#much prouder of this than my first attempt at him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ak319 · 2 months ago

Note

oof, i loved arthur’s reaction to her escape attempt! imagine if it’d been longer, like you said reader was around 15-19, if she were 15ish and he found her again when she was in her early 20s or something 👀 maybe even with a family of her own

(AN: Oh. My. GOD! *screams*, straight outta a soap opera but make it darker, lol. I had so much fun writing it!!!.) Alter version of this Warnings/MDNI: Not incest, strictly platonic, abuse, death// I don't condone such behaviour

You'd found a quiet, unassuming happiness on the ranch, a kind of peace you'd never known before. The people Annabelle left you with were very good at covering your tracks and gave you the best opportunity to start your new life. Sure, there was the occasional pang of guilt, a fleeting thought of your brother and how he might have worried after your sudden disappearance. For leaving without a word. But you consoled yourself, convinced it was for the best. He was your guardian, not your puppeteer. The dread of him coming and taking you back didn't fade though. Both of you had conflicting views, you needed freedom, and space to grow into yourself instead of witnessing the dangers and the crime they committed there and pretending it was fine, and the Alder ranch had given you exactly that.

The work was hard, but you loved it, and the Alders treated you like family. And then Farris arrived. When you were 18.

When he arrived, you were wary at first, assuming he’d be just another complication, perhaps a jerk. You already feared meeting new people but he quickly proved you wrong. Farris was thoughtful, with an understated kindness that made him easy to be around. His silence wasn't standoffish; it felt respectful like he knew you had your own reasons for being there, just as he did. He had a way of giving you space without making you feel lonely, and when he did speak, it was usually to ask questions that felt... refreshing. He genuinely wanted to learn from you, which was a new experience, and something that made you feel a bit prouder of the knowledge you'd gathered on the ranch.

And there was something undeniably magnetic about him. He was handsome in a way that didn’t demand attention, with an earthy charm that suited the simplicity of ranch life. You caught yourself smiling at his quiet humour, the way he’d sneak a comment here or there to lighten the load. Working alongside him, you felt more like an equal than you had in a long time, and that feeling, that respect, was something you hadn't realized you’d been missing all along.

When Farris confessed his feelings, it caught you so off guard that, for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Someone wanted to be with you? You, with your past and all the silent shadows that came with it? But Farris was gentle, giving you time to think, to consider your own heart without pressure. And you did think, a lot, trying to let this possibility unfold in your mind. Eventually, with a shy, tentative "yes," you opened up, your whole being feeling like a flower cautiously reaching toward sunlight, still uncertain yet irresistibly drawn.

The two of you became the talk of the ranch, your quiet glances and shy smiles making even the Alders chuckle with delight. It was sweet, people said, watching you both, a pair of lovestruck teens caught up in something innocent and tender.

Farris eventually opened up about his past, speaking softly, as if sharing a guarded wound. His parents had been trapped in a constant cycle of bitterness, each too absorbed in their own struggles to think about him. They didn’t care for each other, for the vows they’d made, or even for the boy caught in between. By the time they split, he’d been left to fend for himself, a ghost drifting between them, unwanted. Yet here he was, looking at you with such hope, with a gentleness that was born from hardship but longing for something better, beautiful and loving than what his parents had.

He wanted a love that was real, something far from the fractured, selfish version he’d grown up with. And he wanted it with you. That simple, earnest wish kindled something inside you, something bright and tender, something you hadn’t dared hope for until now.

Now, at twenty, you’re happily married. Farris has never once wavered from his vow, not for a single moment. He’s never let you feel the sting of loneliness or regret. He’s only ever been there, his love a steady presence, his every word and gesture a reminder that he’s here for you, that he will always be here.

He knows pieces of your past, the fragments you were willing to share. You chose to tell him only as much as felt necessary, as much as you felt safe giving away. He’s never pressed for more, never pried into the shadows you’ve tried so hard to leave behind. Instead, he accepted every part of you, the parts you showed him, and the parts you held back. And in his acceptance, you’ve found a peace you didn’t think possible, a quiet sense of safety that feels like home.

You both thrived together in the quarters on the ranch, living in a cozy one-bedroom home that felt like a world of your own. It was small, yet everything you needed was right there, wrapped in love and laughter. But Farris, with his dreams and ambitions, wanted something more, a life away from the ranch and its unpredictable weather.

So, you both made the leap and moved near Valentine, a small community with friendly faces and warm hearts. Farris found a job at a nearby publishing office, where he poured his creativity into his work, while you channeled your talents into selling beautiful embroidered fabrics. Farris supplied your creations to the local markets, and together you earned enough to not just survive but to thrive.

In the evenings, your home transformed into a small haven of learning. You taught the local children, sharing knowledge and igniting a spark of curiosity in their eyes. For you, spreading knowledge felt like soaring through the sky; every lesson was a chance to lift someone else up. You found joy in teaching, especially the girls, encouraging them to embrace their potential and dream big.

⋆⋆⋆

You were now eight months pregnant, combing your hair in the mirror after freshening up in the morning. When you were satisfied with your appearance and turned around, you saw Farris walking towards you, shaking his head in what seemed like mild disappointment.

“What?” you chuckled, touching your hair and turning back to the mirror to check for anything on your face.

He didn’t say anything at first, instead reaching for two bracelets from the jewelry box he had gifted you. He gently put them on your wrists, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“You know how much I hate seeing you empty-handed, not looking like a newlywed bride,” he said, his voice teasing yet affectionate.

You let out a laugh, a genuine one that echoed through the room. “That’s because I’m not! It’s going to be a year soon, I’m not so new anymore.”

He frowned playfully and pulled you closer, his hands resting on your waist. “It doesn’t matter. For me, it’s important to see my beloved ready. It makes me feel happy to see you every time, all dolled up.”

Farris gave a little smirk, his eyes glinting with that familiar playfulness. “And what’s wrong with getting ready for me?” he teased, adjusting the bracelets on your wrist as if they were the final touch to a masterpiece. “It’s a good thing. It should be the first thing you do after waking up, come out looking all lovely, and before I get home too. And it’s not up for debate, alright?” He tapped your nose, his tone both firm and light-hearted, making you grin and blush at the same time.

“Alright, alright,” you laughed, shaking your head at his silly demands, which you knew were simply his way of showing how much he adored you. You couldn’t imagine a day without his little ways of making you feel cherished. You are officially spoiled rotten.

"You and your demand of seeing me ready all the time.. I literally just woke up..." You tried to stifle a yawn, still sleepy-eyed as you leaned into him, but Farris only chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling with that familiar fondness.

“Well, that’s on you,” he teased, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “If I had my way, you’d wake up ready for a wedding every day.”

You let out another laugh, warm and easy. “You mean you want me walking around in a heavy gown and jewels while I’m like this?” You gestured to your rounded belly, the weight of the baby beneath your hand both grounding and joyful.

He grinned, resting a hand over yours. “Every bit of it. The bracelets, the smile, all of it. Even just like this, especially like this.”

A soft warmth bloomed in your chest, and you rested your head against his shoulder, feeling content in a way you’d never quite known before. “You’re lucky I indulge you as much as I do,” you murmured, trying to sound exasperated, but the smile in your voice betrayed you.

“Well, c'mon, that's my right as your husband now, and I’m grateful every day,” he replied, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His hands stayed on your shoulders, steady, as though grounding you there with him. "After all I earn for you, to buy you all this so you wear it. Not keep them in a damn box."

He leaned down, his voice a quiet murmur. “You’re glowing, you know. It’s like… even the smallest things make me grateful that you’re here. That you’re mine.”

You smiled, closing your eyes and savoring the moment. “I know,” you murmured back, brushing your fingers lightly over his hand. “And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And this little one,” you added, giving your belly a gentle pat, “well… I think they’d agree.”

He chuckled, a sound that felt like sunshine on a quiet morning. “Then I guess I’d better keep making you happy, huh? Not that I’d want to do anything else.”

He drew you into his arms and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another, softer one, on your lips. His hand drifted down to rest gently over your belly, his thumb tracing gentle circles.

“Love you both,” he said quietly, the words wrapped in tenderness. You rested your head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, and let out a sigh of pure contentment.

“Love you too,” you whispered, letting yourself sink fully into the embrace, savoring the warmth and comfort of the moment.

⋆⋆⋆

Before you knew it, time slipped through your fingers like grains of sand, and you were blessed with a beautiful daughter, Adia, a precious gift that illuminated your lives in ways you never imagined. Farris had poured his heart and soul into building another room in your small house, carefully crafting every plank and stone, each stroke of his hand a testament to his love and commitment since the moment he learned you were expecting.

Now, Adia was six months old, a bundle of joy who filled your days with light. You had just finished your evening classes and, with a sense of anticipation, hurried to cradle your daughter, who stirred from her peaceful nap.

"Aww, my cutie," you squealed, "Look who's finally back to earth." The innocence of her giggles somehow bittersweet in the quiet of the house.

You carried her into the kitchen, “Let’s get some (coffee/tea) ready before dad comes home,” you said softly,

“Let me heat those pastries too-” you began, but were abruptly cut off by a sharp knock on the door. Confusion twisted your stomach as you approached, pausing just before turning the handle. A sudden thought struck you like ice water.

Farris has keys. Why would he knock?

With a racing heart, you crept to the window, peering through the curtain. The dim light of the lamp outside cast eerie shadows across the porch, and your blood ran cold. There they were, three masked men.

Charles stood at the front, his fist raised to knock again, while Sean shifted nervously beside him, eyes darting around as if sensing the gravity of the moment. But it was the figure in the distance that sent a chill through your bones.

Arthur.

Leaning against his horse, Arthur's entire form was cloaked in black, the cigarette smoke curling from his lips, lingering like a sinister whisper in the dusky air. He stood there with an unsettling casualness as if the weight of his presence meant nothing to him. He looked more dangerous than the last time you had seen him, if that was even possible. But you knew better. He was not here to offer a friendly visit. No. His intentions were laced with malice.

He looked like death himself.

“I swear, Arthur, this is the house. I saw her here,” Sean insisted, his voice taut with urgency.

Panic gripped you. No, no, no. You backed away from the window, the world narrowing down to the pounding of your heart and the cold sweat that broke out across your skin. One hand flew to cover your mouth, the other instinctively clutching Adia’s small head to your chest, as if you could shield her from the impending storm.

This has to be a fucking nightmare.

The dread of your past clawed its way back into your mind, and you jumped at the sound of another heavy knock, followed by murmured voices. The familiar cadence of Arthur’s tone sent a wave of nausea through you. It felt like a sinister echo from your past, threatening to shatter the fragile peace you had fought so hard to build.

What if Farris comes and they do something to him? The thought twisted in your gut, a dark cloud overshadowing your desperate need for escape.

No, please, God.

You raced to turn off the stove, the pot of simmering pastries forgotten, then dashed for the back door, your only thought to reach Farris or find help. But as you flung the door open, dread flooded through you. There stood Charles, frozen in place, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and something else, guilt.

"N-no, please...Charles.... don't. Leave me alone, I beg you..." you stammered, your voice trembling.

He took a step back, but his eyes betrayed him, brimming with remorse. "I am just following orders."

Before he could close the distance, instinct kicked in, and you slammed the door shut, your breath coming in panicked gasps, adrenaline coursing through you. Even Adia seemed to sense the shift in the air, her small body tensing against you as you bounced her gently, cooing in a feeble attempt to soothe her. But the noise around you grew louder, the panic rising like bile in your throat. You needed a weapon, something to protect her.

Suddenly, the front door was thrown off its hinges, splintering wood echoing through your small sanctuary. Heavy footsteps thudded against the floor, reverberating in your chest as you sprinted to Adia’s room, locking the door behind you with shaking hands.

Then came the shattering of the back door, another sound that sent your heart racing as you backed away in horror, retreating to the closet. You clutched Adia tightly, covering her mouth with your palm as silent tears streamed down your face.

Everything is over.

Everything you had built, your little heaven, was about to be shattered. The weight of dread pressed against your chest, making it hard to breathe. His anger was palpable, suffocating, reverberating through the very walls of your home. After all these years, if he had still found you, it meant he had been hunting you, waiting, and his patience had finally run out.

An impatient Arthur was not a forgiving one.

'Farris, don’t come home. Please, just don’t.' The words twisted in your throat, heavy with despair, as you whispered them into the darkness. It was the first time you ever wished for him not to return, and the realization shattered your heart.

“Shh, baby, please,” you murmured frantically, rocking Adia gently.

This time they didn't bother kicking the door, it was simply blown to pieces. The door frame splintered, and you could hear the heavy footsteps.

It took no longer than 5 seconds for him to fling the closet open and stare down, with eyes that now were empty. So different, so fucking different from the ones you grew up with.

"A-arthur..." You whimpered out shaking your head as if telling him to just forget all this and go.

"Grab the fuckin' kid, Charles."

"No- NO! NO! ARTHUR! Don't you touch her!" But it was futile for you to fight against the latter as he snatched her like a doll and took her out with Sean. You leapt after her but Arthur grabbed you by the hair and slammed you to the ground, wasting no time to pin and immobilize you.

“Had fun?” he sneered, landing a blow to your face that sent stars dancing in your vision. He held back, just enough to keep you conscious, but the intent was clear, this was just the beginning. “Oh I bet you did, right? While I worried sick day and night!”

The next hit came like a thunderclap, the sting of his palm echoing through your skull. “Fuckin' left after everything I did! Like I didn’t even fuckin’ matter to you at all! And then what do I find? That you are here, enjoyin' your life, OPENING YOUR LEGS FOR SOME GUY!?”

You coughed blood and managed to stop him from hitting again another "A-arthur, s-sorry. Please, don't...I'll visit you in the camp whenever you want me to, you can come here when-" He landed another slap and then gripped your chin with a bruising force shutting you up, the pressure on your throat tightening to the point where you struggled to breathe. You were sure that you were going to die then and there. His fingers dug in, a cruel reminder of the power he wielded over you.

“You don’t get a say in this,” he hissed, his voice low and menacing, a dark promise wrapped in each word. “You’re comin' with me, whether you like it or not. And if you make a sound, I’ll make sure your precious little lover pays for it.”

“NO! I-I’ll go,” you gasped, each word a desperate attempt to stave off the storm brewing within him. “I’ll go with you.” Adia's wails outside the room made the situation only worse, every fibre of your being just telling you to rush out and hold her to your chest.

Every fibre of your being screamed against this nightmare, but the thought of what he could do to Farris, the man who had given you a life, a family, made your heart race with terror.

Arthur’s grip slackened just a fraction, enough for you to catch a gasp of air, but his expression remained cold, and calculating. “You better mean it, or I swear to God, I’ll burn everything you love to the ground just to watch you squirm, just like you made me, for all these fuckin' years."

He yanked you to your feet, his grip on your hair forcing you to stumble forward, a reminder of his unyielding control.

“Adia…” you whispered, desperately trying to reach him with your thoughts. Pleading him pathetically again, once fucking again. It's never going to end.

He didn’t respond, but the sight of Charles trailing behind, cradling your daughter, confirmed your worst fears, they were taking both of you. The cold night air bit at your skin, amplifying the fear clawing at your insides. Sean’s sympathetic glance pierced through your growing anger, igniting a furious spark within you. You lost it when he mouthed a 'sorry'.

“Fuck you,” you spat, the words slipping out before you could contain them.

Arthur halted, his body tense as he turned to face you, fury simmering just beneath the surface. “The fuck did you jus' say?”

“I-” You hesitated, the weight of your situation pressing down harder with every passing second.

But before you could form a coherent thought, a voice shattered the night.

“HEY! (Y/N)! Who the hell are you guys!?”

Your heart plummeted. “FARRIS, NO! RUN, PLEASE!”

Arthur’s gaze flickered with annoyance, and without a second thought, he threw you aside like a ragdoll, sending you crashing into Sean’s waiting arms.

“What, not happy to see your brother-in-law?” Arthur taunted, a cruel smile spreading across his face as Farris stepped into view, his expression shifting from shock to rage, but he knew better than to lose his cool in front of these criminals.

It was the brother you had warned him about, the outlaw who had haunted your past like a shadow.

“Look, I know how you must feel,” Farris began, his voice steady despite the terror swirling around. “But we’re married now. You can’t just take her away from her family, Sir. Not like this.” His calm facade masked the storm brewing beneath, his protective instincts surging in response to the sight of you, bruised and at the mercy of men he had no trust in. Not to mention his daughter being held by one of them.

“How I feel? I'll tell you how I felt. I barely slept not knowing if she's even alive out there, in this brutal world, searchin' for her at every chance. How I feel, my ass,” Arthur’s voice dripped with venom, his eyes narrowing.

“You son of a bitch, you have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Just let him go, Arthur, it's not his fault! Don't do anything to him! You can kill me if you want!" you pleaded, your voice breaking as you looked between the men who now stood as barriers in your life, one of them representing something you desperately wished to protect. “Please, don’t do this.”

Farris took a cautious step forward, his body tense, but he had to for his family.. “You don’t have to do this, Sir. She's your family, don't hurt her like this, don't take her away like this, from me, we love each other...please. Think of the child at least.." He pleaded, trying his best to win this losing battle.

"Is that so? Alright."

Arthur drags you forward, placing the pistol in your trembling hands. Farris stands there, helpless, his gaze moving from Arthur to you, filled with confusion and a sorrowful acceptance.

Arthur leans in close, his whisper twisted with venom. "You’re the one who ran, sister. You wanted this life, didn't you? Now, you end it. Show him you’re done."

You shake your head, choking back sobs. "Please, Arthur... don’t make me do this! Please!"

Arthur’s hand closes over yours, his grip unyielding, forcing your fingers around the gun. "No one to run to this time," he says, his voice laced with dark satisfaction. "If you want to keep breathing, you’ll do as I say. Or maybe he’d prefer a slower death? I’ve got time.”

“Do it,” he hisses, tightening his hold until the gun aims squarely at Farris.

Charles steps forward, desperation flickering in his gaze. He turns to Arthur, his voice low but urgent. “Arthur... come on. Just let him go,” he pleads, his hand shielding Adia's eyes. “He’s done nothin’ worth all this.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, his eyes cold and unyielding as he keeps the gun levelled. “Stay the fuck out of this, Charles,” he warns, his voice a harsh whisper. “She made her choice the moment she left without a word. This is your punishment, ya' hear me?.”

You glance at Farris and the sadness in them nearly undoes you. His lips part, trying to reassure you even in his final moments. But the fear is there, and the heartbreaking acceptance, as he takes one last look at Adia in Charles's arms and then meets your eyes. He nods, just once, his lips moving in a silent farewell. “I love you both, never forget it and this isn't your fault. Remember that," he whispers, his voice barely reaching you.

Arthur digs his fingers into your wrist, forcing you forward. "Go on then," he sneers, "show him how much you love him."

"Fa-rris no, please, I love yo-" The words painfully get stuck in your throat, as you hiccup.

Your vision blurs, but with Arthur’s iron grip guiding you, your finger finds the trigger, pressed down by his strength, leaving you powerless. The shots echo through the stillness, ringing in your ears as you watch the light fade from Farris’s eyes.

4 shots.

He drops to his knees, his gaze still locked on yours, one last shuddered breath escaping him.

Arthur finally releases you, and you collapse, the gun falling from your hands as you sink to the ground, numb with shock and despair.

"See?" Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence, laced with dark amusement. "This was always your choice. Remember that."

“No!” you choke out, tears streaming down your face, screams sounding raw and primal, rip from your throat as your heart shatters into fragments. You lunged toward him, instinctually rushing to his side cradling him.

“Farris! No, no! Please, don't! I am so sorry!” Your voice was a repetitive haunting echo in the cold night air, but he didn’t respond. You couldn’t breathe, a flood of emotions clawing at your throat.

Arthur stepped forward, a sinister smile spreading across his face as he savoured your despair. "Guess, he just had to die today. Did a mistake comin' back. And you..."

With a swift movement, he grabbed your arm and pulled you away, dragging you toward the waiting horse tethered nearby while you thrashed and tried to reach back into Farris's embrace. “This is how you pay for your betrayal, to me and the gang,” he hissed, hoisting you onto the horse with a force that left you gasping.

“HE DID NOTHING WRONG! YOU FUCKIN' BASTARD! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU ALL! YOU ARE ALL FUCKED UP!" you pleaded, tears streaming down your face, blurring your vision as you turned back to where Farris lay. The cold grip of dread consumed you, and every fibre of your being screamed for answers.

Arthur merely chuckled, a dark and chilling sound that reverberated in your ears. “Wrong place, wrong time. It’s a shame, really, right boys?"

He mounted the horse behind you, the weight of his presence suffocating.

You felt the horse begin to move, hooves thudding against the ground as the distance between you and Farris grew. You strained against the reins, desperate to look back, to Farris or to see Adia safe in Charles's arms but Arthur’s grip on your waist was unyielding.

“Stop! Please!” you cried, your heart racing with each passing moment. “Farris! Farris!” The name escaped your lips like a prayer, but the silence that answered only deepened the void within you.

Every beat of your heart echoed the same questions, how could he do this? Why would Arthur tear apart the life you had fought so hard to build? You started thrashing trying to jump off the horse and when that didn't work you started smacking yourself on the head.

“Stop wailing like a fucking lunatic,” Arthur growled, his voice low and menacing as he grabbed your wrists. “You’ll only make this worse for yourself.”

And so you cried, tears mingling with the night for the life you had lost and the love you had been taken from.

⋆⋆⋆

You stumble back into camp, hollowed out by grief, barely feeling the hands that try to guide you or the murmurs of people around. It’s like your own heartbeat is drowning out everything else, each beat a cruel reminder that you’re alive while he’s… Farris is gone. Every step feels heavier, like dragging chains through mud, and the weight of it pulls you into a fog that you can’t see your way out of. It’s all too much, and you can’t bear the thought of another breath in this place, under Arthur’s shadow.

Arthur’s voice comes from behind, gruff and dismissive. “Get her settled, Miss Grimshaw. She’ll calm down soon enough.”

It’s a trigger, hearing his voice, so callous, so indifferent. The anger wells up, fierce and desperate, drowning the fear as you pivot, finding him with your gaze. Arthur turns, catching sight of you just as your hand reaches out, fast and resolute, seizing the gun holstered at his hip. You grip it tightly, the cold metal a final, grim comfort.

“Hey!” Arthur’s eyes flash, more surprised than afraid, but he freezes, hands raised as if to placate you, assessing the danger in your expression.

“What’re you doing?” His voice is low, a warning, but there’s a crack in it, something uncertain. He’d expected grief, but not this.

You steady your trembling hands, the barrel pointed between you and him and everyone around. Your voice, a rasp torn from the depths of your pain, barely makes it out. “Why should I stay? Hm? After what you’ve done… after you took everything from me?”

Arthur’s expression darkens, his jaw clenched, but he doesn’t make a move. The camp falls deathly silent, all eyes watching. “You wouldn’t, stop it." He says, but there’s a flicker of doubt there. He didn’t think you had this in you.

“I have nothing left,” you hiss, the tears burning in your eyes as you hold his gaze. "Just...why Arthur..?"

Something flickers in Arthur’s face then, a flash of worry, but he schools it quickly. “Put it down. Now. You’re no good to anyone dead. Least of all that little girl of yours.” His voice cuts, striking right at the fragile remnants of your will.

At the mention of Adia, your grip weakens and you glance at her, your baby who will not even properly get to know her father. The thought of her, defenceless and alone, keeps you anchored just long enough for the fight to drain from your muscles. Your hands go limp and Arthur immediately takes the gun from your hands. You snatch your daughter from Charles, your knees hitting the dirt as the tears finally spill over, and Arthur is there, one hand resting on your shoulder as if he’s won some twisted victory.

But he can’t take your grief. That’s yours alone.

There were old faces and new ones at this camp, but you couldn’t bear to see anyone, each familiar visage only serving as a reminder of the life you once knew, a life that felt like a distant memory now. Even Annabelle has died, as Hosea informed you with a heavy heart. It just couldn't get any worse.

You spent days in a daze, confined within the solitude of your tent, surrounded by the oppressive security that hung in the air like a storm cloud and staring at your wedding ring sometimes, reminiscing about the fairytale of life that got snatched from you in a blink of an eye. Each moment dragged, your sense of time warped as you replayed the events that had brought you here, Farris, Arthur, and the unbearable weight of loss.

You hold Adia close, not letting anyone near her, not the women from camp who bring food and clean clothes, and especially not Arthur. Each time he approaches, there’s something in his gaze, a mix of guilt and a twisted sense of responsibility, as if he’s trying to make up for what he’s done. But you don’t forget, and you don’t forgive. Never.

You could never forget how he looked at her with disgust that day, his contempt for you and your choices etched deep into his features. Calling you all sorts of names. Reducing you to some mere wench.

He tries, though, lingering outside the tent with trinkets and offerings. Small things, toys he’s scrounged up from nearby towns, little comforts he imagines will make it easier for you both to settle in here. You can see the frustration tightening his jaw every time you refuse to accept anything from him, every time you turn your back, clutching Adia tighter.

“Y’ain’t lifting a damn finger here,” he announces one morning to the others, his voice rough with command as if he’s declaring some kind of victory over the damage he caused. He stands tall, as though he’s your protector now, trying to mould himself into something noble. “Keep her off chores, you hear?”

His words carry through the camp, but they’re hollow, a show for the others. To everyone watching, it’s Arthur taking care of his sister and her child, doing what any family man should. Yet to you, it’s just another layer of manipulation. His guilt is a quiet thing, veiled beneath the orders he barks, the food he insists you eat, and the rare times he offers to hold Adia.

Then, one fateful day, you discovered you were pregnant. The news came as a surprise, a sudden twist in a life already tangled in chaos. For a fleeting moment, happiness flickered within you, a light in the darkness. Yet, that joy was overshadowed by your relentless sorrow for Farris. You cried daily, the tears mingling with the hopes and dreams you had lost.

No one left to wait for now, no one whose warmth you could sink into at night, no one to smile at as you fuss with your hair, adjusting every strand just right. Who would make you feel seen and safe, someone to dress up for, to look at with eyes full of love, watching their gaze soften in return? Your hands remain empty now, the very same hands that Farris doted on , the fact that the last thing he saw was them holding a gun at him. Your heart would shatter physically every time you think about it if it was practically possible.

He wouldn't be here to witness the birth of his second child.

“If it’s a boy, what a fine addition that would be, right Arthur?” you overheard Dutch say one day, his voice carrying through the thin fabric of your tent. You cringed at the thought. You knew exactly what Arthur’s vision entailed which was a shadow of Dutch's, raising your blood, his nephew, to be just like him, a cold-blooded killer, a reflection of the darkness that now surrounded you. The thought filled you with dread, the prospect of your child inheriting that legacy.

You were going to raise your son like how Farris was. A gentle soul.

As you held Adia close, her soft breaths a balm against the tumult of your thoughts, it steeled your resolve. No matter the cost, you would raise your children to know love, to know compassion and to see beauty in a world that had torn you apart.

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lovelytsunoda · 7 months ago

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purple haze // charles leclerc

summary: writing a novel is a long an arduous process. luckily for y/n, she has a very supportive partner in crime, and when it all works out, he's the only person she would want by her side.

pairing: charles leclerc x author reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of deadlines, book referenced is a good girls guide to murder by holly jackson. gets a lil steamy towards the middle but nothing comes of it. still not sure how i feel about this one, but i havent written for charles in forever and i got an idea i really liked but i don't know if it worked out when i put it on paper.

by the time y/n closed her laptop, she felt like her fingers were going to fall off. she leaned back in her desk chair, gutted to find that the monaco cityscape outside her living room window was now pitch black, as might had fallen on the city.

her first book had been a red-wine and oasis fuelled fever dream, the last three chapters being written to ‘don’t look back in anger’. and now, the final edits were done.

“I’m so proud of you, mon tresor.” charles gushed, bringing her another glass of wine.

“the last three years are finally paying off. a good girls guide to murder is done, and the world is ready to meet pippa and ravi.” she grinned, clinking her glass against her boyfriends.

she had poured three years of her life into that book, and Charles had been by her side for all of it. through numerous rejections, edits and late night idea-vomit, nobody was prouder than charles was so see it work out for her.

and now he knew she needed a break.

taking her hand in his, he gently dragged her out of the desk chair and towards the couch, placing their wineglasses on the coffee table as he urged y/n to sit on the ground between his legs.

his hands were warm as he began to massage her shoulders, attempting to release the tension caused by the last round of edits, which she had worked on almost from sunup to sundown.

“there’s still so much to do.” she whined, tilting her head back to look up at her lover. “now there’s arcs and extra promotions and finding advance reviewers and-“

charles cut her off with a kiss. “none of that right now. right now, you and me are going to finish this bottle of wine and watch something pointless on tv.”

smiling to herself, y/n got up from the floor and moved to the leather couch, slipping seamlessly into charles' lap and nestling against his chest. his body was warm, and his sweater soft. even if his cologne was a little bit too strong, he made her feel safe. treasured.

"that sounds perfect." she hummed, gently turning his face so she could kiss him. "thank you for supporting me."

"always, my love." charles smiled before kissing her again.

SIX MONTHS LATER

it was half past five in the morning when the phone rang. charles could sleep through just about anything, but it was the vibrations of the phone against her side table that woke y/n.

she looked over at her sleeping lover, pressing a gentle kiss to the smooth skin on his shoulder blades before slipping out of bed and creeping into the hallway to answer a call from her agent, cecelia.

"cece, its five in the morning. couldn't this have waited?"

ceclia cleared her throat. "i've just heard from the american office. the preliminary numbers for the new york times list are in."

"fuck. how did we do?" she closed her eyes, holding up her crossed fingers and praying to every god she wasn't sure she believed in.

and when cecelia spoke again, she almost dropped her phone.

"okay. thank you for letting me know, cece."

she slipped back into the bedroom, bare, dry feet sinking into the plush carpet at the end of the bed before she sat down at the end of the bed, gripping the phone so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

"mon amour." charles rasped, exhaustion in his voice as he rolled over onto his back. "what's wrong?"

"i just got a call from cecelia." she started, trying not to let her emotions show through. "she's just been on the phone with our american agent with the new york times numbers."

charles sat up, one of his warm hands going to rest on her thigh. "and?' he asked hesitantly, his piercing eyes meeting her uncertain ones in the dark.

"i made the top ten." she shouted, grin spreading all across her features.

making the new york times list had made everything worth it. all the sleepless nights when she had woken up with an idea she was scared to lose, all the rewrites, the weeks of writers block. the rejections, the aggravation, the insecurity.

this was it.

she had done it.

"i'm so proud of you." charles beamed, folding her into a hug. "i knew you could do it, my brilliant girl."

she dropped her phone on the bed, red-faced and giggly as she kissed him, allowing her hands to wander across his toned chest. "wanna show me just how much?"

THREE YEARS LATER

the theater was almost silent when the lights came up, the end credits of the final episode fading out on the screen. she held her breath, fingers gripping charles' hand so tightly that she thought she might break the fragile bones in her husband's fingers.

oh, yeah. they had gotten married about a year after her book had come out, while she was in the middle of writing as good as dead, the conclusion to the series.

since a good girls guide to murder had come out, her life had changed for the better. she felt more secure in herself and her talent, and the words had never come easier when she started writing the sequel, eager ton continue the story. she had since written two more books to complete the trilogy, as well as two standalone novels: five survive and the reappearance of rachel price. around the time that rachel price was announced, she had gotten another call from cecelia, asking if she and charles could come to london and meet with representatives from the bbc.

they wanted to turn her first book into a tv series.

she had been hands on from the beginning, throwing herself into her work and doing her best to make sure that the version of the story the readers saw on screen was the version that she had visualized when she'd first explained the storyboard to charles, the driver helping her connect everything on their living room wall with red yarn.

and now was the time. the time to see if it had all paid off. the theater was filled with minor celebrities, influencers, and the tiktokers who had made her book blow up in popularity.

it all came down this night.

"it's okay. whatever happens, you know you did your best." charles whispered in her ear, running one hand up and down her bare back. underneath the flimsy straps of her red dress.

she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath when the roar off applause began to drown her.

she rode the rush of emotions, allowing the tears of gratification and relief to ruin her mascara as she let her body go slack, resting against charles as she watched the room rise in a standing ovation for pippa and ravi.

"we did it. we made it, charles." she laughed, tilting her head up to kiss him.

"no, cherie. you did this. they're all here for you."

she watched as the event's host, a former spice girl that charles knew through his paddock connections, stepped out into the middle of the small stage set up at the front of the theater.

"and now, the moment i'm sure you've all been waiting for, a few words from y/n /y/l/n-leclerc!"

she wiped her eyes and fixed her hair, taking a deep breath before she walked across the stage, taking the microphone from geri halliwell, and turning to face the crowd.

in the front row, there was charles. her one true love. her biggest supporter.

and in that moment, she truly allowed herself to believe that she had made it.

#charles leclerc x reader #formula one x reader #f1 iagine #f1 x reader #f1 one shot #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #Spotify

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catofadifferentcolor · 1 year ago

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Terrible Fic Idea #71: The Night's Watch, but make it found family

Maester Aemon is perhaps my favorite character in ASOIAF. He could have been king. He could have lived a life of luxury as a prince in the south. He could easily have forsaken all his vows and risen to the most dizzying heights - and chose to remain sworn to guard the realm of men twice over as a maester of the Night's Watch.

So I thought: What would it take to give Maester Aemon the best possible ending?

Aka: The Maekar the Maester Fic

Just imagine it:

Everything follows canon - until the Greyjoy Rebellion, where Ned falls to a lucky crossbow bolt during the Siege of Pyke.

King Robert razes the castle in his fury, not bothering to evacuate the remaining Greyjoys or the common folk who took refuge in the castle. It is a massacre - but it puts the fear of god in the surviving Ironborn. The new Lord Reaper Rodrik Harlaw remains a faithful servant for all his days.

Back in Winterfell, 6-year-old Robb Stark is the new Lord Paramount of the North. His mother, Lady Catelyn, is his regent. And one of her first acts is to send her husband's bastard to the Wall. Which endears her to very few, as first graders have no place in a military organization even in Medieval times.

Benjen is away on a ranging at the time, so the Lord Commander entrusts young Jon's care to the only other man he can trust: Maester Aemon.

This works out better than anyone might have expected, because although Aemon is nearly 90 years old and has limited experience with children, the pair get on in a way that they really shouldn't given their vast difference in age and experience. But young Jon is bright and lively and curious, and Aemon has been lonely and lacking mental stimuli for most of his time at the Wall.

By the time Benjen returns from his ranging, the maester has already been dubbed Uncle Aemon and Benjen has to navigate co-parenting with a man who thinks teaching a young boy to stitch sword wounds is an appropriate learning activity.

(Benjen also has to navigate the urge to ride down to Winterfell and murder his brother's widow, and doesn't for the sole reason his nieces and nephews are too young to be orphaned.)

Jon grows up in the Night's Watch. He absorbs everything that there is to learn with the bright-eyed eagerness of a child - and though Jeor would hate to admit it, makes Castle Black a more enjoyable place to live. By age fourteen he can swing a sword, plan a ranging, sew a wound, cook a meal, repair a sword, patch a castle wall, chart the stars; track an animal, skin and butcher it, and name its bones afterwards; mix wildfire, and recite every piece of dragonlore he's ever learned - including a few slivers of knowledge that were normally only saved for dragonlords.

At fourteen he's allowed to make his Night's Watch vows.

The night before, Maester Aemon calls Jon into his chambers and tells him that could not be prouder of Jon if he were his own son.

Jon admits that he's wished many times over the years that Aemon was his father and considers him the father of his heart - more than Ned Stark, who he hardly remembers; more than Benjen, whose duties often keep him away; more than Jeor, who is kind but distant.

There are many tears and much hugging and more confessions, but at the end of it Aemon adopts Jon - perhaps through some Valeryian blood ritual - and gifts him the name Maeker, after his own father.

Canon proceeds apace elsewhere, save that when Jon Arryn dies, Robert rides to Highgarden at Renly's urging to name Mace Tyrell Hand of the King - and sends a raven in the opposite direction to summon Sansa as a bride for Joffrey.

Mace, through an almost comical series of events, comes to the same realization that Ned did in canon: that Cersei's children are not Robert's. Rather than try to have her step aside gracefully, he attempts to blackmail the queen into retiring to a motherhouse so that Margery can take her place... This does not go well.

Westeros erupts into war. It follows canon very closely - save that Cersei tries to use Sansa's presence in King's Landing to blackmail the North into fighting on Joffrey's side. Robb still ends up being named King in the North, this time more out of the urging of bannermen angry at how much the Southron wars have cost the North instead of revenge.

All this largely passes Maekar by on the Wall. He remains behind during the Great Ranging, serving at Aemon's assistant and apprentice. When the survivors return with news of the Others, he's skeptical but willing to hear the evidence - and wins the election for 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

As the War for the Dawn looms, Maekar sends messengers to each of the remaining kings for aide. Only Daenerys Targaryen responds, intrigued by everything she's been told by the messenger of the man they call Maekar the Maester, the adopted son of her Great-Uncle.

While Daenerys journeys north, Maester Aemon dies in his bed with Maekar at his side. With his last breaths, he gifts Maekar his maester's chain, saying that he has more than earned it - and that Maekar shall go down in history as the greatest of all Targaryens.

Daenerys grows even more intrigued by Maekar when she arrives at the Wall, but respects his desire to honor his vows. They remain great friends for the rest of their lives, sending entire flocks of ravens back and forth. Together they lead their forces against the Night's King-

-a task made easier when Bran and Meera Reed show up on the wrong side of the Wall, having slain the Three-Eyed Raven and raided his hoard. Amongst which are Blackfyre and Dark Sister.

Blackfyre is truly a massive sword and with dragonsteel in such short supply Daenerys allows Maekar to wield the Conqueror's blade in battle, as she cannot.

The War for the Dawn continues for another year - just long enough for the other kingdoms to realize what's happening and send a handful of reinforcements - before Maekar manages to slay the Night's King. Daenerys is able to destroy the last of the Others with her dragons...

...and when she lands, Maekar wastes no time in returning Blackfyre to her keeping.

A Great Council is held in the south. Though they try to offer the crown to Maekar, the hero of the War for the Dawn and (now wildly known thanks to Bran) rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Maekar refuses. They eventually grant the crown to Daenerys, who rules fairly and well for sixty years. She names her eldest son Maekar after her dearest friend.

Bonuses include: 1) Dozens of small character moments between Aemon and Maekar, showing the development of their relationship and depth of the feeling they share over the years; 2) Maekar inadvertently playing matchmaker more times than you'd expect of a man in a celibate organization. This should include hitting Bran and Meera over the head until they realize they've been crushing on each other for years, and getting Dany to give the minor lord she ends up marrying a chance; and 3) Young Jon breathing so much life into Castle Black that it's nearly unrecognizable from canon by the time Sam joins up. It's still cold, but it's not so miserable. It is, in fact, a home.

This is actually an idea I've had kicking around for a while and have only finally managed to put down. As always, feel free to adopt this most beloved of buns, just link back if you do anything with it.

More Terrible Fic Ideas

#plot bunny #fic ideas #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #got #asoiaf #jon snow #jon snow is a targaryen #aemon targaryen #maester aemon #house targaryen #night's watch #found family #found father #jeor mormont #benjen stark #daenerys targeryan #the long night

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aphrodisiac-siren · 2 years ago

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Dynasty of Flames

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen-Royce Reader

Summary: Being born into the most respected and equally feared houses in the realm made people look up to you as if you were a god and the devil himself, in equal measure. People say that when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin; and when news of the birth of Daemon's firstborn- a girl, spread, people could only wait in anticipation to see which side of the coin faced up during her birth.

Y/N slowly starting to turn into Daemon 2.0

Warnings: Incest (duh) swearing.

Part 1, part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Part 9

Aemond won duel after duel, the crowd going absolutely ballistic after every single one of his victories and Y/N couldn’t be prouder of him. She remembered him as a child going on and on about how he would someday win tourneys, how those hopes came crashing down when he lost his eye. He'd written to her, telling her of how the maesters had informed him that he would never be able to fight after the incident.

Yet here he was, in all his glory, standing victorious of yet another round of a duel.

Daemon, nor Jace and Luke, seemed as thrilled about this as Y/N was. Rhaenyra too was a bit surprised to see her half-brother here and when she asked Alicent, she too seemed just as surprised as the rest.

As Aemond walked away from his opponent, about to sheath his sword, the supposedly defeated lord stood up, ready to attack from behind. Y/N barely had enough time to process what was happening and yell for Aemond but luckily for the princess, her prince was quite sharp.

He heard the sound of the heavy footsteps trudging through the muck. But even though he did manage to somewhat dodge the direct hit of the sword, he didn’t manage to avoid it completely. The sound of the metal of the sword screeching against Aemond's armoured hand was teeth gritting and Aemond flinched away, clutching his arm as pain surged up.

"That’s foul play" Y/N leaned in to mutter to her father "Aemond already won that-"

"Let us applaud the victor, Dalton Greyjoy!" Daemon announced as he clapped causing his daughter's jaw to drop with disbelief.

"Kepa, Aemond had already won that round!" Y/N stood up, her tone stern as she repeated herself. It was the final round of the duel and she did not wish to be promised to Dalton out of all people. She barely even knew him.

Jace and Luke were applauding and whistling rather joyously and Y/N was getting irritated by the minute.

"Perhaps the both of you should like to marry him, hm?" She snapped, catching the both of them by surprise at how harshly she spoke "one more sound and I will have you both thrown out of here"

"Y/N.." Rhaenyra tried to calm her down "I'm sure your father won’t do something that upsets you-"

"Lord Greyjoy, I give you my permission to court my daughter" Daemon smiled at the same time that Rhaenyra winced.

Aemond stood frozen with rage. It was clear that Daemon was only doing this out of pure spite.

"I do not wish to court him!" Y/N quickly snapped, rather loudly too because Dalton seemed to frown at this the same time as Aemond smirked.

"So much for being named victor" Aemond sneered aloud "by the looks of it, the princess would rather stay a spinster than court you"

This caused a few snickers to arise from the crowd and Dalton retaliated by attempting to throw a punch at Aemond, which he managed to dodge effortlessly before whacking him on his back that made him stumble and fall face first into the mud.

"Prince Daemon" Aemond chuckled mockingly "you would have your daughter court and then, perhaps, marry this man? He can barely defend himself, let alone protect the princess"

Alicent winced. She didn’t wish for Aemond to incite some more chaos like how he did at the dinner.

"At least I am a complete man" Dalton smirked up at him through gritted teeth and Aemond reacted by kicking some of that wet mud straight into his face.

"That is enough!" Rhaenyra stood up, tired of having to deal with these kinds of fights over and over "I think we are done for the day"

And with that the crowd dispersed, groaning with annoyance. They were only just enjoying this newfound entertainment. Aemond too sheathed his sword and stormed off toward the castle, where the other members of the royal family were headed. After such a dismal day, he needed a nice warm bath to wash off the stench of mud, sweat and disappointment.

Alicent excused herself to go after her son and to inquire him about what made him show up in the first place; her handmaidens following after her.

"I thought you said you were on my side" Y/N snapped at her father once they were inside the walls of the castle, occasionally shifting glances between him and her half-brothers "Instead you lot seem to be having a joyous time working together to make my life a misery"

"You'd be doing that to yourself if you take that cunt as your husband" Jace added, Luke snickering at his comment.

"You both ought to learn how to speak to me" the princess coldly warned, not bothering to look at them "I am your future queen"

"Only because my brother's crown was handed to you" Luke threw back at her with the same amount of venom "you are not the direct descendant of King Viserys' heir: our mother"

"You are in no position to question my claim to the throne" Y/N chuckled darkly "I fought for your claim despite knowing the truth about you"

"Y/N that is enough" Rhaenyra interrupted sternly. She knew where her step-daughter was going with this conversation and she did not want their family getting divided over this.

"Are you suggesting we are same thing Aemond accused us of being?" Jace asked as his jaw clenched "bastards?"

"Why would I have reason to question that, I wonder?" Y/N batted her eye lashes and that only seemed to infuriate Jace.

"You are just as bad as them!" Jace shouted.

"Them? Us?" Y/N shot back "it was you who created this division between everyone by wasting away your childhood, bullying a poor boy simply for never having a dragon"

"You still defend him-"

"Because you have never given me a reason to defend you!" she took a step forward and Rhaena held her by the hand "I vouched for Luke, like I promised. And all you've done is make my closest friend's life, and now mine too, an absolute mess"

"Simply because we wish for you to wed someone else?" Luke asked.

"It is not your choice to make! Y/N raised her voice again. Gods, these boys would drive her to insanity "you both turned against me the minute you were made aware of me being named heir to the iron throne. Are you that jealous?"

"Jealous?" Jace scoffed "I am my mother's first born son. That crown should be mine"

"I am the blood of a dragon, that crown is just as much mine as it is anyone’s whose name is Targaryen" Y/N snapped "I have had it with you. If you are still bitter about it, so fucking be it"

And with that she stormed off, leaving everyone looking at each other in silence.

"I should go check on her" Rhaenyra followed, Daemon walking after her.

"You shouldn’t be so harsh on her" Rhaena broke the silence "it was not her choice to make"

"Exactly," Baela piped up, turning to look at Jace "our sister always supported Rhaenyra's decision to name you heir. If your mother changed her mind, you should know that Y/N is not the one you need to blame for it"

"If we keep fighting amongst ourselves, we are going to end up just like the greens and the blacks" Rhaena reminded "we are the only ones who might be able to reunite our house"

"And as much as I hate the idea of it, Y/N's marriage to Aemond will help" Baela added.

"Aemond is not any saint" Luke scoffed "he only likes your sister because she's been his friend all these years. His hatred for us will never wither away, even if they marry"

"At the very least, it will form a sort of truce" Baela tried to sound optimistic "as much as we love you boys you need to keep in mine Y/N is our sister and whether you like it or not, we do feel rather joyous of her being in line for the throne"

Jace and Luke exchanged glances. They both knew the twins had some truth in what they spoke. Not wanting to prolong the argument, the boys just nodded.

Y/N went off to find Aemond.

After a few minutes of searching and asking around, she found him in a hallway that was close to the bathing rooms. He was busy talking to some girl, by the looks of it she was perhaps a servant of Alicent. Aemond was as serious as ever, but he probably stated something funny since Y/N heard the girl laugh heartily as she placed her hand on Aemond's arm. When the prince took notice of Y/N he excused himself from the conversation and walked toward the princess.

The princess waited for him to approach her, offering a polite smile to the servant girl who took her leave and walked away to give them some privacy. Y/N had noticed that Aemond had put his eye patch back on.

"I hope I did not intrude" Y/N sweetly told him, referring to the conversation he was having with one of the servants.

"Oh, do not fret" he assured, his frame rigid as always "Alys was only informing me that a clean set of clothes was placed-"

"Alys? What is she doing here?" Y/N asked curiously.

"She's serving as one of my mother's handmaidens. You know of her?" Aemond cocked his head slightly.

"Aegon mentioned her" the girl told him with a shrug "your childhood dancing partner"

"Ah yes" Aemond grinned, not saying anything more.

Y/N was never the jealous type, nor did she feel threatened by anyone; she was confident in that sense. But for some reason the thought of Aemond agreeing to dance with somebody that wasn’t her, his childhood best friend, seemed to irk her just a touch. And she did not seem to like how freely that girl touched Aemond.

Not that she cared.

"I was just headed for a much-needed bath" he pointed behind him at one of the doors "care to join me?"

Y/N gave him a cheeky grin before looking around. No servants. She then held his hand and guided him into the room in which he'd told her there was a bath drawn for him.

Y/N was far too comfortable with stripping bare in the presence of Aemond. He, on the other hand, was still taken aback by her boldness.

She was always vivacious, Aemond thought, but was she always this beautiful? Did her-

Stop.

Aemond tore his gaze away from her when he caught himself staring at her for far longer than necessary. Once Y/N was done taking off her jewellery, she went to help Aemond out of his armour.

Aemond casually stole glances at her. Her hair tumbled past her shoulders to her waist in elegant curls of brown and silver. Her skin felt soft each time his fingers accidentally brushed against her.

Was she always this beautiful?

Once he too was rid of every last bit of garment he had on, she pulled him toward the large pit-like tub, much similar to the one back at King's landing. Once they reached the edge that then dipped into the ground, in which the water was filled, Y/N shifted to the side and pushed Aemond in.

The prince was caught off guard and rose to the surface quickly, pushing his wet hair back and sternly eyeing Y/N who had broken into fits of giggles. She then slowly climbed in using the stairs which were a little further to the right but Aemond wasn’t going to let that happen.

He reached up and grabbed her by the hand, pulling her in with such force that she fell straight in.

"Hey!" she laughed when she rose to the surface, wiping the water out of her eyes. She then splashed water straight at Aemond who stepped back with a chuckle, as if he was expecting it. He too splashed water right into her face that had her taking a few steps back, spitting the water back out.

"Idiot" she shook her head with amusement, rubbing her eyes again. Aemond only grinned as he took a step closer to brush her hair out of her face, letting his fingers linger on the soft skin of her face.

Y/N smiled up at him, allowing him to fix her hair before she reached up to take off his eye patch, which she only just remembered that he still had on, but he flinched away from her before she could touch his face.

Y/N's smile fell in an instant.

"I wasn’t going to hurt you" she told him, thinking maybe that was his reflex.

"I know you wont. That isn’t why I.. " he calmly told her, suddenly feeling bad for being the reason behind her smile dropping "I'm just.. Earlier I was told.."

He was fumbling over his words, again, a rare occurrence.

Y/N cautiously came closer before her eyes landed on the nasty bruise on his left arm. His skin was painted with painful shades of greens, blues and purples.

"Gods, I am so sorry" she covered her mouth to hide the gasp that escaped her lips "I shouldn’t have pushed you in-"

"Oh no no," Aemond almost smiled at her genuine concern and how she thought she was the one who'd accidentally hurt him "this happened earlier, at the tourney"

Y/N sighed with relief before she gingerly reached out and traced around the bruise with the tip of her finger.

"It must hurt you terribly" she tenderly spoke, leaning in to kiss his skin.

"I've endured worse..."

The faintest gasp escaped Aemond's lips when he felt her lips trail along his arm, gently peppering his bruise with kisses.

"Kepa always used to kiss my injuries to heal them faster"

Aemond remembered when she had kissed his bruised knuckles the morning she was leaving him for Dragonstone.

Y/N trailed her kisses up his arm, his shoulder, along his neck, and his jaw until she reached his scar that peaked out from beneath that eye patch.

"You are perfect Aemond" she whispered, her lips brushing against his cheek "I wouldn’t change a thing about you"

Aemond's breath hitched in his throat as he felt her arms pressed against his stomach, how her nipples brushed against his chest, her face only inches away from his.

Was she always this beautiful?

"May I?" she asked, almost in a whisper and Aemond knew exactly what she meant. He gave her a nod of consent and the girl reached up to gently take off the eye patch.

She smiled before she leaned in yet again to kiss his cheek, along his scar, right under his waterline. around the edge of the sapphire near his temple, going on her toes to kiss all the way till his forehead where his scar stopped.

"You are perfect, Aemond" she cupped his face and Aemond subconsciously pulled her closer by the waist.

"Y/N?" he called out her name softly "you are really beautiful"

***

Daemon sceptically eyed the handmaiden as he leaned forward in his chair.

"You saw them yourself you say?"

"Yes, my prince" she looked down at the floor "they both slipped into the same room to bathe. My! what scandalous thing"

"I know my daughter to be more responsible than that" Daemon heaved a sigh, still maintaining his pointed gaze "and even if she did engage in anything you claim to have seen, I do not care"

"Oh but I'm sure the other nobles might" she masked the venom in her voice by giving an innocent smile "who would wed her then?"

"If you are fool enough to spread any gossip, the one you claim she sneaked off to the bath with will wed her" Daemon said with a shrug "and I shall personally have you hang-"

"From what I've been told, the queen had declined princess Rhaenyra's previous proposal to wed her son and the queen's daughter" the girl looked away, not caring that she had interrupted him "what makes you say she will agree to this match?"

"May I ask what drives you to find reason to ruin my daughter?"

"I'm afraid Aemond is doing the job fine himself by asking her to bathe with him" she chuckled

"You are not answering my question"

"Oh no, I do not wish to ruin her" she batted her lashes "I simply want the same thing you want: to keep Aemond away from her"

Daemon leaned back in his chair, heaving a sigh.

"So for your own personal gain"

"Well, we're both getting what we want"

"And how, may I ask," Daemon eyed her curiously "will you manage to seduce a prince like himself?"

"I have my ways" she smirked.

"All right, you may leave Alys"

Taglist: @ladybug0095 @sahvlren @bunny24sstuff @dellalyra @ellabellabus07 @champomiel @fan-goddess @lilostif16

#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #hotd #house of the dragon #tom bennett #world on fire #aemond #aemond smut #aemond x you #aemond headcanons #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x y/n #daemon targaryen #daemon smut #aegon targaryen #aegon smut

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bradshawsbaby · 2 years ago

Note

For the soft thoughts—

Nick saying “Daddy” and “Mommy” for the first time. And crawling, and walking, etc. 👀

I can only imagine how much that household was vibrating with emotions after Bradley and Mrs. B wanted to be parents for so long. Those milestones just hit different. ❤️

Oh my gosh, yes, every milestone is cause for celebration in the Bradshaw household!!! 🥹

I actually wrote about the first time Nick said “Dada” here—and it’s how he earned the Goose nickname!

But the first time he walks? You and Bradley are practically jumping for joy!

Your baby boy had been crawling for months, zooming around the apartment so quickly that you and Bradley had been on the verge of heart attacks more than once. Your home was so baby proofed at this point that it practically looked like a padded cell.

For the past couple months, Nick had been attempting to pull himself up and stand on his own. He’d even managed a tottering step or two before collapsing to the floor. You and Bradley were constantly praising and encouraging him, taking his tiny little hands in yours and guiding him back and forth across the living room.

Now, at thirteen months old, your son seemed more determined than ever to begin walking on his own.

“He’s been trying all day,” you told Bradley when he got home from work. “He keeps picking himself up and taking a step or two, then falling back down. But he keeps on trying. He’s stubborn, just like his daddy,” you teased.

“He’s almost there. I can feel it,” Bradley told you, the three of you settling in the living room for some family time.

“Come on, Nick. Come to Daddy,” your husband called out, walking across the room and sitting down on the floor. He held out his arms and beckoned to him.

“Nick, look! Go to Daddy!” you cooed softly, resting your hand supportively on your son’s back as he lifted himself up on wobbly legs.

“Come on, buddy! You can do it! Don’t think, just do,” Bradley grinned, stretching his arms out further.

Nick took one tentative step, then another, wobbling slightly, but without falling down. You and Bradley both cheered him on. Seeming to grow in confidence, your son took another couple steps, his chubby little arms flailing at his sides.

“There you go! You’re almost there!” Bradley told him, his eyes widening as he looked from Nick to you.

“Dada!” Nick laughed brightly, stumbling a few more steps until he landed in Bradley’s waiting arms.

You and Bradley both shot up, Nick now safely tucked in his father’s embrace, and cried out in excitement.

“He did it! His first steps! Our baby is walking now!” you cried out, welling up with emotion as you ran over to your two boys. “You did it, sweet boy!”

“Mama!” Nick beamed, reaching out to touch your face.

You and Bradley had never been prouder.

#soft bradshaw thoughts #the bradshaw family #mr. & mrs. bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #mrs. bradshaw #rooster x reader

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nettleshuttle · 2 years ago

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so, welcome to my ted talk! today’s topic: an attempt to put together all my thoughts on chazz in an at least slightly coherent manner

honestly, there’s a lot of these — as of now, he’s one of my favorite characters from the whole ygo series and definitely among the ones i find most interesting, although gx itself does him pretty dirty most od the time (more on that later). when i encountered him first in the show, i was actually kinda surprised/disappointed to see him established as the main rival figure — i mean, really, he was supposed to take over after kaiba? that bland, stuck-up, good-for-nothing guy? but then his later arcs really captivated me, up to the point where i was crying during his society of light duel against jaden and i begun to really appreciate him, so i guess here we are; as i’m still not over much of his character, i’m going to try to break down my favorite/the most important parts of it and see what comes out of it. if you’re still reading that, feel warned that you’re up for a long-ass post

first of all: a definite cornerstone of everything that chazz has going on, so the “talented, successful, arrogant, popular dueling ace” to “ridiculed drop-out underachieving ojama user” pipeline. needless to say, i really love this whole idea, as it’s frankly a take on gifted kid burnout, not handling expectations, not handling not handling stuff and a meaningful self-restoration after all that. it may be difficult to trace, because chazz remains arrogant throughout, but he’s going through a lot of personal growth — and quite realistic at that. the “hitting rock bottom” which he talks about (or bottom of the barrel, as it’s for some reason also being translated) seems ridiculous for a guy who’s, like, on the second most privileged place in life possible. yet, he really feels like he’s lost everything after the downfall he’d taken — and that’s exactly how such stuff works. the even better part that comes from it? as he plainly says, what osiris red really taught him is how little he knew about life. he never hit “rock bottom”, even though it felt like it — but he learned to scramble up and pull himself together after whatever fall it was, which, alone, makes him (and the other osiris reds, i infer) more broad-minded, more aware and stronger than all the obelisk blue elites which have never tasted defeat. that’s a very epic take and a very needed one, if you ask me — just like using a zero-atk hopeless ojama deck rather than some powerhouse of a card set as some blue eyes 2.0 doesn’t make him weaker than any duelist playing the latter, because he knows both and still chose the former. because that’s what suits him, that’s who he is — and although he lost all the pride he once had, he found much more of it on his own later. actually, the pathetic-dignified dichotomy works really well for him — he uses the ojamas, which elicit little more than a snicker from any respectable duelist, but he’s proud because he plays using them and nothing else, like when he deliberately nerfed his deck to sole 0-atks before dueling his older brother. he’s definitely struggling a lot; losing, falling back to his old self, fixating on the need to get revenge on jaden, losing again, scrambling up somehow, getting brainwashed, losing some more, but in all that, he’s getting somewhere — painstakingly and, at times, without any recognition of what he’s doing, but he’s improving in his own way and he is so much stronger and prouder than all who look down on him, all who are what he once had been, before all the losing and the struggling and the pathetic stuff. and i think that’s just great. besides, all of this — the desperation, jealousy, fear, weakness, confusion — make him come off as so much more human than characters like (with all due respect) jaden or jesse and make his development feel so realistic and rewarding.

some more on the decks he uses; i like the way he is shown to juggle multiple archetypes, ranging from armed dragon, to VWXZ dragon catapult, to ojamas — i talked about it a bit already, but i also think him not sticking to a single deck is a good way of showing how he’s in the process of developing all the time. trying out different things, mixing them, getting ridiculous combinations, going for them anyway, going back to some previous stuff, mixing that in too — that’s a real nice metaphor for how finding out stuff about yourself works, developing the optimal ways of doing things that suit you, your own ways of combating your own problems. of course, the three ojamas are a laughingstock next to kaiba’s three blue eyes (or tbh pretty much any other ace monster), but they’re the best representation of what i had laid out in the previous paragraph — i often think about his promotion duel, where the obelisk blue guy chazz faced was so disappointed seeing the ojamas, kept saying how they were a disgrace and how he had looked up to chazz in earlier times, but now considers him just an underachiever and a loser. the way how chazz almost spitefully uses the ojamas to win never ceases to make me happy because he’s making a statement of doing things his own damn way. even if they’re less efficient, weaker, anything, even if he actually loses the duel as a result (like the society of light one against jaden) because, ultimately, there are so much more important things — like when ed said that chazz needs to defeat a certain monster rather than win the game, which was a perfectly accurate summing up. losing with the ojamas is better than winning with anything else because the ojamas are his — and i find it really heartwarming, somehow.

then what does it all actually lead to? character growth is nice when it’s conclusive. what do we actually get for chazz? i mentioned that gx does him dirty and i will stick to it to my dying breath — his development could have been handled so much better (especially his relationship with jaden; even asuka got a more satisfying ending in that aspect) if the show didn’t use him as a scapegoat each time some shit needed to be stirred up or a duel needed to be lost. still, there are some really rewarding scenes to his character — most have to do with the popularity and renown he had enjoyed, then lost, then got back tenfold. “manjoume thunder!” being chanted and yelled and cheered comes off as a rolling joke more than anything else, especially along with the 1-10-100-1000 countdown (count-up?), but it’s actually much needed too — they really should let him have some of the recognition and applause. he deserves it. the empowerment coming from those scenes is great and the cringer it is, the greater it gets, because, come on, that’s chazz we’re talking about, right? his career as a pro duelist has much to do with it and i’m so glad each time i see it developed in post-canon fanfics — with his ojama deck, weird attitude and drop-out reputation, he’s not cut out to be a pro. not talent, not any gift, definitely not destiny — but, in a strange way, there’s nothing that would suit him more. he’s made for the dueling arena, for the spectators and the publicity, but he’s choosing to enter the pro world in his own way, with his own ojama deck, his own ojama yellow ace and the rest of his own identity — and that’s good enough to best ed phoenix, the guy who beat kaiser’s ass into the dirt, because that’s precisely where chazz’s strength comes from. and even if he used a more optimal deck, if he stayed in obelisk blue or god-knows-what, i like to think (and am quite certain) that he never would have gotten that far. so yeah, that would be a great ending for chazz, all in all, if his relationship with jaden wasn’t left practically unaddressed, which was definitely not the way it should have been treated — but even though i love this ship with all my heart and could ramble on it literally without end, maybe it’s best to leave that for some other (indefinite) time. the whole thing is, of course, a very crucial part of chazz’s character, but i think there a limit to amount of gx rambling anyone can feasibly process and i’ve surpassed it some time ago already. also i’m not even mentioning the whole thing with asuka because, try as i might, i fail to see any real reason or purpose for it, apart from some cheap comic relief stunt pulled by the creators. so no.

long story short — chazz is a great character, realistic and relatable (i should stop calling myself out), with a development that is really uplifting when you really consider it, made even better by some very epic scenes that he wholly deserves. arguably, i’d also call him the best ygo rival figure, but since that’s easily debatable, i’m not going into that too much. and, of course, thanks for coming to my ted talk (sorry, i’ve always wanted to finish an essay post that way <33)

#yugioh #ygo gx #gx spoilers #chazz princeton #jun manjoume #long post #character (over)analysis #i like him a normal amount okayy #focusing on the good stuff here btw complaints minimized

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mythvoiced · 7 months ago

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this time, the text from wendy comes in the middle of the day, though it's still being sent from lí chényǔ's phone.

[ text / 徐文哲 ]: winnie-gege ! its wendy on chenchen's phone. guess what !

[ text / 徐文哲 ]: it was "bring your hero to school day" and chenchen actually took a couple hrs off work to do a demo for my class. he wasnt gonna but then i cried and he felt guilty :(

[ text / 徐文哲 ]: look ! its chenchen ! [ tap to view video. ]

in the video, lí chényǔ wields a wooden staff as if it were an extension of himself; he leaps and spins effortlessly, dark hair tumbling into his eyes --- and even smiles briefly when a few of wendy's classmates squeal in awe as the staff swishes through in a graceful, controlled arc. at the end, the children and teachers alike erupt into applause, and lí chényǔ instantly turns tomato-red, holding up his hands as if he means to wave off any compliments, coupled with a shy and sweet, "aiya ... zhēn de ma ? shì ma ? bùxíng, bùxíng ... "

[ text / 徐文哲 ]: incase u wanted to see bc i know he doesnt show off much or at all, hes so shy lol. did u know he trained at shaolin temple before him and mama left china ??? im pretty sure he was there for awhile too. he doesnt talk about it much tho at least to me. but maybe for u he would ???

[ text / 徐文哲 ]: ok gotta go ! have a good day winnie-gege !

[ for wenzhe, from lí chényǔ / @xiianxias ! ]

@xinxiins | ending my life tbh

It's taking him far too long to start adding numbers again.

His last phone had seen its untimely demise at his own hands. He'd enjoyed the practice in a way human only does when it provides catharsis. Most modern phones don't break from falling alone, oh no. They need to be worked to shatter. You need to put in the effort, the belief, you need to have as much pent up something and everything as Wenzhe had and does, to truly make it unusable.

So he had.

Cathartic indeed.

But this... this is something else.

He doesn't know how to describe it. He's never been a man of words, after all, they stay as firmly lodged in his throat as they do in his mind. It's not an easy feat, describing all the different ways whatever lives inside him overwhelms him.

As he stares at his phone, lips parted around the bite from his crepe he's forgetting to take, he fails. He watches, and he fails. It builds up from within. It's warm and enough to make his chest rise. He's smiling before he can tell he is and feels creepy for it moments later.

No amount of trying to drag the corners of his lips back down helps, though, they keep twitching up, keep trying to lift themselves like a man climbing out of quicksand, over a fence, to run across a plain sea of sand and into his lover's arms.

He flinches at the first crack echoing through the room displayed on his phone screen, and laughs in pure delight. He flinches at that, too.

He crouches down on the floor, aborts the attempt to put his wrapped crepe on the ground a few more times before he finally connects with the reality that he should not abandon food he intends to eat on cement, but he'd so very much like to hold the device with both hands.

Drag it closer to his face.

Make it wider, maybe.

Is that creepy? Is he allowed? Is it okay? Especially considering the slight frown dragging his eyebrows together, all while having no significant impact on his smile whatsoever. He's trying to reconcile the Lí Chényǔ he knows with the one performing here.

They're the same, yet just different enough. The sight of him mirrors what Wenzhe hopes to see occasionally, something prouder than what Lí Chényǔ seemingly allows himself to be. There's pride to be had here, even beyond the video, which somehow Wenzhe replays a few more times before he realizes he should reply.

Lí Chényǔ has so many fucking reasons to be proud. His strength, his bravery, all the many things he shouldn't have to be proud of solely because their existence implies the cough, and the way his hand would fit so easily around his wrist, the dismissal and the sickly skin, the long hours and the bags - under eyes and on shoulders both.

But there is pride. He fights, he thrives, he wins even if the world keeps punishing him for it, even if the world says, good job, you made it out alive yet another day, why don't you do that again, so we can all feast upon the sight and feel better about ourselves?

Judge you from our golden thrones?

The crepe tastes stale, suddenly. He's lost his appetite.

But he watches and listens to the crack, and the video always ends on that same sheepish note, and it twists uncomfortably in Wenzhe's guts.

If Lí Chényǔ found out Wendy'd sent him this, would he instinctively wonder if Wenzhe liked it, or would he instinctively wonder if he found it odd?

Wenzhe doesn't flinch at the crack cracking through the room anymore, but he winces and smiles, grows cold and warm when his mother's tongue rolls off Lí Chényǔ's in notes of embarrassment of, 'gosh' and 'undeserving' and all the ways he thinks dying every day is all right because it's better than Wendy and Michael dying for a second only.

He hovers.

His thumb over the first few letters of his reply, his other hand over the bin. He can't throw the crepe away. It'll clank like coins on a golden throne.

[ text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] thank you for sending me this, Wendy! i loved it, it looks amazing, your brother is very cool

What should he say? What should he ask?

Can I see more? Is it okay to ask? Does he miss it? Is it still home for him? How can I make it better?

But maybe for you he would?

Wenzhe sighs, warm and cold, full and empty. He's in so much trouble.

[ text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] i'm gonna ask him about it. i want to know more. your brother is an incredible person. i know it's not my place to say this, but thank you for bringing him as your hero

He chews on his bottom lip, then on a minuscule bite of his crepe. If he's tearing up, and thinking about brushing some of those black strands out of his face, that's his own business.

[ text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] sorry if i'm speaking out of line. thank you, though. really.

...

[ text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] do you guys like crepes? they're french pastry. you can fill them with chocolate, strawberries, more flavors i don't know probably haha.

[ text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] if you like them i'd like to treat you guys to some. maybe soon if you have time? or we could surprise your brother at his corner, what do you think? hope you're still getting this. have a lovely day.

...

[ text to | 😖😵‍💫🥺 ] thank you again

#xiielians #long post tw #tw long post #the guilty;wenzhe #'but then i cried and he felt guilty' WENDY THE POWER YOU WIELD BUT ALSO NO DON'T MAKE HIM CRY???#I HOPE THIS IS OKAY i'm not sure if it was too wenzhe-centric but obviously he couldn't be normal about this #he can't even be normal about a crush he has to feel GUITLY but GOSH GOSH GOSH Lí Chényǔ™ My Love™

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hobgoblinsandpeachfuzz · 1 year ago

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Some Days You Just Can’t Get Rid of a Bomb (Fill 2)

A Court of Fey and Flowers (Gen)

The situation was such:

A new year, a new Bloom. The feeling was very different this time around, a more relaxed affair (as relaxed as a Bloom can possibly be), a more friendly, warm thing (but again perhaps that was simply the company that they kept these days.)

Wuvvy had done a magnificent job. And the Court of Craft joined the activities seamlessly, their event the second of the Bloom, following the previous evening’s garden promenade and tea, with a uniquely crafty event: a painting party! Colors flew through the air, dousing unsuspecting and delighted guests as they took up knitting and sculpting and sketching, whatever their hearts delighted in. Binx could not be prouder of its success, and could not have done it without their compatriots…

Who all for some reason could not be found.

No Andhera. No Hob. No Rue. No Lord Airavis, no Lady Chirp.

No, no, not quite. Just as she had begun to worry, Lady Chirp darted past, feathers ruffled, and her eyes wide.

“Chirp!” Binx rushed to her side, and Lady Chirp startled.

“Nothing, nothing is going wrong, Binx dear, why I think maybe you’re hiding something actually, no one has possibly gone missing Nope no siree, hahahaha,” her feathers fluffed out uncharacteristically, and just as she finished speaking, went down just as quickly, as her pupils dilated, and her whole countenance turned to that of one on a mission. “Must go, great party, have some punch!”

Before Binx could get a word in edgewise, Chirp had rushed off, whisper shouting at a distant giggling sound.

Not a minute later, Hob came dashing by, two large, giggling lumps in his coat—much too large for salt goblins.

“Hob,” Binx said delicately, but firmly, and his ears turned towards them before the rest of him did, followed by two pairs of eyes peeking out from his waistcoat.

“Lady Binx!” Hob’s face scrunched up momentarily as he presumably attempted to recollect all of his goblin trickery and cleverness. But his coat spoke first.

“I like her wings,” said a hushed, high voice, followed by a second, nasally shush.

In all honesty, Binx had to laugh. “Friends of yours?” She smiled, hoping to be let in on the joke.

He looked desperate to include them. But his ears picked up something in the distance, and he swiftly grabbed her shoulders and begged, “You saw nothing, Lady Binx. I shall endeavor to explain all, I simply have to make sense of the situation myself. Please, for the sake of honor and love, do not mention seeing me and the chaps here!”

With that, he sprinted off, his coat—the chaps presumably—laughing all the way.

“What is happening?” She sighed, turning only to bump into Rue, then Andhera, followed by a deliriously guilty looking Wuvvy, each of them carrying separate articles of small clothing items that seemed to have escaped their persons, and one individual small one delicately hanging from Andhera’s arms—but decidedly not the one missing their clothes. This one was what appeared to be a little huldra, their vines and thistles hanging playfully and desperately onto Andhera’s sleeves, giggling. There seemed to be an awful lot of that going around.

Binx blinked at the trio. The trio blinked back.

“Have you seen a bear cub?” Andhera, bless them, asked, only to be walloped by Wuvvy.

“A bear cub? At the painting party?”

“There’s actually quite a lot of cubs if you will,” Andhera did his adorable half smile that came when he was most nervous and out of his element. “Running about, this way and that. We haven’t lost them or anything, promise!”

It was Rue’s turn to bump them gently, smiling, much too stiffly, the Rue of yesteryear rather than their dear friend. “Forgive the confusion, my dear, we simply want tonight to go off without a hitch.”

“Which is why you are all running after bear cubs?” Binx raised on brow.

“All?” Rue, of course, had the perception to ask.

“Well, one bear cub, one human… half fae? Peep! And then there’s this charming little creature,” Andhera laughed as the little huldra scooted further up their arm, snuggling into the curve of their neck. Whatever was up, she could not help the warm smile that shone through her then.

“We would hate to keep you from your guests, Lady Binx,” Wuvvy, keenly, grabbed Andhera and began pushing him and the huldra child to the far corner of the room. “In fact, I believe that I have just spotted a dear acquaintance for whom I have longed to introduce our Prince here too, come let’s go!” She snapped, and Andhera simply frowned.

“I still don’t really know why we are keeping this a secret,” they mumbled and before Binx could inquire further, Rue pulled her aside.

“I simply wanted to let you know that we will absolutely not let anything distract from your triumph tonight, my dear,” Rue, always warm and kind and thoughtful, squeezed their arm with gentle claws and a proud gleam in their eye. Binx would have been thrilled, but…

“It’s not quite a triumph if you all aren’t enjoying yourselves! Is everything alright?”

Rue had become more open in the past year, sharing much and letting their feathers down, but practiced manners were hard to let go of. With a slight sigh, Binx could see they were ready to spin some excuse or another, when the both of them were wrapped into a conspiratorial huddle by one Lord Squak Airavis…

And the aforementioned half clothed bear cub, one little Lady Peep Featherfowl, and a dragon? Fairy? Fairy dragon?

“I believe at least some of these ruffians, hooligans, MALCONTENTS,” he said each word louder and with more feeling and swinging of the children with each bellow, and with each lunge the laughter grew—from Squak as well. He could barely contain it. “Are yours, Lady Rue. Well, at least two, yes?”

Binx gasped.

Rue hurried to huddle the bear cub and the fairy dragon from Squak, speaking low and hushed. “Where did you run off to?” Rue whispered…

But Lady Chirp Featherfowl bellowed it.

Peep, still giggling something fierce, was tossed from Uncle to Mother with pure glee. “I was making friends, Mom! With our secret cousins!”

“Secret cousins?” Binx said, and so did Hob and Andhera, who the Huldra child had decided to become the hat of.

“Secret cousins, what, there’s no, secret—! Secrets, pfft,” Andhera tried to wave it all away, but, suddenly, all of their makeshift family was looking at one another.

“I found them yesterday abandoned in the gardens and I couldn’t not take them in!” Hob shouted, as two giggling fey children—a wulpintinger and a hairy little hag girl, burst forth from his waist coat.

“This little one had wandered over into the mortal realm when I went to visit Chirp and Squak while you were doing warlock patron things, Binx, and they were all alone and scared and they love fabric and storms and—!” Andhera pouted with big puppy eyes that the huldra child matched.

“I just thought what a clever little chap, I figured Rue would be a wonderful person to take them under their wing!” Squak began—

“—And I just fell madly in love the moment I saw them,” Rue held the fairy dragon close, and the bear as well—and sure enough, Wuvvy covered that explanation at all.

“And I… well, this little guy was orphaned from the Court of Hoof and Claw and Rue had told me that they were sort of thinking and half a bugbear and an owl bear is just a bear!”

“What?” Hob’s eyes went wide. “Are you saying…?”

Rue laughed, “It seems like you adopted two yourself too!”

“Oh dear,” Andhera finally frowned. “And I adopted this little one too, all just yesterday. Are we all only finding this out from each other now? That’s probably not the smartest way to start the adoption process…”

“I would argue that it is much how any child comes into a family though,” Chirp said, half tired, but full of love and exasperated affection with her little Peep.

“Well you absolutely have to because they’re my cousins and I know how important cousins are!” Peep crossed her arms and put her nose in the air. “So there!”

That had to be it. The straw that broke the camel’s back—Binx bent over and laughed so loud and so long, the whole painting party halted, looking over to the Court of Craft with confusion and curiosity. Sure, propriety—but when had they ever really followed those silly old rules?

“Perfect! Just perfect!” They beckoned the children to their side, kneeling before them all as they shyly approached, eyes wide, and mouth pressed together hopefully. She smiled and held out her hands to each of them. “I’m Binx.”

“Sarastra,” the dragon fairy said, immediately taking and shaking their hand.

“Archimedes,” said the Bear, a little shy, shuffling their feet, but smiling bashfully all the same.

“Prosperpina!” The wulpintinger lept up, and struck a pose. Oh, but she had a lot of dear Uncle Squak in her, blood relative or not.

The little hag girl, covered in a veil of shaggy hair, parted it slightly to smile up at Binx. “I’m Circe.”

The Huldra, hesitant though she was, reached out a tentative branch, and then immediately launched herself into Binx’s arms. “My name is Myrddin!”

With a chuckle, Binx nodded, “Well, welcome to our family, Sarastra, Archimedes, Prosperpina, Circe, and Myrddin. You’re always welcome with the Court of Craft!”

#a court of fey and flowers #my writing #acofaf fan fiction #of course i drew the babies i will show you all later <3 #chantillyxlacey #prompt fill #thank you thank you i had so much fun <3

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vibrantbirdy · 1 year ago

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Fingertips: A Cassian Andor x Jyn Erso Fic

Title: Fingertips Fandom: Star Wars: Rogue One Genres: Sci-Fi; Romance; Soft smut with feelings; slight angst Setting: Post events of Rogue One - canon divergence, you know the drill #everybodylives Pairings: Cassian Andor x Jyn Erso Warnings: 18 + ONLY - Explicit sexual content This is mostly smut, but it's romantic smut I hope - oral f!receiving, riding p in v sex (unprotected - please be sensible irl); brief, mild mentions of injury and recovery (unlikely to be medically accurate, sorry); strong language. Word Count: c. 2.5k

Summary: Told from Cassian's POV. After surviving events on the planet Scarif, the crew of Rogue One have spent the past two months on Yavin 4 recuperating. With Sergeant Jyn Erso cleared for duty and her inaugural mission fast approaching, Captain Cassian Andor is still recovering from his injuries, and he can't let her go without attempting to tell her how he feels.

Author's note: This is my first rebelcaptain fic and I'm kinda nervous about it, hah! It's inspired by Newton Faulkner's song, Fingertips. I've not done a song/lyric fic like this before, but if people like it I might try something similar with a different song from Jyn's POV. (My fic masterlist is here.)

Fic and link to song under the cut.

youtube

Final A/N: You can also find the song on Spotify, I don't know what works best for folks...

Fingertips

On his worst days, Rebel spy, Captain Cassian Andor, felt as if he were reliving that moment of indescribable agony as his ribs broke on impact with the support beams of Scarif's Citadel tower. Sometimes, he even imagined that he could hear the sickening clang of his body each time it slammed heavily against solid metal before he blacked out.

Cassian knew he was lucky not to have broken his back. He knew he was lucky to be alive. More medical treatments and physical therapy appointments than he could count had worked wonders, but although he tried to hide it and although he was healing, Cassian still spent many of his days in pain.

Meanwhile, cleared for duty with a clean bill of health, and with hasty field promotion during the battle of Scarif officially sanctioned by Alliance Command, Sergeant Jyn Erso was on the eve of her inaugural mission as a Rebel Intelligence Officer. Cassian couldn't have been prouder of her.

He had hoped that during their recovery time on Yavin 4, he and Jyn would have been able to build on what he was sure they had started before and during the mission to steal the plans of the Empire's planet-killing superweapon.

But when they'd returned to Alliance Headquarters with the rest of the crew of Rogue One, miraculously alive, but battered and bruised and exhausted beyond all measure, the memory of Scarif seemed to plant itself like an unscalable obstacle, opaque and solid, between them.

It was as if all that had passed between them was simply too insurmountable to verbalise. As if putting words to the experience might break the hallowed spell cast by their willingness to sacrifice themselves for the Cause, frightened and agonised though they were, to a fate made bearable only because they were facing it together. And so in the months following, Cassian and Jyn had broken up that intangible, unnameable feeling between them into little pieces, replicating it only in stolen glances across meeting rooms and brief, lingering touches, barely there, as they brushed past each other in corridors and stood too close together in dark corners of the base.

But over the past few days, the reality that Jyn might leave without her knowing all the things Cassian had left unsaid had started to sink in. It had driven him to distraction, so much so that when he arrived at the door of Jyn's quarters the night before she left for the unknown, heart racing, adrenaline coursing through his body as if he were about to head into battle, Cassian hadn't a clue what he planned to say.

He needn't have worried. The doors had barely hissed open wide enough for a person to pass through when Jyn's eyes widened in an expression of recognition that could almost have been relief. Wordlessly, she grabbed Cassian roughly by the front of his shirt, and dragged him through the doorway where they collided into a clumsy, frenzied kiss.

Make no mistake, I'm only sane when you say my name, Oh, you're on my fingertips like holy water

Any semblance of restraint that they had worked to maintain over the time they had known each other fell away as instinct took over. The two tore at each other's clothes, fumbling at buttons and belts and zippers until, naked seemingly in mere moments, Jyn's back was up against the nearest durasteel wall with Cassian pressing himself hungrily against her body.

Unable to resist any longer, he broke away from her lips, and allowed his mouth to graze across her skin, kissing a feverish descent down her neck and collarbone, over her breasts and across her abdomen, savouring every little noise she made until he found himself on his knees in front on her.

Cassian hooked one of Jyn's lithe legs over his shoulder and looked up, taking a moment to drink in the sight of her. She was the most enchanting thing he'd ever seen. He knew that already, of course, but here and now, the planes and curves of her warrior's body seemed to belong to some timeless, unknowable being, a goddess sculpted in marble and come to life above him. It seemed only natural that he should be kneeling in capitulation before her alter.

Trying to ignore the aching hardness between his legs, cruelly restricted by the increasingly tight material of his pants - the only item of clothing either of them had retained - Cassian traced his fingers up the inside of Jyn's thigh until he reached the well of her arousal. He marvelled at the elixir of desire that had already formed there, hot and wet, before he brushed the pads of his fingertips, feather light, across her sensitive bud.

As he did so, Jyn arched towards his touch and said his name as she never had before, keening and full of longing, the way he'd only imagined she might utter it on long, dark nights in secret when he was alone. To Cassian's ears, it was a sacred sound and he clung to the memory of it even as it dissipated into the air. It was as if his name falling from her lips had finally granted him release from the temporary madness of not having her which had been all-consuming since their return from Scarif. And now, that strange, unnatural distance that had crept between them, insidious and unintentional, was suddenly obliterated in one glorious instant. As Cassian pressed the flat of his tongue against the pearl at her core, and curled it slowly upwards, Jyn's hands flew to his head and she twisted her strong, slender fingers so tightly in his hair that it was almost painful. They stayed there, woven in his dark locks, until he brought her to a convulsing oblivion against his mouth and he heard her cry out his name again and again.

Stay on my fingertips just for a little while, I just want you to know I need it.

As Jyn recovered, breathless and panting from her high, Cassian, still on his knees, rested his cheek on her warm thigh, enjoying the paradoxical sensation of his rough stubble against her soft skin.

Despite his euphoric state, he hated to admit, even to himself, that for the first time in a long time, he was nervous about what happened next.

His body was still healing, and he knew that the lingering pain of his injured back and damaged ribs would undoubtedly restrict his range of movement. His strength, though returning, was still fragile and raw. The thought that his lovemaking might disappoint her was unbearable.

But Cassian should never have doubted that Jyn would consider this - consider him. She was always the first to notice when he was struggling, the first to tell him to rest when his pain flared up, even if he didn't want to hear it.

Removing her hands from his hair, she gripped him lightly under his chin tilting his head up to look at her and guiding him to his feet. She allowed him to press a single, absurdly chaste kiss on her lips before she placed her other hand against his chest and walked him backwards over to her bed, chin still grasped between her forefinger and thumb.

Cassian swallowed, quickly sweeping aside the embarrassing notion that if she carried on like this, he might well finish there and then.

Jyn pushed him down on to the mattress and tugged him free of his pants before climbing astride him with a swift efficiency that made his head spin. Before he knew it, she had positioned herself over his solid shaft, grasping him at his base before sinking her core down around him. As her slight, strong frame came to rest flush upon his, Cassian was sure that the circuits in brain shorted out.

He let his eyes roam over Jyn's body, transfixed and slack-jawed, as she began rocking her hips languidly against him with agonising slowness. Cassian understood that she might be afraid of hurting him, but she moved as if she thought he could break beneath her. Maybe she was right, he thought to himself, but he was sure as hell willing to find out.

He furrowed his brow against the sensation of her heat around and against him, a feeling that was simultaneously, wondrously everything and yet not quite enough. When it finally became too much to bear, Cassian tore his eyes away from Jyn's captivating form and looked up into her face.

She had a look in her eye, wild and wicked, and he realised then she was teasing him, delighting in the way he had started to writhe, almost desperately, underneath her.

How typical of her, Cassian thought, and damned if it didn't make him want her all the more.

He grinned up at her, enjoying the thrill of being at her mercy. He gripped her hips tightly, unable to resist testing to see if he could get away with manoeuvring her body on top of him in the hopes that it might persuade her to move.

With a gentle laugh, mischievous but not cruel - Jyn was obstinate, tempestuous, infuriating, but never cruel - she leant down across his chest to kiss him, pressing her lips hard against his. As she did so, Cassian felt the slow, deliberate pressure of the muscles at her very centre squeezing around him.

Seeing stars, he tore away from her lips and pressed his open mouth against the spot on her neck just below her ear to stifle a groan. The sound he made was long and low and full of pure, unfettered desire. His body responded automatically, hips rising off the mattress, pushing himself up and into her as far as he could.

"Please," Cassian heard himself say, unashamed by the way the word caught in his throat, broken and needful.

He did need her. Fuck, he needed her.

At his plea, Jyn drew herself up and straightened, throwing her head back and shaking away the mess of brown locks that had fallen about her face. There was provocation in her expression, one dark brow cocked and that smirk sitting slightly crookedly on her lips, the way it always did - the way Cassian had grown to adore.

The vision of her glorying in his utter surrender was breath-taking, and it ignited something primal within him as he pictured all the ways he might make her sing that word for him.

Please! Cassian, please!

But tonight, Jyn was the victor and, seemingly satisfied that her triumph was to be uncontested, she took pity on him.

Still, she made a performance of it, raising her eyebrows at him provocatively as if to say, Ready?, and taking the time to blow a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. One after the other, she planted her palms firmly and deliberately against Cassian's chest and only then, finally, did she begin to move.

As her body started to rise and fall around his hard length, Jyn became lost in her passion, and Cassian revelled in every curl of her fingers against his torso as her hands flexed open and shut, her nails dragging across his skin. It was an instinctive, unconscious movement, but to him, it felt as if she were trying to reach into his chest and extract his hammering heart to claim as her prize.

There's no need, Cassian managed to think through his lust-fuelled haze, it already belongs to her.

As Jyn's pace quickened, he thrust up into her, matching the rhythm of her movements with his own. Her hand, the one that didn't have a grip over Cassian's heart, slid slowly down his sweat slick chest until it came to rest at his throat, her thumb exerting a light, tantalising pressure at the hollow just below his adam's apple.

Cassian couldn't tear his eyes away from Jyn's bewitching face. Any guile that had been present in her expression before had been replaced by carnal, elemental lust. Her head rolled languidly back and forth on her shoulders, her mouth hanging slightly open, allowing the most erotic noises of pleasure Cassian had ever heard to escape from deep within her. She kept her eyes squeezed shut for the most part, but every so often, she rewarded her lover with a wanton, piercing look from green, glinting, amorous orbs.

As he moved within her, Cassian wanted to touch every part of her. He ran his hands along her thighs, up and down her back, across her buttocks, her stomach, her breasts, the feeling of her silky skin beneath his fingertips almost transcendental.

Finally, he snaked a hand between their bodies, caressing that sacred spot between Jyn's legs where she needed him the most, determined to give her everything.

At his touch, she cried out, her head flying back to reveal that long, slender neck. The vision sent Cassian into overdrive as he imagined running his tongue up it and tasting the salt of her exertion on her skin.

The sight and sound of Jyn in ecstasy as she reached her peak and the sensation of her body contorting and releasing around him was enough to throw Cassian hurtling uncontrollably towards his own mind-numbing rapture. He bucked up into her in disjointed and desperate movements until her name tumbled from his lips like a prayer over and over.

Love me another day, before it evaporates, Stay on my fingertips like holy water, Stay on my fingertips just for a little while.

When they were both completely spent, Jyn collapsed against Cassian's chest, their heaving bodies hot with sweat. Cassian kissed the top of her head, inhaling the intoxicating wildflower scent of her hair.

After a moment, Jyn let out a soft, breathless laugh that was almost a giggle. Then, she pushed herself up to rest on her elbows just high enough so that she could hover above Cassian and touch the sharp point of her nose against his own.

He smiled up at her and swept back stray tendrils of hair where perspiration had plastered them to her forehead, before trailing his fingers slowly down her flushed face, his hand coming to rest on her rosy cheek where he traced the ridge of her cheekbone with his thumb.

Night on Yavin 4 was dissipating fast, and in the early morning light that crept softly through Jyn's window, Cassian studied her face as she floated like an ethereal vision above him.

Before she left, he wanted to memorise every facet of those perfect features that were all at once both delicate and fierce. The angular contours of her nose and cheeks, the full lips which so often parted slightly to reveal charmingly prominent front teeth, the dark hair which always ended up tousled mess no matter what she did with it.

But most of all, Cassian longed to indulge himself by counting every single fleck of gold in Jyn's otherworldly green eyes. Her irises were the colour of lichen, he decided, the kind that only grows in the forests of the galaxy with freshest, purest air. Cassian suddenly realised that Jyn was engaged in the same undertaking, her brows knitted together in concentration as she appraised his face, her expression quizzical and vulnerable and open.

It was as if they were seeing each other properly for the first time in months. It reminded Cassian of the look they had shared in the Citadel turbo lift on Scarif - two souls clinging to the safe harbour of the other, suspended in a moment as the world burned around them.

But this time, Cassian felt no fear and no pain, only comfort and something else awakening within him. A stirring deep within his heart. As he gazed up at the woman who had faced death with him and survived, he saw this new hope of his glowing incandescent and warm, reflected back at him through Jyn's eyes.

#rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fanfiction #cassian andor fanfiction #cassian andor #star wars fanfiction #jyn erso #cassian andor x jyn erso #jyn erso fanfiction #rogue one fanfiction #rebelcaptain fic

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readjthompson · 3 months ago

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Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.

Here's Chapter 10.

Chapter 10

“Wow, they actually did it,” Toby announced to a hypothetical audience, alternating between primal rage catalepsy and giggly nihilism. He closed his laptop to avoid smashing it, then massaged his temples, blinking frantically. He clamped his jaw shut to stifle his screams.

All of his books’ Amazon listings were gone, as was his Author Page. So, too, had every trace of his fiction been expunged from Goodreads. Google searches turned up no literature, neither synopses nor cover art. Years upon years of honing his fiction yielded no evidence whatsoever online.

Toby had purchased author copies of his own titles before the great erasure, however: a hundred of each book, stored in boxes in his garage. Attempting to list them on eBay, he’d found his account deactivated. He’d left a copy of each in his local Little Free Library bookcase, and planned to do so again, probably. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure what to do with ’em. Would door-to-door selling gain me sales or bullet wounds? he wondered.

After composing himself slightly, feeling half-spectral, he reopened his laptop, to search for traces of his existence on social media. There, too, all evidence of his books and references to him as an author had vanished. Posts and replies branding him a racist remained, though, along with screenshots of his drunken meditation on blackness.

Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s call to action post had been edited, with every mention of Toby removed. Lest Toby feel entirely neglected, however, Joe had crafted a brand-new post in his honor, released to the masses just a few minutes prior. And, boy, was it a doozy.

Toby saw his own photo staring back at him—a squinting, smirking portrait that he’d always hoped conveyed wit, but feared imparted the opposite impression—the one he’d been using as his author photo for the last couple of years. Aside it was a second photo, its subject a strangely hirsute grade-schooler that Toby had never seen before. Beneath them, it read:

AN UNCLE’S ORISON

Oh, my wonderful, diverse social justice superstars, my much-valued supporters in horror fiction renovation, my Rocks of Gibraltar in the tempest, my radiance in the howling void, I beg of you, right now, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, please, please, please attend my plea.

After the opioid epidemic seized ahold of my sister Clementine, after she let horses sodomize her for bindles of heroin and became famous on the internet, after she overdosed in the carwash with nary a vehicle in sight, she made the courageous choice to check herself into rehab. The good gal’s been an addiction center patient for just over two months now, showing extraordinary progress, and I couldn’t be prouder of her.

Clementine has a tremendous heart and I love her dearly. So, naturally, I volunteered to take care of her son while she gets the treatment she needs. I’ve paid for his food out of my very own pocket, introduced him to some of my favorite horror films (Jordan Peele’s first, natch!), and ensured that he kept up with his schooling. Overall, Shadrach’s a great child—smart as a whip and nearly as handsome as his dear old uncle is—but he’s had some, let’s say, moral deficiencies that I’ve been helping him overcome.

As much as it shames me to admit it, the boy’s shown evidence of insensitivity to the black cause. I caught him laughing at an African American that he saw on TV, as if that individual was less human than those of other races.

Well, you know that Joseph McCarthy Jr. won’t permit bigotry in his radius, especially when it’s coming from his own family! Immediately, I devised a series of role-playing exercises to make poor, misguided Shadrach sympathize with black folks and their culture. The boy was showing great progress; congratulations were forthcoming. Then infamous racist Toby Chalmers came along and spoiled everything.

I don’t know how they first communicated—some sort of clandestine message board, I’m assuming—but one night, a fully grown fellow showed up on my doorstep, asking for Shadrach by name. The boy’s just eight years old. No way would I let him near a cisgender, racially challenged, straight man I don’t know.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Toby Chalmers,” the man answered.

“That evil fellow from social media who thinks that blacks are worth less than dirt?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Toby then declared. “Don’t you know that those coal-coated animals will never accept you, that they’ll rob and rape you any chance that they get?”

“Lies!” I shouted. “Black is beautiful! It is! Stay the heck away from my nephew or I’ll call the police!”

Silly me, I assumed that Toby Chalmers possessed enough intelligence to realize that I’m not a man to be trifled with, that I have pal-o-roonies all over the planet, linked by a love of horror fiction more powerful than religion. Your strength is my strength; my strength is yours.

But then I began sighting Toby Chalmers when Shadrach and I were out in public—lurking in a parking lot’s periphery, seated behind us at the movie theater, even browsing at the comic shop. As I couldn’t prove that he was stalking us yet, I tried to photograph him with my cellphone, but the man kept hiding behind his hands every time I snapped a picture. Clearly, he was planning something terrible.

My worst fears were confirmed just a few nights ago. Shadrach and I had spent the entire day together, shopping and singing, dancing and gaming, grubbing and gabbing, as close relatives do. After an invigorating supper of lobster ravioli, I left the boy to his own devices while I attended to some Transylvoria correspondence. There are many exciting things in the pipeline, believe you me (OMG, OMG, OMG, one of my favorite movie stars is thinking about writing a monthly column for us! Keep those fingers crossed, fam).

A couple of hours later, with my evening’s editorial duties behind me, I looked at the clock and realized that it was my nephew’s bedtime. Naturally, a nurturing fellow such as myself would rather die than miss an opportunity to tuck that boy into bed. My heart was so full of love; indeed, I couldn’t stop smiling.

That lip curl upended itself when my door knocking went unanswered. Entering the guestroom that I’d donated to Shadrach for the duration of his stay, I found him absent. Most of his clothes were gone. The screen was missing from the window frame.

Indeed, it seems that evil Toby Chalmers has abducted poor Shadrach, undoubtedly to indoctrinate him further in Toby’s black-hating ways. I’ve already contacted the police, but I need the help of all of you good people, too. Spread these photos and this story all across social media, so that if either of the two shows their face anywhere, the authorities and I will be notified, and Shadrach can be deconditioned, and Toby Chalmers can face justice.

Now and beyond forever, I love all of you, my exquisite, intelligent, diverse pal-o-roonies.

“What…the…fuck?” said Toby. Before his eyes, by the thousands, Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s words accrued likes and reposts. Replies sprouted every second: “Toby Chalmers can’t get away with this,” “We’ll stomp that child rapist to mush,” “Stalkers don’t belong in our country,” and myriad variations.

This smirking sack of pudge actually thinks that I visited him? Toby wondered. He thinks that I abducted his strange, hairy-faced nephew? Do I have a lookalike out there? Nah, Joe must be fabricating this story, for attention. Where’s this asshole live, anyway?

A quick internet search revealed that Joseph McCarthy Jr. and Transylvoria were based in Georgia. That’s like three states over. No wonder the cops haven’t bothered me yet. Will they, though, sometime soon? Do the posts of social media jackals carry much clout with authorities? I doubt that there are many Transylvoria fans with badges, but how can I be sure?

Whatever the case, I can’t keep letting this lit scene fascist take shots at me. People incapable of writing horror fiction don’t deserve to control it. No one does. Art should always, always, always evolve unrestrained, and have its existence acknowledged. I’m gonna have to kick this loser’s ass, aren’t I?

Grinning at the thought of Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s mouth imploding under a clenched fist, at watching that slanderous scumfuck writhing on the ground, choking on his own teeth shards, Toby navigated Transylvoria’s website.

“Holy mackerel,” he soon exclaimed. “Transylvoria’s Media Outreach Luncheon—whatever the fuck that is—is just a couple of weeks away. Joe is signing autographs there and everything.”

Perhaps I can’t fight cancel culture as a whole, Toby thought, but I can at least hurt this malefactor, this prime pile of dog shit. How satisfying will that be? I can wear a disguise and devise an escape route. If I do happen to get caught, assault’s just a misdemeanor anyway. Totally worth it.

He flexed his fingers and stretched. A mad impetus had seized him. I’ll start a literary blog under a false name on a free site and whip up a dozen quick reviews, he thought. That oughta get me through the luncheon’s registration page. Their website doesn’t take payments, so I’ll pay the fifty bucks there, in cash. I can do this. I’ve gotta do this. Fuck Joseph McCarthy Jr.

#jeremy thompson #horror #horror fiction #indie author #am writing #indie #horror reads #novelette #free novelette #free story #scary story #scary stories #cancel toby chalmers #cancel culture

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bejordan · 10 months ago

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moon jordan's audition.

“i don’t know how this is going to go.. i should’ve stayed at home..” was the words that couldn’t leave the young male’s mind. before arriving to the audition, he had been talking to his cousin about the nerve-wrecking event. part of him couldn’t believe he decided to go through with the idea. another part of him just wanted to escape in hopes no one would catch him.

as he observed the scenery, he may have been unsure of what was going on behind the scenes, but he felt somewhat motivated to see other individuals who looked his age. being in this generation he knows that comes with plenty of expectations, especially from those much older than him. chewing down on his lower lip, he inhale for a few seconds before exhaling deeply; a method that helps with his anxiety and the nervousness. before he could even think about backing out, he heard his name being called from an unfamiliar voice. it was show time.

jordan had decided to perform one of his favorite songs from his top inspiration in the music industry. it may of not been enough time, but deep down in his heart he knew he had to brush off the nervous energy and put in his all for the judges he was auditioning for. if he wanted to be taken seriously as an idol one day, this is the price he had to pay, an opportunity that could not go to waste.

once the audition was over, it was time for jordan to take a breather, answer a few questions and show off a hidden talent.

"What style of music/performance suits you best and why?"

as much as jordan always promised to never place himself inside of a box, his mind immediately rang a bell at the question that was provided to him. the genre that he grew up on and has even helped him throughout his childhood years. “i will forever adore the r&b genre. tons of talent, amazing beats and styles is tied to such a timeless genre. it’s like my adrenaline begins to rush through my body whether i’m singing or dancing along to it.”

"Why do you want to become a kpop idol?"

why did he want to become a kpop idol? he refused to answer in such a cliche way but attempted to answer in the best way possible. “as someone who is still young and knows there are people my same age who may want to achieve a similar dream, i want to be able to show the world that anything is possible. it’s a risk and trust me, as someone who has flown thousands of miles to be where i am today, it will be worth it in the long run.”

"What would you do if you won ₩1,000,000,000 (~$750,000) in the lotto?"

“$750,000 in american dollars.. yes?” jordan’s eyebrow raised after repeating the amount of money. his lips curled into a small grin before clearing his throat. “if you spot me front row at a beyoncé show, you do not know me.” he joked, or was it a joke? ”first things first, definitely helping my family. they’ve helped me in ways i couldn’t even help myself. and anything that i may have left i would just place it to the side in case of emergencies. you never know what may happen!”

after the question round was completed, he then walks over to grab the canvas that he arrived with. making his way back over to where he originally started, he pulls out a canvas of a michael jackson painting that he had done. aside from singing and dancing, painting also brought him joy. smiling, he begins to explain the purpose of it, "this is one of my idols. his message was all sorts of positivity, motivation and being the best you can be no matter who doesn't like the message. if anyone tells you, you can't? you can." with a smile, he ended his audition with a thank you before walking out prouder of himself than he ever was.

#be:ngs2p1 #very much mobile and i hate it so bad.#please ignore any typos of this rushed writing!#(!): 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 [ 𝘔𝘑. 👟]

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excelsior9173 · 1 year ago

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tagged by @foxgloveinspace thank you!!

•name

on here i go by exie, in real life i respond to any variation of “em”, as well as andy (andy was a nickname given to me by a person i went canoeing with and really looked up to!)

•pronouns

i’m not really partial to anything and being gender queer i am comfortable with any! i often like calling myself a boy while looking extremely feminine, but am also just a “they” half the time lmao

•where do you call home?

i don’t wanna out and say where i live but i am an extremely proud canadian, and even prouder to be from the prairies (not alberta tho fuck them)

•favourite animal

100% ravens! i’m a lover of all corvids but i have always been fascinated by ravens. they’re the biggest song bird in north america! they are as smart as like, a seven year old human. i got to finally go to the tower of london this summer and i saw the ravens up close and i almost cried. bucket list moment for me

•cereal of choice

i will admit that i am a very boring person, when given free reign and allowed to pick whatever i want i go straight for some harvest crunch. idk man i love granola and grain flavoured cereals. multigrain cheerios slap so hard

•are you a visual, auditory or kinaesthetic learner?

i think a mix of visual and kinaesthetic? i love listening to my university lectures, but rely on physical notes to actually learn anything. if it is anything practical then i absolutely have to be able to do it physically or it will not make sense to me. i worked on a farm last summer and learning any of the equipment i needed to be hands on and guided through it tactilely

•first pet

i had a black and white cat named salty. he was all white on his underside, it was really just his back, tail and top of his head that was black. i loved him to bits

•favourite scent

petrichor! patchouli is a very close second. there’s a perfume i desperately want because it’s supposed to be the actual smell of petrichor mixed with patchouli and if i could smell like that naturally I would

•do you believe in astrology?

not really! i’m a practicing witch but honestly i’ve never viewed astrology as anything more than a bit of fun. i like reading my horoscope but i don’t put too much stock in it

•how many playlists do you have on spotify/apple music?

ummm maybe 5 or 6? i tend to really just play albums or my “favourites” playlist that is like, 700 songs and 40 some hours of playtime

•sharpies or highlighters?

sharpies!

•songs that make you cry?

are you really okay? by sleep token always gets me weepy

if i’m there by bad omens fucks me up pretty bad too, especially the unplugged version

•songs that make you happy?

i spend most of my time listening to pretty angry music lol. if i’m going for like, upbeat instant mood lifter? i like really stupid songs

kitty cracks me up every time it’s so good

i also like corky and the juice pigs, specifically the song eskimo. they’re a satire band and my dad sang this song at his sister’s wedding and it’s so so funny (disclaimer it’s not exactly pc anymore, it’s from 1993)

•finally, do you write/draw/create?

i’ve dabbled here and there with various forms of art but i don’t consider myself a creative in any way. nowadays i really just teach myself random songs on guitar and put together low budget halloween costumes lol

this was last years, vanya from the umbrella academy comics! i hand painted the bodysuit and boots! (i had to wear two pairs of tights to attempt to hide my tattoos lmao)

#Spotify #tag game #i feel like i wrote way too much lmao #ramble on exie #sleep token #bad omens #presidents of the united states of america #corky and the juice pigs #wow can’t believe corky doesn’t have their own tag lol #umbrella academy

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forgottenedmund · 3 months ago

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I know it was you.

Edmund's heart beat loudly in his chest at those words. His emotions, to this day, were mixed upon the events that had happened at Malconaire under his own command. He had been proud of it, once. Prouder, perhaps, than he had ever been of anything else before.

It was the first time that he had truly proved his worth to his father and, although Roderick had never given him the full credit for what his victory had achieved in the scheme of the war, he knew that he had been pleased. That he had been grateful -- even if, at the end of the day, he still congratulated himself more for the instructions he had given his son. As though Edmund had learned everything he knew from Roderick's knee and not from his uncle.

"You speak as though I single-handedly won this war, but I'm not sure my father would see it that way." And if Roderick Varmont was not going to give him the credit for it, Edmund certainly didn't want it from anyone else. He didn't know if he wanted it at all anymore, now that he had seen what it had done -- now that he had come to love Malconaire more than any other place in the world.

He couldn't have known, as he gave the command that the village should be burned, what that place would come to mean to him one day. He couldn't have known the sort of people who lived there; he couldn't have known any of it, but that did not mean he felt the guilt of it all any less.

It wasn't particularly a conversation he wished to have with any Astairan, let alone the former Queen and a great friend of the Malconaires. He was more than eager to turn the conversation back to his father and his attempts of making Eilionora his wife.

"Then my father may never win your hand, after all," He replied. Edmund had attempted to bring up this very point to his father: the way to the Queen's heart was through her people. But he did not suppose that his father understood to what extent this was true. Roderick Varmont had certainly never ruled this way: he was there to command, guide, and control the populace -- it would certainly never be the other way around.

And for any ruler, even a foreign one, to put so much power over the future of the country as the Astairan kings and queens did, was a concept that he did not think his father should ever grasp.

"I do not think he would see any wisdom in the concept of allowing oneself to be the servant of those one intends to rule."

But Edmund saw it. It was a lesson that his uncle Godfrey had instilled upon him at a young age and while he always knew that having the people's best interest at heart would help to win them over, it wasn't until he arrived here that he saw the effects of ruling in this were.

"Even as he witnessed a crowd of angry villagers, taking up arms with no real chance of success against the most heavily guarded palace in Astaira, simply because the people love you -- he cannot understand it." He gave her an ironic smile, "For all of the lands and power my father has amassed, I do not think anywhere in the world would a crowd of his lowest subjects would take up arms to defend my father's honor."

But to point this out to Roderick Varmont would be venturing too close to treason, so for his father to realize what the true key to Astaira was, meant that he would have to be manipulated into believing he had discovered it, himself.

"I need not remind you that none of what I have said should be repeated to my father," He added, his voice sterner than before. He had no wish for his father to have overheard anything he had said. "It would only make him angry and would do you no good."

Still, despite everything -- despite his desperate wish that Eilionora Stafford should never become his father's wife -- he found that a part of him still craved to win this game of thrones his father had forced him to compete in. And he knew that convincing her to marry him, would earn him more respect in his father's eyes. If he could prove his powers of persuasion, as well as the command he had upon the battlefield.

"I know that you wish to do as your people would have you do, but they may be better served by you as my father's Queen, rather than his hostage. What good can you hope to do for them if my father loses patience and rescinds his offer?"

What good would you be to any of them dead?

The Raven Prince | Eilionora & Edmund

Eilia had expected her limitations. From the instant that Roderick Varmont had set foot within her castle's walls, Eilia had known that she could look forward to confinement, but what she hadn't fully expected was how greatly she would come to adore her constitutionals. Eilia had always enjoyed a walk, but having become deprived of nearly any other opportunity to so much as stretch her legs, she'd come to develop a queer hunger for those periods when -- guarded and escorted -- she would be permitted to pace the perimeter of the inner courtyard.

She knew these walks were more for Roderick's sake than for her own -- it was important that the people of Astaira be able to glance up upon the parapet and glimpse her on occasion to know that the emperor had done her no harm, and particularly walking shoulder to shoulder with a Varmont -- but feeling the sunshine on her face was a gift she'd come to treasure. She swore to herself that, were she ever to be queen again -- truly queen -- she would never again take such simple pleasures for granted.

It was a fair day, and Roderick had selected for her companion upon this particular afternoon, none other than his second son, Edmund, the Raven Prince of Varmont. While she had had no opportunities to publish information elsewhere for public consumption, her spy network had informed Eilia before the Battle of Malconaire that it had been his banners which had marched against her own and, she couldn't help but think as they climbed the steps to the high walls, it may have ultimately been this young man, with a head full of tousled curls, who had lain her kingdom low. She wondered how he dared show his face at the estate.

Perhaps it was some spiteful impulse, but she turned to him with an arched brow. "My sister tells me you were to see Lady Malconaire and her family, this morning? How did you find them all?"

Knowing she was about to fix him with a resentful glare, Eilia quickly redirected her gaze. It was only once a week that she was permitted this view, and she did not mean to waste her opportunity. Beyond them stretched the verdant meadows of Astaira, once capped by leafy green trees but now pocked with craters where Roderick had uprooted them for the unspeakable horror of his so-called Pyre Walk. Still, in the two years since his brual conquest, those ditches had been overtaken by green grass and flowers and even, in a few spots, a sapling tree poked it delicate branches out from the earth. Now, blanketed in snow, Eilia knew it was there. Eilia tried to take some hope from this, fair Astaira healing herself, but she could not entirely rejoice in hiding scars her people still felt with each passing day.

Escape felt less and less likely with each passing dawn and, glancing towards Edmund again, Eilia found herself wondering, not for the first time, if the best answer would, indeed, be to marry his father in exchange for freedom for their traditions. It would be a betrayal of Astaira, that could not be denied, but she would not sell her nation cheaply: their sacrifice would save the whole world.

"His Imperial Majesty--" Eilia began before she quite knew she meant to speak. She cleared her throat. "Was he a very...attentive father, when you were small?" She wasn't sure if the negative or affirmative answer would be worse for the child in question, but it was somewhere to begin, at least. Establishing expectations.

#comment #the raven prince #eilionora stafford

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