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nerujikam · 1 year ago

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Old Sweater

ushijima wakatoshi x fem!reader

tags 18+, fluff and smut, timeskip!ushijima, pwp, sleepy sex, clothed sex, cunnilingus, creampie, aftercare, pet nickname, i was ovulating

words 2,174

a/n and so, behold... my first smut... *thunder cracks* this was a pretty old draft dating back to may '22 lmao. figured i'm a lot more comfortable in my writing now, why not post it? this was crossposted on ao3 ! anws, happy reading or something!

art is @hk_smith_man’s on twt

Ushijima comes home late again. This time he finds it a little odd when the only source of light that came from the living room was the table lamp beside the couch, with a book you’re reading under it. You never forget to turn off every light when you go to sleep. Though, it does feel kind of lonely since you were practically a night owl on your working days. Now that you finally got your days off, you started to sleep earlier than usual. He misses the sight of you in the late of night, you can say.

He turns the lights off after putting his shoes on the rack. A faint beat can be heard from your shared bedroom, questioning him whether you’re awake or not.

Your body slump under the blanket. Though the heater’s on, the winter wind seems to have its own way seeping through the walls, shuddering you under the covers. Just like how you left it before, the small reading light next to you was still on.

He walks up to you, eyes closed as your breath steady. Seems you got defeated by your own drowsiness while trying to continue reading another book in your hands. He takes it away from your hand, placing the bookmark in the current page before putting it down next to the table lamp. He decides to turn it off later after his shower.

Ushijima closes the bathroom door from the inside, not wanting to wake you up with the loud noise from the hairdryer. He brushes his teeth, puts on his night cream, and turns off the bathroom light before joining you under the cover. He realized that the sweater from his high school volleyball team framed your body. He’s an even bigger and stronger guy now compared to then, yet his sweater still fits loosely on your frame. He wonders if it would make any difference if he met you in high school.

The thought of that tightened his arms around your waist, causing you squirming under him. He realized he woke you up when he heard a faint, “Toshi,” and a cold palm on his cheek. He grabs your cold hand to warm them, placing longing kisses on its knuckles, “sorry, did I wake you up?” You shake your head, turning back to your former position.

“I don’t mind,” you reassure. Ushijima pressed his forehead on your nape and kissed in between it and your spine, carrying out a soft “I missed you,” from your lips.

Ushijima never was a person who relies on verbal affection, so he alternates them more with acts of service, especially in giving. Warm baths after working overtime, a new shelf for your little trinkets, your favorite scented candles, sometimes even phoning his own dad, asking how to season the porridge properly when you had a cold. In rare cases, he'd mutter an “I missed you, too” back, instead of pressing his body closer into you like right now. He squeezes tight, not letting the cold get in between the two of you. He slides his hand down to your thigh to knead them gently before putting it in between them.

His eyelids flutter back awake as he feels a damp spot on your underwear. He gazes down at your eyelashes as you let out a sigh when he puts his hand down there. “You missed me this much?” he teases with a slight naught on his tone. You let out another sigh as he stroked your inner thighs, letting his wrist rub against your wet spot.

The blanket ruffles as his hand makes its ways to your—his—sweater, lifting it up to feel the warmth of your belly. His lips now behind your ear, fluttering kisses and sucking on the skin around it. Your hand found his when he started to slide down, playing with the waistband, eventually slithered inside, stroking between your folds.

So wet, he groans, wondering how you kept this long enough without doing anything about it.

“Want me to do something with this?” he whispered, asking one more time, fingers circling between you. Whining at his motion, you sigh, "please... Toshi,” you let out a breathy voice to call his name.

With your plea, he flips you up, rolls himself on top of you to lower himself, marking down your jaws, trailing up kisses to your lips. You nip gradually on his bottom lip before receiving his tongue. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss. Your hands stroking alongside his neat undercut. You opened your eyes slowly when he pulled back to see his own eyelids hung low, looking either very tired or very much turned on. The edge of his lips were soft from the toothpaste and the lip balm you share with him, smooth and glistening prior to your make out session.

“Keep this on,” he demands as he slides his whole body down. His hands trails up to your breasts, exposing them to the cold air whilst still keeping his sweater intact on you. He positions his shoulders under your thighs. You were surprised that, The Ushijima Wakatoshi, is willing to deal with something that was your own consequences, with his own mouth and tongue. You held it hours ago, wanting his way first rather than relying on your toys. You’re sure that he’ll come home eventually for this before eventually giving in to your heavy eyelids.

He places one, two, three kisses on the inner thigh slowly leading them up to the center of your wet panties. He pushes down your thighs towards him, licking the damp spot as if making out on it. You let out a high pitched whine from your lips. He ever so slowly pulls down your underwear you’ve been so desperate to be out of. His hot breath blows cold air between them with an eventful languid stroke. Your brain clouded, eyes rolled shut at the sight in the dark. You see nothing but flashes of sparks from the noises he made lapping his tongue over you.

Just as you feel his wet muscle fiddling around the sensitive bud, he (with the audacity) decided to suck on it, alternating between licking wet stripes along the core. You finally let out a moan, grabbing the sheets and his hair messy, pushing him further into you, grinding your own crotch towards him. One finger found his way, rubbing your entrance as the tip of his tongue fiddling your clit.

You throw your head back with your face behind your hand as his middle finger finally reaches in, unsteadily sliding in and out up till the spot where you buck your hips to its contact. Feeling your reaction, he slides in another finger, pressing and focusing them more on the gummy spot within, curling them ever so often. His jaw hardened, constantly fiddling his tongue around your clit, putting pressure on it while the tips of his dominant fingers hitting the same spot, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Your walls start to squeeze as your breath gets shaky. His fingers never stop thrusting in and out with a pace you never felt even when you do it yourself. Your back arches before being held down by his non-dominant hand, pressing down on your pelvis as your leg becomes a moving mess before you feel the snap under your belly. You shake as your thighs close around his head, feet pushing on his shoulders unaware. Your vision slurs.

Lips soaked in your own slick, Ushijima licked you down clean as if collecting it after your intense height, giving them one more wet smooch before hovering his body above you. He sucks down his middle and ring finger, cleaning up your mess on him. You raise your hands and grab his cheeks to give yourself a taste, tongue constantly encountering his in between kisses. You push him up, rolling up on your knees, positioning yourself on his lap, not separating your lips.

You eventually pull away with a kiss on his cheek, your hands on his jaw as you find yourself out of breath. You give yourself a view of him with your thumb on his chin. He licked the bottom of his lip before biting them, eyes hazed staring up to yours. His whole face became more and more of a mess, hair disheveled from your constant pulling, lips swollen and soaked down until his chin. You always love seeing him all wet from his own work on you.

It was impossible for you to not get turned on by him all messy and drunk from your cunt. You tug on his waistband, pulling down his PJs alongside his boxers. It’s obvious how hard he is with the ill bulge he had the whole time. His cock springs up as you pull his boxers down, tip flushed and slick, desperate to be inside you. You stroke along the shaft, spreading his own precum as you readied yourself on him. But he insisted. He rolls you back down on your back, holding the back of your thighs, teasing his tip around on your core.

You didn’t have a chance to look where the both of you met before gasping at the sudden intrusion. You were still sensitive and the slick of your pussy prior to his work makes the both of you moan as he slides in. His hips rolled and bucked on you, thrusting deliciously, tip reaching up to the familiar gummy spot.

“You look so good fucked in my sweater like that, dove,” he moans in your ear in the pleasure of your hips meeting his, pelvis to pelvis. The way he whispered that little pet nickname and moaned right into your ears clutches your core. You put your arms around his shoulders, legs wrapping around him, holding on for life as he pounds harder (you swore the bed could crack any minute).

“I’m…” you gasp in between thrusts before you continue, “I’m on birth— ah!”

You couldn’t continue as he pushed one deep thrust, already knowing what you meant. He groans feeling your tightened walls sucking him in as he starts to roll his hips in a way it touches the parts you never knew you’d reach. He pushes your knees to your chest, thrusting in deeper. You feel his skin constantly slapping on your clit, building you up to another climax.

With a groan and his head buried into your shoulder, he came in a rut. Pace went sloppy and eventually filled his warmth inside you. His moans cracked a higher pitch before he finally emptied out on his last thrust. Both of you laid there catching your breath.

He pulls himself out of you, leaving a whine from your lips from the sudden emptiness. You sigh, feeling his cum slowly spilling out of you. Ushijima muttered a low, "fuck," as he looks down and squeezed your thighs, eyeing the sight of you leaking from his cum.

Making sure you’re fine, he hovers above you, a hand on your jaw as he kisses the edge of your lips. Raising his head to look at you as you open your eyes. Greeted by the sight of his softened features, you smile with a sigh and caress his cheek.

He’s worried, you thought. Ushijima brushes out the strands of hair from your face and places a soft, longing kiss on your temple before walking up towards the bathroom.

You hear the tap running for a while before he comes out with a warm damp towel. He gently grabs your thigh to wipe down the remaining of his cum that has spilled out of you. You sigh from the warmth of the towel.

“You need to go to the toilet,” he states suddenly. You furrow your eyebrows trying to process his instruction before realizing what he meant. You nod, “right,” you prop yourself up to sit.

“Can you walk?” he asks. You thought a bit before nodding as he grabbed onto you in case you wobble and fall. You chuckle in contrast to his worry because you did walk fine. Just a little sore. You walked to the bathroom to pee and clean yourself while Ushijima in the kitchen for some water.

You come back with him already finished putting back his boxer. You realize you don’t wanna sleep in soiled panties so you grab a fresh pair and throw the used one out into the hamper. You jump back on the bed with him. You take the glass of water he gave you before laying back down. He spoons you like how he did before. You shuffle as you turn your body towards him, brushing away his messy hair out of his face.

“Should I wear this more so I can get fucked like that more often?” you ask, referring to how his high school sweater on you turns him on. He let out a tired laugh, “just don’t wear that in front of anyone but me.”

---

ushy gushy always be on my top #1 daddy big balls alongside erwin smith

#neruites #ushijima x reader #ushijima x you #ushijima smut #ushijima fic #haikyuu #haikyuu smut #hq smut #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu fic

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commandershepardvasfuckit · 2 months ago

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Guess who’s home with a migraine! There’s something wrong with the nerves in my neck so sometimes I sleep in it weird and wake up with a migraine

So because I only have 1 brain cell, monster husband taking care of you when you have a bad migraine

————

Just the sunlight streaming in through the windows was too bright as you opened your eyes, sending jolts of pain through your head. You whimpered and yanked the blanket over your head to try to get some relief.

Before you knew it your husband was kneeling next to the bed and gently rubbing your shoulder, “Are you alright?” he asked.

Slowly you pulled the blanket down so you could see him. His head rested on the edge of the bed, the long elephant-like tusks that jutted from between his lips nearly touching your face and his vivid eyes were locked on you.

“Migraine” was all you managed to mutter before you closed your eyes to try to block out the light.

He stayed quiet, trying to process what you said. Human common was not his first language, or even his second or third language, and his silence let you know that he did not know what you said.

“Headache” you added.

He said nothing, but you felt him get up and start clinking around in the small kitchen of your home.

“Please, quiet” you muttered, knowing that even speaking softly that he could hear you from across the room, his long, prick, upright ears never seemed to miss anything.

He returned a few moments later with a cup of opaque white liquid and a bowl of the porridge he often made the two of you for breakfast. It was the same medicine he always brought you when you were in pain, horribly bitter but always worked.

Carefully he helped you sit up and drink it before passing you the bowl of porridge. He always insisted that you ate something when you took medicine so it would not make you sick.

Once you were done you handed him back the bowl and took a quick moment to scratch the top of his head, your hand disappearing into his shaggy mane of dark green hair where his head still rested on the side of the bed. He helped you lay back down and tucked you in.

“Is there anything I can do?” he whispered.

“Can you rub my head?” you asked.

“Of course” he gently started to scratch your scalp, but you directed him to where it actually hurt and to use more pressure. He stayed with you until you fell back asleep.

When you woke up hours later he was still home, sitting cross legged on the floor and pouring over reports from the war council.

“Shouldn’t you be at the council?” you asked groggily.

“You did not feel good” he looked up and said.

“You have duties.”

“And my duties to you are more important” he got up from he sat to come sit next to the bed and nuzzled his forehead against you.

You were never certain if it was just his personality that made his stick at your side all the time or a cultural difference. The first few weeks of your arranged marriage he gave you space, sleeping on the floor and rarely spending much time at home with you. Now that you had settled into an actual relationship he stubbornly was glued to your side as much as possible, not that you really were complaining.

————

(The husband is Zen’jan from the Arranged Marriage story in my pinned post)

#monster lover #teratophillia #terato #monster x reader #monster smut #monster boyfriend #monster husband #it’s literally Zen’jan #95% of all these basic monster husband posts are about him

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sheeezu · 1 month ago

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you asked for free labor and i OBLIGE! there’s nothing more i love than hearing people talk about their drs: anything simple from morning routine, to life altering moment, to happiest moment, literally anything you’d like 🎀 lol i’m a sucker for a good story

Oof I completely missed your ask.

Anyways I'm happy to share :)

I'm not sure what I could possibly share in my morning routine, it's the same as any other person's DR. Wake up, get a kiss from my SO, eat breakfast which has always been porridge, i find it more convenient, then I change into my work uniform (yes, I wear a uniform to work) and then go to work.

I think it's just better to just do a random storytime, I have a very mushy brain at the current moment so my mind is replaying a single memory so-

I was in college and my best friend (who's my SO now) forced me to go a concert with him, it was a pretty big celebrity in my reality, and so I knew there was going to be a crowd.

I was too hesitant because I didn't even know a single song from that artist, second, I didn't want to be pushed around, and the main reason was I had dinner with my dad (Btw I love him, best dad ever)

So after adjusting my schedule, I arrived at the concert with my soon-to-be SO.

All I did during the concert was stand stone faced in the middle of the crowd, we were standing pretty close to the stage. Long story short I ended up being pushed by this very eager fangirl into the stage, and ended up getting a small cut on my wrist from the edge of the stage.

I left to hopefully locate a restroom, it was a very local concert literally held at our college. So I entered the washroom and stopped my bleeding cut. After a while I thought there was no better place to find peace away from the crowd than in the restroom, meaning I got distracted and took out my phone and read world affairs for a good 20 minutes.

After a while some guy comes in, so I put the phone back and faced him, he was the singer who was performing, at this point in my life this had been my first time being this close to a celebrity, but did it mean much to me? no.

What I was more confused about what this 2 year post graduate celebrity guy just walked into the college restroom which students use, without a care of security risks.

I asked him what he was doing here, he told me that "What? Even famous people have to go."

I realised this was getting awkward, so I reworded my question, telling him that this is the restroom students use, I tried to prove my point I pointed towards an area of the wall where random swear words and suggestive drawings were made with a sharpie, only to find they had been covered with some sort of weird medical tape.

I cleared my throat, before he tells me that this is the VIP restroom he had been escorted to.

Sure enough, outside there was a paper stuck to the door and a big VIP was written on it.

Basically they converted the restroom on the campus into a VIP restroom only for one day.

And I managed to sneak in, idk there was no one guarding the restroom so that makes it even more funny.

He asked me if i wanted an autograph to which my politics clouded mind responded with a big fat blunt no.

But then I remembered it would give me some brownie points if I bring back an autograph to the guy I was trying to win over, who, at that time was a pretty decent fan of this celebrity (also, there is nothing special to this celebrity just because I haven't mentioned his name, his name was Jimmy, and he looked like jimmy Nuetron) so after a while I told him that, I, infant would like an autograph.

I had nothing on which I could get a signature on, in my pocket was just one blood socked tissue paper.

And so I got it signed.

...

I got out and like a psychopath handed over the bloody signed tissue to my soon to be SO who was more worried since he thought I got lost somewhere, since the concert ended a while ago.

...

He still has that tissue paper. It's has a sentimental value in our relationship.

#reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #shifting motivation #shifters #shifting community #desired reality #shifting stories #shifting reality #shifting storytime

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system-to-the-madness · 2 months ago

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Heart Aflame (3/3) - Zuko x Reader

Word Count: 3 901 Warnings: kidnapping, slavery, human trafficking, colonialism, mentions of: torture, physical violence, death Summary: You learn about a camp where your kidnapped sister might be held, so Zuko and you head out to find her A/N: Part 6.3 of the series Perfect (10 times Zuko thought you were perfect and the first time he told you)

Part One - Part Two

There was the cell you had been looking for. And the door stood wide open.

Your heart, one minute ago still beating wildly, suddenly sank. You were too late.

Nonetheless, you stepped forward to look into the cell. It seemed smaller than the other cells, darker, wetter. And it looked like someone had lived here for a while. A blanket was bunched up in a corner on the cold stone floor, a tray with half eaten porridge stood in the middle of the room, a wooden cup with water had fallen over and spilled across the ground.

Taking a step into the cell, you picked up the blanket. It was still warm. Whoever had been in here had been taken only a few minutes ago.

“They knew we were coming,” you realized, turning to Zuko who stood in the door, his expression clearly displaying his frustration. “How did they know?”

“I have no idea. But we need to find Xiang,” Zuko decided. “Come on.”

Stepping forward, he grabbed your arm and pulled you to your feet. “Maybe they moved her to one of the offices on the second floor. Some of them have special rooms to interrogate prisoners for information.”

And just like that you were running again. The air was burning in your lungs, but you were grateful to be able to move. It helped with the nerves and gave you a little more time to think. How had they known you were coming to find Xiang? Had it just been a coincidence? Xin Yan had said they didn’t know where Xiang was kept. Maybe it was normal for them to move her around. Had it even been her cell you had found? And how was it possible you hadn’t seen them on your way in? Was there another way out of the Mould?

Before you had been able to answer any of the questions for yourself, you had already reached the staircase, and taking two steps at a time, you raced upstairs, back out into the hall and straight into a group of guards.

You stumbled to a halt, making Zuko almost run you over as he came sprinting out of the door right behind you, and you couldn’t help but miss the irony of the situation from before having been reversed. You running into him vs. him running into you. Nobody being where you had expected someone to be there vs. too many people being where you had expected nobody to be.

The guards raised their weapons against you threateningly and without thinking, Zuko pushed you behind his back, summoning his fire.

“I am Prince Zuko, son of Fire Lord Ozai,” he declared, his voice having taken a sinister tone. “You will lay down your weapons or suffer the consequences of disobeying your prince!”

“A banished prince,” one of the guards mocked. “You have no power here!”

A blast of fire hit the guard straight into the chest, making him collapse on the ground.

“Lay down your weapons,” Zuko repeated, his voice nothing like the hesitant, almost shy tone you had gotten used over the few weeks you had spent with him. Instead, it was the voice of a leader, the voice of the fire lord, a voice that tolerated no objection.

The guards started hesitating. That was the difference between a normal military post and this prison school: usually the imprisoned students would probably submit to the threat of violence. But Zuko and you were different. He had received special military training, was a Fire Bender and had spent years of his life fighting real fights like most of the guards had probably never experienced before. You had none of that, but your own life mattered only little when it came to saving your little sister.

A motion behind the guards drew your attention towards it. It was Guo, there was no doubt about it. Had she been the one who had alarmed the guards? Had she recognized you, and made the connection that you were here to break out Xiang? But she wasn’t alone, you suddenly realized. She was dragging something along… someone.

In that moment, the thin, weak voice of a little girl tore through the tense silence.

“Nene!”

It was just two syllables, but that was all it took to tear your heart in two and make you forget everything around you.

Nene, the nickname your sister had always called you. A toddler-version of the local dialect for ‘big sister’. It had been one of her first words, right alongside ‘mama’ and ‘dada’.

She was here. Xiang was right here with you. And she was being held prisoner by the one person who still haunted your nightmares even years after last having seen her.

Not giving the guards or Zuko or anyone else a second thought, you jumped forward, past the spear tips pointed at you and pushed past the guards.

Guo stood in the door to the yard, a wicked, satisfied grin on her bony face as she watched you race towards her. One of her skeleton-like hands was wrapped around Xiang’s little arm, and in the other-

You came to a slithering halt as you recognized the blinking metal in her other hand as a knife.

“Don’t hurt her,” you screamed. Your vision blurred, everything seemed out of focus except for the woman and her weapon in front of you. “Don’t hurt her, please.”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you,” the old hag sneered. “This brat here-” she shook Xiang, so her small body was thrown around violently, “is just as much trouble as you always were. Did you really think you could just waltz in here and get her back to your barbaric earth kingdom ways?”

“She’s more Fire Nation that you! It’s in her blood,” Xiang spat, her voice brave even though she was being treated so harshly.

Behind your back, Zuko took out the guards, but you didn’t even notice the noise and heat of the fight, only focused on Guo.

“Did you really think, after all the trouble you always caused, I wouldn’t recognize you? I’ll admit, I was uncertain last night, but the sunlight left no doubt, not even in your pathetic disguise as Fire Nation. You’re disgracing the royal colours,” Guo went on. “And the guards: when you were running around down there, didn’t you once question why there were no guards?”

She was right you realized, as heat begun welling up in your stomach. Even though the cells had been filled with students taken prisoner, there had been no guards around. You had been so focused on finding Xiang, that you had ignored all the signs that you were too late. The heat of embarrassment and shame, fear and desperation begun spreading from your stomach down your legs and into your arms.

“You cheated,” Xiang suddenly screamed. “You built the secret passageway and tried to outsmart Nene, but she’s still better than you! She found me and she’s gonna take me home!”

Xiang started struggling against Guo’s harsh grip, but the old woman just yanked her back. The heat that had taken over your body seemed to flow into your hands, making your fingertips tingle almost painfully.

“Stay still or I’ll cut you,” she threatened.

“Don’t hurt her,” you repeated, staring like hypnotized at the way Guo brought the knife closer and closer to Xiang’s skin. Your hands felt like they were aflame.

In hindsight, you weren’t sure what exactly had happened. The moment Guo had moved the knife to Xiang’s arm, you had taken a step forward, reaching out as if you could cross the distance still separating you with the reach of your arm to stop Guo from hurting your little sister. In the same moment it felt like an electrical discharge connected Guo and you in the same way Sokka had described lightning to be created by immense tension between two electrical charges. This was the feeling that raced through your body, accompanied by a feeling of almost relief and the fraction of a second later, a red burning spear made of fire lodged into Guo’s arm.

Her scream echoed back from the tall walls of the hall, and she dropped the knife from her injured hand, letting go of Xiang in favour of clutching the burned stab wound where the spear of fire had disappeared into nothingness.

“Xiang,” you shouted for your sister, who perplexed watched as her tormentor was sinking to her knees, still screaming.

“You’re a Fire Bender,” she wailed accusingly, directing her little bead-like black eyes to you. “You’re a Fire Bender. Traitor! Traitor!”

“Xiang, come on,” you raced forwards, grabbing your sister who was turning to stare at you wide eyed, before snapping back into the moment.

“Behind you!”

One of the guards seemed to have evaded Zuko and was coming straight for you. He was only a few meters away, his sword already up in the air to strike you down, you who was weapon less and defenceless against him. You lifted your hand again, feeling the same relief of the discharge as before and a moment later, a spear of fire bore through the guard’s leg, and he stumbled to the ground.

“Let’s go!”

Zuko came running over, his eyes only scanning over the quickly dissolving spear of fire before he grabbed Xiang, lifting her into his arms effortlessly, and running out into the yard.

You followed him, still feeling the heat in your fingertips. Zuko was running fast, even while carrying Xiang, who helplessly clung onto the young man’s neck. You almost dared hoping you would make it out of the school the way you had gotten in, when suddenly soldiers came swarming into the yard. Not just guards but actual Fire Nation soldiers.

“We need Appa,” you called, catching up with Zuko.

“Not in here. He’ll get captured,” Zuko refused, firing a blast against the soldiers who had closed in from the left. “Let’s take the main gate!”

You changed directions, following Zuko. The soldiers were approaching you fast. They would have caught up with you before you had reached the gate. And even if you made it. The gate was closed. You’d be trapped.

“We’re not gonna make it,” you shouted to Zuko, whose eyes were stubbornly focused on the gate, his expression grim.

“Keep going,” he told you, and you had no choice but to trust him and follow him.

From the right soldiers were catching up to you, and for a third time you allowed the strange sensation of the discharge wash over you, firing not one but several speers in quick succession at your pursuers, who fell back at the threat of getting impaled by fire. A few meters later, you reached the iron wall of the gate. The metal was warm under your hands from the mid-day heat as you pressed your palms against it.

“What now,” you asked as Zuko sat Xiang down.

“I’ll melt the lock; you keep the soldiers in check!”

“How do you want me to do that,” you asked, in a mixture of anger and amused disbelief. You had no weapons, no shield, nothing but the clothes on your body. If it were just your life on the line, you might have been able to think more clearly, but it was also him and Xiang who were depending on you.

“Use your fire!”

The reply came in two voices, the voice of the boy who had already pressed his hands over the lock to melt it, as well as the small, high-pitched voice of your sister.

Not questioning them, you took a protective stance between them and the soldiers who came to a slithering halt when they saw you assume the same pose you had always seen Fire Benders assume in battle. Your heart was beating in your ears and your whole body felt like it had to be bursting into flames.

“No step further,” you warned them, but your warning seemed only to encourage them, as a few began edging forwards.

With a flick of your wrist, you drove a fire spear into the ground in front of one of the soldier’s feet. He gasped out in surprise. For a moment all of them seemed to hesitate, making a feeling of relief spread in your chest. But the relief was only short lived as a second later they all sprung forwards at the same time. This time it was no spear that shot out from your hands, but instead a wide fire blast, erecting a wall of flame between you and your attackers. Behind your fire they were screaming commands at one another, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying over the sound of blood rushing in your ears and the hissing of the flames.

“I got it,” Zuko shouted, grabbing your arm and pulling you backwards.

The moment he touched you, the wall of flames died down, but you had no time to worry about the state of the soldiers, as the gate swung open and Zuko pulled you along with him, having Xiang already lifted into his arms again. The high-pitched whine from Aang Sky Bison whistle sounded in your ears, and hand in hand Zuko and you sprinted down the road you had seen the day prior.

Behind you, the soldiers had already started to pursue you, and even though you had escaped the school, for the first time it felt like you had nowhere to go. If Appa didn’t make it in time, where were you supposed to go? The island was tiny, you’d be caught in no time.

But your thoughts got wiped out by the shadow suddenly covering the sun from above, and a second later Appa touched down on the ground before you.

In one swift motion Zuko all but threw Xiang onto Appa’s back, jumping up with little to no effort as well, before he turned around and offered you his hand. You had barely grabbed it, when he already yelled “Yip yip” and Appa begun floating away from the ground.

Your feet were dangling in the air, but Zuko pulled you into Appa’s saddle with one strong pull, causing you to stumble over the edge and right into him, causing him to fall backwards, with you on top of him.

For a moment, you just lay there and breathed. Sweat was running down your face, your legs hurt from running, your arms and hands felt so sore you could barely move them. The world seemed to be spinning, and black dots were dancing in your vision. But Zuko’s body underneath you was warm and soft. His breaths came in irregular pants and his hand, still closed around yours made you feel safe and comfortable.

It was only a moment later that something heavy and soft plummeted into your side, causing you to roll over and off Zuko. Xiang had launched herself into your side, wrapping her thin little arms around your middle and burying her face in your stomach.

“You came for me,” she cried, her small body shaking with sobs as she pressed closer to you. “Everyone said you were dead, but I knew you’d come and find me.”

Suddenly it felt like you couldn’t breathe. You were still panting from the chase, but your throat closed up and tears sprung to your eyes. For over a year you had dreamt of this moment, of finally holding Xiang again. You had lost count how many times you had seen her die in nightmares, how many times you had pictured getting to see her again, and now she finally was back where she belonged, back with you.

Through tears you looked up to Zuko, who had sat up, leaning against the wall of the saddle. His eyes were soft as he was watching you hold your sister tightly, and you knew that he didn’t need you to say out loud how grateful you were for his help.

The flight took several hours, and by the time the sun started setting over the sea, Xiang had told her story to Zuko and you. Trying to offer you some privacy, Zuko had moved to Appa’s head, letting you talk by yourselves, but now, as the sky turned pink and orange, you had asked him to join you back on the saddle. Appa would find the way on his own; he always found Aang without even trying, and you were worried Zuko would fall asleep and fall off Appa. After all, it had been a long journey.

Xiang had calmed down a while ago, clearly exhausted. Now you and Zuko sat opposite one another in the saddle, Xiang cuddled into your side and covered by the jacket Zuko had stolen for himself in the laundry room. (He had insisted on using his jacket as a blanket for Xiang, not wanting you to get cold in the cooling evening air.)

After a while of silence, he eventually spoke up.

“I didn’t know you were a Fire Bender,” he said, closely watching your reaction.

It took you a moment to process his words, before you slowly looked up at him.

“I’m not,” you disagreed.

“You clearly are. You created fire spears and a whole wall of fire back at the school. That was some quite impressive Fire Bending.” Zuko reminded you. “Not something Non-Benders can do.”

“But I’ve never fire bent before,” you shook your head. “I’m not a Fire Bender.”

“Maybe you’ve just never tried,” Zuko offered, “or been in a situation where you needed it. But I’m sure you’d become a great Fire Bender if you were to train a little.”

“I don’t want to become a Fire Bender,” you replied, your answer harsher than he had expected.

Zuko hesitated for a moment before asking: “Why not?”

“All they’ve ever brough my family was pain and suffering. I don’t want to be like them.”

Zuko ignored the painful stab in his chest at your words. But it made sense, he guessed. Your family had been torn apart by Fire Benders. He had been your friend for less than a month. He couldn’t expect his friendship with you to be able to change your perspective on a whole group of Benders overnight.

“Even if your fire had the power to save her,” he asked carefully, nodding towards Xiang. “If you hadn’t used Fire Bending multiple times today, we would be prisoners of the Fire Nation now… or worse.”

You looked down to where your sister was sleeping in your lap, and slowly brought a hand up to her hair, brushing your fingers over it.

“I’m scared of hurting people,” you admitted. “I don’t want to cause pain and suffering, too. I know, I already did today, but…”

“Fire can be more than just a weapon, you know,” Zuko offered. “It can be used for good, too. To light up darkness, to create warmth in the cold. It can even be art. When I was little, we’d have these dancers come to visit the palace sometimes, and they’d dance at night, using their flames to paint patterns and sceneries into the dark. You don’t have to use your fire to fight, but I think it would be better if you learnt how to handle it, otherwise you might end up hurting someone by accident.”

You bit your lip and looked down at your hands.

“Just because I summoned it today, doesn’t mean I’ll be able to do it again tomorrow,” you told him. “I haven’t been using Fire Bending for more than fifteen years, didn’t even know I could. For all we now, it might take me another fifteen years until I can use it again the next time.”

Zuko sighed. “That’s not how bending works. Listen, I’m not trying to talk you into doing something you don’t want to. I really don’t but… The access to your bending is… like a jar of jam.”

Irritated you looked up at him, an amused smile tucking at your lips.

“A jar of jam,” you asked, making him shrug, but he couldn't deny the pride in his chest that he had gotten you to smile.

“Like a jar of strawberry-peach jam,” he agreed. “You know how when you first open a new jar, it’s so hard, almost impossible to open? But once you’ve got it open, no matter how hard you try to screw it shut, it’ll always be way easier than when you first opened it.”

“If my bending runs out as quickly as a jar with strawberry-peach jam, I got nothing to worry about,” you joked, making Zuko sigh.

“That’s not- that’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

For a while you sat in silence, Zuko keeping a close eye on you, as you were running your hands through Xiang’s hair, detangling her locks. It was awfully obvious that she had been neglected over the past weeks, if not months. Her small body was too thin and light for a child her size and age. Her face, that was supposed to be childishly round, had fallen in cheeks, and dark circles were painted under her eyes. Her hair was matt and matted, her skin pale and littered with scraps and cuts. Whatever they had done to her, Zuko doubted there was a punishment fitting for those responsible. Now Xiang was resting her head in your lap, her small hand curled around the fabric of the Fire Nation uniform you were still wearing, her tiny frame covered by Zuko’s jacket. His eyes wandered from her to you, the way your hands kept busying themselves with her hair or readjusting the jacket around her shoulders as if to make sure she was still with you. Or maybe you were trying to distract you from the fire your hands had summoned just a few hours ago. You looked tired, Zuko thought, but also happy. It had to have been like torture, knowing your sister was out there and being unable to help in the slightest. And now the relief of being reunited with her? Zuko couldn’t imagine how that had to feel. He was just glad he had gotten to help you.

“After the war…” Zuko perked up at your voice. “Promise me we’ll go back there and help these kids find their families again?”

Zuko stared across the small distance, at the way the setting sun was painting your features in warm golden. Did you have any idea how perfect you were? Not just beautiful and sweet, but also courageous, unapologetically gentle and still one of the fiercest fighters he had ever met.

He nodded. “Of course, of course we will.”

You smiled to him and nodded back before closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Thank you,” you whispered over the rushing of the wind. “And Zuko?”

He hummed in reply, signalling he was listening.

“Will you teach me Fire Bending?”

He watched you for a moment, watched how your features seemed to relax. But when he answered with a quiet ‘yes, I will’, a small smile spread over your lips.

Soon the sun had sunken behind the horizon and the stars took over the sky, but Zuko couldn’t be bothered to tear his gaze away from your sleeping form and kept wake all the flight until you had reached Ember Island again.

Tags (it seems like some of the tags aren't working, sorry...):

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@oddobsessionbutotay

@makik0

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live-laugh-lenney · 11 months ago

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What about George when his girl is insecure?

oh, he'd be the sweetest. you cannot tell me otherwise. he's a big old softy when it comes to her feeling insecure...

"oi, you. why are you hiding in here?"

yn tears her attention away from her phone and she directs her eyes over to the bedroom door, the quietness of the room being broken by her boyfriend's hushed voice. his head being all she could see as he peered into his bedroom, with the door being kept ajar so she could still hear the commotion of arthur's housewarming party from down the hallway, loud music and heavy chatter bouncing off the walls.

with a spare room going at george's, with arthur hill and chris taking the other two, they had offered it out to 'mister television' and it was an offer he took kindly. immediately making the flat his own from the moment he had started moving in.

"i just needed a bit of peace," yn replies softly, "everything okay?"

george nods softly and steps into the room, a bottle of peroni in his hand and, as he sat down beside her, she could smell the booze on his breath; intoxicating to her because there was something about drunk george that she couldn't get enough of. the way his eyes would darken after each beer, the way his lips got wetter and wetter, the way his hands would wander her body... it was something special and she longed for a night out where the two of them could let loose.

except, this night, she just wasn't feeling it.

she just wasn't feeling herself.

her relationship with george had been common knowledge for over a year now, his followers welcoming her in with open arms and the sweetest of messages, and she thought she'd gotten lucky in barely coming across any hate and messages that were simply posted out of pure jealousy and rage... until that morning, when she was sat at the kitchen island in george's flat, scrolling through her twitter and her instagram on her laptop and spooning porridge into her mouth, taking advantage of the quiet flat before any of the boys had woken up.

and, for some reason, the majority of her 'recommended' tweets were about her. the top comments showing on her most recent instagram post were hateful towards the way she looked. the most retweeted and the most liked comments were about how george should be with someone else because she was boring and holding him back from his career.

'anyone else feeling bored of her now? george needs someone better'

'george isn't so active on here anymore... we haven't had a video from him for months. single him was so much better'

'him and gkbarry were my endgame. i hate how yn came into his life and ruined the dream'

'she's so ugly... why her?'

she knew that reading one bad tweet would drown out the majority of the nicer comments but those comments were hard to ignore. if they were said out of spite, and if they were said to hurt her, then they were achieving exactly that... and it was silly because they were from online outlets.

"is that really the reason?"

"what?"

"that you needed some peace. baby, you've been off with me all day," george states, his bottle of beer being placed on the bedside table next to his side of the bed, freeing both hands so he could hold hers tightly, "if something is bothering you, you can tell me."

"i know," she smiles softly and he leaves the space beside her and kneels down in front of her, resting his arms on her thighs and her hands being kept in his tight hold, "i know i can."

"then talk to me."

she lifts her head from her lap and she can feel her chin wobbling as soon as she made eye contact with his eyes, concern and confusion flooding his orbs as he sees her demeanour drop from her usual self. the bubbly personality having gone missing that day. no jokes being shared, she didn't tease arthur for something he'd said, chris couldn't even make her laugh and she didn't break into song with arthur hill when she saw him.

"what's happened?"

"i just," she huffs out a heavy and shaky breath, her head rolling back and she looks up to the ceiling, "people are so mean online, george."

"i thought we spoke about not going looking for those kinds of tweets and messages," he reminds her, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a soothing manner, "there's no point getting sucked in to the hate and the negative tones on social media. blacklist the words."

"but i didn't go looking," she states, "they were just there. right when i opened twitter this morning. on my instagram. people were saying you could do better than me. that i'm ugly. that i'm stopping you from doing your job. it just made me feel bad. insecure, almost. like, i know you can have anyone you like. just look at you."

he tuts and shakes his head, a displeasing look on his features and he squeezes her hands in hopes she would look at him in the eye. which she did. in a manner that was slow and cautious because she knew she was being silly, dealing dramatically with the situation, yet she just couldn't help it. she had feelings and when they got too much, she just needed a relief in letting them out before she felt better.

"george-"

"you have nothing to be insecure about, alright? i love you," he says with the cheesiest grin on his lips, "i love you. always. everything that i do, it's done so that i can spoil you and take you away with me and treat you so well. not them."

"but-"

"no," he interrupts her and stops her from continuing, bringing up a finger to hold against her lips, "you're gorgeous. you're beautiful. you are my favourite person in the entire world, okay? yeah, they may have gotten me into this whole crazy dream of mine but, i get to live that dream with you."

her heart triples in size, thumping hard in her chest, and her lips curve into a smile against his finger.

"i'm so lucky to have you, baby. my number one fan, my number one tiktok commenter, my number one."

"that was cheesy," she murmurs and he rolls his eyes, standing to his feet and holding his hands out, "you know i'm going to tell them you just said that."

"don't," he warns her, pulling her to her feet and bringing her to his chest, her cheek resting against the t-shirt on his upper body and his lips pressing against her forehead, "you ready to come back out? the others have been asking for you."

she nods and looks up at him, standing on her tiptoes and placing a kiss to his lips.

"i love you too, by the way."

short and sweet for our georgey boy there. thank you for sending this in! i do love a bit of fluffy and boyfriend-y george fics - he just screams simp for his girlfriend, you can't tell me otherwise. xx

#george clarkey #george clarkey imagines #george clarkey blurbs #george clarkey fics #george clarkey headcannons #george clarkey x female reader

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mychlapci · 5 months ago

Text

thinking about that post portraying cybertronian food, and how even in fanfics you often have the bots adding metals and minerals to their diet. do you think that when they only drink energon it could even be detrimental to their health. like yes it's better than nothing and keeps them running, but maybe their self-repair is much slower, they have less energy (or they receive a slight burst of energy followed by a crash?), maybe they're missing fluids and lubricants because their creation depends on the mineral and metal additives, so their joints are more achy, their intake is dry, their body doesn't filter out energon properly... idk i don't know anything about machines. but you get where i'm going with this yes. whenever we have bots portrayed as running only on energon it's the equivalent of a human eating nothing but porridge every single day for months. they get robot scurvy.

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alavestineneas · 1 year ago

Text

Home

pairing: catohadley x fem!reder

summary: He doesn't know why her flower dress comes to mind—it's a contrast to the hard truth of reality. He lost a friend here, but Cato would need to learn how to lose much more if he wanted to get the hell out of here. And he does, no matter the price. warnings: canon-typical violence; mentions of meat (as in reader owns a butcher shop); trauma and poverty word count: 6k

author's note: hello beautiful people! In honour of my birthday, I am posting about this bad boy today. Hope you like it - it was such a fun thing to write! Enjoy!

The stones under his worn boots are changing quickly; they are coloured in all shades of grey, sometimes with funny black dots on their rounded bellies. Cato would stop and collect a few if it wasn't for the important task at hand: Mom sent him to the butcher's, letting him take the thinly metaled coins for the first time, which are now snugly stored in the pockets of his raggy coat. He has the order memorized; Mom always buys the same. Three pig legs for the soup, which are then added to the porridge she cooks, and two bottles of the cheapest milk on the counter. It's good for the bones in his body, she says, and Cato believes her. Soon, he will start school; he has to be strong to get the chance to try out for the academy.

The butcher's is just around the corner; it's the only shop in their block that is always open. And, although the signboard is already faded, it is still his favourite place to visit. The door opens with a creek, and a small bell over Cato's head sings its cheerful melody. He takes a few steps inside, the colourful counters greeting him with all kinds of meat and sausages. He reads the curved writing on each of the signs carefully, trying out the way the letters come together in words. The sound of rushed steps is the only thing that breaks his mesmerization. They are soon changed by the grunting of the wood chair on the old tiled floor, and then, finally, a head pops up from behind the stands.

''Good afternoon!'' A pair of curious eyes stare at him, a smile missing a few teeth serving as a second greeting. ''What can I do for you today?'' the girl asks, changing her cheerful demeanour to a more serious, business-like tone.

Cato straightens up, his fingers finding the coins. He is a grown-up now; no other four-year-old he knows is allowed to go to the butcher's by themselves. ''I am here to buy meat.''

The girl laughs, her hair shaking with her mirth.

Cato feels the redness creep to his ears—of course, he is here to buy meat; everyone does. ''Why are you behind there anyway?'' he mutters, crossing his hands in front of himself. He thinks the girl should stop now; it's really not nice to laugh at others.

''Grandpa went to trade for bread and left me as the captain here,'' the girl boasts.

''That's a shame.'' Partly because Cato liked Grandpa Marc—he always sneaked a few pieces of candy for him and his brothers at home—and partly because he didn't like the little know-it-all. ''I would like three pig legs and two bottles of the cheapest milk,'' he declares in one breath, careful not to mess up. He isn't sure he can take another wave of her laughter.

''Sure,'' the girl nods, packing the meat in a big brown bag. Cato patiently waits as she moves her chair to reach the milk shelves, stopping before them. ''Which one again?''

''Shirley's.''

The girl doesn't move; the flowers on the back of her dress are still facing him.

''Shirley's,'' he repeats a little louder. Cato feels silly again; he doesn't like the mean girl and the way she teases him. ''Are you stupid? The one with the blue cap is Shirley's.''

''Right,'' she finally grabs it, moving to the register. Her hands work quickly, wrapping the goods and putting them together. ''The meat is this much money, '' she scrambles the numbers on the piece of paper lying nearby, ''and milk is this much.''

Cato goes over the symbols, carefully counting the total in his head. ''Here,'' he says, reaching for the money. ''And you wrote the two here wrong—it should be facing the other way, like a swan.''

''Oh. Sorry about that. Is this with change?'' She points to the colourful coins on the wood.

''Don't you know how to count? You need to give me 50 cents in change.''

''I do!'' she argues, her hand slapping the counter. ''I was just, hm, testing you!''

''Sure. Then why are you giving me two dollars back now?'' Cato raises an eyebrow. Part of him wants to laugh at her, just like she did moments ago. But he doesn't. Instead, he swaps the coins for the right amount, giving her the money back. ''Here you go. All good.''

''Thank you! Have a nice day!''

Cato nods, grabbing the bag and exiting the shop with a light heart. He did what his mom asked him to; she will be very happy to know that. The air is warm, and the soft wind is hitting him right in the face. In no time, Cato is home; the door is never locked. He places the bag on the kitchen table; Mom will see it when she puts the baby to sleep. His third brother - the other two are sleeping on the big bed in the children's room. That used to be his, but now he is a big boy—he sleeps on the couch in the living room, right near the kitchen. He likes it here; the baby's crying is not as loud, and he can see Mom as often as he wants to when she cooks.

There's not much to do right now; it's the ''quiet hours'' in Hadley's house. Usually, Cato would go play outside at this time, but instead, he grabbed the big book from the kids' shelf. There, with big, red letters, are all of the alphabets and numbers. It was his favourite. Cato remembers how mom would sit with him on her lap, her soft finger circling every picture. ''This is one. Look, it has a tiny nose, just like you do! Here, give me your hand—that's one finger you have, little gentleman!''

Cato throws one last glance at the closed door to the parent's room—he decides that mom won't be mad at him if he plays not in front of the house for once—and grabs the book, leaving the still place. This time, he grabs a few of the prettiest rocks on his way—he builds bridges and castles with them in the small creek behind their house. The butcher's is still empty when he gets there; the girl sits on the tall chair, drawing on the paper.

''What are you drawing?'' Cato asks, trying to see, but the counter is too tall for him to reach.

The girl doesn't look surprised to see him here; it's like he never left in the first place. ''It's worms. Papa worm, mama worm, and little worm. They are having dinner.''

''What are they eating? Meat?''

''No,'' she said, shaking her head. ''Meat is expensive; they have no money. They're eating a dirt pie. Here,'' the girl climbs off the chair, sitting down on the floor instead. Cato sits down near her, looking over her shoulder. ''They have small plates and spoons.''

''My dad doesn't like pies. He likes potatoes more.'' Cato thinks meat is better than pies and potatoes, but he doesn't tell Dad that. The girl tells the truth: meat is expensive.

''Where is he? At work?''

''Yeah, at the factory.'' Most people work at the factory—that's what Cato's dad says. They go when it's dark outside and Cato is still sleeping, and they return when the clock shows all zeros. Then, his dad eats while his mom drinks tea, and they whisper about something. ''And yours?''

The girl shrugs. ''I don't have one. It's just Grandpa and me. What is this?'' She points to the book in Cato's hands, and he finally remembers why he came.

''That's my book. It has numbers. Do you want to see?''

The girl beside him nods, and Cato smiles. He opens the book and proudly shows off the beautiful pictures. The girl likes them; she listens carefully to what Cato has to say about each letter. He likes it when he doesn't laugh at him.

''Good morning, Grandpa Marc!'' Cato greets the man behind the counter, cutting up yet another piece of meat. It's early, but he already stands in the butcher's, his dad's old bag on his shoulder. They can't be late for the academy.

''I'm coming, I'm coming!'' YN shouts, biting into the apple in one of her hands and tucking in her shirt with the other. ''Bye, Pa, see you!''

They both passed the exam for the academy; only four people from their neighbourhood did. They got the chance only because they were ''exceptional'' students, the only four whose training was free for now. The debt will be paid by them volunteering or after the academy through their future salaries. Cato knows that no one is actually able to pay it off; he will volunteer as soon as possible. YN will go; they agreed to go in different years.

That's how it always was with them—they walked to the academy and home together, trained, and learned together. Cato helped Grandpa in the shop, and YN often looked after his brothers. It was the endless stream of jokes from everyone around—you never saw one without the other, not even on the rating board. That was until year nine.

''I decided I'm not going to sit with you at lunch,'' Cato tells the girl walking beside him on the dusty road.

YN doesn't answer right away; she watches her feet instead. ''Let me guess—you will be with the mayor's son and his pack?''

''As a matter of fact, yes. They are my friends, and they invited me to sit with them.'' It annoys him the tone she is using.

''They are not your friends, Cato. They only do that, so you will volunteer for them when the time comes.'' YN is angry; her hands on the straps of the backpack are tightly clenched.

''So what? I'm going to volunteer anyway, so why not sit with them? There is nothing to do here, and they are always hanging out at movies or something.''

''Oh, so that's what it is about.'' YN stops, turning to him. ''You want to be one of them now.''

''Of course, I fucking do!'' Cato exclaims. ''We are dirt poor, YN. I don't want to live all my life in this shithole.''

YN's face changes; her eyes look at him as if for the first time. ''This is home, Cato. This is where we belong.''

''I don't. And I will find a way out of here, and you can stay in this mud as much as you like, but I will not let you drag me down with you.''

She slaps him. The hit is heavy; they are both trained to take blows, but it stings him more than it should. Cato watches as YN leaves, her quick steps echoing on the empty street in the morning fog. He doesn't know why her flower dress comes to mind—it's a contrast to the hard truth of reality. He lost a friend here, but Cato would need to learn how to lose much more if he wanted to get the hell out of here. And he does, no matter the price.

YN can live without him as much as he does, she tells herself. She didn't decide to ruin the friendship, so she won't be the one to apologize, no matter how long the silence lasts. If he thinks that she will run back to him after four months of not talking, he is wrong. YN is fine; she still has two friends at the academy, she still has her grandpa and the beautiful sun above her head. It smiles at her every time she walks home alone, filling in the small gap in her chest with its golden rays. Her new companion.

What she doesn't expect is a group of people in front of the shop; they shout and argue, running around with ice and water in their hands. YN runs too; something happens. Fear rises in her stomach and travels to her throat when she sees the white coat of the doctor standing near the counter, a concerned expression on his face. ''I'm sorry,'' he tells her. YN clutches her bag, trying so hard not to cry as the crowd of familiar faces surrounds her.

He fell while trying to reach for the shelf, and a customer found him unconscious on the floor. Grandpa broke seven bones in his body and damaged his head. They are taking him to the hospital for, god knows, how long. The doctor places a hand on her shoulder; the cost of surgery is covered by the state, but she needs money for the medicine. They don't have any.

YN spends an hour crying into her pillow before pulling herself together—she is alone. It's not some stupid game they play—they pretend to win for years in the generated arenas in some big green boxes—it's life. The most brutal arena of all. So, she does what any fifteen-year-old would do—she washes her face with ice-cold water and grabs the keys from the shop. She has to speak with a few people.

The door to Hadley's home is never locked; nobody closes it in their neighbourhood, but YN still knocks out of respect. Cato opens it; she is surprised he is here and not with his new friends. He wants to say something, but YN has no time for him.

''Is your dad home?'' YN asks, trying to look over his shoulder.

Cato nods. ''Come in. Mom, it's YN.'' He shouts, closing the door behind her.

''Ah, YN. How is Grandpa Marc?'' She is cooking something—a big pot boiling with the best smell one could imagine.

The woman's concerned face stirs something in YN, so she fights the urge to cry and swallows her tears instead. ''Alive

''Come sit with us; we were just preparing to eat.''

YN wants nothing more than a plate of something warm, but she declines. She came here not to lessen the portion of someone; nobody here has money to make extra food. ''Thank you, but I need to speak with Mister Janus.''

''Spill it.'' Mr. Janus nods, standing up from the couch.

''Can we speak outside?'' YN asks, feeling a pair of blue eyes on her.

''Of course,'' Mister Janus shares a look with his wife before stepping outside. ''What happened, kid?''

YN takes some air inside her lungs. ''Is there a place for me at the factory for the night shifts?'' The man opens his mouth to argue, but YN is quicker. ''I know I am young, but I am strong from all the training, and I know a lot of useful things. I can reach where most men can't, and I will do anything you ask me to, I promise.''

Mister Janus sighed. ''I know you are good, but what about the academy? Night shift is six to six; you won't have time to get enough sleep and do the homework.''

''I quit the academy.''

''What?'' Mister Janus's face changes. ''YN, why? It's the only chance for you to survive.''

''Work is the only way for me to survive. Poverty and an empty stomach will kill me much faster than some games. I need the job, Mister Janus, please. If you don't give it to me, I will look for it elsewhere.''

The man thinks, his forehead creased with worry. ''Fine, kid. But be careful—get enough rest and don't push yourself too hard. We are here to help if you need us to.''

''Thank you, thank you so much!'' YN smiles, a few tears escaping her eyes. She hugs the man tightly, a glimmer of hope finally appearing. ''Thank you, Mister Janus; I will not let you down!''

Mistes Janus smiles back, patting her back. ''Go before it gets too dark; I'll see you tomorrow at five thirty.''

He watches as YN turns the corner of the street before returning to the warmth of his house. How much do these kids have to endure in this world?

YN didn't push herself too hard; she simply did what she was supposed to do. At six, she returned to the shop after the shift at the factory—butcher's opened at eight—so she had two hours to wash the dirt and sweat away with the old basin and a little warm water from the kettle and to master something edible on the stove. When that was done, she would dissect the meat and check the dates on milk bottles; the soon-gone bad would go to the sale section, and the new ones took their place. Then, the doors of the butcher's opened—people still needed to eat, and YN wasn't about to let them starve because of her own ''tiredness.''

The heaviest flow was in the morning, with the shop becoming quieter in the afternoon—that's when she took most of her sleep in, resting her head on the wooden counter and closing her eyes for a second. Oftentimes, customers would find her like this—they gently shook her shoulder and woke her up before ordering. Each time, YN felt shame creep to her cheeks, but each time, no one said a word to her; they just smiled, thanked her, and left the shop with a big brown bag in her hands.

That's how the rest of the year passed, with it becoming slightly easier when Grandpa was finally discharged from the hospital. His right arm didn't move like it used to, and it was hard for him to walk, but it was still better to have someone home to return to. Besides, he insisted on still serving the customers, so YN had an opportunity to sleep in her own bed for a few hours before a new portion of cut meat was delivered.

That's what she thought about standing in the main square in a crowd of children—how much meat she needed to cut before her shift. Grandpa was also here; some man had to hold him up so he wouldn't fall from being on his legs for too long, but he could at least enjoy the fresh air, which YN was grateful about.

The reaping was going quickly; the girl named was from the academy, so they didn't have to go through all that volunteering. YN didn't know her personally, but she saw her a couple of times; she was good with knives. As for the boys, it didn't go as smoothly—some poor eleven-year-old's name was called out, and he burst out crying on the spot.

''I volunteer!'' the voice boomed through the street, and YN turned with everyone to see who it was, although, in her head, she knew the answer.

Cato. He walked to the stage calmly, his legs conquering the steps in no time. He looked determined and happy, but YN knew better—that's what they taught them to present. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. Killers. She hears distant cries from the crowd behind her—it's probably Miss Hadley. YN clenches her jaw, her teeth grinding together until her head rings. It isn't the time for her to break.

Cato can't bear to watch his mother's puffy face as she clenches her arms around him, whispering something like a prayer into his chest. His father is silent, a lonely tear escaping his eye as he holds Cato's youngest brother closer. The twins are also here; both of them are at the academy, so they have a faint idea of what he is doing. They tell him he will win because of how big he is, and that will be very easy. Cato smiles at them reassuringly—if only it were that easy.

''Dad,'' he nods in the direction of his crying mother.

''Come on, darling, you will upset him before the games,'' his father tells her, carefully pulling her way and placing a hand on Cato's shoulder. ''Stay strong, my boy. We will all be rooting for you every second you are in that arena; don't forget that.''

''Thank you, dad. Boys,'' he watches as twins show each other away, trying to get to bed first. He hugs them both; he has two hands for a reason. ''Behave and don't bother mom too much, or I'll have to kick your ass once I get back,'' he whispers into their heads.

The youngest one waves goodbye, blowing him a kiss. Cato smiles, watching his family leave the room. He wants to remember this moment forever, to put it in his pocket, and to never let it go. He knows why he is doing this—for them to have a better chance at life, for his father to finally have a day off, and for his mom to have new pots she secretly gazed at when she thought he wasn't looking.

''Hadley. Seven minutes.'' The peacekeeper announces, opening the door once more, even though Cato doesn't expect anyone else. Well, he hoped she would come—he really wanted her to—but he believed she never would. YN is not the type. Still, she is here. Closing the door behind her, in a simple blue jumpsuit and a nice scarf around her head.

''Hi,'' she nods. ''I came to say goodbye.''

Cato's heart skips a beat—those words hit harder than seeing himself on the big screens, with a tribute written under them. Soon, he may be dead; she will watch him on her small TV in the living room.

YN speaks quickly, almost in a rush. ''I know we don't speak anymore, but I know how you fight—you are capable of winning more than everyone else out there. Please, just don't think too much about what you are doing; just do it, okay?''

''Yeah, I'll try.'' He finds it weird that she doesn't want him to think, but Cato doesn't question why—she does know him better than anyone, having been training for a lot of years side by side.

''You have to return; your family needs you.''

''Don't worry too much about them; we already got the money for my volunteering from the mayor. They will be fine; dad can still work, and twins could help out. You have enough on your shoulders as it is. How is Grandpa Marc?''

''Better. He can't move like he used to and still needs help with walking and eating, but other than that, it's good. Although he is devastated that I didn't let him handle the meat, you should've seen how he tried to sneak a few knives at night.''

Cato's lips turn into a smile. ''That does sound like him.''

''Oh, I almost forgot. Here,'' YN rumbles in her pockets before taking a few pieces of candy out. ''We thought you should have a few.''

''You are kidding me? Lucky-talkies? I haven't had one in ages!''

YN laughs at his excitement, carefully placing the sweets in his hand. ''I know. They are as hard as they used to be; don't chip your tooth; it'll look bad at the promotion.''

Cato chuckles, pocketing the candy before his mentors have a chance to take it away. ''Thanks, YN. For everything.''

''I'll give you as much as you want if you don't die in there. Just try to stay alive, okay?''

''Easier said than done. But I'll try.''

YN smiles. Their time is up. The peacekeeper opens the door for her, his gun tangling dangerously around his neck. She doesn't turn around as she exits; her walk is steady. Cato thinks that he caught her shoulders shaking, but it could be just a twist of his tired brain.

The days after that are agony. YN doesn't know if it was her tiredness that finally caught her in a narrow corner or the grim reality of her life—it was definitely both. Even her favourite silent friend didn't cheer her up like it used to—the sun shone almost violently, burning her skin and leaving her body dizzy. The rotten cycle was now worsened by the non-stopping playing of what seemed to be a thousand screens, with stomach-curling screams echoing from time to time. They were everywhere—at the shop and their small flat above it, on the main square she passed each day, and, what was worse, they were at the factory, where she couldn't pretend to watch even for a second.

The work she does is heavy—carving the stones on the machinery bigger than her; her muscles were constantly aching, begging for a break. The suit she wore was too tight and too hot, and the annoying voice of the announcer blared through the speakers, stealing the air in her lungs. YN wanted nothing but to make it stop—for the world to go silent and still, even if just for a moment. But wonders didn't happen with people like her, so she continued to work, pushing herself through her gritted teeth.

''Welcome, welcome to what seems to be the last day in this beautiful arena!'' The blue-haired man spoke, his accent making YN's head hurt even more. ''To remind our dear viewers all across the Panem, here is a small recap from my colleague and sometimes friend, Claudius.''

''Thank you, Caesar. We are left with only three tributes on day eighteen—the first, of course, being Cato from District 2. His strategy has proved efficient so far; no doubt, he is one of the best contestants we've seen in a long time. And then, much to my surprise, a pair of tributes from District 12 are still in the games—their love story truly captivated the audience. Let's see what this day, or should we say night, brings us today and who will have the odds in their favour in the end.''

YN doesn't react to their comments; it feels wrong to compare herself to the kids out there, being selfish enough to think she deserves a break. She should be counting her lucky stars; it isn't her there, going through the bodies of the competitors one by one. Cato received body armour from the sponsors; that was good. He also lost his district partner; YN remembers her now; she was in his ''new'' friend group. She feels sorry for the girl; her death was awful, and her screaming Cato's name will forever be engraved in YN's memory.

''Aha, here he is! Our gladiator from District 2—he is running from—what's that?—wolves! Look at that speed—he surely is a good runner!''

YN turns her attention to the giant screen—surely enough, Cato is running from some monstrous creatures. He is bloodied; his skin is covered in bruises. YN prays it all will stop soon and he will get home safe. He doesn't even flinch when the arrow shot by twelve hits his chest; he just keeps running towards the Cornucopia.

''Please,'' YN whispers. He can't die, not when he has survived for so long.

''Look at them—all of the tributes managed to get on the Cornucopia just in time! Oh, here is a clever move from Cato's side: having Peeta in a headlock is a classic move. Now, he is sort of a ''human shield''. Brilliant!''

"Go on, shoot.'' Cato's voice booms through the speakers, sending shivers down YN's back. She missed hearing his voice, but it didn't even sound like him anymore. Like a stranger talking from the inside of what looked like her friend. '' And we both go down, and you win. Go on. I'm dead, anyway! I always was, right? I didn't know that until now. Isn't that what they want, huh?''

What the fuck was he doing? YN's mind raced—why won't he just kill him and get it over with? She doesn't notice how her hands begin to shake and how everyone else in the room seems to be eyeing her.

''No! I can still do this. I can still do this. One more kill. It's the only thing I know how to do. Bring pride to my district. Not that it matters."

''Kill him! For fuck's sake, just kill him!'' YN stands up, her nerves getting the best of her. Her voice echoes—she didn't mean to say it out loud.

''No talking!'' The peacekeeper in front of her shouts, his hand steady on the gun.

YN turns to face him slowly. Who was he to tell her to shut up when it was her friend who was dying right before her eyes? She feels her hands clench into fists; she will be able to take him down in a fight, maybe even kill him. YN was willing to try, at least.

''She won't talk no more,'' one of the older men in the group mutters, his voice bitter. ''Sit down, child.''

YN wants to argue, wants to scream or run until the bullet catches up to her, but she doesn't. What use would her dead body be to her grandpa? So she sits down, biting her cheek until her mouth fills with a familiar iron taste. Everything she wants to say, she tastes in her throat instead.

''Wait, can we zoom in on here?'' One of the announcers asks. ''Here, yes, what exactly are they staring at? It fell from Cato's pocket, right?''

'''Well, Claudius, it looks like a candy wrap to me. The real question is: why does Cato have one in the first place? He didn't strike me as a big sweets fan. ''

''Well, whatever it is, it seems to have changed his mind—look at how masterfully he throws Peeta down, like a feather! Oh, and now he is lurching for the girl on fire!''

A loud snap is heard through the speakers, and the girl falls, lifeless. YN covers her face with her hands, the dirt from them leaving a mark on her sweaty face. A choir of relieved exhales rings through the room.

''Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have our 75th victor!''

It's hard, the first thing Cato realizes. Being here, breathing in the air that feels like spikes inside his lungs—everything was supposed to be easy, but it's so far from that. They have a nice house now; it has a room for each of his brothers, and even twins don't have to share anymore. His dad doesn't work; it's not fitting for victor's family to do so, so he takes up gardening instead. If a few years ago Cato heard that his father would ramble about how badly roses had grown on this soil, he would've checked himself into a mental asylum.

He isn't very loved in the Capitol, but his mentors said it was for the best. Cato believes them, but it stings a little. He wanted glory but got disgusted instead. It was not a fair trade, but at least his debt is paid, as is his brothers'. Money could buy a lot of things, just like he predicted, but it couldn't buy him peace. Cato has nothing ahead of him; he can't study like his peers do, can't work, can't live, and pretend it didn't happen. It very much did—when he closes his eyes, he can still smell the blood on his hands.

That's why he is here instead of Victor's village, eating ice cream on the empty main square in the warm evening. It's funny to think how he wanted to try it, collecting the money his father let him have for almost a year before ordering his first chocolate scoop. It was the tastiest thing he had ever eaten; now, it tasted just like every other one.

He hears the nearing footsteps—the people are returning from the day shift in the factories. Cato nods to a few of them—old neighbours, parents of classmates, or dad's friends. The men are all different—short and tall, ginger, blond and brunette—but they all bear the same expression that Capitoleers called ''a district 2 glare'' once. Cato used to get angry when he heard it, but now his face is no different—the word is a heavy thing to endure.

His eyes drift to the only person looking up and not on the road ahead—of course, it's YN. She thinks about something only she and the sun know, her steps mirroring those of the people ahead. One of the men notices him watching; he gently shoves her shoulder, whispering something in her ear before pointing in the direction of his seat. Suddenly, Cato wants to hide the ice cream in his hand and run away, but he doesn't.

''Enjoying your victory, Mister Hadley?'' Her voice is loud and filled with teasing, and a few men snicker at them.

Cato isn't angry; he deserves it, quite frankly. ''Always was known for the sweet tooth,'' he shrugs. ''As a matter of fact, are you free any time soon?'' He asks when the crowd is far enough away.

YN raises an eyebrow at him. ''Why is that? You know I work.''

''I was hoping you and your grandpa could come by sometime. Mom is awfully lonely, and the boys would love to see you, too.''

She nods. ''I am free on Sunday, but Grandpa is still a little shy about eating in front of people.''

''I'll ask mom to cook a soup then—it's better?'' He would cook the damn soup himself if it meant seeing her for longer than five minutes. If it meant not being alone in that house, that reeked of the arena.

''Yes, I think we can do that. What about 12? We could be a little late with all that walking.''

''Thank you; it's perfect.''

YN smiles at him. For the first time since he won, someone smiled at him. Cato smiles back, although he is sure it comes out more as a grin. YN doesn't notice or pretends to do so.

''Oh, come in! Janus, come right down; the guests are here!''

YN and her grandpa are greeted with Miss Hadley's voice, her warm hands wrapping first around her, and then the older man. YN smiles; she missed just sitting down for a meal without having to worry about how much money she was going to need for the next one. The boys have grown. They shout, each trying to be the first to show her their own rooms and the cool things they have. YN tries not to get lost in the maze of toys, balls, books, and a thousand other different things, while Grandpa talks with Mr. Janus.

When the boys start to embark on what feels like a fifth circle around the house, Miss Hadley puts an end to it. ''That's enough! YN, darling, come sit here—what would you like to eat?''

The table is full of different things. There are so many that they could eat for a few weeks and be full. YN doesn't think she saw that many vegetables and fruits in her life. She asks for what everyone is having and is happy to have her plate full. Grandpa also seems to be enjoying himself; he insists on wearing his best shirt for the occasion and now listens attentively to what the twins have to say. They make a good team, YN thinks—twins finally found free ears that are not yet tired of them, and there is nothing that Grandpa loves more than a good story.

When the dinner is over, YN speaks, talking to Miss Hadley beside her. ''Thank you for the invitation; your house is just lovely.''

''Cato made us clean every corner of it before you came—I didn't even have time to play outside!'' The youngest boy whines, pouting slightly.

YN chuckles as she watches colour gather at Cato's ears, his eyes glued to the dish in front of him. ''Well, it was definitely worth it—I had the most marvelous time with you here. And the food was delicious! But I am afraid we have to go; Grandpa should walk when it's still light outside.''

''We will take you home,'' Cato announces, nodding to the twins to put on their shoes. They do so happily, grabbing them and their jackets before Grandpa has a chance to stand up and stick to his side like glue.

The evening is pleasant; the wind is quite chilly, but Cato doesn't mind. The only sound on the street is twins arguing over who will help Grandpa Marc with his cane for the next two minutes.

''Thank you for coming,'' he says, looking at the woman walking beside him.

''Of course. We had a good time, - I hope you did too. How's life been? We haven't talked in a while.''

''Good,'' Cato lies. ''And yours?''

''Better. Since your dad quit, I got the day shift; it pays better, and I can finally get rid of those horrible dark circles.''

Cato nods. ''I've been thinking a lot about our past these days, especially our childhood. It feels like a lifetime ago.''

''Things change,'' YN shrugs. ''We've grown and become different people since then. I would've never imagined working at the factory, but here I am. And you win the games—that was your dream.''

''Don't you miss it? How easy were things back then?''

YN smiles. ''They never were easy, I think; we just couldn't understand them properly. Besides, not much changed, if you think about it.''

''Maybe not for you.''

''Why?'' YN turns to look at him.

Cato swallows. ''YN, they made me different. The games, all those kills—they changed me.''

''You did what you had to survive. It doesn't matter now that you are here.''

''You think I don't notice how people tiptoe around me now? How can Mom stand to look at me for more than a minute? How do boys try to avoid me at all costs? And dad—he doesn't even speak to me! ''

YN is silent. Cato curses in his mind—he shouldn't have said that. He takes a deep breath. ''I'm sorry. It just feels weird. It's like I don't have a home to return to and can't get into a new one. Just hanging there, mid-air.''

''When Grandpa was in the hospital, that's how it felt. I was too young to be alone, but there was no choice but to watch as everything I once loved fell into ruins. I was supposed to be going to movies, partying, and sneaking out, not juggling the bills from medication and the shop. But life decided otherwise. So, I built my own home within myself—one that nothing could tear down or take away.''

''I don't think there is anything left to build on. I'm not like you; everything anyone sees when they look at me is a monster .''

''I don't.'' YN stops. ''I see the boy who brought me a pretty big book with pictures so I could give the change correctly; I see a man who volunteered for his family to have a chance at a better life. I see you, real you, not the role mentors or Capitol made you play. Just Cato.''

''Can I hug you?'' His voice is barely above a whisper.

YN doesn't answer - she just takes a step closer into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder.

''I'm sorry; I am so sorry for everything I've done," Cato mutters, his hands trembling as he holds onto YN tightly. ''I should've said it sooner. ''

''It doesn't matter now. We survived this; we are still here, you and I.''

Cato nods; his tears mix with hers, pooling in patches on his shirt. They are different—children who were forced to grow up too early in a world that wasn't for them. ''I think I never lost it—my home. It was always here, with you, on this street. Isn't it funny? All those years of searching, only to return here, where we truly belong?''

''The butcher's, you mean? If you wanted more candy, you could've just asked,'' YN smiles, whipping away her red eyes.

''Fucking finally,'' an aged voice mutters from behind the corner.

''Grandpa Marc!'' the twins turn to him, surprised.

The old man just smiles, his wrinkled face appearing younger with joy. ''Don't tell YN I said that. She'll never let me live it down."

The twins giggle, their happy laughter echoing on the street. A few moments later, Grandpa Marc joins in, his breathy laugh adding to the chorus. It's not the first time the street leading to the butcher's was woken up by sounds of joy, and he hoped it wouldn't be the last.

#imagine #hunger games #character x you #cato hunger games #cato hadley #cato x reader #cato hadley x reader #cato hadley fanfiction #the hunger games #district two #childhood friends to lovers #au #love this pookie so much #careers #thg cato

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oraeliaa · 7 months ago

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Fallout and Food - research for all fics

I've been meaning to type this up for ages (I have it as written notes on my iPad), so I thought I'd post this first and if people are interested I can post more research that I've done, since a lot of you said yes to seeing my research!

So I talk about food a lot, in my fics. That's because I love cooking. So one of the first things I did was research food, because as much as I love spam (no joke I miss it most since going vegetarian) I wanted to try and have some diversity in what Cooper and Lucy ate, especially once we got to the ranch, where the residents are permanently settled and food is part of life, rather than a mere thing of sustenance.

There were a few things I focused on in my research, wanting to have meals that could be left whilst work was happening, so I pictured a lot of stews and cassoulets, corn-based porridge, hearty breads etc - but there's no flour. Instead, Mesquite beans can be subbed 1:1 for flour to make a flatbread, and there's a lot of recipes using beer etc, which we know they have, as a raising agent.

A lot of the animals they're eating aren't exactly to our tastes, but knowing that peppers and tomatoes are grown lets us know they can make paprika etc, and the jalapenos in game gave me hope haha! I wrote a smoker into the farm and cold storage so they could a) dry age the meat via hanging, and b) smoke extra flavour into some of the less...appetizing cuts

And for the meat-

Here are some of the meal ideas I noted down-

Meal ideas

Cassoulet of wild beans and meat

If we have agave and corn we can have cornbread

Corn based porridge

Pinon nuts - pine nuts + Jalapeno and coriander could marinade Iguana Nicely

Pickly Pear - can be made into fruit/jelly/fruit cheese (named after the historic moulds, no cheese involved) or sauce for meat

Tacos with black beans and brahmin cheese

Nopales are edible pads of the prickly pear cactus, which can be stir fried

Tepary beans and cholla bud stew

And finally, 10 of my references since you can only put 10 links in, apparently!

#fallout #ghoulcy #fallout fanfic #ao3 writer #fanfiction research #desert food #fallout food #a kiss to build a dream on

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sleepyporridge-cg · 8 months ago

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Hello darlings! I hope you all have an amazing pride month! Remember that you are valid, and you are loved.

#miss porridge posts #agere blog #agere caregiver #agere cg #agere community #rp blog #sfw agere #sfw interaction only #sfw petre #sfw regression

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enaelyork · 1 month ago

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My unwanted husband [A Robotnik x Reader long fic] Intro

my bans come from @saradika

⚡Check my ultimate masterlist here ⚡

⚡Recap post here⚡

Tag list : @kosem-sultan167

Chapter Prompt :

After too much carnage, Y/N is determined to do battle with the Doctor and prepare him a potion that he won't soon forget. But for him to take the bait, she will have to make sacrifices, even if it means finding herself in an uncontrollable situation.

Tw: Alcohol - Toxic trait - Jealousy - Abusive behaviours.

Please take care and read what you want <3

Intro : Trap by her own game

- What is this ?

– A mind stimulator.

Robotnik regarded the strange bottle on his lab table with a mixture of interest and suspicion. The first part of the plan seemed to work wonderfully, but Y/N knew that it was the simplest step and that the rest would require her to use all of her intellect.

Because this little game finally had to end.

The joke had gone on long enough. She had mulled over this revenge for many hours, contemplating the latest carnage that this madman had caused at her work. Hundreds of notes gone in the trash, all because of that damn drone filled with questionable tasting sauce - she suspected it was mayonnaise, the worst of all.

And too much it's too much.

Of course, it was partly her fault that her work ended up in the trash. Perhaps this intrusion wouldn't have happened if she hadn't sabotaged the Doctor's latest prototype herself, programming his robot to spout a stream of insanity in front of Commander Walter. But it wouldn't have happened either if Robotnik hadn't voluntarily replaced her Matcha with an inedible spinach porridge (she suspected Agent Stone of being his accomplice but couldn't blame him completely as his relationship with the Doctor rhymed with toxic).

Robotnik gave her a familiar look, the same one he had given her several weeks ago, when Commander Walter had just pronounced his final sentence.

Collaboration.

Her eyes lingered on this strange character, as distinguished as he was eccentric, and something unpleasant awoke within her. A curious mix of contradictory feelings which led her to the conclusion that a collaboration with this guy could not even be considered in a parallel world.

– I don’t trust you.

– Yet it is the truth. I produced this little miracle, even though you did everything to destroy my work.

She presented him with her proudest smile, the one which tended to make his mustache bristle and which produced in him an aversion which she fed on. Nothing was more enjoyable in her eyes than annoying Doctor Robotnik and her presence here, in his lab, at his table with his assistant had produced the desired effect.

Robotnik glanced at Agent Stone who immediately shrugged his shoulders in innocence. It was clear that he didn't want to be involved in their arguments again. He had already threatened several times to hand over a medical certificate to escape the apocalypse that had reigned in this corridor since Y/N invaded the space.

–And what’s in this mind stimulator? He arches his fingers in the air to make mocking quotes. This arrogant character never missed an opportunity to humiliate her, as if it were his personal fuel.

– An ancestral recipe composed of sugar and plants.

And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. But she wouldn't mind saying that. He would understand it later to his cost. This is what happens when you play with fire.

– Plants. He repeated in a contemptuous tone.

– Aconites?

- No.

– Belladonna?

– Guarana. Come on, doctor! Y/N began, faking a mocking laugh. Believe me, the desire to eliminate you tickles me, but if I had to do it I wouldn't act openly.

– This remark does not gain you a single IQ point.

– If you are so clever, taste and discover my genius.

This is where things got considerably complicated. Robotnik wasn't stupid enough to be fooled so easily. He wasn't a genius, he was the genius. The man with multiple doctorates (he had more than her and did not hesitate to tell her so) and an IQ surpassing the established standard (here too, he did not hesitate to point this out). But if there was one thing that Y/N had figured out from the start, it was that there was one area where she beat him hands down.

– No way.

– Are you afraid?

- Afraid ?

She saw the sparkle in his brown eyes. A brown that she had taken the time to detail on the numerous occasions when her irises had crossed his. And this fire which was slowly beginning to consume him pleased her more than ever.

– I'm not afraid of anything.

– Well then, what are you waiting for? You don't risk much with a mind like yours.

– I’m not sure you’re here for my good.

She giggled delicately, one hand raised to her crimson lips. Y/N had always been the type to take care of herself in all circumstances and if she criticized Robotnik and his absurd ways, she had to recognize this similarity with him.

– Honestly, since you sprayed my research with disgusting sauce I no longer want to fight.

– Are you throwing in the towel then?

Come on, it didn't cost anything to admit this defeat to win an even bigger battle. Y/N tried to convince herself, nodding casually.

– I capitulate, indeed.

– I am delighted.

– And it is for this reason that to prove my good faith to you I have come to offer you this and that I would like you to contribute to the experience.

– I will only drink if you do too.

She had suspected this too.

But in the end it was a safe bet that her resistance to alcohol far surpassed that of the Doctor. It was also entirely possible that he would swallow his first sip this very evening.

– Deal

– Doctor, I’m not sure it’s… Before Stone could finish his warning, his nefarious boss told him to get two glasses and fill them completely. This idiot was going to understand that the Doctor was not defied so easily and that she had to pay for it herself. Y/N just gave a shy smile, strategically avoiding Agent Stone's accusatory eyes when she stated that the bottle had to be empty for the effect to work.

- Empty ?

– Totally.

– Well, like I told you. I won’t drink unless you do it with me, Y/N.

This story was going to end completely badly. Stone thought as he watched his boss and his worst enemy down the entire glass in one go. He expected to hear them spit and cough in disgust before insulting each other, but what he saw chilled him with fear. Robotnik licked his lips curiously, as if intrigued by what he had just drunk.

– It’s…rather…interesting.

Sugar producing the desired effect. No one really realized what they were drinking when the taste was masked by sugar. Y/N thought, fully aware that the trap was closing.

– Another drink, Doctor? She hastened to suggest, already pouring the end of the bottle into her Nemesis's glass. Stone had tried to stop him, but Robotnik had violently opposed it.

– She will finish this bottle with me, Agent Stone. Isn't that what she said? It should be empty and I intend for it to be. Right, Professor L/N?

It was at this precise moment that she understood. As the doctor stood there, right in front of her, almost grabbing the bottle from her hands with a mischievous smile. There was already a flash of madness in his eyes that she hoped would quickly devour Robotnik's soul, but above all there was something else, something that made her realize that the trap had not only just closed on him. And when she clinked her full glass against the Doctor's, she definitively buried this descent into Hell.

Hoping that she would manage to keep control of the situation in due time.

#sonic movie #sonic fandom #doctor robotnik #dr robotnik #dr ivo robotnik #dr robotnik x reader #dr. robotnik #robotnik #robotnik x reader #ivo robotnik #imsorryforthis #notreally #enemies to lovers #forced proximity

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gremlinmodetweeker · 3 months ago

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Hope is in Buns, Life is in Stars, Promises in Vain (Pt. 2)

I did promise to put up part two today. I am keeping to that promise. I am not a monster, I assure you. This part is much much shorter, but I think it adds some important stuff.

Again, Executioner Konig is the au I put the most effort into. I plan to make it into a published work some day. I hope you all enjoy what is an essentially free first draft of a novel/graphic novel.

Please feel free to share this work (with credits) because this is the fic I'm most proud of.

Part 1

TWs: mentioned forced homelessness (no weight to the threat, your aunt is just mad), pregnancy referenced (not happening... yet.)

Wordcount: 3.5k out of 11.7k

Art from This Post

Hope is in Buns, Life is in Stars, Promises in Vain (Pt. 2)

It didn’t take long before The Axe was guiding Hunter to stand outside your home.He hopped down and tethered her to a fence before he turned to help you off Hunter’s smooth back, guiding you with one hand in your own and the other on your waist. You giggled when he kneeled so you could use his thigh as a footstool.

“You don’t have to kneel in the dirt for me, silly,” you giggled.

“It’s the right thing to do,” The Axe shrugged, a bit giddy to still be talking to you.

“You know,” you smirked up at him as he guided you to the front door, “if I didn't know better, I’d think you were a nobleman, what with how fine you’ve treated me all Densis’s-watch.”

The Axe stiffened slightly before bowing his head, “I only learned how to treat a woman from the teachings of my father.”

“And was he once a nobleman?” you asked.

“I am from a long, long line of Criah’s folk,” The Axe answered sadly.

Your face fell slightly at the memory of his family’s struggles before you perked up again, “Well, he was a perfect gentleman if that’s how he treated the women in his life. You’re lucky to have learned from him. I’m lucky you learned from him! I mean, it’s nice to see a man who doesn’t balk at the concept of chivalry, despite his class.”

The Axe looked away bashfully, but he let you through the door. When you watched through the fogged window, you could see him practically skip over to Hunter before leaping up onto her back. As the final fingers of night released the purple and blue bruised sky, The Axe rode off into the distance.

Once he was out of sight, you scurried up to your bed and buried under the covers. You grinned gleefully as you replayed the events of the Densis’s-watch over and over in your mind. The buns, his words, the promise, it all tickled you so. You felt a bubbling yellow glow warm your body from the tips of your toes to the ends of your hair. You were completely abuzz with giddy excitement.

You only managed to sleep for at most a watch before you were woken by the sounds of metal pots clanging and children cheering from downstairs. Evidently, breakfast was well on its way. From the smells of it, it was something spiced and nutty.

You joined your family downstairs swiftly, not wanting to miss out on any of the morning’s breakfast before the day began. After all, it was the fuel you needed to be able to work the entire day. You needed every bite you could scarf down to take on the day ahead of you.

Your aunt eyed you carefully when you stepped into the kitchen.

“Looks like you’re up bright and early,” she muttered as she spooned ladles of porridge into your cousin’s bowls. From the smell, it seemed like she’d added some of the spices from the traveling merchants and some berries from the previous turning-time to the mix, giving it a warm and homely smell.

“I had a rough time sleeping,” you told her as you went to help by her side, “went out for a walk at one point.”

“I noticed,” your aunt clucked her tongue, “and in this turning-time? Goodness girl! You could’ve caught a cold out there!”

“Oh hush your fuss,” you chuffed as you set out to prepare a jug of juice, “I’m just fine.”

“Mama! I want more kayomberries(17) in my porridge!” the youngest, Georgie called out as he banged his spoon on the wood table.

“We’ll have to wait for next Chaos’s-turn for more of those,” your aunt huffed, “we went through the last of them a few days ago.”

“But that’s so far away!” Georgie whined.

“Mama, we haven’t run out of rosers(18) though, right?” Anna, the eldest asked. Her little brown eyes made your heart melt each time she looked at you.

“I’m sure we have some,” you immediately turned to look through the pantry for her.

Your aunt huffed, “You’re giving her some? Just like that?”

“Why not?” you asked.

Your aunt glared at Anna, “Well, what’re you supposed to say when you want something?”

Anna squeaked, “Oh! Um, may I please have some rosers in my porridge?”

Auntie nodded, “That’s better.”

“Well,” you chuffed, “since you asked so nicely, how can I say no?”

Harry, the second oldest boy, frowned and crossed his arms behind the table, “Mama, Georgie didn’t say please. Why are you getting mad at Anna?”

Your aunt grunted as she pulled the pot up to place it in the center of the table, “Didn’t matter if Georgie said please at all. He wasn’t getting any!”

Georgie crossed his arms stubbornly as the other four kids laughed at him. Even you couldn’t help snickering at how he put out his little brown lip in a pout.

“Look, Georgie,” you offered, “if you really want kayomberries, you might be able to ask nicely for some from your teacher.”

“Miss Bess? Why?” he asked.

“She works a lot with the winter preparation guild,” you explained, “she often has access to the town stores. She’s responsible for the rations, so maybe, if you ask her really nicely, she might give you some.”

“Oh don’t go giving him ideas,” your aunt grumbled.

“Why not?” Anna asked.

“She’s a rations master!” your aunt explained as she set to cleaning out some pots on the stove, “she can’t just give out rations willy nilly! If anyone could just go up and ask whenever, we’d never have enough rations for winter!”

You sheepishly nodded your head, “Okay so, about what I said Georgie?”

Georgie nodded brightly, his loose dark curls bouncing around his face.

“Don’t ask for extra rations,” you grimaced.

“But you just said I could!” Georgie whined.

“Didn’t you hear your mama?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh…” Georgie sighed, “yeah…”

“And that’s that,” your Auntie snapped, ending the conversation immediately.

The rest of breakfast was spent trying to stop Harry from flinging spoons of goopy oats at Helen while Anna helped feed Georgie. Meanwhile, your aunt brought you aside to the blazing oven, out of earshot of the children.

Her dark eyes narrowed as she looked down at you, “I noticed The Axe’s rations are missing.”

You slunk down immediately.

Your aunt glanced around nervously at the children, then faced you with a ferocious look, “I don’t want you seeing that man, but I can’t stop you. Your uncle said as much. But if you get hurt?” she bared her teeth in a growl, “you’d best not expect a lick of help from me. I warned you plenty, and that’s enough help from me.”

You opened your mouth but were quickly cut off.

“He’s a dangerous man, young lady,” your aunt continued, “and I’m telling you that it’s in your best interest to cut contact while you still can. He’s not even really a man. He’s an animal. A beast. Men don’t kill men like that. Not a good one, anyways.”

“But he’s not an animal!” you spat back under your breath, “he is a good man!”

Your aunt threw up her hands as she whirled around, “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know what you did with him during last Densis’s-watch, but whatever it was it can’t be good. That man is evil. And if you come back in a few weeks with a swollen belly, well, you might as well be out on the streets for all I care!”

“But auntie, if you just met him-”

“If he steps one foot over our doorstep,” your aunt sucked in a lungful of air, “oh I don’t even want to think about it. What would your uncle say? Oh you haven’t even thought about him at all, have you?”

“Why doesn’t uncle like him? He knows The Axe! He knows he’s not a bad man!” you retorted.

“Your uncle is too soft-hearted and you know that,” your auntie snapped, “you and him are too much alike for your own good! You know, if it weren’t for your uncle, I’d be beating your backside until next Hollinwake! But he said to let you be,” she held up a finger, “but you make one wrong step? I’ll have you bent over my knee like a seven-cycle girl!”

You winced at the lashing, but felt strangely vindicated despite it. If your auntie wasn’t going to stop you, this gave you more leeway than you expected. It wasn’t much, but anything was better than sneaking out at night. If nothing else, maybe you could get more time with him at the church. Surely your guardians couldn’t oppose to you meeting on holy ground, now could they? Of course, being under the stars brought a certain intimacy, but the walk to his place wasn’t safe during Densis’s-watch. It was a wonder some vandal hadn’t accosted you out in the woods, prowling as they were of infidels and scoundrels.

When breakfast was over and you’d eaten your fill after sending the children to school, you carried a bowl of the spiced porridge upstairs to your uncle.

For the first time since he’d fallen ill, he was sitting up in bed to greet you when you walked in.

“Ah! Good to see you this waking watch!” your uncle cheered from behind his round golden spectacles.

“Uncle! It’s good to see you up in bed!” you smiled at him.

“It’s good to be up,” your uncle chuckled as he took the bowl of porridge from your hands, “soon enough I’ll be back on my feet, don’t you worry. I know your aunt’s been worried sick about me.”

“I hope to see it,” you said as you sat on the stool by the bed, “but your right. Auntie’s been going crazy without you around to help.

Your uncle hummed as he tucked into his breakfast with a smile, “Your auntie is a good woman.”

“She’s a woman alright,” you huffed.

Your uncle brought his thin brows together on his round face, “Oh? Did you get into an argument with her today already? I thought she might wait a bit before bringing it all up…”

You raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, “You knew there’d be something between us?”

Your uncle quietly stirred his porridge and said, “Well, I know she doesn’t approve of you seeing this new man.”

“You mean The Axe?”

Your uncle cringed into himself, “Yes, that’s the one.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned back as you crossed your arms, “I don’t understand. You know he’s not a bad man, right?”

“He’s not,” your uncle admitted quietly.

“So then why are you so against it?” you huffed.

“Well…” your uncle said slowly, “he’s an executioner. He’s not a man blessed by Halax’s light. He’s in the shadow of Criah and Densis. It’s just not right for someone like you to be seeing him.”

“But you don’t treat the morticians nearly half as cruelly and they follow Criah,” you pointed out.

“The morticians deal with the already dead. They don’t go adding to the pile,” your uncle glared at you, “and it doesn’t help that… Well… He’s just a weird man. He’s not normal.”

“Maybe not, but he’s not a bad man,” you insisted.

“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. I don’t know, and quite frankly I don’t care to know. All I know is that he’s quiet when he takes his rations. Doesn’t talk to me much, I don’t talk to him too much either,” your uncle said firmly, “and that’s how I like it! The less I deal with him the better. But now,” your uncle shook his head, “now you’re off trying to see him after dark! I heard you going down those stairs during Densis’s-watch, and I know you were out for a good few watches. I know you were with him. As soon as your auntie told me his rations were gone, I knew, and I told her about it. She was mad, but that’s not the point!

“The point is, I know you think you’re young and that you’re capable of taking on the world, but don’t get your wings clipped by falling into the wrong crowd so early, okay? I already deal with you being friends with those strange women in town, but now this? You’re going to bring a bad name to this household if you aren’t careful!”

You stilled. You hadn’t thought of the household the entire time you’d been out with The Axe.

“Think of my kids,” your uncle sighed, “think about them growing up connected to this. I don’t want shame on their heads before they’ve even gotten an education under their belts. Who will teach them a trade? Who will take them on as journeymen? Who will go on and marry Anna and Helen if they hear about you sneaking around with the local executioner?”

You bit your lip and turned away, “I’ll be careful about it.”

“I know you’re thinking about yourself,” your uncle reasoned, “I was the same way when I was your age. Your aunt had just come up from the south. She was new and different in the village and her father was a strange man with strange ways. Once his business was taken over by those bastards, people started to really turn against her.. People said horrible things about her all the time. They took one look at her skin and made up their minds, but I went out of my way to get to know her, and it’s turned out well for us! I do understand your desires to see someone for who they really are, I do.

“But you came into this family a long time ago. When your mother died and your father went galavanting off wherever (I don’t care), I took you in. You’re my family, I’d do it time and time again. I will never, ever regret that,” he pushed his spectacles down his nose to look over them at you, “you also can’t go ruining my family name. Our family name. There’s other people on the line here. It’s not just you going out on your little adventures like your father.”

You shamefully looked down into your hands, hanging your head in shame. The comparison to your father stung particularly harshly.

Your uncle grunted as he leaned over to put the empty bowl of porridge on a side table and then leaned back to look at you. He frowned and rubbed his graying beard.

“But I’m not telling you no.”

You glanced up at your uncle’s soft face.

“If you think he’s not that bad, so be it. Your aunt tried to tell me to stop you from going off with the first man you’ve shown interest in, but you’re a grown woman finding her place in the world. If it’s by his side? So be it,” your uncle shrugged before his face fell into a cold glare, “but we won’t be with you. I can’t bring my whole family down for you. I took on enough shame bringing you in, I don’t need to ruin my children’s lives before they’ve even begun.”

“So if I choose to be with him…”

“You’ll have to do it alone,” your uncle concluded for you.

“But… Can’t I at least visit?” you asked with a trembling voice, “I mean, won’t we still be family?”

Your uncle laughed and lightened, “Of course you can visit! But not in public. In public I can’t be seen near you if you go off with this man. I can’t have you working here, either. You’ll need to find your own place in the world if you go off with The Axe. I love you, but I can’t protect you from what the others will say.”

You frowned and nodded. You hadn’t fully considered what life would be like alongside The Axe. If what he said about his life was true, it’d be a lonely life indeed.

“Do what’s best for you,” your uncle finished his advice, “and do what’s best for us as a family. Think of your cousins before you go off dancing around together in public.”

You blankly looked down at your hands.

“It’s a lot to think about,” your uncle offered you, “I don’t envy your positon, but I’ve been there before. I dealt with this with my parents when I chose your aunt. If you want to be with him, you have to know the consequences.”

The consequences. What a terrible way to phrase such a thing. The thought of having to call a life with The Axe a series of ‘consequences’ only put further weight on your shoulders. The thought of dragging your entire family down with you sombered your spirits. Going down the stairs to breakfast you had been light as a fly. Now, sat in your uncle’s rocking chair, the weight of the world hung on your shoulders.

“I’ll think about it,” you told your uncle as you slowly rose to your feet.

“I’m not like your aunt here; I’m not telling you no,” your uncle reminded you, “I’m telling you to be careful. And look, he’s just the first man to catch your eyes. There might be others!”

You smiled faintly, “I will be. I’ll think about it.”

With that, you bid your uncle a good wake and left to go down to the kitchen where your aunt was already prepping another long day of baking.

“Well?” your aunt raised a dark eyebrow.

“I spoke to him,” you said, “and… It’s a lot to think about.”

“Is it now?” your aunt snorted sarcastically.

“I just hadn’t factored everything in,” you admitted.

Your aunt watched as you tied an apron around your waist and set to roll up your sleeves. She eyed you irritably as you washed your hands, then stood before her with a determined look.

“You’re still going to see him,” she said, flat as the fields around you.

“I am,” you replied, equally dry in tone.

Your aunt rolled her eyes, “If I fall into the gutters because of this, you’re out on the streets. Hell, you heard me earlier, if you get knocked up by that man you’d best pray he’ll let you move in with him!”

You nodded as you set to measuring the dry ingredients, “I know.”

“And if anything happens to any of my kids-”

“I won’t let anything happen.”

The steel edge of your voice had your aunt faltering briefly. She paused her work, then let a small smile grace her sun-worn features.

“Good girl.”

With that, she finally looked away from you and turned to her own recipe.

You worked quietly, diligently. Your aunt didn’t comment when you increased the yield of the recipe by a couple of extra buns. You didn’t comment on how she sighed whenever she thought you didn’t see her looking at you. Neither of you yielded, but a certain respect was bridged between you both that day, hammered out of stubbornness and a common interest in the five young children currently walking to school.

You wouldn’t dare say it, but a part of you found a new level of respect for your aunt. She was a strong woman, born of the hot sun and cool breeze of the beaches of the south and brought up as a young woman to work with her merchant father in the north. She had the complexion of the south, she had the temperament of a surly boxing beetle(19), and she fought tooth and nail for every single thing she’d managed to nab since her father’s business was taken over by vandals. She fought long and hard over the years, and you’d both be damned if one upstart niece from a broken home was going to take away everything she’d scrapped together since losing everything she’d ever had.

You made a mental promise to ensure that you’d ensure that your family never came in harms way because of your relationship with The Axe. You swore upon your soul.

Kayomberries - Little lime green berries in clusters of four to ten. Grow only at the very beginning of Chaos’s-turn. Can be dried out for spices or food additives. Add a notably citrusy taste to foods.

Rosers - Little red flower buds that add a floral taste when added to stews and stocks. In such wide abundance that some consider them a (tasty) weed.

Boxer Beetles - A colourful iridescent beetle with a hard carapace and a powerful demeanor. Known for its stubbornness and refusal to back down. Often used to pull plows or to do hard labor in difficult conditions. It has poor eyesight, average smell, but has excellent tremor sense. Cannot fly due to the heavy weight of its armoured carapace (which is sometimes harvested and used as light armor in militias). Despite its small size, being not even a meter tall and less than two meters in length, it’s known as a microbeetle. It’s one of the few microbeetles that is used for hard manual work and not kept as a family pet. Omnivorous.

Konig Dump

Alternate Universes

Part 1

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hardyshoe · 13 days ago

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Sonnenblumen, chapter nine - Poppies, for consolation.

Masterlist

Also posted on AO3 - here.

⚘⚘⚘

My sunflower,

I am writing to you on the train back to London and I shall post this before I get into the car on the other side. I hope it arrives quickly, I want you to know how much I miss you already and that I am thinking of you. I always am.

Mother is trying to read what I am writing through the paper, she looks vexed, though that is sort of just how she looks. She keeps making snippy comments when the silence has stretched on too long. She called you ‘headstrong’ which she meant as an insult but I am inclined to agree with her. You were wonderful, truly. No one has ever gotten under her skin like that. I will write more on this when I am alone, until then I will think about the look in your eyes when you spoke to her and smile to myself with almost hysterical glee.

It will no doubt amuse you to know that Daeron has been singing your praises since we left school, much to mother’s chagrin. He has also been reading this (or trying to, he is struggling with my chicken scratch), over my shoulder and would like to add something.

‘Dear Miss sunflower, thank you for letting me stay in your house and letting me look after Rosy bear. My hands feel much better already! Sorry that I stole your mummy’s handkerchief, it was an accident but Aegon says you wont mind. See you soon!’

You will see that he made me try and write neater because he can’t hold the pen himself right now and his handwriting is apparently much better than mine. He really is very fond of you. Wise boy if you ask me.

Anyway, I will finish here, I have more I want to say but Daeron is being nosy. I should only be gone a week, and though it feels insurmountable now, it could be worse. I am going to search Aemond’s rooms for your letters when I get to the house, he is not as subtle as he likes to think. Until I hear from you, or go crazy enough to send you another letter straight away,

Your Aegon.

P.S. Daeron insisted on drawing

a picture for you. It is his Tessarion

and Rosy bear. I think.

⚘⚘⚘

He is right about his handwriting, it's messy as all hell and written on a complete wonk. Images of too-large jumpers and a cluttered dorm swim into your mind affectionately. Daeron’s little drawing is similarly abstract, you think you can make out Rosy bear’s ears although they are bisected harshly by a line of ink, clearly the product of the train jolting on the tracks.

You read it six times, cheeks stinging with the intensity of your smile.

“Letter?” your mother pries over her morning porridge. You’re entirely too giddy to feign annoyance over her intrusion.

“From Aegon,” you say, flipping the page in her favour to show her briefly. Her eyes widen a touch at the length and the state of the script, when she reaches the end she raises a brow at the drawing, “and Daeron.”

She chuckles and returns to her breakfast. There is a hint of relief in her shoulders and when you are halfway through another reading of the letter, she speaks again. “I’m glad it worked out.”

“Me too, mum.”

Her smile pinches a little at her eyes when you look at her, “just know that, if those are the lengths they will go to just to interfere, be wary of what else they might do.”

You open your mouth to speak but she holds up a hand, “I am not trying to warn you off, my girl. God knows I couldn’t even if I tried. I am merely saying that some people are best held at arm's length.”

“I am not trying to befriend Mrs Targaryen, nor Aemond,” You say sourly. The very idea of playing nice with them has you feeling that familiar burning irritation.

She laughs, “I think you would struggle.”

It takes a second for you to simmer through your rage but her laughter soo has you cracking into fits of giggles too. She reaches for you and clasps your hands over the letter on the table, recovering before she speaks. “I hope you know how proud I am of you, how proud your father is too.”

“For what?” You ask, confused.

She shakes her head, muttering something you cannot catch under her breath. “For sticking by him, even when you thought he had done you wrong.”

“He needed help-” you begin.

“And most people would not have been able to look past their pain enough to give it.” She is tracing the veins on the back of your hand like she used to do when you were a child. “Nor would they have seen how desperately he needed it in the first place.”

You feel so very little then, like you couldn't be trusted to leave the house without wellies on if it were raining or would still instinctively reach for hand to hold when crossing the road. You are struck with a memory, one of your earliest, you pushing a tine pram around the pub with Rosy bear sitting inside. You had shown her to every person in the pub and nodded at them with an exaggerated politeness when you had bid them farewell, one of your mother’s hats falling low over your eyes.

Now, you can almost feel the bakelite handle in your grasp, feel the sole loose screw clicking and spinning under the side of your thumb as you lose balance on uneasy legs not yet well practiced enough for grace.

“I just hope he knows what a special thing you are.”

Your finger sits on his nearly memorised letter, the lines that are worming their way into your very being.

“He does,” you assure her.

“Then I am satisfied,” she says, holding your hand the whole time it takes her to finish her porridge.

⚘⚘⚘

Barbara comes in on Wednesday morning, bringing pastries from the café and news that Joan is still in employment, she has a slightly stunned look on her face with that revelation. When she sits though, it morphs into a stern assessment that tells you to explain what the hell you are still doing sitting across from her on the bench that has blackened at the seam with remnant coal dust.

You explain what had happened, voice rising shrilly with each sardonic rise of her brow and tightening of her crossed arms. “I am going! I promise I am, that has not changed,” the dubious glint in her eyes does not diminish, “I just couldn’t, not after that. Surely you understand I couldn’t leave him or Daeron in that state.”

“I will not watch you get stuck here because of him,” she warns.

“You say that like you’re trying to get rid of me,” you joke, the jibe is light but Barbara shakes her head seriously. In her bag you can see her mother’s prescription tucked in between her shopping. The brown glass bottle with its shiny white plastic lid stands out harshly against the tomatoes and beans. Your attempt at levity goes down like a lead balloon.

“I can’t go without him,” you tell her, voice low but serious. It is a sentiment you have not spoken aloud before yet it is a truth you have known for some time. The sound of the words hanging in the mixed air of the pub, heavy with the particles of dust and old comfort, feels so achingly solid. “Anywhere I went I would spend every moment trying to fill the space beside me that he should be taking up.”

For a minute or so, she just stares at you, a little absent behind the eyes as her fingers dig around the thin silver christening band on her fine wrist. You squint your eyes a little and you think you can make out the delicate inscription between the tiny scrapes and dents of a lifetime of wear. The sloping italicised writing is familiar when you finally understand it, Mary Elizabeth Crillen.

“You love him,” she says, no question in it, just a statement of truth.

You don’t feel the need to answer in such simple terms as yes or no. Barbara can see your reply in the very way you are. “Would you think me naïve if I told you I knew this is it for me? When he is here I think I could stay a little longer, I am not saying I will!” You add on quickly when she opens her mouth to start up again. “But sometimes, when he is here, I know that he is half of what I have been missing all this time.”

You think she will be skeptical, think you are blindsided and foolish. Barbara has always been so logical and pragmatic, working in sureties, things that were probable and definitive.

And yet, “I don't think you are naïve.”

She is as light in tone as you have ever known her, voice scraping every so lightly on her vocal chords and giving her a gentle, reverent rasp. You know she understands and it nearly kills you how much you wish it was not the pain of longing she knew but the ecstasy of hope.

“Barbara-”

“Don’t, please,” she cuts you off quickly, eyes flicking to yours and head jerking in dissent. “My situation is what it is, I cannot do a thing to change it and neither can you. Yours is not the same and if you squander your chance to be buried in ground that isn’t laced with the same miseries you have spent your entire life dreaming of shaking off I will never forgive you.”

In the time between your eyes meeting and the seriousness dropping into your stomach, it takes all you have not to sob. For her and for yourself and the impossibility still of leaving your parents behind.

“Do not let yourself down,” she says finally.

“I-,” you start, choking a little, “I won’t, Barbara.”

“Promise me,” she demands. Behind your blinking eyes, a visage of a gangly girl with legs too long and eyes too dark flickers in your mind, how she used to sit on the ground of the little school courtyard with the backs of her legs going red and speckled with imprints of concrete just because Mary liked to spend hours plaiting and unplaiting her thick dark hair. You can still remember the severity beyond age in her voice when she had shaken your hand on a promise to send her a postcard from Paris one day.

“I promise.”

She nods and finally tears the corner off of her flaky croissant, the little scraps of pastry tumbling across the willow print plate you fetched her from the kitchen.

“You could hire someone to-”

She says your name quietly, with all the gravity of a fallen tombstone. “I know how you are, it is what makes you so brilliant, but you can’t fix this. One day it will be okay, but if I wish for that day to come any sooner than it is supposed to I would be a horrible person.”

The horrible vision of someone living their life for someone else sends a cold fissure of dread down your spine and you feel selfish for being upset on her behalf.

“Okay,” you say simply.

The ale pumps shine in the yellow overhead lights and one of them is being hit at such an angle that it tweaks in the corner of your vision.

“Mary wants to be a chemist in Manchester, it’s not so far from here and she will be done with at St. Andrews in a few years.” She slips in her delicacy when she stirs her tea, spoon clanging against the side. “The leading professor of mathematics at the university says I show a lot of promise.”

There lies her hope, bare and obvious in the tiny smile at the side of her red painted lips. Living for an eventuality.

“Of course you do, you have a mind beyond what I can even comprehend.” You really mean it, she is wickedly intelligent. She used to run laps around the sweet old teacher who did maths in the upper half of the village school.

Barbara goes a little pink in the cheeks and you smile, it isn’t that she is insecure about her mind rather that it is the only compliment you could pay her that would really mean anything.

“Yes, well, it is not for certain but…”

“It’s something,” you finish for her and she nods down at her plate.

Across the room, the swinging door to the back of the bar flaps in a great swish of air. The clock is nearing eleven and the old group will be in soon, days unfilled with the mentalities of work and labour they surrender themselves to the familiarities of each other's old stories and mournful jokes. There is a thinly worn patch of the carpet at the corner of the bar where they congregate, a bit of the faded red and green floral repetition that had given way to a threadbare glimpse of the beige threads and glue holding it to the floorboards. A testament to monotony.

When Barbara goes, she tells you she will be back later with Joan and Marlene, if her husband will look after Elsie for the evening, you agree and let her go with a weight still stretching between the two of you. The little pills in her back rattle as she walks to the door and the sound seems to clamour louder when the door has shut behind her.

⚘⚘⚘

My dear sunflower,

Bad news. I hate to start my letter like this but it is all I can think of. I am not hurt, do not worry about that, but I will not be coming back up before the hols. Daeron will, he was only given a week's suspension but they gave me two and it was decided that it would be ‘for the best’ if I did not return for the week and a half before school breaks up. I fought like hell, I want you to know that. I didn’t know what else to do, I do not want to be there but I want to be here even less.

Otto smacked me and I left it for a while but I am going to keep trying. I am also going to send your Christmas present with this, since I am not sure I will be able to give it to you myself anytime soon. I hope you like it.

I have been spending time with Helaena now that I am here, she asks for stories about you when we are sitting under the tree in the garden. She likes that I call you what I do, she likes the sound of you very much. She and I planted some sunflower seeds down the end of the garden, she says they will only take a few weeks to bloom then I can watch them from my window and think of you when they dance in the sunlight.

I miss you, I have been keeping your last letter in my pocket since it arrived and I take it out to read every time the distance starts to itch at my joints. I am still looking for your others, I will find them, it is about all I am thinking of in the quiet moments alone.

I look forward to hearing from you, you cannot know how nice it is to be sure you will write again. nor how miraculous it is that I am sure at all.

Your Aegon

P.S. I wrote the notes many moons ago

but I have not changed them, I still mean

Every word.

⚘⚘⚘

His second letter arrived a week and a half after he left you. You know, by now, that Daeron is back at the school. A fact that haunts you as you try to sleep every night, but Aegon is still down in London, still further than you can reach him. Even after so little time, the worry is creeping on you at the tone of his letter.

You stare at the door still, on Wednesdays and Fridays when he should be there but isn’t. It is not that you think he is going to be just that you cannot stop searching for him when he is not around. The Easter holidays are a week away when it comes and you feel a bit of dread at the thought of not seeing him for another month still.

It arrives mid-morning, the postie lugging it with a thick parcel wrapped in brown paper, the two bound together with a looping white string tied in a haphazard bow. You read the letter first, though that creeping excitement of a present itches at you and reminds you of your birthdays as a little girl. How you would open your cards first, saving the biggest present for last always.

The paper is waxy under your fingers and you prise the shiny sellotape from it in a line of scraping paper that leaves behind an imprint of a perforated edge. It is not wrapped neatly, too much paper wrapped around the object itself that it takes you a few minutes to get into it as you fiddle around on the creased yellow sheets of your unmade bed.

It gives way to an unassuming grey cover with a white cotton binding on the spine. You find the lettering of the title is depressed when your fingers skirt on the dull roughness of the paper finish, ‘The story of art in photographs’. The words themselves spike excitement in you but when you open the cover your heart leaps.

‘Merry Christmas sunflower, one day I will take you to see every work in this book but, for now, this will have to do.’

Over the page you turn to a photograph of a crouching Hellenistic statue of Aphrodite. She is beautiful and feminine in a raw way, her pose highlighting the folds of the curve of her abdomen and the deep setting of her absentminded eyes. It is the margin of the page that catches your eye though.

His messy handwriting coats the glossy page in a dull matte of blue ink, your fingernails change pitch when it crosses the border between the two. ‘I see you in the look in her eyes, the way you looked at me when I first told you about my family.”

It stuns you nearly to death, you feel your heart stop and stutter back into rhythm. You read and re-read the message. When you slide your finger between the pages to flip to the next it slides with uncomfortable speed against your cuticle in a close warning of a papercut.

The next is a photograph of the Caryatids of the Acropolis, the draped women forever holding up a roof that crumbled thousands of years ago. They catch your mind as they always have, a timeless companionship stretching between you and them. Then you see it, lining the grey border of the photograph, ‘You would fit among them, with your blazing strength. I would hold Athens up for you, when I see them I think you would for me too.’

And so it continues, an almost hysterical searching of the shiny blank edges of the photographs for his words. Each page reveals a different version of yourself that he has played witness to and somehow, every version is the person you had seen in yourself when you had first seen each painting.

The way Constanza Trenta reaches for her husband, even in death, in ‘the Arnolfini portrait’, ‘how his hand looks for hers in the air, it is how I always feel when you are further than I can reach.’

"Something in the pearl makes me think of your face, I do not know exactly what but I think it is how you shine against the darkness,” is written on the page of Vermeer’s ‘Girl with the pearl earring’.

Every little note sends you into a deeper spiral and you have to run the harsh knit of your cardigan under your eyes to stop the fat tears from splashing onto the beautiful pages. You follow a path of his perception of you like it was a painting of your face done in his hand. You have never been so touched in your life, so bowled over by feeling.

You love him and you haven’t told him yet. You love him and he sees you in the water of Monet’s painting of the Thames. You love him and he is reminded of the bones of your spine when he looks at Egon Schiele’s sketches of the human form. You love him and he is not here. You love him and he is miles away and you are worried sick that he is hardly okay.

⚘⚘⚘

My dear sunflower,

I am so glad you liked the book, it has brought me joy to think of you happy. I am glad of that at least. I miss you terribly and the flowers at the end of the garden are still only stems. I have been spending a lot of time in my mother’s little gallery room, no one ever goes in there unless she is hosting and the privacy is nice. I know it would make you sad to think of the paintings not being looked at all so I have been going in there to think of you.

I do not want to be here anymore, it's been three weeks and I cannot do another four. I know I cannot. I hope you do not think I am weak for that. Last night I snuck out after supper and walked until I got lost. It was an embarrassingly short amount of time and it took me nearly an hour to find my way home. Knowing you and seeing how big the world is through your eyes has made me glaringly aware of how little mine is, just how much there is that I have not seen because I haven’t pushed against the walls I have been put in here enough. It is not your fault, do not think it is a bad thing, but I feel so claustrophobic here now. More so than before, I used to want to leave because I didn’t like it and I wanted to get away from Otto and my mother, not have to watch my father decaying at the dinner table. Now I struggle to sleep because I have this irrational notion that the walls are going to cave in on me and trap me in the rubble forever.

Am I going mad, do you think? Sorry if I am and you are being subjected to my nutty ramblings. I think if I did lose it I know I would hallucinate you here with me, and sometimes I long for that in a way that frightens me.

I made Aemond give me your letters, I could not find them for the life of me. I am so sorry he did what he did, your words were so beautiful and it hurts to read your pain at his hands. I miss you sunflower, I miss feeling like a real person instead of a shade of failure.

Sorry that this is such a miserable letter, I will be okay, I do not want you worrying. Daeron is back now and he and I have been playing knights in the garden where Mother won’t shout at us for the racket. It takes my mind off things a bit, seeing him so happy.

I hope to see you in my dreams so that I may touch you again and hear your voice. I do not know what else to say other than I miss you, so I will leave here before you think I really have gone barmy.

Your Aegon

⚘⚘⚘

It is that letter that is your final straw. You are standing behind the bar with your father when it arrives and he seems to sense the worry coursing through your blood, he looks at you with concern. The pub is fairly quiet given the hour, the dull thunk of darts hitting the board and the low and easy conversation of the older men.

“I need to go to him,” you say to him. He has a rag over his shoulder and it sags with his shoulders when your words hit him, like he knew this was coming. He looks worried too.

“When?” Is all he asks and you appreciate that. He knows you will go, he would not try to stop you but you know he knows this is the beginning of your absence.

“There will be a train tomorrow morning,” you say simply and he nods.

“Go and tell your mum, she will want to help you pack.” He jerks his head to the door to the flat and you fold Aegon’s letter carefully into your pocket. You do not say it but there is not much packing to be done, you have been existing in a state of transience for the last few weeks with your suitcases only relieved of the clothes you have been wearing and your daily things. Your summer dresses are still neatly folded, probably deeply creased into their tightly packed shapes.

You just hadn’t been able to unpack them. When Aegon and Daeron had been taken back with their mother you had sat on the floor before them, the metal clasps digging into your fingers, but you had not been able to open the largest of them. The thought of putting all your clothes back into your dresser and pinning your pictures to the wall again felt like such a betrayal. So, you have lived like a visitor in your own bedroom and you have slept with your eyes on the half packed bags since that night.

Your mother does indeed want to help though, and she sits patiently as you iron your travelling suit and hang it on the back of the wardrobe door, pulling tiny bits of inconsequential lint from it with your nails.

“Does he know you are going?”

You shake your head and she gives you a look, not of concern but something closer to intrigue. You pass her the letter from him and watch her eyes narrow and her face pinch in a grimace as she reads. “I am not waiting a week for permission I know will be granted, not when I do not know exactly how he is.”

She seems to understand and helps you tuck your ‘Sonnenblume’ into your scrapbook. The space that is left on the wall feels unshakably permanent and you trace the dark square of unbleached wallpaper in bed that night.

When you put on your travelling suit the next morning, the tailored jacket top with its light flare at the bottom holds you like an embrace and you delight in the way the navy skirt swishes against your legs. You feel terribly grown up in it, your back straighter and your hands moving more deliberately like when you had first been allowed to paint your nails.

Of course, you have thought of how it would feel before, many times since you realised that the feeling that festered in your bones had only one cure. However, the practice is different than you realised it would.

April’s early sun is soft as down on your face and a frenetic anticipation tickles in unstoppable movement between your joints. Your father has your two big cases and your mother has the littlest one in one hand and is holding yours in her other. The powder blue of the cases shines happily in the light of day, bright plastic handles gleaming. You are sandwiched between the two of them on the thin field path that cuts through to the station.

A spike of raw, beautiful excitement leaps in your chest at the sight of the station’s black and white sign and you lag behind in bold faced disbelief as everything hits you properly. You have not been this far before, standing so close always felt like too much of a temptation and a teasing for you to venture so far. What you did not expect having to reckon with is the strange sadness that washes over you like a chill on the breeze, a preemptive longing for your parents and familiarity. It does not sting even nearly enough to make you think about staying but it is there, just a dull little ache between your organs.

Your mum's hand pulls tight in yours as she keeps on walking, they both turn back to you and you give a little embarrassed laugh at the way your eyes spark with close tears. The hairs on your arms are standing on end with excitement.

They pull you into a hug between them, suitcases sitting prettily among the green grass.

“Once it is all sorted, you have the most fun. Okay, my girl?” Your father says, arms tightening around you. His voice is a bit choked and you fight a swelling wave of emotion, nodding into him.

Your mum is crying outright, sobbing into your arm. “I will be back mum,” you insist with a watery voice.

She shakes her head and pulls back to pat you on the cheek, “this time.”

It could very easily be seen as her pressuring you not to go but you know her better than that. You do not have a response, just a slightly sad and knowing smile which she smothers by pulling you back in again.

They walk you onto the platform and help you put your bags onto the train. The platform is nondescript with its brown wooden shelter and little old seller who looks surprised to see anyone there when you go to buy your ticket. The sun beats off the shiny red train like glowing stained glass.

“You’re sure you know where you’re going when you get there?” Your father asks as you poke your hand through the carriage’s window to squeeze his one more time.

“As well as I possibly could,” you assure him, thumbing the slip of paper with his address that he had given you all those months ago in your pocket. If you kept a cigarette case of sentimentalities it would be on the top of the stack always, close enough that you could take it out to trace his handwriting from time to time.

“And you will send us a letter when you are all sorted?” Asks your mum, reaching for you too as the train starts to clatter into motion. You hold onto them for as long as you can before they are pulled from your reach.

“As soon as I can.” They both nod and start to wave you away. You call after them, “I love you!”

��We love you too!” Their voices are half swallowed by the receding steam and screeching wheels but you hang out the window until the borders of the station are stolen from your vision all the same.

In the green velvet carriage, you sit down, a bizarre buzz of silence tingling at you. You are still sure of yourself and your decision but it is one thing to plan and another entirely to be sitting on a train bound for a place you have dreamed of for years.

As the view out the window blurs with the speeding engine, you open the window and breathe in deeply. There is a stream of chimney smoke bleeding past the window and this time, as it fills your lungs, it smells like excitement.

⚘⚘⚘

London feels like a different country entirely when you step off the train. You thought you might be wearied by the journey when you finally arrived, nearly six hours on the trains and three changes from station to station, the distance stretching between you here and home is another weight on your shoulders. However, you can’t seem to find the burden in it now, just fervent anticipation at being so very close.

The station is busier than you have ever known any place to be, paths of every direction forged by men in suits with dripping umbrellas and women with herds of little children. You get swept up in watching it all for a minute, standing near the ticket gate with your bags tugging your shoulders half out of their sockets. It feels oddly calming, being so still among such movements. You feel like the viewer in Boccioni’s ‘the city rises’, observant to a cloud of sound and colour and unstoppable life.

Through the station, you carry yourself like a lighthouse, head circling to every angle in an attempt to capture a permanence of some kind, something in this that you can revisit when life gets too quiet when you inevitably return home.

Outside, a porter in a navy cap and uniform kindly puts you into a black taxi, rain sluicing off its sides and down the windows and doors in an interminable cascade. It is bizarre, watching the droplets chase each other down your watery reflection when it had been so hopefully warm back home.

The city blurs outside in a mirage like haze of colourful shop fronts, people in beautiful clothes and quick paced life. What a dreadful hurry everyone seems to be in.

“I apologise for the hold up, Miss. You know how it is when it’s tipping it down, everyone thinks they are made of sugar.” The diver’s accent is thick, you think it must be cockney though you are not quite sure. The thing is, you don’t know how it is. You’ve seen miners trudging home in rain so thick it pulls the coal from their skin and washes into the grass at the roadside. You laugh anyway, because the dichotomy is blinding and it tickles you to be included.

“It’s quite alright, I’m in no rush. Besides, I am enjoying the view.” You catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, he is an older gentleman with hair greying in his brows. His eyes twinkle with amusement and smile at him.

“You don’t sound like you're from around these parts. First time in jolly London?” He asks and you find his innocent question funny in the way that he acts as though he is not curious.

“Yes, it is. I am visiting a friend,” you say, though it feels wrong to describe Aegon in such a way. He is so very much more than just your friend, no word seems right to capture what he is to you though.

“Must be a very fancy friend living in Kensington, if you don’t mind my saying so,” he tacks on the last part in a bit of a rush, as if worried he might offend you.

“I think you might be right,” he raises his eyebrows and you explain, “I have never been to see him before, you see. In all honesty, I do not know what I should be preparing myself for.”

That makes him chuckle, “A shiny white townhouse by the address, quite a large one I should think.”

You alight the picture negative of your bague conjuring of the Targaryen house with his description, they align like different angles of the same shot. “That sounds about right, though I am sure it will still surprise me.”

He nods and turns back to the traffic, the roads have quieted a little with distance put between you and the station, the passers by growing more sharply dressed. You watch a woman in a tight white dress clipping through the rain in heels of impressive height, a man beside her carries an umbrella aloft above her quaffed hair.

“This fella a good friend of yours?” the cabbie asks.

“Something like that,” you offer and his lips quirk at your evasiveness that absolutely gives the game up.

“Well, I hope you have a good stay, Miss,” he bids as he slows right down in front of a gleaming terrace of white stone, bejeweled with neat black metal fences and front doors in glossy reds and blues. You are glad then for your travelling suit, a mast of tightly tailored manners to wear into batter. Everyone needs an armour of sorts, you wear yours in the sharp darts at your hips and hide away your sorts and bombs between the shoes in your suitcases.

The driver takes your bags to the door and parts with a nod, you return with a smile and a wave. His car starts up behind you and your knocking is underscored by the lowering hum of his motor.

The doors swing open after the whir has faded, revealing a portly old man with ruddy cheeks and a suspicious glare.

“Good afternoon,” you greet brightly. Your smile is not returned.

“Can I help you?” he asks, eyes on your bags stacked next to you on the step.

“Yes, thank you. Is Aegon home?”

If possible, his eyes narrow further, “Master Targaryen is at home.”

You can tell he is being intentionally evasive. No matter. “Could you fetch him for me?”

“And whom might I say is calling?”

You smile at him again, playing your own turn at evasiveness. “Just tell him it’s his sunflower, he will understand.”

The man nods curtly, shutting the door in your face once again. Left alone, you step back from the house to look up. There is something a little frightening about the long stretching façade of the street, for a building clearly some hundred years old or more, the stone sparkles like new. The black paint on the wrought iron stair rails and balconettes has nary a chip in it.

This lack of weathering is strangely off putting. There should be a grime of living and age in everything.

Compared to the surroundings you have left behind, the houses on this road are downright clinical, polished white teeth giving you a mocking, condescending smile. Greying straw in old thatched roofs and wooden benches green with lichen play in your mind.

The door bangs open suddenly, framing a dishevelled Aegon. “Sunflower!” He is wide eyed with disbelief, sweeping you into an all consuming hug which lifts you clean off the floor. “How are you here?”

He pulls back to cup for face between his hands, as if checking you are real.

“You told me I ought to come and visit, I thought I would take you up on it. Though, if I am an imposition I can get a hotel-”

“Don’t be silly, this is the loveliest surprise. You have no idea how happy I am to see you.” There is a jubilant relief in his tone and you feel a pang of concern at the pain peeking out from behind his joy.

“I think I might have some idea,” you say, lightness burning through you in increasing waves of magnitude.

The moment of harmonious happiness is broken with the clearing of a throat. The butler has your bags in his hands and a disapproving look on his face. “Where might I be taking these, sir?”

“The yellow room, please Miller, nearest my mother’s gallery.” The older gentleman nods, leaving with a final narrowing of his eyes.

When his form has disappeared up the stairs, you whisper to Aegon, “He seems a right miserable sod.”

Aegon cackles, kissing you squarely on the lips. It feels like exuberance and tastes like relief. “Come in, I’ll give you a tour if you want? Though, you’re probably too tired…”

You shoot him a glare, “of course I’m not too bloody tired.”

He grins and pulls you in by the hand.

The moment you get past the door, you are covered in a hush like entering a cathedral, a clocheing like someone has their hands over your ears. A feeling of being alone and watched at the same time. Every step you take bounces off your patent leather shoes and up the walls, licking across the ceiling and back into your ears. Aegon is barefoot and you think it might be for that very reason.

A great staircase curls into the impossibly high ceiling, its polished bannister adorned with geometric decorations in painted wood. Your eyes twist after it as Aegon starts to speak again.

“You’ve come at a good time, Mother is in town with Otto and they won’t be back till supper,” he says as he drags you into a cavernous living room, though, you’re not sure how much living actually goes on in here. There is not a speck of dust anywhere, and each chair, however beautiful in their cohesive, art-deco glory, seems placed at a certain and precise angle.

Every piece in the room is beautiful, sun beam like decorations in rich wood on the backs of the sofas and corresponding greens and blues linking each fabric in the room. Yet something is off. For all the art-deco beauty, the room feels like a subsidisation of the movement. Like a veneer on ply board posing as solid oak, it lacks the weight.

You have a book at home on modernism and art deco, it has always been one of your favourites. Something about the period has fascinated you since you first read about it, about the wild art scene in Berlin and the conveyance of pain and misery through the art. You should be excited by everything you see here but it leaves you feeling empty and angry in a way.

For a period defined by such deep feeling, perhaps the sharpest in human history, modernism has always been fascinatingly melancholic to you. The décor in the Targaryen house is so obscured from that message it looks like a caricature. Aegon had said his grandfather came here after the war, that his family had, if anything, benefitted from the conflict because of the deal made to produce uniforms for the army.

The room reeks of that lack of understanding and a burning desire to assimilate. None of the usual sorrows play this room in their eternal shows on the raised piano stage. There is no vestige of the desperate grasp for vivacious pleasure in the face of incomprehensible loss, no guttural guilt at being alive to see another day only to drink it away in a frenzied dance. No, this room is nothing more than a farce, and it is ugly and rotten for the gall it has to pretend to understand.

Room after room follows the same pattern, too neat, too cold and far, far too big. Aegon flits around the mausoleum, pointing things out like they were headstones of long forgotten relatives.

What strikes you most is the complete lack of human presence, no one has left so much as an indent on a dining chair and you begin to understand that night with the handkerchief more. How the evidence of anyone is something to be cleared away quickly by an unseen maid once they have left the room. You poke your fingertip onto the shining top of a side table as you leave the dining room in spite, relishing the visage of the spiralling print left behind.

He takes you up the stairs, waxing poetic about the times he had ridden them down on his mattress because he knew it would wind his mother up something awful.

The upper hall is wide and lit coldly by the late afternoon sun that pours in from a blue and white stained window at the end. Every door is shut tight and you follow him down the shut off maze until he turns you down a shut off corridor. He looks at you cheekily and knocks on the first door on the left, the sound echoes and fills the silence as Aegon holds a finger over his lips.

The door opens and you look down to see Daeron kneeling on the floor in front of an open book, he looks up and yelps when he sees you, jumping at you with his whole weight. “Miss sunflower!”

With arms full of the little boy and the hand of the man you love steadying you between your shoulder blades, you feel the cold of the house chased back a little. You kiss Daeron’s soft hair as he babbles on about the first week of his holiday, the highlight of which being his first loose tooth which he pulls back to wiggle proudly.

“Oh! How exciting!” you exclaim and he nods happily.

Aegon snickers behind you, “I told him how Davey took my first tooth out and he thinks I am going to do it to him now.”

Daeron yelps, “I won’t let you! I won’t”

You turn to him, his maniacally smiling face calming some of the worry in your heart. “Don’t tell me-”

“Tied it to the door handle and kicked it shut,” he nods proudly and Daeron hides behind you fully, hands over his ears and a low sound of fear coming from his mouth.

“Good god,” you say, hand over your mouth.

“It was wicked, I got blood on Mrs Thompson's cream carpet and we spent the night in the cold shed but we couldn’t stop laughing.” His eyes pinch, fond somehow despite the darkness, “I did not tell him about that bit.”

“What is going on?” Comes a fine voice from down the hall, it would startle you if it weren’t so soft. You look down the row of doors to see a girl just younger than you standing with a hand around her wrist. Daeron stops his panicky sound and runs to her.

“Helaena, come and meet Miss sunflower!” He demands, taking her wrist and dragging her towards you. She is beautiful in a fragile way, a stiff breeze would bowl her clean over and she seems to almost float across the floor instead of walking. Funnily enough, she is exactly how you expected her to be and you smile in greeting.

She has a shining gemstone in her hand and she looks you over before she does anything. Perceptive lilac eyes swimming in the space around you before meeting yours.

“I have heard a lot about you.” Her voice lilts gently, intonation a little different that normal parlance. “You look like a sunflower.”

It is a funny thing to say and you don’t quite know what she means but it makes you smile nonetheless. “Thank you,”

She just nods, putting the rock into your hand and closing your fist over it. The clear purple is the same as her eyes, as Aegon’s and Daeron’s and it is warmed by her touch.

“Come and read me your tenses,” she says to her little brother, he protests but when Aegon mimes tying a string around his tooth he bolts in front of her. You laugh brightly. It is a kind act of tact from Helaena, as much as you have been looking forward to meeting her and seeing Daeron again, you cannot let more time go without making sure Aegon is okay.

“We will see them later for supper,” he assures you and his smile turns cheeky “I believe there is a gallery you might be interested in.”

He pulls you back into the main upper hand and down to a room in the middle, when he opens the door, shooting you a broad grin, you nearly yell with excitement and slip through the door in front of him. This room is unlike the others, the walls are plain blue and there is no furniture, just rows of neatly hung paintings on the walls which hum with importance.

You can hardly believe what you are seeing, Picasso’s sketches just like Aegon had said the first time you met him, a richly moody Turner that stops your heart, a river scene in sharp coloured oils by Constable. Other names jump in your mind with familiarity that startles you and you are breathing shallowly as you take in the twenty or so works.

You stop in front of a small canvas, a pensive young woman in a field under a dark sky, her skin translucent in a way that could only have been the hand of Millais. You are in front of it for some time before you feel Aegon’s presence behind you, the warmth of him hanging in the scant space between you. His voice is low when he speaks, laced with trepidation, “I am scared you are going to disappear if I look away from you.”

It breaks your heart to hear how sure he sounds that you might not be real, and you turn to meet his unblinking gaze. “I am here Aegon, I’m not going anywhere. I promise I am real.”

“Well, you would say that…”

You kiss him, tenderly and slowly. Hands in his hair and twisted in his loose shirt. He melts into you and the way he holds you is as much a hug as it is a sigh of relief. He kisses your cheeks and your eyebrows and your temples in frenzied succession and you laugh.

“Mother is going to be furious,” he says, a little bit gleeful.

“I find I do not care much,” you say and Aegon dances around you with untameable giddiness.

Later, when you have snuck down the corridor to his room and tucked yourself between his sheets, you will ask him if he is alright and you will hold him while he cries because he is not. You will chase away the cold and the emptiness of the house as best you can and you will find a phone book and make good on the promise you made yourself when the thought first popped into your head. When he knows you are not a dream you will tell him how much you love him. Right now though, you laugh with him and kiss him freely and openly, holding onto the untouched happiness before anyone can try and scrape it out of your hands.

⚘⚘⚘

Happy Friday dearest readers! I apologise for this going up a little later than six but I had some final edits to make. I really hope you enjoy it, I love writing letters and I was waiting to reveal the belated Christmas gift to you all week. Thoughts and comments are always appreciated. All my love, SlaginSecret xxx

@neithriddle

#aegon the second #hotd aegon #aegon targaryen x you #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii fanfic #hotd fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader

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