you know that, right?"

Martin looked at him for a few moments, then smiled. "Yeah, I do."

"Good. Now, help me down so we can clean up the wine stain, which I'm sure is growing on the carpet right now."

"Wha- oh," Martin said as he turned to see the fallen glass that apparently toppled during the mayhem.

"Yeah. Let me down?" Jon said again, holding out his arms.

Martin turned back to him, a teasing expression on his face. "As you wish."

Jon groaned and allowed himself once again to be pulled, secretly enjoying Martin's burst of giggles as they both walked back into the crime scene that was their drunken night in.

All things considered, it was a pretty good night.

#Ahhhh i had so much fun writing this #While watching the movie itself xD #I hope you like it!#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #fabric rustles #tma fic #My tma fic #Tma art #I guess #Because its based on it so

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astranva · 4 years ago

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Not One of Them | Pt. 2

Pt 1

Word Count: 4k

Category: Fluff!

Warning: None

Summary: Faith wears her Harry dress, they have breakfast, and 4-year-old Faith has a gift for Harry.

“Mommy?”

You and Harry instantly pulled away before you turned, looking down at your daughter who was rubbing her eyes before you kneeled beside her bed.

“Hey, baby.” You cooed, watching as she squinted before she turned from you to Harry, trying to make sense of who was standing in her room.

Slowly her eyes widened, and it was when Harry smiled and waved, letting out a small “hi” that she gasped.

“A-Are you Mr. Harry Styles?”

You giggled to yourself, looking up at Harry before he knelt beside you on the floor and offered his hand for a handshake. “I am, but call me Harry. You’re the beautiful Faith?”

Faith sat up, putting her small hand in his and shaking his hand before she grinned. “Yes, but call me Faith.”

Harry laughed, gently shaking her hand which felt too small in his gigantic one. “Your Mum told me a lot about you.”

“Really?” Faith beamed before looking at you, “Did you show him the video?” She whispered, although her tone was definitely loud enough for Harry to hear.

You nodded, “I did. He said he wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?” Faith turned to Harry, the smile not leaving her face.

“Very much. Tell you what,” Harry inched closer, “How about you get your sleep and then tomorrow we can meet over breakfast? Would you like that?”

Your heard fluttered, jingled, danced, gleamed, you name it. You turned to look at him with slightly parted lips, looking at him as if he grew two heads.

Eagerly, Faith nodded before looking at you, “Can we, Mommy? Please, please, please?”

You laughed in disbelief, still looking at Harry before shrugging, “I mean I don’t see why not. Only if Harry is 100% okay with it.”

“I’m a 101% okay.” He assured you, giving you a nod and a smile.

“Mommy makes the best pancakes.” Faith said.

“Is that so?” Harry smirked, tearing his gaze from Faith to you, “I think we need to test that, love.”

You chuckled, “Fine. Breakfast here.” You agreed before looking at Faith, standing before bending to kiss her forehead, “But you, missy, need to sleep. It’s past your bedtime.”

“Can you sing me a song, Harry? I like your singing.” Faith asked as she lied down.

“Baby, he ca-”

“I’d love to.” And to assure you, Harry put a hand to your back, eyes set on Faith as he kept his voice gentle.

Your lips parted, staring at him as he inched closer to your daughter, asking her what song she wanted him to sing.

“Canyon Moon.” Faith beamed, reaching beside her to grab her dinosaur and cuddle it against her before she turned to face Harry.

“Canyon Moon it is.” Harry nodded, getting comfortable on the floor and crossing his legs before clearing his throat. “Gotta see it to believe it…”

And you watched. You sat beside him, eyes going from him to your daughter, being too speechless and motionless to react whenever he’d reach to pat her head or whenever Faith would quietly sing along with him. You watched the man whom you met only a day before sing to your daughter, lulling her to sleep.

You watched Harry pull the covers up and on her shoulder as Faith’s eyes finally shut, her breath going steady.

“She’s out.” He whispered, finally turning to look at you.

Not trusting your voice, you nodded, getting up with him on right behind you before you turned on her night light before getting out, leaving her door ajar.

Harry was worried. He feared that he had crossed his limits, doing something that no stranger would do. He wouldn’t have thought so if it weren’t for the lack of words that left your lips as the both of you stood in your living room.

He found himself sighing, taking off your crossbag which he almost forgot he was wearing, putting it on your couch before a hand was placed on his hip, the other one reaching to brush back his hair. “Look, Y/N, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that back there with Faith, I know you probably don’t want her getting the wrong idea or-”

“Do you regret it?”

And finally, you talked.

You looked as nervous as he was, rocking on the balls of your feet as you clutched your hands together in front of your body.

“What?”

“Do you regret it? Singing her to sleep? Meeting her?”

“No. I don’t.” Harry replied in a heartbeat, slowly approaching you, “She’s a lovely kid,” he whispered, standing right in front of you with little space between the both of you. Harry reached up, gently grazing your skin with his knuckles, “You did an amazing job, Y/N.”

And that was it. The lump in your throat, the itching in your nose, your eyes growing tearful, it made Harry frown as he cupped your face.

“Hey, hey, why are you crying? Did I say- Did I do anything wrong?”

“No,” you sobbed, “God, no, far from it.” You sniffled, “I just- Nobody has ever sung her to sleep except me.”

His heart swelled. He didn’t know what to say and thankfully, you went on.

“My mom tried a few times but Faye never sleeps when someone else sings to her.” You cleared, “This is all too much for you and it’s only our first date a-”

And God, he wanted you to stop talking so he took matters in his own hands and pressed his lips against yours, feeling you melt right there and then before you kissed back, your hands going up to hold onto his wrists as he gently held your face in his hands.

It was sweet and short, sufficing to do the job of making you shut up and because Harry just really thought kissing you had to be one of the greatest feelings he had ever felt.

Pulling back, the distance between the both of you remained little. “Then let me take you out again,” he softly said before pecking your lips, “And again,” this time, he pressed a kiss to your nose which had your face scrunched up and had him smile, “And again,” your left cheek, “And again,” your right cheek, “And some more.” Finally, again, your lips.

“This is a responsibility, you know that?” You asked, eyes gazing into his, “Harry, I can’t have her get attached to you just so you can one day decide to leave because you want out of this. I’ve never done this before,” you admitted, “I never had to explain to her the absence of a figure in her life because I never allowed a single person close enough to me like that, to her. I don’t want her growing up seeing temporary partners in my life either.”

“And I admire that, I do.” Harry said, moving his hands until he had them on your waist, “We have all the time we need, that you need. Slow, yeah?”

You nodded, “But you have to make it to breakfast tomorrow.”

“Only if you want me to.” He smiled.

“I do,” you assured, wrapping your arms around him before pulling him into a hug, pressing your cheek against his chest, “Just- No kissing or anything in front of her, okay? We’re just friends to her.”

“Just friends?”

“Just friends.”

“Well, friend,” Harry chuckled, pulling away and looking down at you, “I hope you didn’t friendzone me because I would really love to take you out on a second date.”

“I don’t know, I think I did.” You joked, laughing quietly as you looked up at him, watching as he tipped back his head and laughed.

“Well, just friend, would you mind giving me a kiss goodnight?”

“I don’t like my hair.” Faith groaned from her seat on the kitchen table.

“Faye, we changed your hairstyle 3 times.” You commented, flipping a pancake.

“I just don’t think I like it.”

“Well what do you want?”

“Can you do these buns here?” She asked, putting her hands on her head, showing you that she wanted space buns.

“Alright, final hairstyle. If you don’t like them, just let it down, okay?” You asked, putting the pancake on a plate before turning off the stove and walking towards her.

“When will Harry be here?” Faith asked as you unbraided her hair.

“Should be here in a minute, Nugget.”

“Is he your friend?” She asked as you began twisting her hair into a bun at the top of her head on the side.

You only hummed in confirmation.

“Does that mean you don’t kiss?”

Your eyes widened, glancing down at her to see that she was casually playing with her dinosaur. “Uh, yeah? Why?”

Faith shrugged, “I don’t kiss my friends, but I see Aunt Cece doing it all the time with uncle Sean, and I saw Boyd’s parents kiss, too. So maybe you and Harry don’t kiss because you’re just friends.”

Well damn was your daughter clever.

“Yeah, Harry and I are just friends.” Who went on a date and kissed way too many times but that was a story for another time.

Yours and Faith’s heads turned once the door bell rang, you instantly taming your hair and straightening your blouse.

Faith was out of her seat in a second, running towards the door with you hot on her heels. “Faith, what did we say about you opening the door?”

Timidly, Faith’s movement halted with her hand on the knob before she looked at you with a bashful smile.

You peaked through the peep hole and surely enough, Harry stood with two bouquets, looking to the side.

“Go ahead.” You signaled with a smile, watching her open the door.

“Harry!”

Your eyes moved from your daughter’s grin to the man on the receiving end. In off-white corduroy pants, a striped cotton t-shirt underneath, a black Statesman jacket, black vans, and a black short crossbag across his chest, Harry stood with two bouquets; one was of strawberries – which had you grinning – and another was a single sunflower.

“Come in, come in.” You attempted to contain your grin as you moved aside, Faith jumping up and down in excitement with a wide grin on her face that lit her face up.

As soon as Harry went inside, he knelt down, looking at Faith with a soft and genuine smile on his face, “This is the best dress I have ever seen. You look beautiful.”

“Right?” And as if to add emphasis, Faith gave a twirl in her dress – the Fine Line black tee. “Do you like my hair?” Faith raised her fingers to point at her space buns.

“I love your hair!” Harry’s eyes widened as he exclaimed, “Did you do it yourself?”

Faith shook her head, stepping closer to you to lean on your leg, “Mommy did.”

Harry looked up at you, eyes glimmering, before he stood up, eyes set on you. “Mommy did a great job.”

You smiled, your hand finding its way on her shoulder.

“Oh,” Harry’s eyebrows went up, “This is for you.” He handed Faith the sunflower, watching her gasp before taking it from him.

“Sunflower! Like your song!”

Harry’s heart seemed to make a dance of its own at the comment, smiling bashfully at the 4-year-old before nodding, “Just like my song.”

“What do we say, Faye?” You asked her quietly, feeling like you were about to melt at the interaction.

“Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiled before looking back at you, reaching to hand you the strawberry bouquet with a small smirk, “And this one’s for you.”

Your face heated up, taking the fruit bouquet from his hands before tilting your head slightly, giving her an appreciative smile, “Thank you. They’re lovely, but you didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense. I wanted to,” Harry clutched his hands behind his back, “Besides,” he cleared his throat, leaning forward a little as to whisper, “I have to make a good first impression.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes at him, “My daughter is wearing a t-shirt from your merch. I think the impression is quite nice.”

The 3 of you then had walked towards your dinning table where you had set the food prior to Harry’s arrival, the table being beside a huge window which had done a great job at letting the sunlight through, a vase of baby pink and white tulips in the middle while the food decorated the rest of the small circular table.

“Mommy, can I put this here?” Faith asked after she climbed up on her chair, her sunflower in one hand while the other pointed at the vase.

“Yeah, of course.”

Gently taking out the flower from the biodegradable wrapping paper, Faith sat on her knees before reaching forward to place it.

“Harry, coffee, tea, orange, apple, peach juice?” You asked.

“Orange would be great, thank you.”

With a smile your way, Harry stood politely by a chair close to Faith’s, watching you nod before going out of sight to the kitchen.

Knowing your daughter’s favorite is apple juice and yourself wanting orange, you poured the juices in glasses before placing them in a tray and going back to where Faith and Harry were, chuckling to yourself when you saw Harry standing and nodding to the story Faith was telling him, seeming to be very invested in it.

“And then-and then, Mrs. Castillo made me play with her puppy.” She concluded with excitement.

“Really? She did?” In a matching tone of excitement, Harry responded, “That’s so nice of her. Do you like puppies so much?”

As you placed the juice glasses in their places beside the plates, you knew that your daughter had eagerly nodded.

“I want to get one but mommy says we can’t now.”

“Hey, sit,” you motioned to Harry, watching as he sat on the chair opposite to yours, “And yes.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked.

“Because,” you began as you put two pancakes on his plate to which he mumbled a “thank you” for, “I don’t think I can handle this one and a dog at the same time now. It’s too big of a responsibility.”

“Puppies really are a responsibility,” Harry agreed and nodded at Faith as he cut a piece from his pancakes, “Mummy’s right.”

“But I’ll take care of it.” Faith frowned, holding on to her utensils.

“I know you will, baby, but it’s going to go through a teething phase where they destroy and chew on everything, and it’s going to need potty training, and about 2 walks a day. It’s a lot right now but I did promise you that we’d get one when you’re older, right?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged, “Can we get a fish?” Faith then turned to Harry, “Like the one in your video!”

You chuckled as you saw Harry’s face turn to one of amusement, maybe because he wasn’t sure that she had seen it. “That was a big fish, wasn’t it?” You asked.

“What happened to it? Do you still have it?”

Your innocent daughter definitely didn’t know that the fish was real and you weren’t going to destroy her imagination like that anyway.

Harry glanced at you before looking back at her, “It’s back in the ocean with its family and friends.”

“Did you name her?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, before he reached a hand to wiggle it at Faith, “Named her Faith.”

Faith broke into giggles, “No, you didn’t.”

“We’ll never know.”

“How about you eat your food and let Harry enjoy his for a little bit?” You suggested with a chuckle.

A minute later, you and Harry broke into a conversation about lyrics and the writing process of some songs.

“Sometimes I’d have these lyrics written, and I have a tune in my head and things are just- very poetic,” You said as Harry nodded in understanding while chewing on the strawberries you had placed on his plate, “And then the final product would be this upbeat song that completely drowns the lyrics and I just go,” your eyebrows went up, “Oh.”

“I get that,” Harry nodded, “It sucks. Like yes, music itself is amazing and working on the beat is enjoyable but some people just don’t give the lyrics any justice.”

“Exactly,” you pointed at him, “I remember writing this one song about,” you paused, discreetly tipping your head to the side, “You-know-who,” and by the looks of it, Harry had understood that you meant your ex and Faith’s father, “And it was so heartbreaking that I remember being so astonished by it and I wanted to like, release it out there, so somebody linked me with this A-list singer and the first demo session was just-“ You cringed.

“Did they end up singing it?” He asked.

You shook your head, “Nope. Might have lost a good deal but I just,” you shrugged, “I couldn’t have my words drowned out like that, especially these words.”

Reaching forward, Harry placed his hand on top of yours, “You did the right thing.”

Your eyes were on your hands, face heating up as you smiled to yourself while brushing your hair back, Harry clearing his throat with a smirk before looking at Faith.

“So, that fish…”

Faith sat on a chair, legs dangling as she had a pillow on her lap, her sketchbook on top of it as she drew while you and Harry sat beside each other on the couch beside her, low noise coming from the television that played a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse episode.

“You actually bit off the tip of your tongue?” You asked in shock, a hand to your heart.

Harry nodded, “Yup. Jumped out of a window and I just, hit my chin with my knee.”

“Why would you even jump out of a window?” You laughed.

With a shrug, Harry sheepishly scratched the back of his head, “I was high.”

Alright, maybe he didn’t want to let you know that. Maybe you’d think he was a heavy druggy. Maybe you’d kick him out. Maybe you’d ghost him because you couldn’t have your daughter around someone who got high.

“Ah, looking for inspiration?” You asked, no sign of any annoyance or worry.

He nodded, “Nothing too heavy though. Shrooms.” Harry said quietly, making sure that Faith couldn’t hear the conversation.

“I had a friend once,” you giggled, sitting straighter, “She got promoted and where she works, they usually host a party to celebrate, right?”

Harry nodded along, subconsciously smiling like you were, his eyes traveling from your eyes to your lips to your eyes again.

“And she’s just the worst with words. Like, really bad, used to fail so many courses back at uni. And she had to give a speech. So before the party, she had some shrooms and Harry, I kid you not, that might as well have an Academy award speech.”

“No way!”

“Yes! And everyone was just so emotional and it later got posted on YouTube, has about 300 thousand views, and nobody knows that she was high all along.”

You and Harry laughed together, you leaning on the couch on your arm as you were both turned towards one another.

“Put Matthew McConaughey to shame.” You jokingly added.

“And then look at you,” Harry tilted his head, a small smile on his face, “Doing it all while sober.”

“Aw, no.” You waved him off bashfully.

“No, seriously. You’re a lyrical genius, Y/N. Besides the awards, everybody knows when it’s a song that you wrote. There are a lot of songwriters who go unnoticed but-“ he shook his head, “Not you.”

You couldn’t reply. What was there to say? Thank you? A “thank you” wouldn’t have done his words, his tone, or the butterflies in your stomach any justice.

Maybe it was why you felt yourself leaning closer, Harry mirroring your actions slowly, gaze on your lips.

It was soft and gentle the moment your lips were against each other, nothing heated, nothing heavy – just gentle and soft.

So much for not kissing with your daughter around.

“Harry, look!”

You both instantly pulled away, Harry clearing his throat as he turned and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, biting the inside of his mouth to stifle the wide smile that wanted to break out on his face.

Faith was in front of him in a second, holding out a paper for him.

“I made you a gift.” Bashfully, Faith said quietly as Harry held the white paper, looking at it.

Your shoulder against his, you looked over and your heart fluttered.

Three stick figures were standing alongside one another, a tall one, a shorter one with longer hair, an even shorter one with two small balls on its head, a yellow flower beside the last figure.

“This is you,” Faith pointed at the tallest figure, “This is Mommy, and this is me. And this,” pointing at the flower, “The sunflower you got.”

Right above the figure was a big, asymmetric red heart.

Your stomach fluttered, looking at your daughter for a moment before looking at Harry.

It looked like Faith had taken a liking to Harry – one that was bigger than you had expected.

Harry was speechless, eyes on the drawing as he felt his face heat up from the admiration, the innocent act being enough to have him feel like crying.

“This is the best gift anyone has ever given to me.” And he meant it. Looking at Faith, he looked into her eyes – which he had realized were exact replicas of yours – “Thank you so much, Faith.”

You couldn’t help but feel like tearing up when Faith threw herself on him, struggling but managing to wrap her arms around his neck in a hug.

It seemed to have surprised Harry, too for a moment, but it took a second for Harry to help Faith up properly on his lap, hugging her back.

Faith was affectionate, you knew that, but she was never that affectionate with people other than family and the people she had grown up surrounded by. It was why you backed a little to watch, your hand loosely on your mouth.

“Thank you for breakfast,” Harry said as he stood by the door with you, “And the talk, and everything.”

“Thank you for coming. Faith and I had fun,” you smiled down at the ground before looking up at him, “I’m sorry if it was too much – with the drawing and Faith hugging you and talking your ear off and e-”

“Are you kidding?” Harry shook his head with a small laugh, “That was the best thing to happen to me in a long time. I’m framing that drawing the minute I’m home.” Harry patted his crossbag, where the drawing lied.

“She’s actually never like that with new people,” you admitted, “I’m surprised myself.”

“What can I say?” Harry teased, “I have my ways with kids.”

“Ha ha,” you jokingly rolled your eyes, “You associate yourself with single moms often?”

“No, just the beautiful and talented ones.” He gave you a shrug, “That was very cheesy.”

“It was,” you laughed, “But it’s alright, I liked it.”

“Well then, we’re okay.” Harry nodded with a smile.

“We’re okay.”

A second passed before Harry furrowed his eyebrows, “You doing anything on Friday?”

“Not that I know of, no.”

“In that case,” his face softened, “How does dinner sound?”

“Dinner sounds lovely.” You smiled, clutching your hands together against your front. “But you know we need to start working, right?”

“Then how about we work then maybe cook a homemade meal at my place?” He suggested, “Faith is very much welcome to come.”

“Faith and work? Yeah, right,” you cringed, “I can drive her to mom’s for the day, it’s when my mom has my cousins over anyway so she’ll be alright.”

“If anything goes wrong, just tell me. I can get her anything she needs for entertainment.” Harry spoke honestly.

You smiled, stepping closer to him, “I’ll let you know.”

“Good. 5?”

“5.” You nodded.

“So it’s see you soon.” Harry smiled softly, looking down at you before gently moving one hand to your waist, leaning down to press his lips softly against yours.

“See you soon.” You repeated quietly against his lips as you pulled away.

“Call me?”

You nodded, licking your lips, watching as Harry’s eyes glanced at your lips again. Saving him the movement, you leaned closer to peck his lips.

hes.updatesss: Harry restocked the black and the white Fine Line t-shirts and added kids’ size on his website!

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#wellbeafinelime #not one of them #harry styles imagine #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff one shot #fluff #fluff one shot #harry styles fic #single mom!reader #harry styles fluff imagine

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leia-imogen · 4 years ago

Text

aaron & the family he's found all by himself; vol. 1 // vol. 2

( ft. the first meeting & the first family game night )

okay, rundown of his first meeting w the vixens!

the vixens don't really like the foxes. they cheer at their games and all, but outside of that, they mostly stick with the football players

bcs, well, the foxes are,, intimidating and most of the vixens don't get how or why katelyn started dating one

especially one half of the terrifying duo that is the twinyards. like these tiny blonde angst goblins have absolutely zero chill, and this is the backliner one, the one that shattered the nose of a dude basically twice his size

they may be short as fuck but they're scary, and the vixens are worried that he might break katelyn's heart

but katelyn's sure about aaron minyard, and when cleo softly asks, "is he worth it?" she knows her answer is a yes

savannah and the rest of the girls aren't convinced tho, so she asks aaron if he'll meet them for one of the afterparties they have after games

he agrees after seeing the hopeful look on her face

and surprise, surprise, it isn't a complete disaster!!

see, aaron has a habit of mirroring the nature of the person he's with. in the book, we mostly see him as an asshole bcs it's from neil's pov, and neil, as much as i adore him, is an asshole

i think that when he's with nicky ( someone he loves and trusts ), he's like, nicer. it's not in his nature to be cheery or anything but he's less,, hostile? and way more relaxed

and katelyn's been nothing but sweet and polite to him, bcs katelyn's sweet and polite till you give her a reason not to be

so he's sweet and polite back, or at least, sweet and polite as aaron minyard can get.

yeah, he's definitely interesting enough, clever and quick-witted enough, respectful and loyal and insanely talented enough, that katelyn decides he's worth it. doubts he'll ever get boring

and yes, she knows this is a big risk, bcs she knows the foxes' rep, knows how fucked up he must to secure a place on the psu foxes, notices how aaron flinches when she makes any sudden movement

but you know what? fuck it

so when aaron tells her his strange, twisted little deal with his brother, katelyn's willing to fight for him

and after nearly 2 months of this, she drags him to the vixens with their fingers interlocked and a hope in her heart that they'd play nice like she's asked ( practically begged ) them to

aaron's buzzing a bit with nervous energy. it's very endearing, how his eyes had lit up at the sight of her, then how she felt her anxiety about the night melt away into excitement

sav tries, bless her, tries to engage aaron in half-hearted conversation about exy ( which she hates ) and aaron tries back, but that fizzles out bcs for someone on a full-ride exy scholarship, aaron doesn't like exy at all

thank god that marissa, who's been trying to be less of a bitch all night, bless her too, lets it slip that sav detests exy

"okay, i can't anymore. minyard, savannah actually hates exy and she hates the foxes too, but we're hoping that you're an exception."

aaron, holding back a laugh: honestly? same.

sav: oh thank fucking GOD we have something to talk about then

"yeah, the entire sport sucks, doesn't it? i literally play it at college level and i still have barely figured out the goddamn rules."

"exactly! and my entire family's fucking obsessed for some reason, it's so annoying! ugh and the foxes suck even more, they're all so goddamn rude for no reason. except maybe the cute goalie."

". . ."

"eww not your brother, i meant renee walker,, and maybe you're not too bad either, minyard."

"you flatter me."

katelyn watches their exchange with more than a little amusement. aaron's not smiling, but his features have softened and he's flushed from the alcohol he'd had and she can't rly believe that this is the boy who they all thought would break her heart

bcs later when aaron comes up to her with a cookie dough cupcake ( her favourite ) she didn't even know was served at the party, leans into her so his face is buried in her neck, whispers "thanks for taking me", when she takes in all her friends laughing and chatting and waving at her, when sav gives her a thumbs-up and nods to aaron, she's never felt more whole

like she was part of something bigger than herself

then aaron starts hanging around them more! yeah he saw the look on katelyn's face and he was going to TRY for her or so help him- usually just with katelyn, sav, and cleo

she invites him to the "family game night" sav is making them have, and he's like "sure why not."

he knocks on the door of sav and cleo's dorm and sav lets him in

"yo, minyard! glad you make it, katelyn's out on a donut run but she'll be back soon."

okay,, okay. so he'll,,, what? interact w people?? hell fucking no

then he realises that it's only cleo in the dorm, plugged into her headphones, playing mario kart, and thanks katelyn for ensuring there would only be ppl that like, he didn't mind

the other vixens were okay, but way too LOUD, and aaron wasn't rly up for spending a whole night w them

cleo hands him a controller, an invitation to play, and he takes it gratefully. he and cleo hadn't talked that much at the party, but she was perfectly tolerable so far, which was a good sign

and mario kart was a part of his childhood, one of the only few that nicky's parents had owned, so he and his cousin had spent hours curled up in front of tv trying to beat each other

even tho he beats nicky most of the time, cleo absolutely destroys him. he mentally tries to brush it off as him being rusty ( which he definitely is ) but damn, cleo's good. still, she brushes off the compliment when aaron blurts it out

okay so then katelyn comes back with like way too many donuts and they start playing monopoly gathered around the coffee table

sav insists on putting on some music. wannabe starts playing. she winks at aaron and aaron winks back, still not smiling. cleo snorts and katelyn kisses his cheek

listen, cleo is a monopoly master. soon, she owns over half the board and it's pretty clear she's gonna win, someone ( savannah riley jameson, everyone ) flips the board

"jameson, what the actual fuck."

"shut the hell up, minyard."

"come on, sav, i was winning!"

katelyn's trying to pick up all the pieces and aaron bends down to help her, shaking his head at sav, who pouts and joins them while cleo grins, headphones slung around her shoulders while she perches herself onto the arm of the settee and hums to wake me up before you go-go

next, sav begs them to play twister. cleo's great at most games, but she has a particular dislike for twister, so she's out quick

katelyn is super bendy, bcs she took gymnastics for years, and aaron holds his own surprisingly well, considering the fact that he's short as fuck

sav: katie, right hand red

katelyn, ending up right on top of a blushing aaron: okay, you're doing this on purpose, aren't you?

sav: i stopped spinning like 15 turns ago, i'm surprised you didn't notice sooner

eventually aaron collapses and katelyn is hailed as the queen of twister and they spend the next 10 minutes just calling out random spots for katelyn to try

she gets all of them, and aaron is actually smiling now and it doesn't matter that it's only a tiny quirk of his lips, it's something and katelyn cherishes it

they play some sort of surgeon simulator thingy next, and aaron "gonna be a future neurosurgeon" minyard is awesome at it, bcs duh

katelyn's not very good at this. her hands get SHAKY okay

cleo also sucks at this, bcs she keeps getting nervous and having muscle spasms. sav's just doing the dumbest shit bcs it's bringing aaron closer to the edge of cardiac arrest

aaron: jameson holy shit what are you DOING

sav, slicing open the spinal cord: okay so what if i take out the lungs through the back haha

and now sav is sulking over the fact that she hadn't absolutely murdered the others at a game

so she brings out the ultimate game. the game of bastards, one that tears families apart, sets friendships on fire, starts wars too gruesome to be started by anything other than this wretched, cursed artefact. . .

s c r a b b l e

aaron's already having war flashbacks. katelyn groans and goes to make popcorn, bcs this shit's gonna take FOREVER and she knows it. cleo, an english major, is preparing herself for battle with the force of nature that is savannah

"the fuck do you MEAN fergalicious isn't a word???"

"savannah, please."

"no, here, listen to this."

"sav, we were listening to that!" katelyn complains. sav sighs and switches the song back to her "90's bops" playlist, then changes it to "hell yeah feminism" which instantly starts playing run the world ( girls )

katelyn happily starts singing and aaron's not even reluctant to hum along

sav and cleo are still arguing. this has been going on for so long. sav looks ready to flip over the board again, so cleo does it first

katelyn: cleo what the heck

cleo, the tired mom friend: don't fucking curse

aaron is also tired, but in a good way, in kind of that soft lazy droopy way

he falls asleep leaning against the sofa and katelyn's shoulder, with god is a woman playing in the background while sav and cleo continue arguing. cleo is standing on the coffee table. it's true anarchy

he wakes up on the sofa with a blanket thrown over him and sunlight streaming in through the lacy curtains and katelyn making a complete mess of the kitchen in a futile attempt to make breakfast. sav and cleo are draped across each other on the floor

katelyn, struggling to pick up burning toast: morning babe, how did you sleep?

aaron, calmly using a pair of tongs: pretty well. who wants pancakes?

sav, instantly shooting up: DID YOU SAY PANCAKES

so he makes pancakes! nicky taught him as soon as he'd gained custody of the twins, so he's pretty much an expert. he tries to teach katelyn, but then just gives up bcs she's clearly not listening in favour of staring at him

and they all gather around the coffee table and cleo's humming along to the song on her headphones and wow these pancakes are rly good omg

while aaron is chatting to cleo about what video games they should play next, sav whispers, "kate finley, if you don't marry this boy just for his god-tier pancakes, i will."

"sav, you're a lesbian."

"not anymore, i've decided that i am pancake-sexual."

aaron hears all of this btw, bcs cleo stops when she hears them talking. he blushes, and smiles, just a little bit

( if anyone actually cares about this, tell me! shoot me an ask if there's any particular ask you want to see with these characters, or just the foxes! )

#aaron & the family he's found all by himself #yes i’m aware that no one cares #and that this is horribly written but i’m exhausted so. . .#i pinky-swear the next one will be sort of better #hopefully #aftg headcanons #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #aaron minyard headcanons #the vixens #aaron minyard #andrew minyard #twinyards #nicky hemmick #katelyn aftg #katelyn finley #sav jameson #cleo magdalene

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rekquiemredstar · 3 years ago

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Victims

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Warnings:Fluff,mention of trauma,rape(not by Bucky), torture. (No mention of rape in this chapter but will be in future ones)

Description: You discover you may have misjudged Bucky.

This is my first Chapter of an idea I’ve been wanting to play out for a while now. More to come very soon.

Chapter 1: Sleep

Bucky didn’t talk much.

Especially not to you. “He wasn’t always like this.” Steve had said to you once in passing, his keen senses picking up on just how tense your shoulders got whenever Bucky had blatantly ignored you. Good old Steve, not a bad word to say about anyone. You tried to brush it off, but you really hated being ignored. It made you feel like a pathetic, over excited puppy dog nipping at everyones heels for attention. You were loud, and blunt, and very aware of how much social space you took up when you engaged in conversation. You had no doubt it was annoying. Many times you tried to curb your hyper behavior, but that was exhausting, and eventually you had to come to the conclusion that that was just you. You were who you were, and everyone-save Bucky-adored you. That was on him, you couldn’t change how he felt.

You weren’t quite sure how to approach Barnes, having only ever known him as The Asset before you all came to the compound. The first time you met, he’d lifted you off the ground with a metal hand to your throat. He would have snapped your neck if Steve hadn’t gotten him off of you. You really hated that, too. You wanted so desperately not to need saving, ever. You were strong, but you were no Super Soldier, and the overly competitive parts of you reeled against that with everything they had. You did not need to be saved. Not by Steve or anyone.

You weren’t the only one on the team without powers. You learned from shared experience it didn’t make you any less essential. Just hurt like a son of a bitch sometimes. Like Bucky, you had been taken by Hydra against your will. Unlike Bucky-you hadn’t been brainwashed. Just tortured. No matter how hard they pushed, no matter how many times you had been left bruised and bleeding on the icy concrete floor you never lost sight of what was right. When Hydra’s infiltration of Shield was out in the open, and they released the Winter Soldier into the world again you felt like it was the moment you had been waiting for. Suddenly everything they had taught you about weapons and hand to hand became a brutal mistake on their part. When Nick Fury learned about the things you had done, what you knew, seen you in action, he made sure you and Steve Rogers got acquainted. After that, you never had to look for a job a day in your life. Now you were here.

It wasn’t yet light out when you headed down the stairs, dressed in a black running gear from head to toe, all the way down to your shoes that were propped against the wall in waiting. Your socks were actually the only colorful thing you had on, red white and blue donning the captain America shield, an ongoing joke between you and Steve.

You were always up before anyone else, craving the silence and peace you felt in the early morning, beginning your usual run just as the sun crested the hilltops. Your workout regimen was insanely strict, you beat yourself up whenever you ran late, often feeling guilty about it the rest of the day. Absentmindedly, you bobbed your head to the song playing in your headphones, doing your best to keep relatively quiet as you mixed up your pre-workout in a shaker bottle. You spun to set it on the counter beside you, jumping when you noticed the outline of a figure sitting across from you.

“Jesus,” you said more to yourself than to him, lowering your headphones to around the base of your neck. You popped the cap of your bottle and rolling your shoulders. Taking your first sip of caffeine, you held his stare.

“You scared me, man.”

Bucky said nothing, though his eyes widened slightly- the only indication that he had heard you at all. He sat straight and rigid behind the marble countertop, but he looked…softer somehow. His lips parted slightly, exhaling a short breath, then pressed together gently. His grey henley was wrinkled and disheveled, his hands laid flat on his thighs, as though he was awaiting his next order.

“Are you going for a run?” He asked in such a tender tone that you blinked twice before you processed that it was even him speaking. You weren’t even aware that he knew you ran. You weren’t even aware he knew you existed half the time.

“Uh-yeah.” You responded cautiously, swirling the contents of your bottle to incorporate the undissolved powder at the bottom. Bucky gave a small nod, greasy strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he did so. Dark circles plagued in under-eyes, while the glass blue of his irises looked dull and worn. He looked rough, even for him. You always thought he was the best looking one here, but it’s a little hard to appreciate someones looks when all they ever do is disregard you. Now that you got a really good look at him, even with the obvious sleep deprivation, you could see just how handsome he really was.

“You go every day?” The Soldier’s next question pulled you from your drifting thoughts and you had a question of your own; why did he care? The longest conversation you had ever had with this man was the time he asked you to pass the A1 and that was a month ago.

“Six days a week,” you started, with caffeine running through your brain you were unable to keep yourself from over-explaining.

“Wednesdays are my rest days, It’s the only day I get to sleep in but I usually don’t. I hate taking rest days, but it’s better for your body if you do.”

You finished your drink and set the bottle in the sink for now, you would wash it later. You were ready to abandon this weird fucking conversation. Sliding your headphones back over your ears, you pulled out your phone and started to search for a song to run to when you glanced up and noticed the look on his face. You hadn’t been through anything close to what he had, but you knew a thing or two about trauma. You definitely knew that look from all the times you’d seen it in your reflection.

You paused your music and took the headphones down again, setting them on the counter this time.

“Are you okay?” You asked, pressing your hips against the ledge, leaning your palms on the counter, ready to listen. The sincerity of your voice threw him off. He was so used to being on the outside looking in, watching you make your sarcastic quips to everyone, chuckling to himself when no one was looking. He was always blown away by just how clever you were, and how quick your mind worked. He didn’t think he could keep up in a conversation with you in a million years. It wasn’t often Sargent Barnes was intimidated. You were fiery, and tough, funny as hell-and you didn’t take shit from anyone.

Bucky had heard from Steve that you had a big heart, but he had never seen the softer side of you.

His eyes were shiny when he looked up at you, his voice echoed with defeat.

“I don’t know how I got here.” He said quietly.

“I don’t want to move. I-“ His voice choked a little.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”

You felt your heart squeeze in your chest. God, what this poor man had endured. He had been told where to go, what to do, what to say- for years he had been controlled. Now he was free, and he was confused, scared. Hydra was no walk in the park, but you get used to the routine of torment and control. You knew better than anyone what that was like.

“How long have you been down here?” You asked. He was still, then he responded.

“A few hours, I think.” He didn’t look at the clock, just stared straight ahead. He must have gotten up in the middle of the night from a bad dream.

You sucked in a small breath through your teeth, then exhaled, letting the tension release from between your shoulder blades.

“Okay,” You said quietly, setting your phone down and rounding the side of the counter. Your run could wait a little while.

“Okay. That’s okay. Do you want me to help you back to you room?” Bucky shook his head.

“I think I broke a mirror. Glass everywhere.” You nodded, making a mental note to clean it up when you got back.

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, increasing in rhythm. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.” He repeated, and you slid your hand toward him on the counter, leaning on your elbow so you were face level with him.

“Hey,” Your voice was soft, calm, even. It encouraged him to stay the same by your example.

“It’s alright, I’m going to help you.”

You had your mission now, heading back to the kitchen you put the tea kettle on, then opened the freezer, taking out the frozen eye mask Tony sometimes used for hangovers. You dug into the cabinet taking out two peppermint tea bags from your hidden stash, dropping one in the nearest mug, and tucking one in your sweatshirt pocket.

You were beside him again, moving the ice pack toward his forehead. Bucky jerked backward with a quick inhale, and you drew your arm inward. You remembered his mask. “I’m just going to put it on your forehead.” You murmured. Bucky’s bottom lip quivered. “Don’t put that on me, please.” Your fingers curled, and you nodded in understanding.

“Okay, okay, one sec.” You jogged back into the kitchen and traded the ice pack for two large chunks of ice.

“Let’s try this instead.”

Bucky watched you carefully, your well muscled legs flexing as you busied yourself in the kitchen. He had been distantly aware that you were in good shape, but your normal black cargo pants must have hid a lot from view, because now that he was seeing you in the leggings you wore to run-he couldn’t stop looking. God damn, you really took care of yourself. His eyes snapped back up when you turned around again. You were careful to switch the stove off before the kettle wailed, pouring hot water into the mug and sliding it in font of him. Steam swirled from the cup and the soldier caught a whiff of mint.

You were in front of him again, conscious not to make too many sudden movements. “Turn toward me.” You instructed, and he followed orders, allowing you to stand between his legs as you soothed a cube of ice over each of his temples. His eyes fluttered slightly, the frozen temperature sent a shock of relief down his spine. He couldn’t hold back the pained groan as it erupted from his chest when you moved your fingers in slow circles, applying just the right amount of pressure.

“Y’know,” You began. “Before I was here, before any of this, I worked at a mental facility for at-risk teenagers.”

Bucky’s brow knit. He had always assumed that with your skills with firearms and combat that you had always been in some sort of covert ops position. He was realizing just how little he knew about you. Steve talked about you sometimes, but his jaw had always been real tight when it came to your past. “Drugs, alcohol, suicide, abuse-I hated it, it was too hard on me mentally-but I learned a lot. Most importantly, I learned that when you press something cold to your temple or forehead, it sends a shock to your neurotransmitters. Basically telling your system that you’re in pain, countering panic by releasing chemicals into the body that slow down the release of cortisol and adrenaline.”

The dark haired man soaked in every word you said . He knew you talked a lot, but you’d never talked this much to him before, and he was eating it up. Bucky had always like the sound of your voice. He didn’t even mind the melting water running down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt.

“You can also bite down on a lemon wedge. ” You offered, taking the cubes of ice away and tossing them into the sink. You pulled your sweatshirt sleeve over the heel of your hand and dabbed the water away, he leaned into your touch this time.

“Or smell strong peppermint.” You said, gently lifting his metal arm by the wrist and snatching the packet of tea from your pocket, dropping it in his shiny palm.

“It’s called grounding.” You stated, motioning for him to try.

Hesitantly, the soldier brought his hand to his nose, inhaling deeply. He looked back at you with one grateful nod. It helped. You pointed curtly to the cabinet by the fridge.

“I always keep a box of tea in there, it’s shoved way in the back because someone keeps taking it, probably Sam, but you’re welcome to as much as you’d like.” You slid the now perfect temperature tea into his free hand.

“Drink it, It always helps calm me down.”

Bucky took two greedy gulps, downing about half it’s contents in one go and making you giggle. It made his eyelids heavy.

“C’mon, Sergeant Barnes.” You coaxed, beckoning him to follow you into the other room. When he stood, you had to take a step back. You weren’t exactly the shortest person, but even so, had always worn tactical boots around him and they added a couple inches to your height. With you just in socks, you realized how much he towered over your five foot seven stature. It both scared and excited you. You edged a foot backward, circling it behind yourself and swaying your weight on it as if you were ready for him to take a swing at you. He eyed your stance momentarily before you broke and softened again, shaking out fists you hadn’t even realized you’d clenched. You didn’t trust him yet.

Wordlessly, you led him to the couch. His footsteps behind you were lighter than you thought they would be, but of course he had both stealth and brute force on his side. That sent a tingle down your stomach that you chose to ignore.

“Lay down.” You said as you dragged the coffee table closer to the couch. Bucky did as he was told, his burned out mind thankful to have some sort of direction. His eyes were half lidded and languorous, the long forgotten feeling of sleep pulling at the edges of his bruised psyche. His eyes tracked your every move. His stare somewhat lazy with fatigue, but right on target like the skilled sniper you’d seen in action so many times.

“Try to get some sleep.” Your voice was still soft, but brimmed with anticipation for your upcoming workout. Bucky felt a sudden pang of guilt for keeping you back an extra half hour. He glanced over his shoulder at the window, seeing through the gap in the shades that the sun was already up.

“I’ll check in with you when I get back.” You added, taking a large cashmere blanket from the nearby armchair and draping it over him. He hadn’t been tucked into bed in over 70 years.

You scampered back to the kitchen to retrieve his mug, but when you set it down on the table and looked at his face, he was already asleep.

“Sleep well, Sergeant.” You said quietly.

Bucky’s eyes were open the minute you turned your back, watching as you pulled your shoes on and jogged out the door. He craned his neck so he could watch you take off down the neatly paved road.

It was only when you were completely out of sight that he finally let himself fall asleep.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #avengers #sebastian stan #Bucky barnes romance #Bucky #bucky barnes angst #the winter solider x reader

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queenaryastark · 3 years ago

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Elia Martell: Quote Masterlist

In preparation for Elia Week 2021, I compiled all of the times Elia is mentioned in ASOIAF and TWOIAF. It’s not surprising, but it is very troubling how little we get of her actual personality and characterization. There’s clearly an overemphasis on her rape and murder, the quest for vengeance on her brother’s side, and how she compared to other women. We get one flashback/vision of her after Aegon’s birth discussion song and prophecy with Rhaegar which is the only time she actually speaks. Oberyn’s courtship tour story gives hints at her characterization, while Barristan, who wouldn’t have known her well, gives us details like: good, delicate health, kind, clever, and sweet wit. It’s pretty vague, but unfortunately that’s all GRRM gave us.

Anyway, the quotes are under the cut:

Her Murder

Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar's heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. -- Dany I, AGOT ----- The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. -- Dany I, AGOT ----- Some said it had been Gregor who'd dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia, before putting her to the sword. -- Eddard VII, AGOT ----- Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Lyanna's lap. -- Eddard XV, AGOT ----- In Dorne, the Martells still brood on the murder of Princess Elia and her babes. -- Eddard XV, AGOT ------ The prince is a sentimental man, and he still mourns his sister Elia and her sweet babe. "My father once told me that a lord never lets sentiment get in the way of ambition . . . and it happens we have an empty seat on the small council, now that Lord Janos has taken the black." "A council seat is not to be despised," Varys admitted, "yet will it be enough to make a proud man forget his sister's murder?" "Why forget?" Tyrion smiled. "I've promised to deliver his sister's killers, alive or dead, as he prefers. After the war is done, to be sure." Varys gave him a shrewd look. "My little birds tell me that Princess Elia cried a . . . certain name . . . when they came for her." -- Tyrion IV, AGOT ----- "Prince Doran comes at my son's invitation," Lord Tywin said calmly, "not only to join in our celebration, but to claim his seat on this council, and the justice Robert denied him for the murder of his sister Elia and her children." -- Tyrion III, ASOS ---- I did not come for some mummer's show of an inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this lummox Gregor Clegane . . . but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of that. -- Tyrion V, ASOS -------- "It is justice. It was Ser Amory who brought me the girl's body, if you must know. He found her hiding under her father's bed, as if she believed Rhaegar could still protect her. Princess Elia and the babe were in the nursery a floor below." -- Tyrion VI, ASOS ----- "I grant you, it was done too brutally. Elia need not have been harmed at all, that was sheer folly. By herself she was nothing." "Then why did the Mountain kill her?" "Because I did not tell him to spare her. I doubt I mentioned her at all. I had more pressing concerns. Ned Stark's van was rushing south from the Trident, and I feared it might come to swords between us. And it was in Aerys to murder Jaime, with no more cause than spite. That was the thing I feared most. That, and what Jaime himself might do." He closed a fist. "Nor did I yet grasp what I had in Gregor Clegane, only that he was huge and terrible in battle. The rape . . . even you will not accuse me of giving that command, I would hope. Ser Amory was almost as bestial with Rhaenys. I asked him afterward why it had required half a hundred thrusts to kill a girl of . . . two? Three? He said she'd kicked him and would not stop screaming. If Lorch had half the wits the gods gave a turnip, he would have calmed her with a few sweet words and used a soft silk pillow." His mouth twisted in distaste. "The blood was in him." -- Tyrion VI, ASOS ------ Justice is in short supply this side of the mountains. There has been none for Elia, Aegon, or Rhaenys. Why should there be any for you? Perhaps Joffrey's real killer was eaten by a bear. That seems to happen quite often in King's Landing. -- Tyrion IX, ASOS -------- "I am not lying. Ser Amory dragged Princess Rhaenys out from under her father's bed and stabbed her to death. He had some men-at-arms with him, but I do not know their names." He leaned forward. "It was Ser Gregor Clegane who smashed Prince Aegon's head against a wall and raped your sister Elia with his blood and brains still on his hands." -- Tyrion IX, ASOS --------- "The gout I cannot help," she said, "but my father had no use for grief. Vengeance was more to his taste. Is it true that Gregor Clegane admitted slaying Elia and her children?" "He roared out his guilt for all the court to hear," the prince admitted. "Lord Tywin has promised us his head." -- Hotah, AFFC --------- "My sister Elia had a little girl as well. Her name was Rhaenys. She was a princess too." The prince sighed. "Those who would plunge a knife into Princess Myrcella do not bear her any malice, no more than Ser Amory Lorch did when he killed Rhaenys, if indeed he did. They seek only to force my hand. For if Myrcella should be slain in Dorne whilst under my protection, who would believe my denials?" -- Arys, AFFC --------

Oberyn VS Gregor Clegane

The Dornishman slid sideways. "I am Oberyn Martell, a prince of Dorne," he said, as the Mountain turned to keep him in sight. "Princess Elia was my sister." "Who?" asked Gregor Clegane. Oberyn's long spear jabbed, but Ser Gregor took the point on his shield, shoved it aside, and bulled back at the prince, his great sword flashing. The Dornishman spun away untouched. The spear darted forward. Clegane slashed at it, Martell snapped it back, then thrust again. Metal screamed on metal as the spearhead slid off the Mountain's chest, slicing through the surcoat and leaving a long bright scratch on the steel beneath. "Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne," the Red Viper hissed. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children." Ser Gregor grunted. He made a ponderous charge to hack at the Dornishman's head. Prince Oberyn avoided him easily. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children." ------- But the Red Viper of Dorne was back on his feet, his long spear in hand. "Elia," he called at Ser Gregor. "You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children. Now say her name." The Mountain whirled. Helm, shield, sword, surcoat; he was spattered with gore from head to heels. "You talk too much," he grumbled. "You make my head hurt." "I will hear you say it. She was Elia of Dorne." The Mountain snorted contemptuously, and came on . . . and in that moment, the sun broke through the low clouds that had hidden the sky since dawn. -------- Prince Oberyn tilted his dinted metal shield. A shaft of sunlight blazed blindingly off polished gold and copper, into the narrow slit of his foe's helm. Clegane lifted his own shield against the glare. Prince Oberyn's spear flashed like lightning and found the gap in the heavy plate, the joint under the arm. The point punched through mail and boiled leather. Gregor gave a choked grunt as the Dornishman twisted his spear and yanked it free."Elia. Say it! Elia of Dorne!" He was circling, spear poised for another thrust. "Say it!" Tyrion had his own prayer. Fall down and die, was how it went. Damn you, fall down and die! The blood trickling from the Mountain's armpit was his own now, and he must be bleeding even more heavily inside the breastplate. When he tried to take a step, one knee buckled. Tyrion thought he was going down. Prince Oberyn had circled behind him. "ELIA OF DORNE!" he shouted. Ser Gregor started to turn, but too slow and too late. The spearhead went through the back of the knee this time, through the layers of chain and leather between the plates on thigh and calf. The Mountain reeled, swayed, then collapsed face first on the ground. His huge sword went flying from his hand. Slowly, ponderously, he rolled onto his back. The Dornishman flung away his ruined shield, grasped the spear in both hands, and sauntered away. Behind him the Mountain let out a groan, and pushed himself onto an elbow. Oberyn whirled cat-quick, and ran at his fallen foe. "EEEEELLLLLLIIIIIAAAAA!" he screamed, as he drove the spear down with the whole weight of his body behind it. The crack of the ashwood shaft snapping was almost as sweet a sound as Cersei's wail of fury, and for an instant Prince Oberyn had wings. The snake has vaulted over the Mountain. Four feet of broken spear jutted from Clegane's belly as Prince Oberyn rolled, rose, and dusted himself off. He tossed aside the splintered spear and claimed his foe's greatsword. "If you die before you say her name, ser, I will hunt you through all seven hells," he promised. ------ Clegane's hand shot up and grabbed the Dornishman behind the knee. The Red Viper brought down the greatsword in a wild slash, but he was off-balance, and the edge did no more than put another dent in the Mountain's vambrace. Then the sword was forgotten as Gregor's hand tightened and twisted, yanking the Dornishman down on top of him. They wrestled in the dust and blood, the broken spear wobbling back and forth. Tyrion saw with horror that the Mountain had wrapped one huge arm around the prince, drawing him tight against his chest, like a lover. "Elia of Dorne," they all heard Ser Gregor say, when they were close enough to kiss. His deep voice boomed within the helm. "I killed her screaming whelp." He thrust his free hand into Oberyn's unprotected face, pushing steel fingers into his eyes. "Then I raped her." Clegane slammed his fist into the Dornishman's mouth, making splinters of his teeth. "Then I smashed her fucking head in. Like this." As he drew back his huge fist, the blood on his gauntlet seemed to smoke in the cold dawn air. There was a sickening crunch. Ellaria Sand wailed in terror, and Tyrion's breakfast came boiling back up. He found himself on his knees retching bacon and sausage and applecakes, and that double helping of fried eggs cooked up with onions and fiery Dornish peppers.-- Tyrion, X

General

Viserys, was her first thought the next time she paused, but a second glance told her otherwise. The man had her brother's hair, but he was taller, and his eyes were a dark indigo rather than lilac. "Aegon," he said to a woman nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. "What better name for a king?"

"Will you make a song for him?" the woman asked.

"He has a song," the man replied. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire." He looked up when he said it and his eyes met Dany's, and it seemed as if he saw her standing there beyond the door. "There must be one more," he said, though whether he was speaking to her or the woman in the bed she could not say. "The dragon has three heads." He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as man and wife and babe faded like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind to speed her on her way. -- Daenerys IV, ACOK

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She nodded. "There was a woman in a bed with a babe at her breast. My brother said the babe was the prince that was promised and told her to name him Aegon."

"Prince Aegon was Rhaegar's heir by Elia of Dorne," Ser Jorah said. "But if he was this prince that was promised, the promise was broken along with his skull when the Lannisters dashed his head against a wall." -- Daenerys V, ACOK

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No doubt he was waiting for Prince Viserys to mature, or perhaps for Rhaegar's wife to die in childbed. Elia of Dorne was never the healthiest of women. -- Jaime II, ASOS

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The king reminded Lewyn Martell gracelessly that he held Elia and sent him to take command of the ten thousand Dornishmen coming up the kingsroad. -- Jaime V, ASOS

-----

When the word reached court, Aerys packed the queen off to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys. Princess Elia would have gone as well, but he forbade it. Somehow he had gotten it in his head that Prince Lewyn must have betrayed Rhaegar on the Trident, but he thought he could keep Dorne loyal so long as he kept Elia and Aegon by his side. -- Jaime V, ASOS

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"It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen, thereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight or nine, as I recall, and you had just been born." -- Tyrion V, ASOS

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The cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies were too grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your food too bland . . . and you yourself were the greatest disappointment of all." -- Tyrion V, ASOS

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"Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send us off, but your sister was having none of that. 'He's mine,' she said, 'and you're just a milk cow, you can't tell me what to do. Be quiet or I'll have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders.'"

"Her Grace learned charm at an early age," said Tyrion, amused by the notion of his sister claiming him as hers. "She's never been in any rush to claim me since, the gods know.

"Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a better look," the Dornish prince continued. "You did have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your head was larger than most . . . but there was no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers, Lord Tywin's Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make at the sight of infants, I'm sure you've heard it. The same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, 'He killed my mother,' and twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, 'Leave him be, you're hurting him,' that Cersei let go of you. 'It doesn't matter,' she told us. 'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long.'" -- Tyrion V, ASOS

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"As children Elia and I were inseparable, much like your own brother and sister." -- Tyrion V, ASOS

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"But that was the tourney when he crowned Lyanna Stark as queen of love and beauty!" said Dany. "Princess Elia was there, his wife, and yet my brother gave the crown to the Stark girl, and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that? Did the Dornish woman treat him so ill?"

"It is not for such as me to say what might have been in your brother's heart, Your Grace. The Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady, though her health was ever delicate."

Dany pulled the lion pelt tighter about her shoulders. "Viserys said once that it was my fault, for being born too late." She had denied it hotly, she remembered, going so far as to tell Viserys that it was his fault for not being born a girl. He beat her cruelly for that insolence. "If I had been born more timely, he said, Rhaegar would have married me instead of Elia, and it would all have come out different. If Rhaegar had been happy in his wife, he would not have needed the Stark girl." -- Daenerys, ASOS

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"Aye. I will." Ulmer, stooped and grey-bearded and loose of skin and limb, stepped to the mark and pulled an arrow from the quiver at his waist. In his youth he had been an outlaw, a member of the infamous Kingswood Brotherhood. He claimed he'd once put an arrow through the hand of the White Bull of the Kingsguard to steal a kiss from the lips of a Dornish princess. He had stolen her jewels too, and a chest of golden dragons, but it was the kiss he liked to boast of in his cups. -- Samwell II, ASOS

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"Do you recall the tale I told you of our first meeting, Imp?" Prince Oberyn asked, as the Bastard of Godsgrace knelt before him to fasten his greaves. "It was not for your tail alone that my sister and I came to Casterly Rock. We were on a quest of sorts. A quest that took us to Starfall, the Arbor, Oldtown, the Shield Islands, Crakehall, and finally Casterly Rock . . . but our true destination was marriage. Doran was betrothed to Lady Mellario of Norvos, so he had been left behind as castellan of Sunspear. My sister and I were yet unpromised.

"Elia found it all exciting. She was of that age, and her delicate health had never permitted her much travel. I preferred to amuse myself by mocking my sister's suitors. There was Little Lord Lazyeye, Squire Squishlips, one I named the Whale That Walks, that sort of thing. The only one who was even halfway presentable was young Baelor Hightower. A pretty lad, and my sister was half in love with him until he had the misfortune to fart once in our presence. I promptly named him Baelor Breakwind, and after that Elia couldn't look at him without laughing. I was a monstrous young fellow, someone should have sliced out my vile tongue."

Yes, Tyrion agreed silently. Baelor Hightower was no longer young, but he remained Lord Leyton's heir; wealthy, handsome, and a knight of splendid repute. Baelor Brightsmile, they called him now. Had Elia wed him in place of Rhaegar Targaryen, she might be in Oldtown with her children growing tall around her. He wondered how many lives had been snuffed out by that fart.

"Lannisport was the end of our voyage," Prince Oberyn went on, as Ser Arron Qorgyle helped him into a padded leather tunic and began lacing it up the back. "Were you aware that our mothers knew each other of old?"

"They had been at court together as girls, I seem to recall. Companions to Princess Rhaella?"

"Just so. It was my belief that the mothers had cooked up this plot between them. Squire Squishlips and his ilk and the various pimply young maidens who'd been paraded before me were the almonds before the feast, meant only to whet our appetites. The main course was to be served at Casterly Rock."

"Cersei and Jaime."

"Such a clever dwarf. Elia and I were older, to be sure. Your brother and sister could not have been more than eight or nine. Still, a difference of five or six years is little enough. And there was an empty cabin on our ship, a very nice cabin, such as might be kept for a person of high birth. As if it were intended that we take someone back to Sunspear. A young page, perhaps. Or a companion for Elia. Your lady mother meant to betroth Jaime to my sister, or Cersei to me. Perhaps both."

"Perhaps," said Tyrion, "but my father—"

"—ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but was ruled at home by his lady wife, or so my mother always said." Prince Oberyn raised his arms, so Lord Dagos Manwoody and the Bastard of Godsgrace could slip a chainmail byrnie down over his head. "At Oldtown we learned of your mother's death, and the monstrous child she had borne. We might have turned back there, but my mother chose to sail on. I told you of the welcome we found at Casterly Rock.

"What I did not tell you was that my mother waited as long as was decent, and then broached your father about our purpose. Years later, on her deathbed, she told me that Lord Tywin had refused us brusquely. His daughter was meant for Prince Rhaegar, he informed her. And when she asked for Jaime, to espouse Elia, he offered her you instead."

"Which offer she took for an outrage."

"It was. Even you can see that, surely?"

"Oh, surely." It all goes back and back, Tyrion thought, to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance on in our steads. "Well, Prince Rhaegar married Elia of Dorne, not Cersei Lannister of Casterly Rock. So it would seem your mother won that tilt."

"She thought so," Prince Oberyn agreed, "but your father is not a man to forget such slights. He taught that lesson to Lord and Lady Tarbeck once, and to the Reynes of Castamere. And at King's Landing, he taught it to my sister. My helm, Dagos." Manwoody handed it to him; a high golden helm with a copper disk mounted on the brow, the sun of Dorne. The visor had been removed, Tyrion saw. "Elia and her children have waited long for justice." Prince Oberyn pulled on soft red leather gloves, and took up his spear again. "But this day they shall have it." -- Tyrion X, ASOS

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"Was she a fair maid?"

"She was," said Meera, hopping over a stone, "but there were others fairer still. One was the wife of the dragon prince, who'd brought a dozen lady companions to attend her. The knights all begged them for favors to tie about their lances." -- Bran II, ASOS

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"I was the oldest," the prince said, "and yet I am the last. After Mors and Olyvar died in their cradles, I gave up hope of brothers. I was nine when Elia came, a squire in service at Salt Shore. When the raven arrived with word that my mother had been brought to bed a month too soon, I was old enough to understand that meant the child would not live. Even when Lord Gargalen told me that I had a sister, I assured him that she must shortly die. Yet she lived, by the Mother's mercy. And a year later Oberyn arrived, squalling and kicking. I was a man grown when they were playing in these pools. Yet here I sit, and they are gone." -- Hotah I, AFFC

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"Tyene. Obara is too loud. Tyene is so sweet and gentle that no man will suspect her. Obara would make Oldtown our father's funeral pyre, but I am not so greedy. Four lives will suffice for me. Lord Tywin's golden twins, as payment for Elia's children. The old lion, for Elia herself. And last of all the little king, for my father -- Hotah I, AFFC

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"He went beyond anything I asked of him. 'Take the measure of this boy king and his council, and make note of their strengths and weaknesses,' I told him, on the terrace. We were eating oranges. 'Find us friends, if there are any to be found. Learn what you can of Elia's end, but see that you do not provoke Lord Tywin unduly,' those were my words to him. Oberyn laughed, and said, 'When have I provoked any man . . . unduly? You would do better to warn the Lannisters against provoking me.' He wanted justice for Elia, but he would not wait—"

"He waited ten-and-seven years," the Lady Nym broke in. "Were it you they'd killed, my father would have led his banners north before your corpse was cold. Were it you, the spears would be falling thick as rain upon the marches now." -- Hotah I, AFFC

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"And what is it I want, ser?"

"The Sand Snakes freed. Vengeance for Oberyn and Elia. Do I know the song? You want a little taste of lion blood."

That, and my birthright. I want Sunspear, and my father's seat. I want Dorne. "I want justice." -- Arianne I, AFFC

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"With me?" That is so like him. "For Lord Tywin and the Lannisters you always had the forbearance of Baelor the Blessed, but for your own blood, none."

"You mistake patience for forbearance. I have worked at the downfall of Tywin Lannister since the day they told me of Elia and her children. It was my hope to strip him of all that he held most dear before I killed him, but it would seem his dwarf son has robbed me of that pleasure. I take some small solace in knowing that he died a cruel death at the hands of the monster that he himself begot. Be that as it may. Lord Tywin is howling down in hell . . . where thousands more will soon be joining him, if your folly turns to war." Her father grimaced, as if the very word were painful to him. "Is that what you want?"

The princess refused to be cowed. "I want my cousins freed. I want my uncle avenged. I want my rights." -- Arianne II, AFFC

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Black cats brought ill luck, as Rhaegar's little girl had discovered in this very castle. She would have been my daughter, if the Mad King had not played his cruel jape on Father. It had to have been the madness that led Aerys to refuse Lord Tywin's daughter and take his son instead, whilst marrying his own son to a feeble Dornish princess with black eyes and a flat chest. -- Cersei V, AFFC

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"Her duty." The word felt cold upon her tongue. "You saw my brother Rhaegar wed. Tell me, did he wed for love or duty?"

The old knight hesitated. "Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her."

Fond, thought Dany. The word spoke volumes. I could become fond of Hizdahr zo Loraq, in time. Perhaps. -- Daenerys IV, ADWD

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The lad flushed. "That was not me. I told you. That was some tanner's son from Pisswater Bend whose mother died birthing him. His father sold him to Lord Varys for a jug of Arbor gold. He had other sons but had never tasted Arbor gold. Varys gave the Pisswater boy to my lady mother and carried me away." -- Tyrion VI, ADWD

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Seventeen years had come and gone since the Battle of the Bells, yet the sound of bells ringing still tied a knot in his guts. Others might claim that the realm was lost when Prince Rhaegar fell to Robert's warhammer on the Trident, but the Battle of the Trident would never have been fought if the griffin had only slain the stag there in Stoney Sept. The bells tolled for all of us that day. For Aerys and his queen, for Elia of Dorne and her little daughter, for every true man and honest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. And for my silver prince.

"The plan was to reveal Prince Aegon only when we reached Queen Daenerys," Lemore was saying. -- JonCon I, ADWD

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That time was done, though. "No man could have asked for a worthier son," Griff said, "but the lad is not of my blood, and his name is not Griff. My lords, I give you Aegon Targaryen, firstborn son of Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, by Princess Elia of Dorne … soon, with your help, to be Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, King of Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."-- JonCon I, ADWD

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Prince Doran frowned. "That is so, Ser Balon, but the Lady Nym is right. If ever a man deserved to die screaming, it was Gregor Clegane. He butchered my good sister, smashed her babe's head against a wall. I only pray that now he is burning in some hell, and that Elia and her children are at peace. This is the justice that Dorne has hungered for. I am glad that I lived long enough to taste it. At long last the Lannisters have proved the truth of their boast and paid this old blood debt." -- Hotah, ADWD

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"A start?" said Ellaria Sand, incredulous. "Gods forbid. I would it were a finish. Tywin Lannister is dead. So are Robert Baratheon, Amory Lorch, and now Gregor Clegane, all those who had a hand in murdering Elia and her children. Even Joffrey, who was not yet born when Elia died. I saw the boy perish with mine own eyes, clawing at his throat as he tried to draw a breath. Who else is there to kill? Do Myrcella and Tommen need to die so the shades of Rhaenys and Aegon can be at rest? Where does it end?"-- Hotah, ADWD

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"Oberyn wanted vengeance for Elia. Now the three of you want vengeance for him. I have four daughters, I remind you. Your sisters. My Elia is fourteen, almost a woman. Obella is twelve, on the brink of maidenhood. They worship you, as Dorea and Loreza worship them. If you should die, must El and Obella seek vengeance for you, then Dorea and Loree for them? Is that how it goes, round and round forever? I ask again, where does it end?" Ellaria Sand laid her hand on the Mountain's head. "I saw your father die. Here is his killer. Can I take a skull to bed with me, to give me comfort in the night? Will it make me laugh, write me songs, care for me when I am old and sick?"-- Hotah, ADWD

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It was his failures that haunted him at night, though. Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert. Three dead kings. Rhaegar, who would have been a finer king than any of them. Princess Elia and the children. Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten. Dead, every one, yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them. And now Daenerys, his bright shining child queen. She is not dead. I will not believe it. -- Barristan II, ADWD

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A bride for our bright prince. Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar's wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon's birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward. -- JonCon II, ADWD

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Griff had heard enough of the captain-general's cowardice. "We will not be alone. Dorne will join us, must join us. Prince Aegon is Elia's son as well as Rhaegar's."-- JonCon II, ADWD

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Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Barristan Selmy would have made a different choice. Not the queen, who was not present. Nor Elia of Dorne, though she was good and gentle; had she been chosen, much war and woe might have been avoided. His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia's companions … though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab. -- Barristan III, ADWD

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She will never wash the stain away, no matter how hard she scrubs. Ser Kevan remembered the girl she once had been, so full of life and mischief. And when she'd flowered, ahhhh … had there ever been a maid so sweet to look upon? If Aerys had agreed to marry her to Rhaegar, how many deaths might have been avoided? Cersei could have given the prince the sons he wanted, lions with purple eyes and silver manes … and with such a wife, Rhaegar might never have looked twice at Lyanna Stark. The northern girl had a wild beauty, as he recalled, though however bright a torch might burn it could never match the rising sun.

But it did no good to brood on lost battles and roads not taken. That was a vice of old done men. Rhaegar had wed Elia of Dorne, Lyanna Stark had died, Robert Baratheon had taken Cersei to bride, and here they were. And tonight his own road would take him to his niece's chambers and face-to-face with Cersei. -- Kevan, ADWD

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Fire and blood was what Jon Connington (if indeed it was him) was offering as well. Or was it? "He comes with sellswords, but no dragons," Prince Doran had told her, the night the raven came. "The Golden Company is the best and largest of the free companies, but ten thousand mercenaries cannot hope to win the Seven Kingdoms. Elia's son... I would weep for joy if some part of my sister had survived, but what proof do we have that this is Aegon?" His voice broke when he said that. "Where are the dragons?" he asked. "Where is Daenerys?" and Arianne knew that he was really saying, "Where is my son?" -- Arianne I, TWOW

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"Gregor Clegane ripped Aegon out of Elia's arms and smashed his head against a wall," Ser Daemon said. "If Lord Connington's prince has a crushed skull, I will believe that Aegon Targaryen has returned from the grave. Elsewise, no. This is some feigned boy, no more. A sellsword's ploy to win support." -- Arianne I, TWOW

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"I... it would give great joy to my father if Elia's son were still alive. He loved his sister well." -- Arianne I, TWOW

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So it was. "I was seven when Elia died. They say I held her daughter Rhaenys once, when I was too young to remember. Aegon will be a stranger to me, whether true or false." The princess paused. "We looked for Rhaegar's sister, not his son." Her father had confided in Ser Daemon when he chose him as his daughter's shield; with him at least she could speak freely. "I would sooner it were Quentyn who'd returned." -- Arianne I, TWOW

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Meanwhile, King Aerys was becoming ever more estranged from his own son and heir. Early in the year 279 AC, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, was formally betrothed to Princess Elia Martell, the delicate young sister of Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne. They were wed the following year, in a lavish ceremony at the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, but Aerys II did not attend. He told the small council that he feared an attempt upon his life if he left the confines of the Red Keep, even with his Kingsguard to protect him. Nor would he allow his younger son, Viserys, to attend his brother's wedding.

When Prince Rhaegar and his new wife chose to take up residence on Dragonstone instead of the Red Keep, rumors flew thick and fast across the Seven Kingdoms. Some claimed that the crown prince was planning to depose his father and seize the Iron Throne for himself, whilst others said that King Aerys meant to disinherit Rhaegar and name Viserys heir in his place. Nor did the birth of King Aerys's first grandchild, a girl named Rhaenys, born on Dragonstone in 280 AC, do aught to reconcile father and son. When Prince Rhaegar returned to the Red Keep to present his daughter to his own mother and father, Queen Rhaella embraced the babe warmly, but King Aerys refused to touch or hold the child and complained that she "smells Dornish." -- TWOIAF

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Chief amongst the Mad King's supporters were three lords of his small council: Qarlton Chelsted, master of coin, Lucerys Velaryon, master of ships, and Symond Staunton, master of laws. The eunuch Varys, master of whisperers, and Wisdom Rossart, grand master of the Guild of Alchemists, also enjoyed the king's trust. Prince Rhaegar's support came from the younger men at court, including Lord Jon Connington, Ser Myles Mooton of Maidenpool, and Ser Richard Lonmouth. The Dornishmen who had come to court with the Princess Elia were in the prince's confidence as well, particularly Prince Lewyn Martell, Elia's uncle and a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. But the most formidable of all Rhaegar's friends and allies in King's Landing was surely Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.-- TWOIAF

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And when the triumphant Prince of Dragonstone named Lyanna Stark, daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, the queen of love and beauty, placing a garland of blue roses in her lap with the tip of his lance, the lickspittle lords gathered around the king declared that further proof of his perfidy. Why would the prince have thus given insult to his own wife, the Princess Elia Martell of Dorne (who was present), unless it was to help him gain the Iron Throne? The crowning of the Stark girl, who was by all reports a wild and boyish young thing with none of the Princess Elia's delicate beauty, could only have been meant to win the allegiance of Winterfell to Prince Rhaegar's cause, Symond Staunton suggested to the king..-- TWOIAF

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As cold winds hammered the city, King Aerys II turned to his pyromancers, charging them to drive the winter off with their magics. Huge green fires burned along the walls of the Red Keep for a moon's turn. Prince Rhaegar was not in the city to observe them, however. Nor could he be found in Dragonstone with Princess Elia and their young son, Aegon. With the coming of the new year, the crown prince had taken to the road with half a dozen of his closest friends and confidants, on a journey that would ultimately lead him back to the riverlands. Not ten leagues from Harrenhal, Rhaegar fell upon Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, and carried her off, lighting a fire that would consume his house and kin and all those he loved—and half the realm besides..-- TWOIAF

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From Dorne, in defense of Princess Elia, ten thousand spears came over the Boneway and marched to King's Landing to bolster the host that Rhaegar was raising. Those who were there at court during this time have recounted that Aerys's behavior was erratic. He was untrusting of any save his Kingsguard—and then only imperfectly, for he kept Ser Jaime Lannister close at all hours to serve as a hostage against his father..-- TWOIAF

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Birds flew and couriers raced to bear word of the victory at the Ruby Ford. When the news reached the Red Keep, it was said that Aerys cursed the Dornish, certain that Lewyn had betrayed Rhaegar. He sent his pregnant queen, Rhaella, and his younger son and new heir, Viserys, away to Dragonstone, but Princess Elia was forced to remain in King's Landing with Rhaegar's children as a hostage against Dorne. Having burned his previous Hand, Lord Chelsted, alive for bad counsel during the war, Aerys now appointed another to the position: the alchemist Rossart—a man of low birth, with little to recommend him but his flames and trickery. -- TWOIAF

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The Red Keep was soon breached, but in the chaos, misfortune soon fell upon Elia of Dorne and her children, Rhaenys and Aegon. It is tragic that the blood spilled in war may as readily be innocent as it is guilty, and that those who ravished and murdered Princess Elia escaped justice. It is not known who murdered Princess Rhaenys in her bed, or smashed the infant Prince Aegon's head against a wall. Some whisper it was done at Aerys's own command when he learned that Lord Lannister had taken up Robert's cause, while others suggest that Elia did it herself for fear of what would happen to her children in the hands of her dead husband's enemies.-- TWOIAF

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Dorne continued to be closely allied with House Targaryen in the years that followed, with the Martells supporting the Targaryens against the Blackfyre Pretenders and sending spears to fight the Ninepenny Kings on the Stepstones. Their loyal service was rewarded when Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, took to wife Princess Elia Martell of Sunspear, and sired two children by her. But for the madness of Rhaegar's father, Aerys II, a prince of Dornish blood might very well have one day ruled the realm, but the upheavals of Robert's Rebellion brought about the end of Prince Rhaegar, his wife, and his children. .-- TWOIAF

#elia martell #eliaweek2021 #asoiaf

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mmvalentine · 4 years ago

Text

But You pt 4 | Feysand

Modern AU. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

This time, Rhys stuck around.

He had gone into such a shame spiral after he had kissed Feyre, that stupid stolen kiss in her room when he was so mad from missing her after his year away. So this year, he had tried harder.

It seemed that just taking himself right out of the equation didn't work. Was unbearable, in fact, to have not have her in his life. He thought about her every day while he was in Brazil, and the only time he got relief was the hours he spent lying on his uncle's table while he tapped ink into his skin. He never thought he'd be so relieved to be in so much pain.

So over this year, he tried to keep in Feyre's life enough so that he didn't lose his mind, but not so much that she couldn't breathe. The balancing act was exhausting. But, at the end of the day he was just relieved that she still wanted to see him after the day he had pushed too far.

As far as things stood, Rhys liked to think he had done pretty well up until this point. He had held it together when Feyre's horrendous sisters came to town and Feyre had asked him to be her moral support. Even managed not to throttle them.

He had held it together when Feyre and Tarquin broke up, about six months in and fairly amicably. It had turned out to be not that serious, but Rhys made sure Feyre didn't think he was just hanging around waiting for them to end.

Rhys had even held it together when Feyre had come to stay with him for the weekend, and slept in his bed while he lay awake on the couch and stared at the ceiling trying to stop his heart from racing at the thought of her between his sheets.

But tonight, he was in pieces.

Rhys had put together some of his photographs from Brazil and the Amazon for his final assignment in photojournalism, and the professor had submitted them on Rhys' behalf to a magazine. The magazine published them, and as well as paying him, invited him to their gala event. Of course, Rhys had said no. And then Feyre bullied him into going. And he still said no, but then Feyre offered to come with him and "hold his hand like the big baby he is" and he had said yes.

So there they were, hotel rooms paid for by the magazine and flights paid for by Rhys. Rhys in a rented tuxedo and Feyre looking absolutely unreasonable. He didn't know what to do with this. There she was, in a black velvet dress that had long sleeves, a high neckline, and long, flowing skirts. And utterly no back at all. The expanse of skin was intoxicating, it was all he could do not to reach out and stroke his fingers down the indent of her spine. Just once. That's all he would need. That would keep him going for another year.

Instead, he tightened his grip on his brandy glass.

Of course, if it had just been him and Feyre getting all dressed up, Rhys would have had a lovely evening. He quite enjoyed putting on the suit. It was all the other damn people he couldn't abide.

Right at this moment, Feyre was talking to a blonde woman in a gold dress. Rhys didn't know her name and frankly, didn't care. There was a fourth person in the group, whom Rhys actually did know, but didn't like. Cresseida, was her name. He wasn't listening to any of them, was just thinking about the black of Feyre's dress and the white of her skin. Then he heard his name and, with effort, tuned back in.

"Well that's Rhys for you," Cresseida was saying. Her eyes twinkled at him. "Brilliant journalist. Terrible mood. Nothing worse than walking in in the morning and trying to make small talk with this wooden board." Rhys tried to smile, but it came out a grimace.

"I don't know," Feyre said. "I think his worst quality is that he's a terrible flirt." She leaned her elbow on his shoulder, and this time he did smile. Always smiled when she was touching him. Cresseida snorted. "I should be so lucky," she said. "I'd take flirting over the brooding any day." Rhys leaned in, and said into Feyre's ear, "It's only you that I flirt with, Feyre darling." "I don't believe you," Feyre whispered back, her eyes dancing with amusement. He didn't know how to tell her he wasn't joking.

It was then that Feyre tossed her hair over her shoulder and the honeysuckle scent of it had him all distracted once again.

Then Rhys' professor walked over, and although he was a clever man who believed in Rhys and had gotten him the opportunity of a life time, he was also boring and talkative and the last person Rhys wanted to be forced to converse with that night. So Rhys excused himself just the professor arrived, and slipped away before anyone could start talking to him.

The open bar welcomed him warmly. He leaned against the mahogany table top, and wondered if it was too early for him to go up to his room.

An hour later, Feyre found him in the coat room.

“Oh,” she said. “There you are. I got stuck talking to your professor and then couldn’t find you.” "Well here I am," Rhys said. "I don't speak Portuguese, Rhys," Feyre replied wryly.

What language was he speaking?

"Eu não gosto quando você me deixa. As estrelas se apagam e eu não consigo ver nada. Não há nada, nada e nada."

He couldn't be speaking Portuguese, because his dad had said he wasn't allowed to anymore.

"Okay, drunk Rhys," Feyre said. "Let's get you upstairs, huh?"

She hauled him to his feet, and they made their way to the lobby elevators. He stumbled inside, and the doors closed behind them.

"I love this song," Rhys said, as Feyre reached behind him to hit their level. On the 81st floor.

"You love elevator music?" Feyre asked. "Sure," said Rhys, and pulled her arms around his neck so he could dance with her. Put his own around her waist, completely forgetting that her dress was backless. His hands flexed as they met her skin, and he bit back a moan.

"Gods Feyre, are you this soft everywhere?" he asked her. Feyre snorted and let him sway her around the elevator as they traveled endlessly upward.

"No seriously. You look incredible." He put his nose by her ear. "Thank you," Feyre told him, "so do you." She head rested on his shoulder. "Yeah I know I do," Rhys said, "but you..." He leaned back a fraction, his eyes roved down and back up. His throat worked, but nothing at all came out of his mouth.

Rhys realised then that they had stopped moving, and Feyre was just staring at him with ocean storms in her teacup eyes. Something thrummed under his skin, and a distant thought told him to back away. But he couldn't. Was rooted to the spot.

And then Feyre rose up on her toes and kissed him very gently on the mouth.

Rhys' world tipped. The elevator floor slid out from underneath him, and he stumbled back against the mirrored wall. Pulled Feyre with him, because there was nowhere he wanted to go without her.

Feyre crashed against his chest, and as he drank up her breath, his hands finally, finally smoothed over the silk of her bare back. All the way down to her tailbone. Lower.

The elevator dinged, and bumped to a stop. The doors sighed open, and Rhys' lips lost Feyre's.

She stared, wide-eyed at him for a moment, breathing unsteadily and leaning against him. Then she pushed away, turned, and walked quickly to her room.

Rhys left more slowly. Stood there until the doors closed and he had to press the 'open' button again before he was carried away. Walked down the hall, his shiny shoes scuffing silently along the carpeted corridor. And then lay on his bed fully clothed, staring at nothing at all.

Hours later, once he had showered and changed and sobered up a little, Rhys still couldn't get to sleep. He could swear he was hearing Feyre's heartbeat through the wall that divided their rooms, and fought to keep his body in his bed.

Then just before midnight, he could bear it no longer. Rolled out of bed, walked barefoot out the door, and stood outside Feyre's room. Raised his closed fist to knock.

And just stood there for a minute, breathing in the yellow light, before resting his forehead quietly on the cold wood of the door, and then going back to bed.

****

Welcome new taglisters, have a world of pain! I don't know what's wrong with me right now I can't stop hurting everyone!

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-babies @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @thalia-2-rose @f-cursebreaker

#feysand #feysand fic #acotar #angst #mine

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ashdoesfandomarchieved · 3 years ago

Text

oh my god they were drift compatible

ao3

Beckett likes fighting.

She likes the rhythm, the burn of the bo staff in her palms, the sound of wind rushing in her ears. Every thrust, every block; her heart rate climbs imperceptibly until it’s pounding in her skull. A pulse of blood drowning out everything but the sound of her own heavy breathing and her opponent’s gasps.

Beckett loves fighting. But this isn’t supposed to be a fight.

Ransom grunts as his back hits the floor. The fall is softer than it would have been in an actual situation—broken by the practice mats and Beckett catching his head with her ankle right before it impacts with the ground. He blinks up at her, heaving slightly, sweat soaking his brow and the front of his gray shirt.

“Four points to three,” Bradward Boimler’s monotone voice rises across the loud applause. She risks a glance at him. His eyebrows are pulled together slightly, lips puckered into something like disappointment.

With a scowl, Beckett stomps toward where he’s standing, just slightly behind her mother, staring impassively down at his clipboard. He looks the picture of a perfect officer: uniform neatly pressed, back straight, shoulders back, expression unreadable. Even his hair still somehow manages to be professional despite his obnoxious color and the way it’s swept to the side, revealing the undercut beneath.

The only thing that gives him away is the slight uptick in his voice.

“What the fuck?” Beckett slams the butt of her staff into the ground and leans on it with both hands. Boimler flinches slightly at the sound, shoulders coming up to his ears.

Marshal Freeman’s face is impassive, but Beckett can tell she’s inwardly smirking.

“Is there a problem?” Boimler finally asks, when he realizes his Marshal isn’t going to.

“If you don’t think Ransom is a good fit for me, why did you personally select him?” she demands, trying to keep from snarling at him.

Boimler’s lips thin.

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re talking about,” he replies, measuredly. He risks a glance at Freeman, whose face is as immobile as concrete.

“Every time I get him on his back—”

Ransom makes a choking noise in tandem with Brad’s face turning red.

“—you get pissy,” she says. “Like we’re not doing good enough or some shit.”

“ He’s doing fine,” his voice raises a couple of notches—probably out of nervousness. A couple of oohs come from the crowd at that. “My problem is with you.”

Beckett lets out a surprised snort, leaning back on her heels. “Me?”

Boimler risks one more glance at Freeman. She’s still standing, feet two shoulder widths apart, hands clasped behind her back. Utterly impassive and watching Beckett with a hawk-like gaze. If Brad hadn’t already pissed her off, that would have done it. Beckett is reminded of a thousand moments in her childhood where she wasn’t good enough to be privy to what was going on in her own mother’s head.

So she turns her ire on Boimler, who has finally come to the realization that Freeman was just going to let this happen. He takes a step out of the woman’s shadow, hands gripping his clipboard tightly.

“You’re good,” he says, voice reluctant. “You could’ve had him incapacitated two moves ago, but you waited until the last one.”

“So? I still won.”

“That’s the problem. Compatibility isn’t supposed to be about a fight.”

Beckett smiles. “You know how to use one of these?” she asks, throwing the bo staff up in the air slightly and catching it.

Something in Boimler’s expression stiffens. “I’m not—”

“Come on, Bradward,” she cajoles. “Just one fight.”

He glares. “It’s not a fight .”

Beckett switches her gaze toward her mother, who has finally let the corners of her mouth twitch into something of a smile. “Officer Boimler, if you would indulge Ranger Mariner,” she says. It’s not a suggestion.

With something of a sigh, Boimler allows his superior to take his clipboard and begins to strip down to his undershirt and pants. She eyes him up as he unties his boots, setting them just off the mats. He’s lanky and quite a bit skinnier than she is. That’s not to say that he hasn’t built on some muscle—you really can’t be in this business without undergoing some form of physical activity—but it’s tightly packed and in only a few places.

In other words, he’s not a hunk like Ransom.

He picks a black bo staff, leaning against the wall, and cautiously steps onto the mats.

Beckett cracks her neck and walks toward him slowly, but assuredly. “Alright, Officer Doucherocket,” she says. “If it’s not a fight, then what is it?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Aren’t you the jaeger pilot?” He does something clever with his fingers that spins the bo staff in his hands in tandem with the fighting stance he drops into. That tight feeling in Beckett’s chest that had squeezed tightly when she first saw Boimler standing there, in the rain, skyrockets at that. “You tell me.”

The first hit is expected and she blocks it with a quick tap, sliding to the side so that she can get her own jab in at his side. Surprisingly, he seems to have accounted for that. He spins, managing to catch her staff before she can land it.

Ten seconds in and they’re both zero to zero.

Beckett draws back, breath already a little too fast for how early the match is. “Alright,” she says, circling him slowly. He stays grounded, moving just enough to accommodate her movements. “Not bad, for a farm boy.”

One eyebrow ticks upward. “Not bad for an army brat,” he tosses back.

Beckett has a reply for that and it involves poking him in the ribs. He lets out huff as she cheekily says, “One to zero.”

Boimler’s eyes narrow.

It’s on.

Boimler goes for the ankles, ensuring that Beckett won’t be able to attack while defending. She manages to hop over the swipe, but isn’t fast enough to block when he brings up his staff to tap her on the shoulder.

One to one .

Beckett goes for a couple of cross strikes and pokes in rapid enough succession that all Boimler can do is block. He moves backwards with each move, quickly losing ground as she lays into him a barrage of swift techniques. She finally manages to strike faster than he can parry, getting a faux blow to the head.

“Two to one,” she sing-songs. She twirls her staff in one hand, backing up a bit. Maybe she’s going a little too hard on him.

Brad flips his staff so that the short end of it is pointed toward her with the long length of it against his side. “You’re still thinking wrong” he says, before diving back in.

An upward strike and a few spin-assisted moves has her giving up ground to accommodate the sudden onslaught. He manages to tap her knee, much to her annoyance. Two-to-fucking-two. He doesn’t give up ground like they’ve been doing after getting a point in. He stays still, waiting for her next moves.

“And you still haven’t explained what you mean by that,” she snaps, right before she engages in a swarmer style. It involves throwing in so many moves—no matter how badly executed or landed—that your opponent has no choice but to concede.

Concede Boimler does, allowing himself to be backed up so far that when she finally delivers the finishing move—hooking an ankle behind his and delivering an elbow to his bicep—he almost falls off the mats when he rolls on his shoulder back into an upright position. As cool as the move is, she still gets a point when she tips the side of his head gently with her staff.

There’s a smattering of applause that is drowned out by the sound of her heart pounding in her ears when Boimler suddenly sweeps his staff in a wide motion that would have hit her head had she not quickly ducked. She blocks the move, side-stepping as to get in a strike of her own that is blocked just as quickly. Boimler spins on the balls of his feet, almost getting in a strike to her ribs that she parries with a downward block. This, unfortunately puts her in a precarious position with his staff under hers that allows her zero leverage when he twists own staff just so, making her flip onto her back.

She makes impact, air rushing out of her lungs, but rolls back onto her feet before he can get a point in.

“It’s a conversation,” Boimler says, as she slides from a graceful half split into a fighting stance. “But you know that already.”

The sound of the bo staff cutting through the air reminds Beckett of how it sounds to fly-the rushing of wind in her ears, the loud sound drowning out her thoughts. She catches Boimler’s strike and throws in a few of her own, delighted at how gracefully he parries them.

“Drift compatibility-” he says, between interchanging blocks, parries and strikes, “-is about connection.”

She spins, almost getting a strike to the collarbone in. “If you fight the person-”

“You fight the connection,” Boimler finishes, parrying a strike to the groin with a rueful grin. “It’s about trust.”

He pulls back out of hitting range, signaling a reprieve. “So, why aren’t you trusting your partner?” His eyes shift over her shoulder, most likely finding Ransom’s in the crowd.

She takes in a few breaths, trying not to heave. Sweat runs down her back and thighs and palms, making her skin burn with discomfort. Brad stands a few feet away, looking equally sweaty and exhausted. His eyes find hers again, questioningly.

“Maybe you’re shit a judging compatibility,” she says breathily, tilting her head. “You really found the first hunk with daddy issues and a savior complex and thought yeah nothing will ever go wrong with this -”

“Hey!” Ransom’s voice is easily ignorable, so she does just that.

“-and called it a fucking day?” She snorts, shaking her head. “Do you think I’m really that predictable? Tell me,” she jerks her chin toward her mother, toward that damn clipboard with all of Boimler’s stupid notes, “what’s your professional analysis on me, Officer Boimler.”

“Marin-”

She takes a step forward, well within range for him to take a point. “What has you so tied up in knots that you can’t even do your goddamn job and correctly pair-”

“You’re reckless ,” he hisses, getting up in her face. They’re almost the same height, but she still has to tilt her head upwards to maintain eye contact. “You put others in danger out in the field and you wait too long to finish the fight you could have ended three moves ago and there’s absolutely no way to find a compatible partner for you because no one is!”

His breath mingles with hers as they both heave. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and there’s a flush-from the heat and the anger—crawling up his neck and into his face—that stupid face that she wants to punch or slap or ki-

“That’s enough.” Her mother’s voice rings out through the silent room.

Boimler blinks in surprise, as if only just realizing that there are other people in the room. People that include an entire crowd of spectators and his commanding officer, who have been watching this strange back-and-forth the entire time.

He takes a step back, face going from a light pink flush to a deep red one, and runs a hand through his hair. “Marshal Freeman?” His posture has stiffened.

Beckett turns to face her mother, reluctance and exhaustion vying for dominance. “Ransom is a fine officer and a decent sparring partner, but if you’re going to pair me with him than you can forget it. I’m not even asking for vulnerability, but if my partner can’t drop the cocky attitude, there’s no way this is going to work.”

Freeman raises her eyebrows. “Vulnerability? I wasn’t aware that was a requirement for drifting.”

“Drifting is about connection,” Beckett says, tossing Boimler a smug look. “I can’t trust someone unwilling to be honest with me. I would rather someone look me in the eye and tell me what they think of me than put up a cocky front and a flirty attitude.”

Something in Freeman’s face sharpens. It’s an expression that Beckett knows well—that pleased feeling of having won. “Well then,” she says. “If that is the case. Officer Boimler, Ranger Beckett, you’re both expected to report to at 0500 to prep for the maiden flight of Cerritos -”

“Wait what—”

“Marshal you have to be joking—”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Freeman snaps. “We are on a time limit here. Every moment spent wasting time is another potential loss for millions and I cannot afford my team messing around.” She moves forward, coming to a stop just in front of the practice mats. “Ransom is a fine officer,” she nods at him respectfully, “but you’re right. He’s not a good fit. You need someone who challenges you, yes, but you also need someone who’s going to ground you.”

“And you think that—that he is going to-” Beckett sputters, waving a hand in Boimler’s direction.

“Usually I would be offended by that, but I’m on her side,” Boimler blurts out. Beckett gives him an almost grateful nod. “Marshal, you cannot be serious about-”

She cuts them both off with a glare. “This isn’t up for discussion. Billups, get them together before tomorrow, Shaxs I want Cerritos ready for launch in six hours, and you two-” she points at the two gaping new drift partners. “Take a shower, you both stink.”

As she power walks away, crowd dispersing in her wake and officers rushing off to comply with orders, Beckett turns back to Boimler.

He’s still staring after her mom, face ashen.

“Well don’t look too excited.”

He shifts his gaze toward her. “What.”

“Nevermind. Shit.” She drops her staff pressing her palms into her eyes. “I really have to drift with a bonehead farm boy.”

The noise Boimler makes in the back of his throat is unintelligible. “How do you think I feel? I have to drift with a cocky egomaniac who just tried to prove a point through the power of violence.”

Beckett can’t help it. She grins, dropping her hands. “Could be worse.” She picks up the staff and grabs Boimler’s out of his hand, walking them back to their resting place. “You could be drifting with Ransom.”

“Ugh.”

“See,” she points at him, scowling. “My exact point. Why the fuck would anyone want to be his copilot? I don’t want that man in my head.”

“You don’t want me in your head either,” Boimler points out.

“You're a damn sight better than him,” she grudgingly admits. “Even if you are scrawny as shit.”

His mouth twists into something between a smile and a grimace. “I’m not sure whether or not that was supposed to be a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

There’s a pause. A little awkward, although Boimler is still smiling at her. Something behind his eyes is searching, curious. As if he has a million questions that he’s not allowed to ask or that she won’t answer.

If the drift goes well, there’ll be no need for curiosity or questions.

“So,” Beckett sighs, resigning herself to the fact that this dweeb is going to fucking mind meld with her at 5 fucking am tomorrow. “Showers?”

His face turns red—again—and it’s almost endearing. “I-”

“Separate showers,” she clarifies, although for some stupid reason the back of her neck is heating up. “Duh.”

“Right. Right, separate-right.” He’s back to being flustered again, which is cute but-

Wait. Cute?

Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh sweet mother of aliens that rose from the ocean and ate San Francisco, Beckett Mariner thinks this lanky, purple haired, nerd is cute.

This cannot be happening.

“Shower!” she squeaks out, backing up as quickly toward the exit that she can while being exhausted as shit . “I’m just gonna-yeah. Shower. Bye.” She all but runs from the room, face steadily going warmer and warmer, heart pounding like she’s about to have a fucking attack or something.

Brad Boimler is about to be in her head and she thinks he’s cute.

She slides to a stop, back resting against the wall as she heaves in gasping breaths.

“Fuck.”

#drift compatible au #marinler #star trek lower decks #my fanfic #my fic #star trek lower decks fanfic #beckett mariner #brad boimler

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jenivi7 · 4 years ago

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First Lines Tagging Meme

I'M SO HAPPY TO BE TAGGED IN THIS TWICE! Thank you @ink-flavored and @clyde-side !! (I almost just did this on my own too because I love babbling about my own fics...)

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line.

Now pinned and under a cut because it became a really long, really good introduction to me and my stories!

Hello!

Unnecessary and overly wordy introduction/personal musings: I love opening lines so much. When I worked at a bookstore, I used to open books and hardcore judge them on their first lines. I had barely any free time to read at that point so if it didn’t grab me in the first line or two, I put it back. The first Harry Potter book is actually in my pile of really good openers. “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.” (Subtle alliteration, HELLO??) So I'm super excited to see if my own first lines come even close to the standards that I apply to other people lol. MY OWN MONEY IS ON NO. I have the feeling that I'm so frantic trying to get the story down on paper before the good words disappear from my head that I'm not actually paying attention to the first line. BUT LET'S SEE, SHALL WE.

So just straight up going backwards, I've written and posted TWO BRAND NEW THINGS after being away from fandom almost entirely for 10+ years! They're drabble length but they're shiny and new! <3 (All available fics are linked!)

1. Tango:

She teaches them to dance so that they can dance with her but when Atem gets that mischievous smirk on his face and pulls Yugi into his arms, their bodies spark and the dance floor smolders at their heels.

(The fic is so short that this is a full 1/5 of it but actually, I think I crammed all the good stuff right into that first line. This already might be my favorite. Like it says there in the line itself, Puzzleshipping.)

2. No Betting:

Anzu sat at the kitchen table writing carefully calculated answers onto sticky notes before attaching them to a fourth-grade math worksheet.

(Peachshipping! This one doesn't pop off until about line five so here's the rest of that bit:)

She had the same arrangement with her spouse as most parents had. When the kids were good they were hers. When they were bad, they were his. And when they were winning at games because they picked up rules with uncanny speed and read their opponents with more insight than ought to be available to a child, they were definitely, definitely his.

3. If you wanted honesty that's all you had to say (working title):

When he realized that the figure sitting under the game shop display window and smoking wasn’t Ryou, the physical body response was as though it had discovered a coiled snake not two feet away.

(This one! It's a NEW half finished(?) WIP. I actually started this one before the drabbles but wanted to finish before posting it. Then it got out of hand, then work got out of hand, then I started a couple more projects and well. I keep putting words on it though and eventually there will be a Kleptoshipper that turns into Puzzle and Tender for your reading enjoyment. Also, fair warning - don't use song lyrics as a working title. Every time I look at the document I get the song stuck in my head.)

Now we have polished up reposts of old stories for their move to AO3, where I'll basically keep my master archive. Not full re-writes but I fixed a bunch of typos and awkward sentences and they're much stronger for it. Most of these are from a pairings contest way back when so LOTS of different pairings and lots of AUs!

4. Human:

It was like a bad noir, the thought crossed both of their minds.

(Scifi AU, Rivalshipping. That one's not bad for a first line. Actually no link at the time of writing cause the re-edit is going up in like, a half hour? an hour? a half day? It's my next project after finishing this, finishing up the edit and posting it on AO3. Now with link!)

5. Blood:

Fingers through midnight black hair, whispers in his ear, touches that sizzled along the skin, awakening nerves and senses.

(Dungeonshipping, Pegasus x Otogi, vampires AU. Oh that’s a nice first line! <3)

6. Crazy for You:

The keys are too large and too heavy for the doctor more used to more modern facilities but she doesn't say anything, just follows the orderly as he pulls the large door open.

(Manipulashipping, Anzu x Marik, Psychward AU. Still one of my favorites from that era. Big bold warning though, THIS ONE CONTAINS NON-CON)

7. Finality:

“What are you doing here?”

“Saying goodbye.” Bakura’s translucent arms swept across the graveyard. “Is this not an appropriate place for it?”

(First two or so bits of dialogue as the first first is a generic question. You can tell this is one of the really old ones just by that but it's a sweet, sad little Tendershipper that still has a special place in my heart.)

8. Pieces of You:

Glitter caught the light, leaving shimmering trails in the air as it got everywhere.

(Glittershipping, Anzu x Kisara. Another one that's special to me. Kisara is my girl and my first writing muse. <3)

9. Cambodia:

“It was summer of fifty three...”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, it can't have been fifty three. You might be that ancient but I'm not. It must have been sixty three.”

(Jiishipping. Yes. Sugoroku x Arthur. HEY, IT CAME UP IN THE RANDOM DRAW FOR THE SHIPPING CONTEST OK. And my writer's brain hasn't backed down from a challenge yet... Another one that takes 4 lines to pop off but it's a good start. Actually, here's the rest of the bit just because I cannot get enough of these two bickering:)

“What do you mean it must have been sixty three? You don't even know what story I'm trying to tell.”

“Am I in it?”

“What?”

“So you're deaf now as well as daft? AM I IN IT?”

“Of course you're in it, y'old coot. Don't know why I'd tell a story without you in it when both grandkids are sitting here.”

10. Coffee and Cigarettes:

"Cigarettes and coffee? That's not a very healthy lunch."

Mana crossed her legs and took a refined sip of her own coffee even as her company was not.

(Mischiefshipping, Mana x Thief King Bakura. Oh this one I'm actually sad that it doesn't immediately sparkle in the first line cause it's one of my absolute favorites of everything I've written. And I think it's the only time I've ever written Mana but I LOVED IT AND HER. Oh no! I lied, I've written her at least one other time though I don't think that one quite captures her sheer chaos energy like this one does.)

11. A Million Missed Chances:

Somewhere along the line, someone made a choice.

(This one. THIS ONE. I think this is by far the most epic idea I've tackled. I still don't know if the sheer scale of the thing came across in the actual fic but in my head it was massive and I remember pounding away at my teeny tiny laptop late at night because the whole thing hit me maybe a day or so before the story was due for the pairings contest. We only had a week to write each fic and my really good ideas never came to me before the very last minute. T.T Conquestshipping, Mai x Valon.)

12. A Fear of Falling:

She drove.

Like she always did when something bothered her.

(Oh the first chapter on this is also one of the really ancient ones. Like one of the very first things I wrote. That first chapter really shows its age and is a little shaky but the others are better and the last one is what fits into the chorological order here. Polarshipping, Jou x Mai. One of my very first ships. Probably THE first actually <3)

13. What Our Creators Make Us:

"Well, well." The match flared, scattering dark shadows until it was blown out and the only light that remained was the red glow from the cigarette end. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

(Psychoshipping, Marik x Spirit of the Ring Bakura. With a bit of Bronze, Angst and Tender in the follow up. Old but I'm ridiculously proud of it, hence it's place in the master archive. Ahaha you can tell how old it is though by how clever I think I am. I thought it was funny to make my audience figure out who was talking and not reveal the characters for a good fourth to third of the fic. Ahhhhhhh. Sorry about past me.)

14. A Revolution of the Spirit:

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't.

That they were close was understandable (you don't get much closer than sharing headspace) but that even now, after deals were made with gods, endless arguments, compromises and the ultimate guilt trip that he had only been a teenager when he willingly sacrificed himself for all of humanity, things she had only half seen and only partly understood even though they had all been there to witness, that even now Atem continued to invade Yugi's personal space as though he belonged there got on her nerves.

(Woah Nelly! That third sentence should probably be three, four and five. Even if I just split it in half we'd continue the pattern of things popping off in the fourth line. I think that's one pattern that's emerging! A really good bit takes me about four lines to set up and deliver! Oh, the challenge was Revolutionshipping, Anzu x Atem, but the fic is actually Spiritshipping, Anzu x Yugi x Atem.)

So confession time, I haven't been out of fandom completely, I just hadn't written my own standalone stories in a very long time. There are a few (ok ok more than a few) long-running rps that @miss-moberg and I have been adding to on and off over the years. I can't resist throwing in a couple of these.

15. Cafe!

The door shut behind them with the soft click of the latch and the exhale of a breath long held.

(This opening line was from December of 2020 when we rebooted a very old Prideshipper and that is a damn good opening line if I do say so myself. I can definitely see the difference now between the newer works and the older ones. I've gotten better, she's matched me pace for pace and eventually something will be finished, I'll work up the courage to ask permission to post it and the whole internet will get to see how brilliant the two of us are together.)

16. Treasure Hunt!

"Ryou, I think you're going to regret letting me tag along on your adventuring this time." Yugi didn't bother turning away from the airplane's tiny window to see if his seatmate was paying attention. He was more thinking out loud with his friend playing the role of a convenient sounding board. "Because I think this trip is the only thing I'm going to talk about ever again."

(One more from RP because it's got that fun, four line punch that we've discovered is a pattern for me! Opening entry is from 2017.)

Also, in truth, my count is a little off when I say I'd been out of fandom 10+ years. I've been away from YGO for that long but I did spend a brief stint in Homestuck where I read a ton of fanfic, flirted with a couple group RPs and even wrote a tiny bit. 9 years without writing a new fic isn't as impressive as saying ‘over a decade’ but it is a little more accurate.

17. What You Will:

In the land of fair Illyria, along a small, sandy stretch of its rocky shore, a ship has come to ruin and one lone woman lies still as death among broken wood.

(The beginning of a Homestuck/Twelfth Night crossover that I'm still determined to work more on someday. It's only got a single chapter but it's magic though now I'm concerned about not being able to recapture that. Not a bad first line though. The style is so different it took me reading it a couple times before going, oh yeeeeeah, that's pretty good!)

18. Relentless:

You pull him to the deck and then across it by the remains of his shirt. Let him say one last goodbye. His ship pillaged, his crew murdered, his hands bound behind his back and at your mercy.

Funny word, that. Mercy.

(The first line is pretty decent but there's that four line combo again! Five but I could basically fix that with a comma. Featuring the troll ancestors Mindfang and Dualscar because every time Hussey introduced new characters they were instantly my favorite.)

19. Black:

There is dark and there is dark and there is dark and then there is black. She is black. Licorice and coal. She is hate and resentment and everything that tastes bitter, the kind of black that coats the tongue like oil, drips down the back of the throat and keeps going.

(Oh wow. Am I allowed to say that about my own work? A Terezi/Vriska drabble that I'm putting as much here as I think I can get away with because it's so good that it fucks me up a little going back and reading it.)

And here it gets tricky because I think the more recent of the old, old fics are in the Drabbles and Shorts collection on ff.net and I can't see a post date. So I'll just pick a good one to end on.

20. Two Princes:

It was inevitable as the rising of Ra's chariot after a long night, as the flooding of the river banks every spring, and Atem always knew that Yugi's kiss would be as warm and gentle as the evening breeze in the summer that brought relief from the scorching day. It was.

(How about the final honor going to more Puzzle/Blind? This probably has the strongest first line of its era. Actually I'm not sure when it was written. It was just hanging out in my writing folder and, thinking about it, I probably wrote it when I was fading from fandom the first time around but still trying to hang in there. No wait! That’s too sad, we can’t end on that! Lets add one more to the list for the sake of personal narrative!)

21. Linger:

The world doesn't need him anymore. It doesn't need his sword and it doesn't need his pen.

(A tiny Princess Tutu afterward that I wrote for myself. Nice one-two punch in the opener. Also it rounds out the personal story that accidentally developed here with a line later in the fic, "Words, however, never stray far from a good writer..." Like, wait, stop. Past me, how did you know T.T)

Did that take a sudden emotional turn for anyone else or was that just me. Can I offset that a little with an honorable mention? Let’s do that while I collect myself. Here’s one more.

Honorable mention: Ryou and the Thief

There was a storm gathering and too much magic in the air. Much more than occurred naturally and magic at this level was never a good thing.

(I can’t have a list of things I’ve written without having Ryou and the Thief on it. If you click on this one though, BEWARE, it’s old, it’s silly and it has a ton of explicit gay sex that… would be written very differently if we were handling it today I’m sure! This is the first RP @miss-moberg and I ever did together and our excuse to Gemship and Puzzleship turned into us running the boys through a whole adventure based on the Osiris myth. It’s the longest thing I’ve ever completed and I’d still consider it kind of my legacy.)

And that’s the last 21(+1!) stories that I’ve written!

The clear winner of best first line for me is 15. Cafe! It’s short, elegant and manages to contain a whole mood even without the context of what’s going on and who’s involved. (Spoilers: It’s Seto and Mokuba making an AU escape from Gozoboro.) Close second is Tango, the most recent story. It’s neat to see just how much better I’ve gotten and also really cool to see that even if the first line itself doesn’t contain a punch, it’s usually because there’s a nice, strong idea being set up and delivered in the first four lines (or so). What a pleasant surprise!

AND WOW, this whole tag thing didn't need to be so long! Or personal! Seriously, if you get this tag from me the challenge is only to list the first lines to 20 stories and maybe try to draw one or two conclusions from them. You all thought I was joking when I said I loved talking about my own writing! But actually, I guess it’s fine like this as I ended up using it as a way to re-introduce myself. Like, "Hey, I used to live here a long time ago and oh my god I love what you've done with the place!" Rather than being someone who's just popped up out of nowhere a few weeks ago to creepily bother all your best of the best creators so....

^///^ Hello!

Thanks for letting me ramble!

Tags! I think I've seen most of the authors I follow do this already but on the off chance you haven't been tagged yet: @elexica (checked your blog to see if you'd already done the tag and saw that you're another person returning to writing fanfiction after 10+ years. Same! Hello!!), @danieco, @draconicmaw, @nedjemetsenen (has someone tagged you already?) and two shots in the dark, @miss-moberg and @edmondia (I'm so sorry you two. T.T Please feel free to block me forever.) And please, anyone else who wants to babble about their own writing! Do this, it was so much fun. <3

#ygo #yu-gi-oh #yugioh #yugioh fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #jenific #so many ships #so many characters like woah #not half bad for a retrospective if i do say so myself #thank you for coming to my ted talk #tag game #first lines tag

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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years ago

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Warning: Ever so slightly smutty at two parts, but only slightly. However if that’s not you thing at all or if you are too young then do not read.

Summary: You and Timmy were once an item. After a painful breakup you meet each other again at an award show.

Here’s how it goes. For being an actress you’re awfully shy. While in front of the cameras when you’re immersed in a role you can turn it all off, all of your doubts and insecurities dissipates, and you can turn all your focus on the performance at hand and forget about all the people in the studio or the camera catching your every expression.

Award ceremonies however are a special form of hell. The probing questions from the journalists, the flashing lights of the cameras, the noise of reporters all screaming at you to look their way. The constant watching and judging eyes, ready to tear you apart piece by piece on the internet.

It is not for you. Despite wearing a couture dress from a fashionable designer, you do not feel like you belong in this room, with these people, who all seem to know exactly what do to and say, who seem like they were born to be here. You feel like a fraud.

The afterparty is in full swing when you arrive at the venue. Loud music echoing across the room from the DJ booth, people clinking their glasses while wearing the finest clothes money can buy, and a never-ending stream of cold champagne being served by waiters in black. A few guests are dancing, some on the floor, some on tables.

You’re hiding. Out on the balcony, out of sight. If only just for a moment. Giving in to a temptation you’ve struggled to resist all night you try to lit a cigarette, but the damn lighter just flickers.

“Need a light?” he asks and the effect that voice has on you seem ridiculously disproportionate. You can however not deny that it’s happening to you. Your knees feels unsteady and your hands are shaking and surely the world is spinning too fast around you and surely you have a fever, and you want to blame it on the champagne, you want to blame it on the cold, you want to blame it on the hunger. But it’s him. It has always been him. Whatever it is about him, whatever magic quality that he possesses, that only he possesses, is entirely his own. And no champagne in the world has ever made you feel as light headed as he has. As he still does.

As he walks up to you the world seems to be spinning and you try not to breath. The scent of him is surrounding you and you don’t want to breath him in. Because he’s not here to stay and he’s not yours to keep and soon he will leave, and you can already feel the wound in your heart pulling at its seams.

He leans closer, over you, and he holds up a lighter and so you lean closer still with your cigarette. He then lights one for himself and for a while all you do is stand there, your back pressed against the wall and his body still leaning slightly over yours. You can hear the voices and the music from inside, the chaotic roars of celebration and delight. The pounding music. Down on the street the soft noise of never-ending traffic as cars drive by. And yet, you swear you can hear both of your hearts beat, even thought that must be impossible.

It’s cold up on the rooftop but you can feel the heat of his body, so close to yours. Then he bows his head, almost as if in defeat, and he rests his forehead against yours and he takes a shaky breath.

“Sorry” he mumbles against your forehead, but what he wants to say is – I’m sorry for the times I left without saying goodbye. I’m sorry I never stayed long enough to talk things out. I’m sorry I never told you how I felt, the way I still feel when you’re around. I’m sorry I was a coward when we met, I’m sorry I stayed when I thought it wouldn’t last. I’m sorry I left. God I’m so sorry I left. I’m sorry for the tear in your heart, but if you want to compare war wounds mine is yet to stop bleeding.

He wants to say – I kept having this reoccurring dream where I was lost at sea, unable to set ashore and unable to sail away and all I could see was the light of the lighthouse and it blinded me. I couldn’t turn away from it. The rest of the world didn’t exist anymore and everything else paled against the blinding light. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. I couldn’t feel the rain or the cold or hear the screams of the sea. But the point of a lighthouse is to warn sailors of dangerous and traitorous paths ahead. In the end, there was nothing but the blinding light and I had to get closer still, I just had to, no matter the cost. And so, I crash against the rocks and every night I drown, mon ange, every night I drown.

He wants to say – you are a force of nature and the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. the first time I saw you I didn’t know what to do with myself. It seemed impossible, you seemed impossible, like taken out of dreams I hadn’t realized I was having. And when you walked up to me I wanted to sound clever, make you laugh, impress you but I didn’t know, I still don’t know, what to do with myself when you’re around. So, I offered my hand for you to shake. And you took it in yours and you smiled up at me and I swear you’ve had my heart ever since. Like I’d handed it over to you in that handshake.

He wants to say – and when you told me you loved me back I got scared, because you were beautiful and clever and funny and bright as the sun and I was half a world away for weeks and months on end and I didn’t understand how that could be enough for you. How you could settle for that. How could I let you? And I thought that surely you would meet someone else, someone better and they’d sweep you off your feet and that there would be nothing for me to do but to watch it happen and wish you the best. So, I thought of it as ripping of a band-aid and I left. Before you could leave me and I’m sorry. I was young and dumb and in love and didn’t know what to do with myself and I’m sorry.

“Sorry for all of it” he adds, even though is seems heartbreakingly inadequate even to his own ears.

You look up at him, really taking in the sight of him for the first time that evening. Hair’s a mess, like he’s dragged his hand through it a million times tonight. Dark circles under his eyes so prominent you feel worried for him and his lips pressed tightly shut together, as if he’s trying to keep a stream of words back from entering the world.

“Let’s leave” your voice a soft whisper.

He blinks, “wha- really?”, and you almost want to laugh at his puzzled expression.

“I haven’t eaten all day in order to fit into this dress, I’m starving. Let’s go someplace where I can eat my body weight in fries, and then we’ll talk. Alright?”

“Alright” he repeats, eyes full of stars as he looks down at you. And then, as if he’s unable to stop himself, he plants the gentles of kisses on your forehead. You smile up at him before reaching out your hand for him to take, and he does. It feels right.

In silence you walk out of the hotel. In silence you stroll the streets before walking into a 24/7 open diner. It is nearly empty, but the few guests and the waitress inside all notice you when you walk in. The difference between the posh party you’ve just left and this rather dirty old diner makes you smile. You don’t know if they recognise either you or Timmy but you guess that your fine clothes give you away. Timmy leads you to the booth at the far back, away from the windows and from the staring eyes of the other diners. He then waits for you to sit down before sliding in beside you. It feels familiar. In the back of your mind there’s a nagging thought that this isn’t how it should be. Seeing each other again after nearly a year apart should surely be painful, be awkward, be difficult. This is anything but. This is the familiarity of coming home and sleeping in your own bed after having been gone for too long. This is re-watching your favourite movie from childhood. This is the smell of birthday parties as a child, cupcakes with vanilla frosting and strawberries and coffee in the air. This is a shower after a long day. Your favourite meal. A photo album from when you were young. Your most beloved song. It is bliss.

On the stereo you can hear “I want hold your hand” by The Beatles over the faint sound of chatter. The whole place smells of fried food, yet his scent is so clear to you and you want to just cuddle up beside him, breath in the familiarity of him. So, you move closer and he wraps an arm around you, a big smile on his face. He kisses your forehead again and you smile.

“And what are you ordering?” A waitress asks you both, tapping a notepad with her pen.

“Do you have champagne?” you ask, only half joking. You might not have felt like celebrating all evening, but you do now.

“No” is her answered, not amused.

“Oh, well, fries? And a milkshake, strawberry, please” You smile at her, but she doesn’t melt, just writes down your order.

“And you?” She turns to Timmy.

“Oh, I’ll have fries too, and a coke, thank you”. He smiles too but the waitress still refuses to be charmed. She does however jot down his order too before dutifully rushing off to the kitchen.

Timmy looks down at you, and the smile he gives you, you swear it is radiant. You swear you see stars in his eyes. You swear he looks at you so fondly you’re more than half in love with him again. But then you think, did you ever stop. Because sure, without him you were still breathing, you still functioned as you should. You still walked your dog, went to work, cooked dinner, showered. You still went out with friends. Still laughed. You went on the business of living. All the while you missing him. It was with you like a constant ache between your ribs. Sure, the first week after he left had been almost insufferable, like something vital had, without grace or ceremony, been ripped out of your body. But you had picked up the pieces of your life and you had dusted yourself off and you had gotten on with it. And here he was, smiling down at you with stars in his eyes. You don’t feel angry, but you wonder if maybe you should. For although he felt as familiar as a cuddly toy from childhood you needed answers.

“Why did you leave?”

His smile fades, he takes a shaky breath and leans his forehead against yours, as if to collect himself. Then, with an apparent effort he pulls himself together and sits up straight again, one arm still draped around you.

“I just” a long paus. “I just thought you deserved better, I suppose”. You sit quietly and think this over. “Was that not up for me to decide?” you ask, gently. He lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah” he agrees sounding bitter, and then, sounding almost embarrassed, “I got scared”. The way he says it sounds like a confession, and a fleeting though strikes you. He wants you to repent him for his sins. “What scared you?” Your voice is gentle and soft as a whisper. While you wait for his answer you find yourself absentmindedly painting little patterns over his hand. It seems to settle him.

“The intensity of it all, I guess” and again, he sounds embarrassed, almost shy, as he confesses this to you. He nuzzles up closer to you, seeking comfort. Leaning his head against yours as you both observe your intertwined hands. “It never happened to me, not like that” and then adding, sensing your confusion “love, I mean. It never happened to me in that way, like I’d been struck by lightning or something. When it happened before, if that even was love, it grew slowly and then slowly faded. But this felt like, like” he seems at a loss for words for a second “like being thrown out of my orbit and it scared me. Being with you scared me, like I’d do fucking anything for you, be anyone for you. It just got really intense, really quick.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Before the silence can drag out too long the waitress returns with your food which she places it in front of you before scurrying off. You untangle your hand from his grasp to grab a hold of your milkshake.

“Timmy” you start but he interrupts you, “no mon ange, please, let me explain properly first”. You can tell that the endearment slipped out without him having meant to use it, for it startles you both, and you can feel the wound in your heart pulling at its seams again. You then know that without realizing it a big part of you had just assumed that he was back in your life again, and back to stay. And hearing him call you his angel again in that familiar way, as if he had never gone made you question if he really was yours to keep. He realizes that he has made you tense up and he hurriedly tries to fix it, “shit, I’m sorry babe” and there’s the other one.

And a river of memories flows over you.

A white room, with white curtains flowing in the wind as sunshine streams through them. Laying on white sheets on the hotel bed as he moves above you. You are laughing and moaning and touching. Then, a shaky whisper that might as well have been a praying in your ear as he comes, dragged out in all its glory, “babe”.

In a cinema at a movie premiere and on the screen your boyfriend having sex with another woman. You know it’s all pretend but it doesn’t stop the sinking feeling in your gut as you watch them. Then, his warm hand grasping yours, leaning in to whisper in your ear, “it’s all pretend, mon ange, I love you”.

Fighting over a game of scrabble in your apartment “Babe, I really can’t help it if ‘squeeze’ is spelled with a Z and not an S!” “Alright, then you shouldn’t be allowed to spell ‘quickly’ with a CK!” Silence. Then “but that’s the correct spelling, that’s what it should be spelled like!”

“Fuck babe, you look amazing” his admiring eyes from across the room, and then his hands in your hair as he kisses you and you laughing into that kiss. “No, where going to be late!” “Fuck them”. Laughter again and then “No, fuck me”.

A telephone call in the middle of the night. Unexpected. You’re out on the balcony, hoping the cold air will make you feel less numb. “I’m sorry, mon ange, I just can’t do it anymore”.

And then you’re back to reality again. “Babe, are you all right?” Timmy’s worried voice in your ear as he leans over you, trying to pull you back from the memories. “Look at me, please look at me, babe”. You do. He has tears in his eyes, you can tell he’s not far from shedding them. “Let me explain, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that, all I meant was that, that” and he looks so frustrated at not being able to put words on his own feelings. “All I mean is that, is that it felt like, that I felt like I loved you so much that I” he stops again and you wish you could help him formulate whatever it is he’s struggling with. “It felt so intense and it scared me. I wasn’t ready for it to happen to me like that, love I mean. I wasn’t ready for you. It scared me. I was a coward and I’m sorry”.

You kiss him. Not passionately or fervently but gently and deliberately.

“Alright” you say before finally taking a sip of your now somewhat melted strawberry milkshake. It tastes heavenly, although kissing Timmy might just taste better. You look up at him, and he seems almost frozen in place, staring back at you with stars in his eyes again. “Wanna taste?” you ask, referring to the milkshake in your hand. He nods but doesn’t place his lips around the straw, instead he places them on your lips again. It’s still slow and gentle, but this time there’s a fever behind it. Like he wants to make up for all the time spent apart.

Eventually you move away, smiling. He’s smiling too. You both tuck into your food and suddenly you feel starving. He’s still got one arm draped around you and he’s playing with your hair. And your chatting with one another. About all the small but important things that has happened in the others absence. You talk movies and music and travel too.

Before you know its early morning.

And here is how it goes. You leave the diner, still arm in arm, and make your way out into the morning. The glitter on your couture dress sheen in the sun and your limbs feel heavy with sleep deprivation. He manages to get you both a taxi and you make your way across New York City. His hand is warm in yours. You nearly fall asleep against his shoulder. The sky is a clear blue outside and the sun is beaming, and the taxi driver is humming along to the radio. It is Sunday and outside people are eating breakfast alfresco, enjoying time with their loved ones. The whole world seems to be smiling with you today.

And then you are at his apartment. He helps you out of your dress and you help him with the many buttons in his dress shirt. Body’s exhausted you both lay down in his bed, naked naked as the day you were born.

And this is how it goes. He holds you. He says softly, voice hardly more than a whisper “I won’t be a coward this time, promise. Promise I won’t leave again. Not unless you ask me to”. You turn around and you kiss him. And you trust him. And you fall asleep holding each other.

***

This is a repost from my previous blog.

#timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothee x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet x you #timothée x reader #timothée x you #timothée chalamet

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daywing-moved · 4 years ago

Text

Let Me Go | Nessian Fic

Rating: M (tw: suicide mentions, blood/injury gore descriptions)

Summary: After a heated argument and cruel words, Nesta Archeron left the Illyrian Mountains for a mission. Upon her arrival home, Cassian smells blood and the pain of dancing with death. (Nessian angst and hurt fic. Not a death fic.)

Let me know if you want to be tagged for some of my fics or be part of my permanent tag list here!

Fic Masterlist

Cassian could not stop seeing red.

Such unforgiving, dark red.

He couldn’t stop seeing Nesta’s body half ripped open. Torn apart by whomever she had encountered on her trip to the mortal realm. Had not allowed himself to look closer, to assess her injuries, because he could not stop seeing the blur of red. He knew he would have ripped everything apart against his better judgment, and there was no room for mistakes. Especially now.

His mate, lying there.

So still. So close to the other side. He hadn’t thought it was possible for the incarnation of death to come that close to death itself.

And so he had flown.

He’d flown to the tip of the Illyrian Mountains, surrounded by the frosted mist and cold air. Somewhere where he could finally breathe—big heaves of panicked breaths and shudders—feel anything besides the shallow, uneven beats of Nesta’s own breaths.

He could feel all of her and none of him.

His hands shook.

Cassian could not bring himself to conjure the image of Nesta’s broken body. If he did, perhaps even his Siphons would not be enough to contain that undying rage and panic and fear fear fear-

And yet the picture kept spinning inside his mind.

What if the spies Rhys had sent hadn’t been there to witness it?

Where would Nesta be?

Would anyone have seen his mate getting ripped apart to pieces and pieces and pieces? Until his own heart was ripped to pieces and pieces and fluttered to the floor until it died with his mate six feet below ground?

Would Nesta have-

The word clanged through his mind like a cold wave drowning him under. Would Nesta have died?

Another great heave a breath. In, out. Cassian closed his eyes.

The image reappeared.

So close to death. If it had been a second later...Cassian might have tossed himself off the nearest cliff.

The one he was perching on right now.

What had he said to Nesta before she left? If she had-

If she did not live, what would have been his last words to her?

How are your sisters capable of loving such a monster? How am I capable of it? I can’t fathom. If I were you, I’d toss-

The room had gone silent then.

Nesta—Nesta Archeron, whom he had figured out layer by layer, like the petals of a thorned rose—had built her walls back up that moment.

You should go.

And like the stupid bastard he was, he had just turned around and left.

He’d just left. The unfinished sentence, the unspoken words, haunted him that night, and the next night, chasing him to training and through the skies, until he had felt an excruciating pain burst along every edge and seam of him days later, like he was falling into darkness and doom and eternal coldness-

If I were you, I’d toss myself off the balcony.

Cassian did not think he had known true fear until the moment that horrible pain had shot down the bond, making him double over on the floor. That moment, when he had connected the dots and realized with that knowing, imminent dread settling in his stomach, that something terrible had happened to his mate.

He’d burst out of the room he had been in and found blood drips on the ground.

Had smelled Nesta Archeron.

When some of the other Illyrians had witnessed the red-streaked ground and asked about it, he’d simply snarled, “Get out of my way,” and bursted inside the healers’ wing. He’d stared at Rhys’ concerned, starless gaze—knew and raged an inner scream that that gaze was for the well-being of how Feyre would fare with the news, not for Nesta. He had avoided the lithe figure draped in towels and bandages to his left.

Rhys had murmured quietly, “Cass.”

And Cassian had looked.

Had looked at his mate, insides half jutting out, lips cracked and smeared, red dripping from her nose, eyes closed, lashes fluttering, hair knotted and frenzied, and had stumbled back out of the tent with wild eyes and panicked breaths.

He’d taken to the skies after that, reminding himself how utterly useless he was in the life and death of his mate, his tether, his blood and soul, how completely worthless of a bastard he was for not being the first one to have tended to her and to have saved her. He’d sat here for the entire day, watching the sun rise over the mountains, only to be concealed by the clouds.

The pain of the sharp wind against his cheeks felt like a blessing.

Maybe all that red had leeched the rest of the color away from the world.

He sat here on the cliff, high above the entire world, and stared blankly at the bleak, gray clouds.

What would Nesta tell him to do?

Haul your ass up, his brain immediately replied, and he almost smiled. Almost. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Nesta wasn’t here.

She was in a tent. Half-dead, drowning in her own blood.

He’d been the one to suggest having Nesta take this mission. Her skills were in her political ability, the sharpness and cleverness of her tongue that could swipe all the chess pieces off the board with a single word.

It was his fault that a pair of knives had impaled themselves in her—if those knives had been an inch closer to Nesta’s center, she wouldn’t be breathing.

Was she still breathing?

Cassian started shaking his head to the misty sky as if he could undo all of that day. Rewind to the moment he decided to tell the lords to send Nesta to the mortal realm, because she would not be cowed but would still understand humans, and tell himself to close his mouth. Undo the moment Nesta confronted him, telling him she didn’t need him to get jobs for her, that she was capable of handling herself and what she wanted to do. He’d told her that he had been helping her, that it would raise her ranks amongst the Illyrians. Like she was some piece of filth who had been tagging along on the ride that needed to climb ranks. His apology to her the day she was about to leave had come out as a soliloquy of anger and fumes, burning her castle walls down until she realized that she needed to rebuild them stronger, higher.

He was a damned bastard. He did not deserve that day Nesta had accepted the bond, a few years ago. Maybe he should undo that moment, too.

Silent footsteps neared from behind him, coming from a figure trailed in shadows. Cassian didn’t bother turning to his brother.

“Cassian.”

Why did everyone say his name and his name only, without anything to follow it? As if uttering his name would magically make him forget that his mate was dying and make him continue every day like nothing was wrong.

Nothing was wrong.

This feeling of nothingness, the empty well inside him that was an infinitely deep abyss, the tethering strands of the mating bond flung over the side, felt wrong. And yet, so very right. It felt right to internally punch himself in the stomach over and over again.

Azriel rested a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, and Cassian’s lip curled. He did not need Az’s pity.

“I’m not,” the Shadowsinger said tacitly, as if he could read Cassian’s mind. I’m not pitying you. “They finished the procedure on Nesta a few hours ago. You’ve been sitting here the entire night.”

Cassian just stared ahead of him.

“You’re allowed to visit her.”

Cassian stayed still. “How is she?”

There was a pause that seemed to hold the world slightly off-balance, like the cliffs and the skies and the seas were all holding their breath.

Az’s shadows cloaked around him. “The healer said she whispered your name in her sleep. Nobody else is allowed in except for you.”

Maybe his heart had broken in two and he was scrambling to recollect the pieces. Cassian finally looked at Azriel, eyes shuttering but grasping onto that dangerous light of hope. “Do you think she wants to see me?”

The Shadowsinger’s face was unreadable as he replied vaguely, “You’re her tether to this world.”

Cassian felt it then. The bond falling into the abyss, getting pulled back up, inch by inch, by someone so resilient and brave who had finally started pulling it back-

He rose to his feet and flared his wings. A nod at Az, and together, they took to the skies and back to the camp.

The winds howled in his ears like death became song. The camp appeared into view, sitting under the towering trees and the slate-gray sky.

His heart pounded furiously to the beat on the other side of the bond, fighting to remain a part of this world. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

The white flaps of the tent grazed his arm as he entered, looking away from Nesta’s figure propped up against the headboard. Her gaze barely shifted to him, dancing and flickering away.

Cassian felt like his body had gone numb.

She was covered in bandages. Some staining red and others fresh, and Cassian was seeing red again. Brutal, beaten red. Red, like the essence of life that made the most appearance when life was about to end.

He sank to his knees next to the bed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Nesta.”

She turned his head away from him, and he closed his eyes at the small groan of pain it elicited from her.

Cassian shook his head. “I...I said too much too soon. All I wanted was...by the Cauldron, Nesta, I just-I didn’t mean it-”

“And yet you did,” she rasped. His wings drooped.

“I didn’t mean it that way. I-not that you need to raise your rank here or anything. I just thought that…” He trailed off, not knowing where he was going with this. It had come out of his mouth before it had even registered in his mind. Cassian sighed.

“I thought that you would be best for the mission. I’d been proud of your political abilities--still am--and I thought that being cooped up here in the mountains instead of using those skills in negotiation with the mortal realm was...gods, I don’t know. I just wanted something better for you.”

He watched a tear slide down her cheek and wanted to die then and there. “Nesta, please, look at me. If you’re going to let me go-” his voice broke, “-then at least look at me while you do it. Whatever you decide to do with...with my love. Just. Look at me.”

She turned to face him, and the devastation on her face was another slap to the face. “They were going to kill you,” she snarled. “They threatened to.”

Cassian’s blood ran cold. “What?”

“They were going to imprison me, and I fought. I fought because they were going to use me as bait-”

A growl ripped out of him. He would tear them apart.

“-for you. And I knew you would take the bait.”

Cassian swore his heart stopped. “Gods,” he breathed.

“I know you didn’t mean what you said. That doesn’t mean that you get to decide what missions I go on for me without my permission or talk to me that way. But they were going to kill you, and I couldn’t allow that when the last words we’d set to each other were-”

She closed her mouth abruptly, but Cassian just nodded. “I’m so sorry, Nesta. So, so sorry. I know that doesn’t fix a single damned thing, but I’d take it all back if I could.”

He wiped a tear away from her cheek. That drew another sob from her, great heaves of panicked breaths not because she was going to die, but because he might have exchanged his life for her. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck. Cassian held her tight, his chest tightening immeasurably. “I’ll be here. Always. I’ll be waiting wherever you go, but...Cauldron, Nes. I would really have come for you. But I would have torn them all apart.”

Nesta sniffled a little smile at that. He pressed a gentle kiss to her ruffled hair and spread his wings around them. There would be more time to talk, more time to piece together the puzzle pieces later. “Rest, love. I’ll be here.”

And so Nesta wiped the tears away, each one stripping her walls away until the entire complex of her palace was open to her mate, brimming and glistening with all those broken chandeliers that looked like starlight on the floor. When Cassian’s scent, more comforting than the crook of a pillow or the rustling of wind, slowly lured her to sleep, he stayed with her, was there for her. Always.

---------

tag list: @justgiu12 @maastrash @b00kworm @illyriangarbage @savemesoon8 @bryaxisthefaceofnightmares @yourtypicalbookworn @iammissstark @sayosdreams @sarcasticsashimi @sensitiveillyrian @sjm-things @courtofjurdan @acourtofmarauders @empress-ofbloodshed @ryhsrocks @thesirenwashere @rose-havilliard-calore

#nessian #nessian fic #acotar #nessian angst #nessian fluff #nessian hurt fic #a court of thorns and roses #acosf #sarah j maas

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edwin-payne-enthusiast · 4 years ago

Note

Hello Logan simp ;P For requests, some logince perhaps?

Black Coffee, Decaf

Ship: Logince, slight background Moxiety

Word count: 2690 (this was supposed to be only around a thousand words what happened)

Warnings: None

Notes: My motivation has been restored out of the pure spite coming from being called a simp. I hope you enjoy

Every single morning just like the last, 5:30 AM sharp was when Logan’s alarm woke him up. He didn’t like getting up so early, he wasn’t exactly a morning person, but he knew he’d be late for work if he didn’t get up. He unceremoniously rolled out of bed, flattening down his messy hair and stretching the fatigue out of his tired limbs. Reaching out a hand he fumbled to take his glasses off of his nightstand, dropping them on the floor in the darkness. He leant down to grab them, grumbling something about the ridiculous waking time and how he needed to switch to contact lenses.

Of course, Logan could have gotten up later and still be relatively on time to work, but he didn’t want to risk it. After all, punctuality was the thing you could count on him for the most.

One of the few reasons he favored getting up early was so that he could stop in at the café down the street from his apartment. Walking in at around 6:45 AM, he was usually on of the first customers among regular insomniacs, college student, and early birds on their way to work. His friend from high school worked there and had wasted no time in acquainting him to all the employees as soon as he stepped foot inside the café for the first time. By his first week living in the city, every barista from the café knew his usual order off by heart, which prompted him to have a sneaking suspicion that his friend had made each of them memorize it.

Logan walked through the doors of the café at his usual time, a sense of familiar comfort washing over him at the scent of freshly baked bread.

As usual, his friend was waiting at the counter for him, and rushed over with a grin on his face as soon as he stepped through the doors “Logan!” Patton yelled, scooping him up into a hug “Hey kiddo! How have you been?” Logan came to the conclusion that Patton must misjudge the height difference between them, as Logan’s feet were no longer touching the floor when he was lifted into the hug.

“I am well Patton” He said, as he struggled wriggle out of the taller man’s grip “Just as I was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that”

Patton let go of Logan “I guess I do ask that a lot, don’t I? Sorry, it just makes me feel so much bread-er knowing that you’re having a good morning” Logan groaned as Patton giggled in delight at his own cleverness. Though even he expressed great distaste at the pun, Logan couldn’t help but smile a little.

Patton wiped his forehead with his hand, smearing some flour into his hairline “I’ve got to run back to the kitchen, so make sure to say goodbye to me when you leave. Oh hey! You should meet the new barista. You’d like him, he has quite an appreciation for poetry”

Logan nods “Oh yeah? How does Virgil feel about this new person?” Virgil was Patton’s partner who also happened to work with Logan, which was probably the reason Patton had recommended applying to the same job in the city. They always got to the café before him, and usually left before Logan could properly wish them good morning. Even so, he knew them very well, and as a fellow regular to the café, he knew they had strong opinions about each barista.

“Oh, they hate him” Patton said with a light, matter-of-factly tone as he turned to walk back to the kitchen, a fond grin plastered across his face.

“And I suppose you haven’t burned my usual order permanently into this new barista’s mind yet?”

Patton turned to smile at him “Nope,” He said, popping the ‘p’ “I’ve spared him for now”

Logan smiled, amused. “Are you still coming to game night tomorrow?” Patton asked, keeping the kitchen door open on his hip and leaning on the doorframe, smiling cheerily.

Logan nods “Yes, our plans remain intact”

“Awesome!” He looked like he was going to say more, but he was cut off by a bang sounding from inside the kitchen. Patton whirled around to see what had happened, then turned to smile sheepishly at Logan “I gotta go sort that out. See ya round Lo!”

Logan waved a polite goodbye as Patton rushed off into the kitchen to sort out the issue, the door swinging closed behind him.

He sighed, walking up to the counter to place his regular order “Medium black coffee, one sugar, decaf please” He said on instinct, not bothering to wait for the barista to greet him.

“Ugh, oh my stars, how can you drink that?” Logan looked up at the barista, his own confused grey eyes meeting the distaste in the other man’s green ones.

“Excuse me?”

“Your order, it’s just…” The man shook his head, a curly piece of auburn hair falling in his eyes “I’m sorry good sir but I cannot make you that drink. It is against my moral compass” He held himself with the poise and confidence of royalty, his shoulders high and tense and his chest puffed out, performative disgust branded across his face.

The barista was handsome to say the least, in a strikingly noticeable way. Long wavy auburn hair was pulled back from his face in a messy bun, a few strands letting loose to brush against his tan skin. Against his green apron, he could see a nametag that read ‘Roman’. Red stars were drawn on around the edges of the nametag, and he had underlined his name three times in a pen of the same hue.

Logan cleared his throat slightly and hesitated, as if waiting for the punchline of a joke that never landed. When no such punchline came, he spoke up “I’m sorry, but… why do you appear to be opposed to my order?”

The man, Roman, shot him a grimace “First of all, it’s 6 AM and you ordered decaf,” he said, listing the offences off while counting them out using his fingers “You’re having a black coffee with one sugar, and you’re clearly too handsome to be ordering something so boring”

Logan didn’t allow himself to blush, though he damn near did. He decided to ignore that comment “Well, I apologize” He said, still baffled by the conversation that was unfolding.

Roman shook his head “No need sunshine, no need. I’ll let it slide this time. I suppose if you could grace me with your presence once more, I could introduce you to the world outside of the bitterness of your order?” He phrased the last sentence like a question, as if asking Logan if he would come back.

Logan nodded “I come here the same time every morning. I assume you should see me again”

Roman clapped his hands together “Wonderful! I look forward to our next encounter. For now, I will need a name for your order”

Logan looked around in confusion “I am the only one in this establishment, why would you need my name?”

Instead of appearing exasperated, a sly, intrigued look passed over the baristas face “Ah, I see. A man of mystery!” Logan opened his mouth to reply but Roman cut him off “No need good sir, I understand your motives. I suppose I will have to earn the privilege to speak your name” Once more Logan was cut off by Roman pressing his drink into his hand, smiling brightly at the other man. Logan nodded his thanks, not bothering to protest the mystery behind his name. He went to reach for his wallet but Roman stopped him “Don’t worry about it specs, this one’s on me”

“Are… are you sure?” Logan asked, becoming more and more confused every minute he spent with the excitable barista.

“Well of course I am. Besides, it’s only customary for a vision like you” Roman said, sending a wink his way.

Logan rolled his eyes but could not hide the slight blush that had made its way onto his face “Right well” Logan cleared his throat “Thank you. I should be going now. Could you tell Patton that I said goodbye?”

Roman nodded and grinned “I’ll see to it that your message is received. I do hope you have a lovely day mystery man. I’ll see you here around this time tomorrow?”

“Right, yes, I suppose I’ll see you then” Logan nodded politely and walked quickly out of the café, quite bewildered by that whole experience. He sighed, surprisingly content even after his confusing interaction with the barista. Looking up at the sky, the sun in his eyes and a song in his mind, he let a good mood take over him. His mood however would soon be deflated, as when he looked down at his watch, he realized. For the first time in two years, Logan Sanders was late to work.

Logan walked into the office far later than he would have liked. Late! How could he have let himself become so distracted?

Virgil was sitting at his desk when he walked in, their feet up on the desk, eyes closed with a lazy smile pressed onto their face “You’re late” They say, as if sensing his presence “For the first time in two whole years, you, Logan, are late”

Logan sighed and leaned against the edge of his desk “There was a… hold up at the café”

“You met the new barista?”

Logan hums in confirmation and Virgil laughs “Yeah, he’s a handful isn’t he? Pat adores him” They said with an eyeroll “I ordered iced coffee with five shots of espresso when I got there, and he looked at me like I was a monster”

Logan scoffed “Anyone in their right mind would assume the worst at the words ‘five shots of espresso’”

“What do you have against it?”

“It’s an abomination unto God” When his response was met with a mere shrug Logan sighed “Now, are you going to get out of my chair?”

The day passed by slowly, seconds creeping steadily into minutes as time seemed to drag its feet to the end of the day. To put things in perspective, Logan worked at a publishing company. Though he had been working there for two years, he saw it as temporary, at least until he had finished writing his own novel that he had been working on for quite some time now. This job was practical, it allowed him to have good connections in the publishing industry, gave him an adequate understanding about what needed to take place in order to publish his own work. Any other day, he was completely focused on his job, so why was he so distracted today? Oh, that’s right. That peculiar barista in the café. He seemed to have chosen to reside in his mind and refused to leave. That was fine, he reasoned with himself, he would just distract himself, was the conclusion he drew. However, by the time he was ready to leave after a day of work, Roman had refused to take leave from his place in the epicenter of each of his thoughts.

He walked home instead of taking the commute and found himself outside of the cheery café that he visited countless times before. He hardly remembered walking here, he hardly remembered why.

It was busy in the café, and the smell of bread no longer held the warm freshness that it had in the morning. Still, it was comfortingly familiar, even with all the noise of strangers talking and moving inside.

He walked over to a table in the corner, away from the hustle. A beam of sunlight streamed through the window, a sign of the dying light customary to the late afternoon. He stared at it, looking away and blinking rapidly as even the evening light was strong enough to hurt his eyes.

He turned his eyes away to look around the café. He doesn’t know what he hoped for, perhaps a familiar face? Patton was probably busy in the kitchen, Virgil had taken the commute home, and Roman… oh what did he care? He was just a guy, just a guy in a coffee shop, who damn near refused to make his order. Roman who he had known for, what? All of forty-five minutes? That counted for nothing.

Logan nearly jumped in shock when someone slid into the seat beside him. He turned to tell him that the seat was taken, or that he would rather sit alone, or… something, but the words died on his tongue at the sight of a familiar face.

“Back so soon specs? You really miss me that much?”

Logan went quiet for a moment “You’ve already called me that”

“Huh?”

“Specs. You used that this morning”

Roman paused, then his face split into a smile and he laughed “Oh, I suppose I did! I’ll have to think of some new material pocket protector”

Logan rolled his eyes in distaste at the nickname, but a small grin worked it’s way onto his face. Roman’s gaze softened “I don’t want to overstep here, but you really should allow yourself to smile more. I do like seeing your smile”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to give me a reason to smile” Logan said, turning his gaze back to the patch of sunlight, as he would rather hurt his eyes than allow Roman to see the blush on his face.

“That sounds like a plan, nerd” There was a moment of silence before Roman tapped his shoulder “Hey, I have something for you”

Logan turned to him as Roman pressed a cold drink into his hands “It’s my off menu specialty, just for you”

Logan hesitated for a moment before bringing the drink up to his lips and taking a sip. Delicious sweetness burst over his tongue. He could taste lemon, ginger, cinnamon among other things. It shouldn’t have worked, but it tasted incredible.

Logan nodded. His face only appeared very mildly impressed, but his eyes gave it away. He was utterly charmed by Roman.

He glanced at his cup, hoping to see the ingredients listed on the side. His eyes widened for a moment, then he laughed “Cliché"

"Bless you"

"No, I mean-," Logan's brow creased in confusion but he smiled, amused "You wrote your telephone number on the side of my cup" He said, turning the cup to show Logan's name in lovely cursive with a phone number written underneath.

"Yes, I did, Captain Obvious" Roman said with an exasperated look.

“Why? You don’t even know me”

“Patton does” Roman said, as if that explained everything. When Logan didn’t respond, Roman sighed “After you came in this morning, Patton asked if we had gotten to know each other. I told him how our interaction was less than ideal mostly due to the fact that you have horrible taste in coffee and that I didn’t even get to learn your name. So, naturally…”

“Patton told you everything he knows about me”

“Patton properly introduced you to me” Roman corrects “And I like you Logan”

Logan decided he loved the way his name sounded in Roman’s voice.

“So… will you call me?”

Logan smiled, standing up and taking another long sip from his heavenly drink “Yes. Yes I believe I will”

“And yet you are leaving” Roman said with a pout.

“I need to go home Roman, and besides, you will see me here tomorrow morning”

“Every morning?”

“Surely you can’t be working a shift at 6 AM every morning”

“If that’s what it takes” Roman said, pressing a hand to his heart.

Logan stifled a laugh with his hand “Goodbye Roman”

“Goodbye Logan”

And with that, Logan stepped out of the café. Breathing in the afternoon air, he began a steady walk home, a soft smile never leaving his face. As the lights started to dim and the sun began to set, Logan thought to himself that he might be making more frequent visits to the small café than he previously thought.

#atlas is typing #logince #romantic logince #logince fic #logince fanfic #logince fanfiction #roman sanders #logan sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction

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amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines · 4 years ago

Text

Jughead//i didn’t wanna fall, but then i stepped right in

Request: If you're request are open/not swamped can i request a Jughead/Reader with the song Cliché- mxmtoon maybe you meet at his "birthday party" or something similar, tbh something like fluffy/soft would be super nice plot wise :D

hey! this is another one that i wrote like last year or something so the writing style maybe seem a little different than usual. i still hope you like it though!! have a great day all!!!

“Y/n!” Veronica greets you from across the living room. “You came!”

“I did!” You smile brightly at her and hold up a pack of beer.

“Wow, classy.” She laughs and pulls you into a quick hug. “Give it to Archie, he’ll put it in the kitchen. Won’t you Archiekins.” She smiles sweetly at Archie who walks past the two of you and he sends the two of you a confused smile.

“Sure?” He asks, unsure of what she was referring to.

“Put the beer in the kitchen.”

“Right.” He smiles at her and you give him the beer.

“And get us both a drink please.”

“Of course.” He smiles.

“So when’s he getting here?” You ask Veronica and look around the living room. So far, you are yet to meet the famous Jughead. You’ve only just moved from New York, joining your friend Veronica in Riverdale after your parents decided to move. As soon as she found out you were moving here, she’d talked about her new friends constantly and not just her friends, but also boys...but there’s no surprise there. Apparently the boys in Riverdale were hotter than the one’s in New York, something you were yet to believe, despite being here for a week. So thats how you were invited to a birthday party of someone you’d never met.

“He’ll be here soon.” Betty joins your conversation. “He text Archie telling him that he’s on his way.” She adds. “He thinks they’re just hanging out.”

“Oh.” You nod. “Clever. I need to pee, where’s the bathroom?” You ask.

“Up the stairs, down the hall and its the first door you see.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s here!” A boy shouts and the lights quickly turn off, everyone moves a few steps back just before the door swings open.

“Y/n isn’t here.” Veronica whispers to Betty and the two of them quickly glance around the darkened room.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She replies.

“Shhhhh.” Kevin shushes them both.

“Archi-” Jughead calls out but he’s cut off.

“Surprise!!” Everyone shouts and he jumps slightly.

“What the-”

“Happy birthday!” Archie hugs him and he smiles awkwardly before sending a small wave to a few people. Someone turns the lights and music back on while other people mingle and talk to Jughead.

“Shit.” You say loudly, once you reach the bottom of the stairs. “Did I miss it?” You asks and Veronica giggles while nodding.

“Kinda.” She replies. “But thats okay.”

“Damn.” You mutter, looking around the room and thats when you see him. The beanie clad boy that you’d only ever seen in pictures. Fuck, he’s looking right at you. Your eyes widen when you realize you’re staring at him and you quickly avert your eyes, deciding to join in the conversation happening beside you. “Surprise parties...am I right?” You say and the group of girls look at you offended.

“We’re talking about her grandmothers funeral.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” You apologize. The three of them stare at you until you walk away, muttering another quickly apology as you go. “Not much of a party topic.” You mumble to yourself while you try and find Veronica. How did you ever survive in New York? The only thing you did there was go to parties. How’d you manage to upset someone after only being at the party for 15 minutes?

After searching for a few minutes, you conclude that Veronica, as well as Archie are no where to be seen and Betty had gone to talk to the people you’d just upset so that wasn’t an option. Pushing through the small crowd you look around the living room one more time. Again you lock eyes with Jughead causing your cheeks to burn before you quickly look back down at the floor. He’s even cuter the second time round and so after a few minutes of trying to get rid of the blush on your cheeks, you send him a small smile before walking into the kitchen and leaning against the counter.

A few minutes later you hear someone walk in and so you decided to busy yourself instead of just staring out into nothing. While you search through the fridge you listen to the end of the conversation and once you hear them say goodbye you decide its safe to look up. Jughead is stood a few feet away from you staring at his phone. You quickly close the fridge and start to walk out as quietly as possible, buts its too late. He’s already noticed you, his lips quirking into a smile as he tilts his head to the side, a curious expression gracing his features as he looks you up and down.

“Hey.” He smiles at you, waving softly.

“He-hello.” You stutter and your cheeks start to heat up again.

“Y/n?” He asks and you shake your head. “Are you okay? You kinda just stopped at hello and then stared at me.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I was meant to say happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” He replies and pours himself a drink. “Do you want one?” He asks and you shake your head.

“I’m good.” You show him the drink in your hand and he nods.

“Thats a bottle of milk.” He raises and eyebrow and you look between him and the bottle in your hand, a confused expression gracing your features.

“I was meant to get that.” You reply slowly making him chuckle. “So what are you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be out there?”

“I’m hiding. Birthday’s aren’t really my thing.” He says, the last part seeming sadder than he probably intended to.

“Oh.”

“Anyway.” He grins. “Do you wanna dance?”

“You want to dance with me?”

“I don’t see anybody else in the kitchen. Do you?” He motions around the room and you shake your head. “Lets go then.Maybe you can make my birthday a bit better.” He says and your eyes widened. “Oh God. I didn’t mean like that.” He blushes and you laugh softly.

“Its fine.” You shake your head. “Lets dance.”

--------

Ever since the two of you danced, you and Jughead had been practically inseparable. You don’t remember much from the night of the party apart from the dancing and then the hangover as you woke up in Veronica’s bed, but from the vague memories you do have, you know you had fun.

Over the last few days you’d been constantly texting, whether you were in class, at home, hanging out with friends, sometimes when you were sat right next to each other. And with every single word you seemed to fall further and further for him.

He was witty and charming and cute and hot and basically everything you could have wanted.

“Its like he’s swept you off your feet.” Veronica laughs and you look at her confused. The two of you are sat in Pops’ waiting for the rest of the gang to turn up.

“Jughead. You’re in love with him and you’ve only known him a few days.”

“He makes me laugh.” You defend.

“And blush.” She adds and you rolls your eyes.

“Who?” Betty asks while sitting beside Veronica.

“Jughead.” She replies, sending a knowing look in your direction.

“You’re all he’s talked about for the past three days.”

“Same with her.”

“Literally, even at the party. She went to pee and he talked about how amazing she was.”

“You do know I’m sat right here.”

“We know.” They smile at you.

“What are you two smiling like that for?” Archie asks and sits beside you.

“Because Y/n is in love with Jughead and they’ve only known each other for a less than week.”

“Oooo.” He teases. “No one can compete.”

“Huh?” The three of you ask confused.

“That’s what Jughead said about her.”

“Awwwww.” They tease.

“What if its too good to be true?” Veronica says, repeating the words you’d said to her earlier. “Its like we click like lego.” She adds, despite you kicking her in the shin.

“Or the clacking of tap shoes.” Archie adds.

“I want to be with yo-Hi Jughead.” Betty trails off and the four of you quickly shut up.

“Hey.” Jughead waves confused. “Have we ordered yet?”

“Yeah. It should be done soon, me and Ronnie ordered when we got here.” You explain and he smiles warmly at you. “Don’t worry, I got your favourite.”

“Cool.” He says and looks around for a seat to pull up.

“Don’t worry.” Archie stands up quickly. “Sit here, I’ll find a seat.” He sends you a wink and you roll your eyes at him before he wanders away, bring a chair back. Your foods brought out a couple minutes later and the five of you eat in silence.

“So” Jughead is the first to break it, Archie, Veronica and Betty starting their own conversation while you and Jughead talk. “How’s your day been?” He asks and sips his milkshake.

“Better now.” You reply with a smile and look down at your food. He giggles and agrees with you before he steals a fry. “Hey!” You laugh loudly and throw a few more at him. The two of you end up in a mini food fight while your other three friends just stare at you.

“You’s are a walking cliche.” Veronica rolls her eyes teasingly.

“Shut up Ronnie.” You glare at her.

“Yeah, shut up Veronica.” Jughead adds. “Talking to you has made my day.” He whispers in your ear making you blush fiercely.

“Mine too.” You reply and he smiles softly. You look at him, his smile mirroring yours and you melt at the way he’s looking at you. Maybe Veronica was right. Maybe you were a cliche.

But cliche’s never work out right?

----

“Why haven’t you been talking to Jughead?” Archie catches up with you in the corridor while you’re walking to your next class.

“I’ve just been busy.” You shrug.

“What happened to clicking like legos?” He asks and you roll your eyes.

“Its just a cliche.” You reply. “I don’t wanna be a cliche. Its not real.”

“But it was.” He argues.

“It wasn’t.” You say before storming off.

----

“Hey.” Jughead’s voice makes you jump as you look up from the menu.

“Hello.” You reply and place it on the table. “You’re not Veronica.”

“Not the last time I checked.” He jokes and you laugh softly. “Listen.” He starts while sitting opposite you. Your milkshake is brought to the table and there’s two straws in it making you laugh softly.

“This is such a cliche.” You mutter.

“I have to know. Do you feel the same way I do?” The boldness of his questions takes you back and you stare at him confused. But he doesn’t look nervous, he’s confident as he stares at you, his eyebrow raises as he waits for your answer and you know there’s no way you can lie to yourself or anyone else any longer.

“Yeah.” You say quietly. “I do, but I was scared of what you might say...”

“Me too.” He admits. A strange silence settles over the two of you, neither of you knowing what to say. But as soon as you make eye contact again, you burst into laugher and he quickly follows. “I still think you’re cute.”

“Me too.” You nod. “We both fell way to fast for any normal people.”

“We’re a cliche aren’t we?” He asks.

“Just a little.” You nod.

“Thats okay.” He takes a sip of your milkshake before pushing it towards you.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.” You smile brightly at him and take a small drink before pushing it back at him. He leans across the table and you meet him half way, his lips capturing yours in a sweet kiss. However it doesn’t last very long before you pull away and gasp. He looks at you confused as to why you pulled away so quickly and then he realizes...its because there’s milkshake down your chest.

“Here.” He hands you some napkins and tries to dab at the stains. “Sorry.” He mumbles when he realizes he’s practically gotten to second base with you.

“Its fine.” You laugh.

“Are we always going to be like this?” He asks.

“I think so yeah.” You nod.

“One silly cliche after the other?” He wonders. Both of you know the answer, but neither of you really mind.

Maybe some cliche’s work after all

#jughead #jughead imagine #jughead x reader #jughead x you #riverdale #riverdale imagine #jughead jones #jughead jones imagine #jughead jones x reader #jughead jones x you

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whereflowersbloom · 4 years ago

Text

Small moments

With long dissatisfied sigh, Damian pushed back his black blanket and gradually sits up, annoyed. There wasn’t any more to it, he had been rolling around the enormous bed for nearly an hour, he just couldn’t fall back asleep. Fumbling around in the darkness of his room, he found his phone. He squinted down at it and groaned inwardly. Fucking 04:00 am blinking up at him. He shouldn’t be up for another three hours. But despite his exhaustion and attempts to fall back asleep. It’s pointless to just lay here any longer. When he arose from the bed, he felt his back muscles were particularly knotted. Tsk. Perhaps a hot shower would release some accumulated tension on his body.

Might as well begin the day, start being productive with an extra head start, apparently. Damian stretched and dug around for training clothes and toiletries, hurriedly throwing them in his gym bag, before heading down for a long hot shower. At least this morning he doesn’t have to be in any rush. He had plenty of time to go at snail’s pace, he never had the opportunity to enjoy little things. By all means, he enjoyed engaging in different activities with his teammates. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he wondered what his life would be like as a regular teenager, attending school, perhaps a girlfriend to take out on dates...Where did multimillionaire heirs take their girlfriends? A romantic dinner at some exclusive hideously expensive restaurant in Paris? That wasn’t exactly his style. He highly doubted Raven liked those places, anyway.

Predictably, he doesn’t pass anyone on the way down, the rest of the team profoundly asleep as he assumed, the showers as expected are absolutely deserted. He stumbled in, gasping under the ice cold water falling on his exposed, muscular figure, rubbing at his eyes as the shock wakes him up completely. Fucking cold water. He turned the knob sharply, and in a moment, hot water streamed down his torso. Without the bothersome presence of a another person like Garfield or Conner, Damian is able to relax under the spray of water. The warmth of the water, focusing on the sound of the water running hard onto the shower floor, his sore and stiff muscles relaxing, easing the discomfort. His now calm and serene mind unconsciously drifted back to his homeland. Nanda Parbat, his mother, grandfather, the league he vowed to protect, work along his grandfather to make the world a better place. Clever lies. Deceived by his own mother.

Without realizing it, Damian began humming. It is a lovely, centuries old tune he heard when he was a child, his mother, Talia used to sing to him whenever he had nightmares as a child, and he grew fond of it. It isn’t long before the hum evolves into mumbling, ancient words in a long unspoken language, and even less time before the mumbling grows in volume and annunciation, and he’s singing lowly, something he wouldn’t dare do normally when anyone could be in the shower. Damian Wayne doesn’t sing, not at least around anyone. He couldn’t imagine what his brothers would say to embarrass him. Especially Drake or Todd.

Damian is a moderately good mood now. There wasn’t anything that could lift the spirit, if only momentarily, like singing. And who else would be up at this hour to hear him? Nobody he had to threaten or assassinate.

Damian let a slight, soft smile slip as he shut off the water of the shower. He dries off, checking his phone. It’s only five, and although he’s shocked at how long of a shower he’s taken, it is still much too early to even properly get dressed or get started with training. He recalled Grayson mentioning a meeting later today. He pulled on a long sleeved T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, not up to wearing his uniform at five in the morning.

Damian is suddenly startled when he leaves the showers to see a slender, tiny figure in the common kitchen. It’s only five, who else could possibly be up so early? Not Grayson or Conner he hoped.

The figure turns around, and Raven is looking back at him eyebrows raised near her hairline, mouth opened in surprise. Damian stepped closer to her, taking her in: messy dark hair, even more so being fresh out of bed, pearl-like skin, big violet eyes that resemble amethyst and pink lips curled into a warm smile. At once he feels his breath being swept right out of his chest at that radiant and tender smile. She was wearing a pair of lavender pajama shorts, exposing her thick thighs, a white oversized shirt, hiding her generous curves, she looked devastatingly adorable. God. He had to control his hormones and emotions.

“Good morning, Raven.” He cleared his throat and muttered in his usual neutral voice. What did he have to be embarrassed about? Damian sits at the island and watched attentively Raven make a cup of tea, it smelt like cinnamon and honey, at the stovetop. Damian always found it entertaining, watch her do anything, debating what kind of tea she would have today. He knew she particularly enjoyed Earl Grey, cinnamon and two teaspoons of honey and peppermint. Maybe next time he could take her out to this open-air tea house his brother mentioned last time they spoke. Did Dick mention it to him deliberately? Was he trying to...?

“What are you doing up so early?” Raven asked curiously, drawing his attention back to her, turning her attention pointedly away from Damian and to her brewing cup of tea. Damian watched her back intently, she looked to fragile and tiny in his eyes, he was wondering what could have her worked up, as she nervously reached for the honey.

“I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep. Are you always up this early? I don’t think I noticed before.” Damian replies with the truth and observing how routine this all looked to Raven. She was usually up with the rise of the sun but it was a bit early for that and they didn’t have anything to do this early, no scheduled activities or tasks. He studied her body language, she wanted to say something, but she was evidently hesitating. “Everything alright?” He asked eyes fully focused on her, his expression showing concern for her.

“Yes, definitely, it’s just . . .” Raven stopped to bite her lower lip, her small hands playing with the teaspoon on the table, turning so Damian can see her profile, though trying to avoid his alert and bright green eyes. “Did you know you have a really nice voice?” She uttered faintly. Well now he knows she had been listening to him. But what she said was true. He did have a deep p, melodious voice.

“I don’t sing. Damian Wayne doesn’t sing.” Damian denies her question immediately, grabbing the closest thing to his reach, it was an apple and acting as if nothing happened.

Damian’s posture stiffened momentarily as his cheeks flame. Of course out of all the people, why did it have to be Raven? Tsk. Just his damn luck. Conner’s loud and unpleasant laughter or Garfield’s teasing he could deal with, he could always threaten them with a knife or give them his notions characteristic look of warming that they wouldn’t make it unharmed if they messed with him, but Raven was different. He can’t figure out why, but it feels like the worst possible outcome for this situation, at the same time he knew she wouldn’t say anything. She was different... he didn’t want to think why it felt that way with her from the moment they met. He didn’t believe he was ready to have the conversation about his obvious feelings for her yet.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. Not a word will slips out of my sealed lips. I simply thought it was such a nice song.” Raven smiled at him warmly, she touched his arm and he glanced up at her. His heart is thudding in his chest so loudly he was sure Raven must be able to hear it. She didn’t lie. She wasn’t his his mother or grandfather or anyone he knew before. His secrets and trust were safe with Raven.

“It’s an old lullaby from my homeland. Perhaps sometime I can explain the meaning behind it, if you want me to.” He gulped for air, and ran a hand through his still wet hair. His mind running thoughts about how often he imagined himself whispering how much he cared for her, how incredibly beautiful she was, how much she made him feel, like he belonged here with her and everyone else.

“I would love to hear about your home, Damian.” She whispered softly, sincerity and genuine interest in her voice. Her glowing amethyst eyes locked in his emerald eyes, sipping her tea, her warm fingers brushing his hand on the counter, as a sign of affection. She was there for him in all the ways. In that moment he didn’t mind that a raven heard him sing. A small jubilant smile escapes his full lips.

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