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coffee-and-geto · 12 days ago

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“YOU WOULDN’T LIKE ME WHEN I’M HUNGRY!”

“Just warm? I thought you meant I was hot, hot.” “Hot, hot?” “Yeah, I guess I’m a handsome guy, am I not?” You snort. “And so full of yourself.”

pairing: werewolf! satoru gojo x f!reader | kinkoctober

summary: since you were kid, you’ve been friends with satoru gojo. having grown up in the same village, it’s perfectly normal to meet up, laugh in front of a campfire and reminisce about the good old days, isn’t it? not the place or the time to confess your true nature, hmm?

warnings: +18 only, smut, nsfw, childhood friends to lovers, both lived in a small village, firecamp mood, sex (p in v), fingering (f!receiving), doggy style, handjob, bredding kink, full moon, nipple play, dirty talk, talking about being parents, fluff, (if you wanna picture werewolf like it’s same as jacob in twilight).

wc: 3,568

“I’m a werewolf.”

Those words, whispered in the silent night — or almost silent. Unless you count the cicadas’ songs that break the inaudible, sacred stillness of the dark. Under a sky where stars shimmer and the village campfire is the main source of light, casting a fiery glow in Satoru's eyes as he looks at you.

The dry, earthy ground, the scent of pine trees, roasted marshmallows, and the laughter of other young villagers — all back for the famous autumn full moon.

And you, sitting beside your childhood friend — Satoru Gojo.

Who utters words you never thought you’d hear from him, whispered without a care about being overheard. His azure gaze fixed on yours, as though searching the depths of your soul for any reaction besides your obvious shock.

With his hands pressed against the dry ground, his long legs stretched out, his torso turned toward you — every ounce of his attention captivated by you and only you.

As it always has been, hasn’t it?

And out of all the things he could have confessed, this declaration is what passes through his lips, cutting short your laughter and turning it into a gasp.

Then nothing. Silence.

“You— Satoru, what?”

And oh, how he could have fallen for that little frown of yours, so confused, so lost, so utterly adorable.

But he doesn’t repeat his words. He just watches you, lips flat but eyes replacing the smile you knew so well. The glow of the flames licking the campfire’s wood casts orange hues across his face like a phantom’s shadow.

Swallowing hard at his lack of reaction, you glance around, disoriented — your village, your family, your friends, your neighbors. No one seems the least bit troubled, nor does it seem like they’re paying attention to your conversation.

“Sweetheart.”

The nickname makes your panicked heart swell, and Satoru gently anticipates your next move. His rough, warm hand rests over yours, silently asking you not to worry.

“I always thought you’d figure it out on your own one day,” he murmurs.

“What do you mean?” you reply, and he can’t help but chuckle — a low, rumbling sound that almost seems wolfish.

“All the stories since we were kids.” He pauses, giving you time to process. “Our parents told us, and it’s also the history of the village.”

“A story is just a story, Satoru.” You pull your hand from his and prepare to stand up.

Enough with the tasteless jokes.

“This isn’t funny.” And his little heart breaks, because he hates the annoyed tone you take, though he still tries to salvage the situation.

Why the hell did he blurt it out like that?

“Wait, sweetheart,” Satoru pleads, his voice low and husky. His large, warm hand gently catches yours, urging you to sit back down. But as you persist in pulling away, he ends up confessing in desperation, “Am I disgusting to you?”

This time, it’s not the night’s silence that overwhelms you but Satoru’s puppy-dog eyes. Like he’s afraid you’ll walk away from him forever.

“Disgusting? Satoru…” You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. “You know I hate your jokes, and—”

“I’m not lying.” He presses his hand desperately over yours, tugging slightly to make you sit down again. “Do you want me to show you?”

Your eyes widen. “Excuse me? Here? In front of everyone?”

“Everyone already knows. You’re the only one blind to it,” Satoru breathes, standing gracefully without ever letting go of your hand.

“What are you even talking about? And where are you taking me?” you protest, stiffening your legs so he won’t drag you away. But he only chuckles softly, turns toward you, and suddenly hoists you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes (yes, really — nothing more, nothing less).

Only a chuckle answers your protests as you weakly pound your fists against his perfectly sculpted back under his white t-shirt, hiding so much more beneath.

“Satoru fucking Gojo!”

“Hmm, so Satoru is gay and he fucks Gojo?” He bursts into laughter at his own joke, tightening his grip to keep you from falling as he carries you further into the forest of tall pines that have watched you both grow up.

Yet you persist, thrashing about to make him let go — but in vain.

He walks surprisingly fast, as if guided by some instinct, knowing exactly where he’s going. Or maybe he’s been here countless times when you weren’t around — or when you were asleep?

When he finally stops, Satoru carefully sets you down and presses his lips together to stifle his laughter at the sight of your disheveled hair and utterly defeated expression.

Heat rises to your cheeks as you turn your back on him, trying to fix your hair. Your gaze lands on the river running through the forest, its surface shimmering under the moonlight tonight.

Lips press a kiss to your cheek, and you shove Satoru away as he laughs, delighted by your tomato-red face.

“Stop it.” You punch his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch.

It’s like hitting solid concrete — only slightly softer.

He takes advantage of your moment of confusion to step back and peel off his t-shirt, revealing his muscular chest, pale skin, and far-too-defined V-line.

Your eyes dart away from the sight he’s offering, one even the moon seems to embellish with its rays. But then the sound of a belt buckle clicking open makes your eyes widen.

“Satoru, don’t you dare—”

“Relax, I just don’t want to tear my clothes while transforming. How else am I supposed to get back home after?” He chuckles, giving you time to turn around and offer him some privacy.

You can feel his damned smirk, but you swallow down yet another sharp retort.

It’s always been like this with him. He’d tease you, you’d say you didn’t like it, and then chase him around while convincing yourself it wasn’t funny — ignoring the laughter that always bubbled in your chest.

At school, it was the same story. You were practically glued to each other, one always with the other. A constant war between two friends competing over anything and everything. Who would leave the haunted house first, who would blink first, or who could sleep without a nightlight after yet another story about the village’s werewolves.

Since you were kids, you hardly ever kept secrets from one another.

So why does this unpleasant sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing behind you feel both so new and so familiar?

Has Satoru always carried this secret within himself when you spent your evenings together watching movies? Had he tried to tell you, leaving hints for you to eventually uncover the truth?

All those times he managed to climb impossible places no ordinary human could, or when he walked past you and, with one sniff, could tell if you’d changed shampoo?

Or how he seemed to turn into your personal bodyguard at least once a month, and anyone who dared hurt you ended up with a broken limb?

Since middle school, he had always seemed more mature despite his jokester nature. And his physique — how drastically it had changed when he turned 18. If it hadn’t been for the Satoru you knew, you would never have guessed that back then, he was just a young adult.

And now in college, the two of you seemed like proper adults.

Real, young adults, still friends.

Even if kissing your friend on the cheek isn’t exactly common?

Even if sleeping in the same bed with nothing but cuddles and hugs isn’t normal?

Even if you’d both seen each other practically naked under the right circumstances without either of you daring to ogle the other?

A bark snaps you out of your thoughts, and you turn around with a start.

Standing before you is a massive wolf-dog with snow-white fur tinged with silvery hues, and cerulean blue eyes piercing through the forest's shadowy darkness.

You freeze in place, staring at the creature before you. It is both majestic and terrifying.

“Satoru?”

The white wolf barks and rushes toward you, affectionately nuzzling his nose against your stomach before moving up to lick your chin. If it weren’t for his sheer size, he might’ve been mistaken for a puppy.

A tender smile spreads across your lips, and you stroke Satoru’s head, his fur so soft and cool you can’t resist planting a small kiss on it.

“You’re gorgeous.” Another kiss on his snout earns a bark that sounds like joy. “And so cute, and so big, I’d hold you like a plushie all the time if I could.”

He lets out a soft growl against you, lifting his front paws to rest them on your shoulders. In the background, his bushy white tail wags happily.

You cup his face in your hands, noticing the glint of his sharp teeth as he opens his mouth slightly.

“You’re not scary,” you coo, kissing the top of his head, and he squeals in appreciation. “And you’re not disgusting at all, I swear.”

He barks happily once more before bounding away, running around wildly before stopping to howl at the moon.

The sound is so powerful that a shiver runs down your spine.

~~~~

Back in the village, Satoru is already back in his normal form, and you scream in terror when you find him standing completely naked in front of you, a mischievous smile playing on his lips before he puts on the clothes he had tossed onto a fallen tree trunk.

No one seems to notice that you’ve just witnessed a werewolf transformation. According to Satoru, it’s simply because you haven’t realized that nearly half the male population of the village shares the same condition.

On this full moon night, new werewolves are being initiated, others are transforming just for fun like Satoru (since it’s the only time he can do it freely without going mad for the rest of the month while waiting for the next full moon), while some are engaging in reproduction.

Because, as he tells you, a full moon means mating season for werewolves.

But tired of it all, you head back home, with Satoru following closely behind—where no one will return for quite some time.

You collapse onto your bed, immediately curling up under the blanket before scooting over to make space for Satoru.

He doesn’t waste any time.

He slides in beside you, wrapping his strong arms around you to warm you with his naturally higher-than-average body temperature.

“You’re going to be useful in the winter,” you giggle, closing your eyes with a smile, your back pressed firmly against Satoru’s warm chest.

“I’m pretty hot, huh?” he murmurs into your hair, placing a welcome kiss there. No need to wonder what he means anymore, right?

“Mh-hmm,” you hum. “Like a warm comforter.”

Satoru frowns. “Just warm? I thought you meant I was hot, hot.”

“Hot, hot?”

“Yeah, I guess I’m a handsome guy, am I not?”

You snort. “And so full of yourself.”

His embrace tightens around you, and he grazes his lips against the shell of your ear. “Am I?”

“Admit that you aren’t just hot in both ways,” you mutter.

“Because there is a third?” he asks, his breath tickling you.

“Don’t act innocent.”

He settles his head fully onto the pillow, the moonlight filtering through your window caressing his flawless face. “Never said I was.”

And he chuckles when you huff.

Then he returns to his original position, pulling you closer to his chest before gently running his hand along your forearm. His touch is warm, inviting, mischievous—yet affectionate, asking for nothing but a little more closeness.

You sigh, closing your eyes, slightly parting your lips as you let the back of your head rest against his neck.

He takes advantage of your vulnerable position, sliding his arm around your waist and closing any remaining space between you. His thumb traces slow, soft, patient circles over your stomach. Each motion makes you crave more.

So you shift slightly, freeing your torso to give him access to your neck, where his warm, steady breath teases your skin. He must feel it by now—the way your heart races in your chest, how your breathing grows quicker, shallower.

And Satoru, in his sly delight, doesn’t react more than you desire.

He simply lowers his nose to the hollow of your neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your skin, resisting the primal urge to claim you as his. To mark you as his own.

So you move again, giving him full access to mark your bare neck or shoulder, your ass pressed firmly against him, wriggling just a bit to adjust—or perhaps not.

Satoru presses his lips together as he feels a surge and a quickening heartbeat in his pants, blood rushing to the area. Giving in, he sinks his mouth onto your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses, the wet, noisy sounds of his lips against your skin sending shivers of pleasure through you.

You press yourself impossibly closer to him, guiding one of his large hands to your breast. Your back arches so deliciously against him as he cups the soft mound in his palm.

Between the kisses that turn into hickeys along your trapezius and his hands kneading your breast, teasing your hard nipples, you reach for his other hand with a soft whimper and guide it under your shorts.

He doesn’t waste a second, his already warm hand finding its way to your already puffy clit. He rubs slow, torturous circles, spreading your wetness over it to make things easier. You are now reduced to shallow pants and lewd, adorable noises.

“F-Fuck, Toru,” you whisper, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

“Let it go, sweetheart,” he murmurs, toying with your intimate area, using his middle finger to spread your lower lips and gently pat your drenched entrance, the tight little ring of resistance testing his patience. “Will you let me take care of you?”

You nod, your eyes fluttering shut as you moan his name again when he breaches the soft, wet resistance of your entrance. His middle finger slips inside you, gently parting your walls as he seeks out that one sweet spot that makes your toes curl.

When he finds it, he rubs it gently, drawing gasps from you while his forefinger plays with your clit, his other hand busy tugging and twisting your nipples under your shirt. He bites down on your neck, slurping your soft skin before pumping his finger into you.

“Feels good?” he asks in a hoarse voice. The sound of him like this — taking care of you while pressing his hardness against your ass — is almost as good as what he’s doing to your body. You squirm against him, relishing the way your movements draw a throb from his length. It feels like he’s about to cum in his pants.

“Such a tease, hmm? Didn’t know this side of you,” he whispers into your ear, sliding a second finger inside you. He thrusts both digits knuckle-deep, curling them perfectly.

You mewl, letting him feel your walls tightening and clenching around his fingers every time he brushes your sweet spot. The slick, wet sounds of your arousal make him groan — did you just throb?

“Close,” you warn, your body folding as the knot in your stomach tightens, teetering on the edge of release. You wince, struggling to control your shallow breaths as your orgasm approaches. “Please, Toru.”

“Cum, baby, cum,” he coaxes, his voice soft and encouraging as he thrusts his fingers deeper into you. His grip tightens on your breast, and his fingers work your clit with relentless precision.

A second later, you come undone, cumming hard on his fingers. Your walls spasm around them, coating them in your warm juices. You bury your face in the pillow, gasping for air as the pleasure courses through you.

Satoru carefully withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste you. “Hmm, tastes as good as I thought you would,” he hums.

“You thought?” you repeat, your voice feeble.

“I never said I was innocent,” he says, echoing his earlier words with a smirk.

“You thought about how I’d taste?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with a skeptical pout.

“Not exactly that dirty, but…” he presses a soft kiss to your temple, “Can you blame me?”

You chuckle softly, sliding your shorts and soaked panties off under the blanket, your thighs damp with sweat and slick. As you shift, Satoru pinches the soft flesh of your rear.

“Didn’t you say tonight was the werewolves’ breeding night?” you tease, a smirk playing on your lips. The mere sight makes him want to cum in his pants.

“Would you let me?”

“I’m just waiting for you,” you say, blowing out a breath.

At those words, he wastes no time, undoing his belt and sliding his pants and boxers down. A damp spot betrays how hard and ready he is, his tip already leaking.

You reach out, wrapping your hand around his flushed, twitching length. It jumps slightly as you stroke him gently, a naughty smile playing on your lips — a sight that nearly drives him wild. You lower your head, giving him a perfect view of your bare ass as you tease him.

Each stroke of your hand makes him bite his lip harder, suppressing a moan. He’s trying to stay composed — he’s a man, after all.

But when you guide his shaft to your swollen lips, rubbing his reddened tip back and forth against your slick entrance, it nearly breaks him. You coat his mushroom tip with your cum, then press it against your tight, dripping hole.

Satoru exhales a trembling sigh, gripping your hips as if to ground himself. His fingers tighten, promising marks that will bloom later on your skin.

“Lemme fuck you, please, sweetheart,” he groans, his voice desperate as he struggles not to buck his hips into you.

And you smile. Such a naughty girl.

You sit up, slipping off your top to feel freer, and then position yourself on all fours, lifting your hips to give him full access to your dripping pussy, which aches to be filled.

You giggle softly, wiggling your hips, burying your face into the pillow.

Satoru takes it as an invitation. He positions himself at your entrance, stroking himself a few times before sliding into you. The stretch is delicious, like something out of a dream.

Your whimpers fill the room, rising into melodic, lewd moans — music to his ears.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Satoru hisses, gripping your hips to pull you closer, sliding his cock all the way inside until his tip kisses your womb. When he bottoms out, he knows it.

Even though he’s on the verge of cumming, Satoru wants to make sure you cum with him — to breed you thoroughly. His babies. Making you a mom.

The thought makes his thrusts gentle at first, letting you adjust to his size. But when you push your hips back and babble for him to fuck you for real…

He snaps.

He’s pounding into you, his heavy balls slapping against your clit, adding to the obscene wet sounds filling the room. Your ass meets his hips again and again, your walls gripping him tighter each time he withdraws, only to pull him back in harder.

It’s not just your bodies syncing but your hearts too. Breathless pants, gasps, pleading moans, and filthy whispers intertwine, creating something sacred between you.

“Toru, ah, please, deeper,” you whine, your hands gripping the sheets as he fucks you so perfectly.

“Deeper?” he repeats, his voice teasing as he grabs your hair gently, pulling your head back to arch your spine. It gives him even better access to the sweet spot he intends to flood with his seed. “You want me to be a daddy? And you a mommy? Cute little werewolf babies?”

“Fuck,” you moan, clenching tighter around him. “I want it. I want to be full of your cum and have babies.”

“So good, so tight,” he groans, his thrusts relentless. “Promise. You’re mine, remember?” But your nod isn’t enough for him. “Say it, sweetheart.”

“I’m yours, I’m all yours, Toru,” you sob, tears streaming as you teeter on the edge. “I-I’m close,” you babble, your hips moving in tandem with his.

Satoru leans over you, his chest pressing against your arched back. His cock twitches as he growls, “Gonna take my load? Gonna cum so fucking much, yeah?”

One final thrust sends you both spiraling.

You cum hard, clenching so tightly around him that it’s a miracle his length fits inside you. He fills you with his warm seed, so much that it spills out in thick spurts.

Heartbeats pounding, breaths ragged, Satoru softens inside you, slowly pulling out. He kneels to watch the mix of your juices and his spill from your stretched hole.

He slides two fingers back in, gently pushing his seed back inside. “Need it to stay here,” he murmurs, patting your ass and pressing a kiss to your back. “Wanna go back to the village later?” Satoru asks.

You shake your head. “Just stay with me. With the future mother of your children.”

“Hmm, I think I can get used to this. Or maybe ‘wife’ is a better title?” He collapses beside you, a tired but peaceful smile on his face.

“Husband too,” you whisper, your voice filled with warmth.

a/n: thank you guys to have read this silly fic <3 on my period rn and it sucks but anyway. lot of tests coming so i think the stress is the reason haha. this time i don’t have a lot to say, just that writing about satoru is the best thing lol. some memes about wolves come to my mind i just wanna add them somewhere lmao

like and reblogs are always appreciated as comments <33

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422 @elliesndg

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe @cybersomniq @sanemistar

@monokaix

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melzula · 6 months ago

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My HC is that since Zuko is royalty, the heir, and also commanded his fleet on his hunt for the avatar, he’s used to taking charge. But the way I’m thinking of it is him being casually dominant with the y/n. Things like using a soft but firm voice to make sure they eat enough, that they’re warm, putting his hand on their thigh to keep it from shaking, etc. the gaang would start to notice how it takes one look from Zuko and y/n complies. Wrapping his hand around their hips to bring them down to sit in his lap, subtly tugging their skirt down when it rides up, stuff like that.

Could I please request some of your amazing writing for casual dominance with Zuko?

pairing: Zuko x reader

notes: okay so this was actually pretty challenging to write just bc i had to be careful about not making zuko come off as too controlling while also still fulfilling the details of the request. however i think it came out pretty good !

summary: Zuko shows his love for you the only way he knows how to

To those on the outside, your relationship with Zuko appeared to be… odd.

No one could quite determine whether he saw you as an equal or as someone who needed to be taken care of. Everyone knew you could handle your own; you’d been a skilled swordsman during the war and a master at hand-to-hand combat. No one doubted your ability to fend for yourself, but it seemed once you began dating the Fire Lord there was no longer any need for you to do so. Zuko took care of you, and being with him meant never having to lift a finger and never having to worry again. You were his prized jewel, and he took it upon himself to care for you in the only way he knew how.

Growing up, the Prince had never properly learned how to show affection or lovingly nurture a relationship. His parents weren’t the greatest example, and his father’s coldness left much to desire. However, his upbringing as a royal and his time commanding a fleet during his search for the Avatar allowed him to grow into a leader. In his younger years he’d been hotheaded and impulsive, but with time he had learned to be firm yet fair. He was a benevolent leader who only wished to do what was best for his people, and this same thought process extended to you.

You’d missed dinner one night and left him waiting in the throne room, too engrossed in your studies to realize how much time had passed or just how hungry you were. Your stomach growled incessantly and your head was beginning to ache, but you were adamant about finishing your book. Having recently been proposed to by the Fire Lord, you took it upon yourself to read up on the history of the Fire Nation and your expected duties as Fire Lady. You were overwhelmed, and eating dinner was the last thing on your mind.

“Y/n,” he had called, startling you out of your focused state as you rested your gaze upon his figure in the doorway. “We were supposed to have dinner together, remember?”

“I’m sorry,” you uttered bashfully, using your book to shield your embarrassed features. “I must have lost track of time. Let me just finish this last page and then I’ll-“

“Y/n,” he repeated with a pointed look, one that had you slowly lowering your text.

“Yes, Zuko,” you had finally relented. You couldn’t ignore your growling stomach any longer, and so you’d tossed your book aside and taken the arm he’d offered for you before allowing him to escort you to the dining room.

Zuko wasn’t strict, wasn’t cruel, just firm. It was his way of showing he cared for you, and you took no offense to how he so often liked to be the one in charge. Whether it be in his actions or in his tone of voice, he took the lead and you followed. This wasn’t to say that you didn’t have a mind or will of your own, but often times Zuko took it upon himself to step in whenever he felt you weren’t taking care of yourself the way he believed you should be.

His love could be conveyed through mundane actions such as wordlessly slipping your shawl over your shoulders without you having to ask to ensure you won’t be cold during a stroll in the palace gardens or resting a comforting hand on your thigh to stop the nervous bouncing of your leg during an important meeting. Anyone and everyone could see the influence he held over you, the dominant role he’d taken in your relationship, and you happily fell into place with him.

“Don’t you think it’s just a little weird?” Sokka had noted once to his sister after watching Zuko carefully wrap his fingers along your hips and delicately pull your figure into his lap as if he were handling a porcelain doll. You looked radiant in your silk robes and ceremonial makeup, a look picked out by Zuko to ease your anxieties over your lack of knowledge of traditional Fire Nation fashion, and as the Fire Lord’s fiancé you were the talk of the ball.

“Maybe it does seem like Zuko is usually the one in charge,” Katara had agreed thoughtfully, her gaze carefully resting upon your features to search for any sign of discontent or restlessness. Of course, she found none. “But I know y/n, and if she had a problem with it she would have stood up for herself and said something about it.”

The siblings watched as you conversed with various guests, your smile sincere as you spoke with the people you would soon help rule over as Fire Lady. Shifting in your seat as you crossed your legs, Zuko took note of the way the slit of your skirt had partially opened to reveal your bare leg. Wordlessly and without interrupting your conversation, the Fire Lord shifted the fabric so that your skin was kept from prying eyes. He didn’t care in the slightest if anyone saw, but he knew you would be embarrassed if guests began to question your way of dress, so he took it upon himself to fix the problem for you.

“I think it’s a love language thing,” Katara had explained after removing her attention from the scene and returning it to her brother. “He’s showing he cares through actions instead of words. Maybe it’s the only way he knows how to.”

“I guess you’re right,” Sokka relented, though his features still displayed a mild sense of disgust. “But that doesn’t make it any less oogier.”

Maybe no one on the outside ever truly would be able to comprehend the dynamics of your relationship with Zuko, but it wasn’t for them to understand. He took care of you and loved you in the only way he truly knew how to, and you appreciated him endlessly. With Zuko as your soon-to-be husband, you knew you’d always have someone looking after your best interests. All the same, Zuko knew he’d always have someone to love and accept him for who he was.

You were a perfect match.

| zuko tags: @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @taeeemin @livelaughlovekuni @lovialy @alexatiu @heartfully10 @creationcitystreet-em

#melzula writes #request #zuko #zuko x reader #zuko imagine #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko imagine #atla #atla x reader #atla imagine #avatar the last airbender

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courtneedsatoru · 2 months ago

Text

The Way of the HouseBoyfriend: Satoru Gojo x Reader

Synopsis: in which you persuade your boyfriend, Satoru Gojo, to play househusband with you for just one day. It’s going to a breeze because he’s good at everything—or so he thinks. Perhaps he had underestimated the way of the househusband.

Word count: 2.2k

Content: fluff, suggestive, crack, domesticity, thirst traps, kisses, female reader

“Just try it, Satoru. Just one day as my cutie houseboyfriend!”

Satoru Gojo was screwed, and not in the way he wanted to be with you on top of him. Turns out, being the honored one, the strongest sorcerer in history, meant he had little time at home to do the laundry, clean, and make proper meals.

The time supposed to be spent for chores was spent on you: he would never neglect you, ever. He’s always there for planned dates, always there for snuggles and kisses, always there for you, only you, by the end of the night. He’d do his best to take care of you in his own particular way. If you don’t feel like cooking that night, he’d bring home fried chicken or Chinese take out. While you would wash the dishes, Satoru would dry them with his Infinity in the blink of an eye (and complain that you were too slow, annoyed that you should be giving HIM the attention and not those damn dishes).

His workarounds were… passable, for the most part. You were so, so, so understanding. Truly. You knew that at times, you’d have to step up to maintain your little world with Satoru while he was out there kicking ass in the outside world. But by the sixth time Satoru stains your white blouse, you snapped.

“How many times do I have to tell you to NOT mix the darks and whites,” you gritted out. You were sick and tired of bleaching your shirts over and over again despite Satoru’s protest that he could just buy you more. “No, Satoru, it doesn’t work like that! It’s not resourceful and not good for the environment,” you’d answer back for the nth time. Enough was enough. Today is the day you’d train this menace your lovely partner the way of the houseboyfriend.

You clasp your hands eagerly together. “Who knows, if you do above and beyond, I might even promote you to househusband.”

Now that catches Satoru’s attention. His heart is beating two times faster, pumping blood straight down to his—

“Be my wife,” Satoru blurts out. Any conscience of thinking before acting is defenestrated whenever he’s with you. Just the idea of being tied to you, sincerely and forever yours, sends him into a mental frenzy. He wipes away the drool pooling at the corner of his lips with his sleeve.

You lift his blindfold up just enough to look at him in the eyes. “Maybe,” you tease with a wink that makes him throb, both in his heart and his d—. “You have to earn it though. And you do that by completing everything on the list I so kindly made for you.”

buy vegetables, tofu, and chicken

wash the windows (they’re so dusty!)

do the laundry—DO NOT MIX COLORS, I REPEAT, DO NOT MIX COLORS

fold the laundry <3

cook rice

You don’t trust Satoru to make dinner yet. Okay, technically he CAN cook (instant ramen), but that doesn’t mean he was GOOD at it. Satoru would often get distracted and end up burning the meal.

“Psh, that’s it? Baby, it’s only six things, it can’t be that hard. If this was all it took to be your husband, then I would have done it earlier!” Satoru boasts.

“That’s the thing. You should’ve done it earlier without any incentive or me telling you to do so.” Those words tug on Satoru’s heartstrings while simultaneously igniting a fire in him. He wants to be a perfect boyfriend soon-to-be husband, and he is going to prove to you that he is the one for you.

“Oh god, I have to have you,” Satoru murmurs and leans in for kiss. He whines when you stop him, hands cupping his face in place.

“Baby, my dude. Did you even hear what I just said?”

“I’ll be your perfect househusband everyday from now on. Won’t ever disappoint you again.” Satoru puckers his lips. He wants a kiss.

“Yes, yes, Satoru. I have to go to work now. When I get back, I expect the house to be nice and tidy and the rice to be cooked.”

You lean in to give him a short and sweet goodbye kiss. Satoru is hungry though. He likes the “sweet,” but not the “short.”

“One more.” Demanding, much? You shake your head. One more which means two more which means ten more. If you give him an inch, he will take a mile.

“I’ll give you so much when I come home from work. I’ll see you later, my sweets! Or should I call you my houseboyfriend?”

Satoru groans when you leave. Of all days, you just had to be working when he gets a day off. No matter. By the end of today, he will be your official househusband.

. . . . . . . . . .

Satoru was off to a good start, for he acquired the chicken breasts. The first time, his meany girlfriend smacked him on the butt for getting fried chicken the last time he was sent off on an errand. He thought that the love of his life would be too exhausted to cook when she got home from a long day of work... but he didn't take into account he had brought home fried chicken the past three nights!

The second time, Satoru actually did his job and brought home chicken breasts. He was going to take matters in his own hands (not a good idea) and make a "marry me" chicken to express his infinite adorations for her.

Except… it even possible to candy a chicken?

Satoru seasoned thoroughly on behalf of Gordon Ramsay's YouTube advice. Except that more-than-generous pinch of salt was not salt, but sugar! Not that Satoru could tell the difference, for he grabbed the first jaw he saw with mysterious white powder inside. Satoru ignored the dark brown crust of caramel on the outside, convincing himself it was just the pan’s fault.

He THOUGHT he was being smooth, sneaking a candy ring in between the butterfly cut of the chicken. But you couldn't even make it past the first bite, nonetheless reach the center of the chicken where the hidden gem lay. Hence, severe kitchen restrictions were set in stone on that faithful day.

Now, all that's left for Satoru to buy are tofu and vegetables.

Do potato chips count as vegetables? Ooh, sour cream and jalapeño-flavored chips! Jalapeño counts too, right? Satoru shrugs and tosses it in the shopping basket. Maybe, he should get at least one vegetable that isn’t processed so his partner won’t yell at him.

He spots a big-ass carrot, finding its size and shape comical. It’s definitely big, but surely not as big as his d—

BUY FOUR GET THE FIFTH ONE FREE!!

Ohohoho, just what his girlfriend needs: tofu! How could he miss that golden deal? Without hesitation, Satoru loads his basket up with ten packs of tofu. According to his calculations, he’s getting two packs for free! Not that it matters, because he can buy all of the tofu in this store and it wouldn’t make a dent in his bank account. But doesn’t it feel so gratifying knowing his lover will be so proud of him for saving money?

Satoru proudly struts out of the grocery store but there’s a feeling that’s gnawing at him, nagging him that he’s forgetting something. No matter; he’d make it up by getting lots of sweet treats for his dearest sweetheart (as if, Satoru wouldn’t finish all of the desserts first by the end of the week). Satoru mindlessly struts through the store, grabbing whatever he sees “necessary” to stock the pantry.

Chocolate cookies were a classic. He couldn’t forgo edamame-flavored mochis. Olive oil ice cream might pair nicely with that. He sighs as he begrudgingly tosses in a box of oatmeal raisin cookies that he knows his girlfriend likes, even if he deems it only for the ‘oldies.’

. . . . . . . . . .

Satoru Gojo does not want to clean windows. He wants you: to see you, to talk to you, to feel you. But noooo, he's stuck scrubbing these dusty motherfuckers. He NEEDS to spice things up a bit. He wouldn’t be Satoru Gojo without a little mischief.

Satoru props up his phone on the counter and peels off his shirt. Oh, he knows he is the package, from those defined planes for tits to that teasing v-line dipping down down down... He lubes his abs with a generous amount of dish soap to create a glistening ✨ sheen ✨ so that the light will reflect off his abs.

Except the lighting was terrible! The ceiling lights were not doing his six pack justice. Satoru opens the window but to his dismay, his blonde-haired neighbor who just wants to take out the trash in peace catches him shirtless and red-handed with a bottle of dish soap in hand. Satoru waves even though sees his neighbor’s shoulders shrug up and down in a heavy sigh.

‘Oh well. Nanami’s lucky to have such a view anyways.’

Satoru presses record and films excess dish soap dripping down his apps and just right before it wets the waistline of his pants, he scoops it up with his fingers and smears it against his pecs because of the tease he is.

“You’re missing out, baby~” Satoru winks. “This househusband has been a good boy washing the windows, and now he’s waiting for you to come home.”

He smooches the camera and presses send.

(Poor poor Nanami stayed to witness his shenanigans.)

Why are you washing the windows with dish soap??? What the hell? Satoru, use Clorox wipes instead. What a waste… *sigh*

I can hear your signature sigh from miles away. It’s not a waste if it’s me 🙃😉

You send three photos to Satoru: the first of you shaking your head in disapproval, the second of you blowing him a kiss, and the third of you licking the whipped cream of the parfait Satoru packed for you for lunch off your finger. Satoru groans loudly as a bolt of heat is shot straight down past his soapy abdominal to his pelvis. He zooms in to your puckered lips wrapped around that little finger of yours, imagining what it would be like if it was something else… something bigger instead.

Excuse poor little Satoru for acting like a dog in heat. He can’t help it! Every little cute thing you do puts him in heat, and Satoru can’t control how his body reacts. It isn’t his fault that you aren’t here so he could show you just how much you affect him. He can’t resist the temptation, whimpering as he slides a hand down to touch the heat radiating from his pants. He should probably close the windows first.

The windows slam shut with a sharp bang, and Satoru manspreads on the couch with a hand between his legs. The picture will have to do for now…

. . . . . . . . . .

The garage creaks open, and Satoru gasps awake. For the past few hours, he was busy... taking care of some... assets... and quite literally passed out to the thought of you. Despite that his body is sticky and his mouth is dry, Satoru bolts up excited to greet the joy of his life.

Holy shit, she’s home!

…

Holy shit, she’s home.

Holy shit, I forgot to do the laundry.

And the rice.

Satoru has five more seconds to act before he gets his ass whooped. Well, more like two seconds because he spent the first three seconds panicking what he should do until he remembered that he's the strongest sorcerer in history.

In 0.05 seconds, he speeds upstairs and shoves the dirty heap of clothes on the floor into the closet, slamming the doors shut to prevent it from spilling out. He spends the next 0.05 seconds teleporting to his trusty neighborhood-friendly Nanami's house, stealing a bowl of freshly cooked rice. In the last second, he throws on an apron to pretend he's been hard at work... cooking rice in the rice cooker? No matter, it's fitting for a househusband who's ready to greet his wife.

The door opens, and Satoru immediately pounces. You are met with a faceful of cleavage, your face smothered with the sweet, slightly musty e s s e n c e of Satoru.

"I missed my wife!" He hugs you tightly.

"I missed my houseboyfriend," you choke out, air knocked out from your lungs. Satoru squeezes you tighter.

"Househusband," he corrects.

"Why are you only wearing an apron and boxers? Where's the rest of your clothes?"

"Because I'm seducing you." Lies. As if he didn't just wake up a few minutes ago. He just didn't have enough time to put himself together. "Is it working?"

"Mm, I'd say so." And you seal his lips with a kiss. "I gotta change out of work clothes, baby. Then I'll show you how to make fried rice."

Satoru gulps. Shit shit shit. He didn't anticipate this. He's about to stop you, but you're already making your way upstairs. He's prepared for you to scream his name but it's surprisingly quiet. Too quiet.

When you come down, you have a calm grin except the corner of your eye is twitching and that you are holding a sandal with a firm grip. A grip so tight that it was as if the sandal you were choking was Satoru's neck.

"Satoru Gojo. Love of my life. Sweetest bean. My dude. No laundry. Rice from a bowl we don’t even own. Dish soap on windows????" You smack the sole of the sandal against your palm. It was going to be a long light.

“Just wait until you see the tofu—” SMACK. If there’s one thing Satoru knew well, perhaps very well, about you, it’s that you never miss.

Houseboyfriend!Satoru was not promoted to househusband!, instead stuck as housedishwasher! for the rest of the week.

Tag list: @cupcaketeddybehr (Hello! You’re a sweetheart 🫶)

A/N: this was chaotic. to the four people who read this before I fixed grammar, I’m so sorry.

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that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction · 8 months ago

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Headcanon that Merlin listens to Arthur and the knight’s rambling because he just really enjoys listening to them talk

I’ve had this headcanon for a while and I’ve written about it a few times but never anything I liked enough to post. But I got reminded about it again so I thought I’d share here.

If anyone writes this, please just tag me here or on Ao3 and give credit. Thanks :))

Merlin realises pretty early on in Camelot that nobles are never forthcoming with information or talking.

He also learns that Arthur loves to ramble about his special interests or hyper-fixations, despite it being trained out of him from an early age.

ADHD Arthur has me in a chokehold most days and I really really hate Uther despite the source of angst.

Anyway, Merlin will act like he doesn’t know anything about hunting or swords even after he’s had a few months in Camelot and he’ll ask Arthur more and more questions till he starts rambling.

And Merlin loves it. He loves listening and getting a chance to relax and not be the constant ball of energy in the relationship. He gets Arthur talking about longbows or developments in battle strategy throughout history while they’re on rides or walking through the halls, or he asks about breaking the horses for riding, Camelot’s history, pretty much anything.

Arthur just thinks Merlin is genuinely curious about these things, but he realises Merlin hates hunting, he shouldn’t care about bow weight or arrows. And he can’t handle a sword to save his life so why would he be interested in why the discovery of counterbalance is important?

It’s not till he looks over during one of his rants and sees Merlin completely at ease that he realises Merlin just likes listening. Arthur pauses and Merlin frowns to ask why he stopped. Arthur isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth when it comes to Merlin and he knows better than to try and understand him. So he rolls his eyes, says something about making sure he was actually listening, to which Merlin reassures him he’s listening by repeating the last few things Arthur’s said, with his own understanding to show he’s interested, before telling Arthur to keep talking.

It spreads around the knights eventually and Merlin becomes the guy who listens to people. Leon, in particular, will spend time talking to Merlin about things he finds interesting because he’s never had anyone to listen to him before. Gwaine knows why Leon and Arthur are so happy to talk to Merlin because he experienced it too when Merlin said he wasn’t sick of having Gwaine around and talking ‘too much’ after his first time in Camelot.

He also gets a few skills along the way, he can pick a perfect sword for Arthur’s birthday present, learns a lot about the Druids from Percival and a lot of other things from the knights.

And the fics I wrote for this were entirely an excuse for me to ramble about why the capes in BBC Merlin were stupid and inaccurate, and the various other historical inaccuracies in the show, but that’s another thing.

#bbc merlin #merlin #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #merlin bbc #headcanon #sir leon #gwaine #sir gwaine #merthur #i’m bad at tagging #fic ideas

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leclsrc · 2 years ago

Text

masterlist

writing for charles, carlos, max, & mick (subject to change)

minors dni. everything can be found here ↓

✳︎ fics, long

charles leclerc...

blurred lines (18+)

Things with Charles finally come to a head. In a cramped room. In the Red Bull garage. Of all places, really.

see it through

You go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

sweet pea

You finally reap what you sow after fooling around with your best friend. The reaping in question is a kid.

stay, at least for breakfast

You love once and miss always.

you know it (18+)

Charles is a bit disappointed the pretty girl he harbors a crush on doesn’t have him listed as a Formula 1 crush. He is a lot disappointed that you two can’t fuck.

wait and see

The grid recounts the evolution, nature, and many ups and downs of your and Charles' vague relationship.

low down (18+)

A lot can happen under an hour. You and Charles, self-proclaimed pros at sneaking around, can attest to this.

it's never over (18+)

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

team effort ft. carlos sainz (18+)

It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but now you’re in-between your boyfriend and his teammate again. So really, maybe, this could become a regular thing.

like you should

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

max verstappen...

low life (18+)

You really don’t like Max Verstappen. What you’re doing in his hotel room is a separate issue.

↳ part 2, reciprocate (18+)

You have trouble maintaining your vow of Max celibacy when you’re on vacation together.

mick schumacher...

mr. nice guy (18+)

Mick Schumacher is the paddock’s golden boy. He likes upholding this reputation, but there’s something nagging at him lately that makes it... difficult.

carlos sainz...

a certain romance

A love affair is never an easy thing to keep under wraps. Or, the four times your two brothers almost catch you and Carlos together, and the one time they finally do.

has yet to pass

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

team effort ft. charles leclerc (18+)

It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but now you’re in-between your boyfriend and his teammate again. So really, maybe, this could become a regular thing.

do you want it? (18+)

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

✳︎ drabbles

charles leclerc...

forever ago

↳ part 2, fin de siècle

motorsport ft. carlos sainz (18+)

everyone adores you

all my trying

the moment divine

words unspoken

things lovers do

something

overly sincere

the final frame

keep a place for me

honeymooning

proving my devotion

main dans la main

misspelled (dad charles)

presents

felt the rush (18+, sainz reader)

my own doing (18+)

olive you

divine sense

first words (dad charles)

take a chance on me

say it all

test run

guessing game

intertwined

name calling (wolff reader)

what you know

max verstappen...

self professed

carlos sainz...

silver lining

motorsport ft. charles leclerc (18+)

kissy spells

saving grace

need some patience (18+)

what i feel for you

brought me here

↳ part 2, kind of love

i knew you

guessing game

in my dream

mick schumacher...

you’ve been waiting (18+)

hold my hand

✳︎ instagram aus

charles leclerc...

is that you?

at sea

say cheese

good luck

ahead

#ItGirl

cutie

archived

↳ part 2, what once was

↳ part 3, mardy bum

spill the tea

deleted

maneater

kazoo'd

carlos sainz...

national holiday

tiktoked

↳ part 2, sneaky

↳ part 3, upgrades

max verstappen...

no clue

mick schumacher...

secret

✳︎ etc

auds’ recs tag

auds ask game

celebrating 1k, 2k, and 3k :)

#navi #mlist

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hookhausenschips · 3 months ago

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Butterflies {OP81}

Navigation

Summary: Amidst past heartbreak and fear of vulnerability, Y/N gradually allows herself to fall for Oscar, whose patience and sincerity offer a promising chance at love, revealing that the journey of trust and commitment is worth the risk.

Warnings: themes of emotional vulnerability, past trauma, fear of intimacy, struggles/uncertainties of opening up to someone new, and the complexities of trust in relationships.

Join my taglist by clicking here or shoot me a message!

Loosely based on this song

you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

I don't wanna fall so fast

But I'm open

I’m 24, young, and full of potential, yet I've already learned some tough lessons in love. Being a black woman, navigating the complexities of relationships hasn't always been easy. I’ve had my heart broken more times than I care to admit, and each time, it left a scar that hasn’t quite healed. The people I trusted with my deepest emotions didn’t treat them with the care they deserved, and now, it’s hard not to feel jaded.

There was Darren, who made me believe in forever but disappeared when things got tough. Then there was Camille, who said all the right things but never really meant them. Each of them left me with a little less faith in love, and a little more doubt in myself. I keep asking myself, "Why do I always end up hurt?" and "Is there something wrong with me?"

Lately, I’ve been trying to rebuild—focus on myself, get my confidence back. But deep down, there’s a yearning that I can’t quite shake, a desire to find that connection again. To love and be loved, but this time, without the heartbreak. Yet, every time I think about letting someone new in, my stomach twists with anxiety.

They always say that good things never last

And I know 'cause I've been broken

One evening, while sitting on my bed, I scrolled through old messages from past relationships, the ones that used to make me smile. Now, they just remind me of broken promises. I whispered to myself, "I can’t do this again. I can’t let myself fall for someone just to end up picking up the pieces later."

But there’s a part of me—a small, stubborn part—that still believes love is worth the risk. And that part scares me the most because what if I’m wrong? What if I let someone in again and end up more broken than before?

My friends say, "You deserve someone who treats you right, someone who values you." I know they’re right, but how do I open up to that possibility when my past keeps haunting me? How do I let go of the fear that history will repeat itself?

And that’s where I was—stuck between wanting to love and fearing the pain that might come with it—when Oscar came into my life.

I'm tryin' to protect my heart

But you're making it so hard

It was a random Tuesday, and I had no idea that day would change anything. I wasn’t looking for love, not even close. My focus was on work, my friends, and trying to enjoy life on my own terms. But then, there he was—Oscar Piastri.

I remember the first time I saw him. It was at a small coffee shop around the corner from my apartment. I had just picked up my usual order, a caramel latte with an extra shot of espresso, and was about to leave when I accidentally bumped into someone.

“Whoa, sorry about that,” I said, looking up to see who I’d almost drenched in coffee.

He smiled, a warm, easy smile that immediately put me at ease. “No worries, I could use a little caffeine splash to wake me up.”

I laughed, a bit nervously, and noticed how his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’m glad I could help, I guess?”

He chuckled and extended his hand. “I’m Oscar, by the way. I think I’ve seen you around here before.”

I hesitated for a split second before shaking his hand. “Y/N. And yeah, this is my go-to spot. Best coffee in town.”

“Agreed. Though I have to say, you’ve got a pretty intense order there. Tough day?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Just the usual grind. You?”

“Same here. But this,” he held up his cup, “is the highlight of my day so far.”

We both laughed, and for a moment, everything felt easy. There was something about him that intrigued me, something different from what I was used to. He wasn’t trying too hard, wasn’t putting on a show. He was just… Oscar.

And I guess it's safe to say

You take my pain away

Over the next few days, I kept running into him—at the coffee shop, at the grocery store, even at the park where I liked to jog. It was like the universe was nudging me toward him, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to listen.

One afternoon, after another “coincidental” meeting at the coffee shop, he asked me to sit with him. I almost said no, wanting to stick to my usual routine, but something in his eyes made me pause.

“Just for a few minutes,” he said, his voice soft and inviting. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”

I found myself nodding. “Okay, a few minutes.”

As we sat down, the conversation flowed effortlessly. We talked about everything and nothing—our favorite movies, the best places to eat in the city, and even the little quirks we had. I learned that Oscar was a bit of a perfectionist, always striving to be the best at whatever he did, but he had a laid-back side that balanced it out. He loved racing, which didn’t surprise me, but what caught me off guard was how he spoke about it—with passion, but also with a humility that was refreshing.

At one point, I mentioned my love for books, and his eyes lit up. “You’re a reader? That’s awesome. What’s your favorite genre?”

“Anything that makes me feel something,” I replied. “I love stories that are real, that don’t shy away from the messy parts of life.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. I think the best stories are the ones that make you feel like you’re not alone, like someone out there gets what you’re going through.”

There was a sincerity in his words that made me want to know more about him, even though I was still hesitant. I couldn’t deny that I was drawn to him, that there was something about Oscar that made me feel… safe. But at the same time, a voice in the back of my mind reminded me of the walls I’d built, the ones that had protected me from getting hurt again.

As the conversation wound down, Oscar looked at me with a smile that was both gentle and knowing. “I’m really glad we got to talk, Y/N. Maybe we could do this again sometime? No pressure, just… whenever you feel like it.”

I hesitated, the familiar apprehension bubbling up. But then I found myself nodding. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Great,” he said, his smile widening. “I’ll see you around then.”

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but feel a little lighter, like maybe—just maybe—this was something worth exploring. But I was still cautious, still unsure if I could let myself fall for someone again. Only time would tell if Oscar was different, if he was someone I could trust with my heart.

And I just wanna hold you all night long

Whenever I'm around you, nothing's wrong I'm hoping that you'll always be around

The days turned into weeks, and before I knew it, Oscar and I had developed a comfortable routine. We’d meet up for coffee or grab dinner at one of the spots we’d discovered together. There was a natural rhythm to our conversations, a back-and-forth that felt easy, almost effortless. But with that ease came something I hadn’t expected—the butterflies.

At first, it was just a slight flutter whenever I saw his name pop up on my phone. A quick text from him, like, “Hey, thinking about trying that new sushi place tonight. You in?” would make my heart skip a beat. I’d find myself smiling at the screen, trying to keep cool as I typed back, “Sounds good. What time?”

But it wasn’t just the texts. It was the way he looked at me when we were talking, like I was the only person in the room. One night, we were sitting in the park, watching the sunset after a long day. Oscar had brought a blanket, and we were sprawled out on the grass, just talking about everything and nothing.

You got me on a high, I don't wanna come down And I love it, I love it (these butterflies)

Yeah I love it, I love it (I'm on a high)

Yeah, I love it, I love it And I just wanna love on you (ooh)

“Do you ever just look at the sky and think about how small we are?” he asked, his voice soft and contemplative.

I turned to him, surprised by the question. “Sometimes. It’s kind of overwhelming, though, isn’t it? Thinking about how big the universe is and how tiny our problems are in comparison.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sky. “But I think it’s kind of comforting, too. Like, no matter what happens, the world keeps turning, the sun keeps setting, and there’s always a new day.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him, and felt that familiar flutter in my chest. It wasn’t just the words he said; it was the way he said them, with a quiet assurance that made me feel like everything would be okay.

Ever since you crossed my path

Everything is different

You always know just how to make me laugh

You got me all up in my feelings

“You’re a bit of a philosopher, aren’t you?” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He laughed, a low, warm sound that made my heart flip. “Maybe a little. But seriously, Y/N, it’s moments like this that make me appreciate the simple things. Like just being here with you.”

My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. His words were simple, but they meant so much more than that. I could feel the butterflies intensifying, that mix of excitement and nervousness churning in my stomach.

“Yeah,” I finally managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I get that.”

And then there were the little things he did that made me feel seen, really seen. Like the time we were at a bookstore, and I was browsing through the fiction section. I mentioned offhandedly that I loved a particular author but hadn’t read their latest book yet. A few days later, Oscar showed up with a wrapped package.

And as much as I love the feeling I hate it, it gets me frustrated

Wanna say just how I feel

“What’s this?” I asked, curious.

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Just open it.”

I tore off the wrapping paper to find the book I’d mentioned. My eyes widened in surprise, and I looked up at him, speechless.

“You said you hadn’t read it yet,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I figured you might like it.”

My heart swelled with a mix of emotions—gratitude, joy, and something deeper that I wasn’t ready to name yet. “Oscar, this is… thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice softening. “But I wanted to.”

It was in moments like these that I started to feel those butterflies taking over. He made me laugh like no one else could, like the time we tried to cook dinner together and ended up burning half the food. We were both hopeless in the kitchen, but instead of getting frustrated, Oscar just laughed, his laughter infectious.

“Well, I guess we know what we’re not good at,” he said, shaking his head as he surveyed the mess we’d made.

“Yeah,” I laughed, wiping away a tear. “But at least we didn’t burn the whole place down.”

He grinned and bumped his shoulder against mine. “Small victories, right?”

But it wasn’t just the laughter. It was the way he was there for me, supporting me in ways I hadn’t expected. Like the time I was having a rough day at work, feeling overwhelmed and stressed. I hadn’t told him much, just that I was having a hard time. Later that evening, he showed up at my door with a tub of my favorite ice cream and a stack of movies.

“I figured you could use a break,” he said with that easy smile of his. “And maybe some company?”

I couldn’t help but smile back, feeling the butterflies fluttering stronger than ever. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

But don't know how you would take it

Why do you do what you do to me?

He chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Just trying to be a good friend.”

But the way he looked at me when he said it, I knew there was more to it than that. And that was when the nervous excitement hit me hardest. I was falling for him—harder and faster than I’d expected—and it terrified me.

As the days with Oscar grew longer, so did the feelings I was trying to keep in check. Those butterflies that started as a gentle flutter had turned into a storm inside me, making it harder to ignore what was happening. I was falling for him, and it scared me to death.

One evening, after another perfect day with Oscar, I sat alone in my apartment, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I could see it in my own eyes—how happy I was, how alive I felt. But underneath that happiness was a growing fear, a fear I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” I whispered to my reflection, frustration lacing my voice. “Why are you letting yourself feel this way again?”

I thought about the last time I’d let myself fall, how it had ended in tears and broken promises. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn’t go through that again, that I’d protect my heart at all costs. But here I was, teetering on the edge of another fall, and I couldn’t decide whether to jump or pull back.

When I was with Oscar, everything felt right. He made me laugh, he made me feel seen, and he made me believe—if only for a moment—that maybe this time could be different. But when I was alone, the doubts would creep in. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if I was just setting myself up for another heartbreak?

I promised myself I wouldn't fall

But every time I see you, I just wanna risk it all

One night, we were sitting on his couch, a movie playing in the background. I was barely paying attention to the screen, too caught up in my own thoughts. Oscar must have noticed because he nudged me gently.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft and concerned.

I forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. I wasn’t tired—I was scared. Scared of letting him in, scared of what it would mean if I did. I wanted to tell him, to lay it all out there, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I just sat there, feeling the frustration build inside me.

Oscar turned to face me, his brow furrowed in that adorable way he did when he was trying to figure something out. “Are you sure? You seem… I don’t know, a little distant tonight.”

I bit my lip, the battle raging inside me. Part of me wanted to tell him everything, to spill out all the fears and doubts that were eating me up inside. But another part of me, the part that had been hurt before, told me to keep quiet, to protect myself.

“It’s nothing,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just… a lot on my mind.”

He didn’t push, but I could see the concern in his eyes, and that only made me feel worse. Here was this amazing guy who was nothing but kind and patient with me, and I couldn’t even bring myself to be honest with him. The frustration gnawed at me, making my heart ache.

Later that night, after Oscar had walked me home, I sat on my bed, my mind racing. Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t I just tell him how I felt? I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my chest, trying to quiet the turmoil inside me.

I closed my eyes, remembering a conversation I’d had with my best friend not too long ago. She had told me, “You have to take risks in love, Y/N. You can’t protect yourself from everything, or you’ll never really experience it.”

Her words echoed in my mind, and I knew she was right. But knowing and doing were two very different things. I wanted to take the risk, I wanted to let myself fall for Oscar, but every time I got close, the fear would pull me back.

The next time we hung out, the tension was still there, lurking beneath the surface. We were at a small, cozy restaurant, sharing a plate of fries and talking about nothing in particular. Oscar was his usual charming self, making me laugh with some ridiculous story about his latest racing practice. But even as I laughed, the frustration was bubbling up inside me.

“You know,” he said, dipping a fry in ketchup, “I’ve been thinking about going on a road trip. Just get in the car and drive, no destination in mind. What do you think?”

I smiled, trying to focus on the conversation. “That sounds amazing. I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “Maybe you could come with me. We could just take off, leave everything behind for a while. What do you say?”

My heart leaped at the idea, but then the doubts crashed in like a tidal wave. What if I said yes? What if we spent all that time together, and I ended up falling even harder, only for him to not feel the same way? The thought terrified me, and I felt the words catch in my throat.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady. “I mean, it sounds great, but…”

“But?” he prompted gently, leaning in closer.

I looked down at my hands, fiddling with the napkin on my lap. “It’s just… I don’t want to mess things up, you know? What if…”

He reached across the table and placed his hand over mine, his touch warm and reassuring. “Hey, whatever it is, you can talk to me. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words should have comforted me, but instead, they made the frustration even worse. How could I explain that the thing I was most afraid of was exactly that—that he wouldn’t go anywhere, that he’d stay, and I’d end up falling too deep?

And baby, yeah, I know it ain't right

But the chemistry we have is so hard to fight

I took a deep breath, trying to find the courage to speak. “Oscar, I… I like spending time with you. A lot. But sometimes, I get scared, you know? I’ve been hurt before, and I don’t want to go through that again.”

His expression softened, and he squeezed my hand gently. “I get it. I really do. But I’m not those other people, Y/N. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“I know,” I whispered, my voice barely holding steady. “But it’s still hard. I want to let go, to just… be with you, but I’m afraid of what might happen if I do.”

Oscar looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then he nodded, his grip on my hand tightening just a little. “It’s okay to be scared. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We can take this as slow as you need to. I’m not in a rush.”

His words were exactly what I needed to hear, but even as he spoke them, I could feel the frustration gnawing at me. I wanted to believe him, I wanted to trust that things could be different this time, but the fear still lingered, a shadow that wouldn’t quite go away.

As we walked out of the restaurant that night, his arm around my shoulders, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions—gratitude for his understanding, frustration with myself for holding back, and a deep, aching longing for the security I so desperately wanted. I knew I had to make a choice soon, to either let go and take the leap, or pull back and protect my heart. But the decision wasn’t easy, and the battle between vulnerability and protection raged on inside me, unresolved.

The tension had been building for weeks, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap. Every time Oscar and I spent time together, I could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. I knew I had to say something, to finally let him know how I felt, but fear had kept me silent. That all changed one evening when the moment of truth arrived, unplanned and unexpected.

And I just wanna hold you all night long

Whenever I'm around you, nothing's wrong I'm hoping that you'll always be around

It was a Friday night, and Oscar had invited me to watch one of his races on TV. We’d done this a few times before, but this time felt different. Maybe it was the way he seemed extra excited, or maybe it was just the way my heart pounded every time I looked at him. Either way, I knew something was going to happen that night.

We were sitting on his couch, the glow of the TV casting soft shadows across the room. The race was in full swing, but I was only half-watching, too caught up in my own thoughts. Oscar, on the other hand, was fully engrossed, his eyes glued to the screen, a smile playing on his lips as he watched the cars speed around the track.

“You’re really into this, huh?” I teased, trying to lighten my own mood.

He grinned, not taking his eyes off the screen. “You have no idea. There’s just something about the adrenaline, the speed… it’s like nothing else.”

I smiled, but the butterflies were back, and they weren’t the good kind this time. I felt a knot in my stomach, a sense of urgency that I couldn’t ignore any longer. I had to say something—tonight.

You got me on a high, I don't wanna come down And I love it, I love it (these butterflies)

Said I love it, I love it (I'm on a high)

Love (And I just wanna love on)

And I just wanna love on you

As the race neared its end, Oscar finally turned to me, his expression full of excitement. “That was incredible, wasn’t it? I swear, every time I watch, it just gets better.”

“Yeah, it was great,” I replied, but my voice was distant, my mind elsewhere.

He noticed immediately, his smile fading a little. “Hey, what’s up? You seem… off. Did something happen?”

I hesitated, my heart racing faster than any of the cars we’d just watched. This was it, the moment I’d been dreading and anticipating all at once. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the words caught in my throat.

“Y/N, talk to me,” Oscar urged, his voice gentle but firm. He reached out and took my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

I looked down at our intertwined hands, the sight of them together giving me a strange mix of comfort and anxiety. I knew I couldn’t keep this to myself any longer. I had to let him in, or I’d lose my chance.

“Oscar, I… I need to tell you something,” I began, my voice trembling slightly.

Just wanna love, just wanna love on ya (uh, uh) Just wanna love, just wanna love on ya (uh, uh)

Ay, ay (uh, uh)

He squeezed my hand, his eyes locked onto mine. “I’m listening.”

I took another deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. “I’ve been holding back… a lot. And it’s not because I don’t enjoy spending time with you—I do. More than I can even explain. But the truth is, I’m scared. I’m scared of what might happen if I let myself really fall for you.”

Oscar’s expression softened, but he didn’t say anything, just letting me speak.

“I’ve been hurt before, Oscar,” I continued, my voice thick with emotion. “And every time I’ve let myself fall, it’s ended badly. I don’t want to go through that again. But at the same time, I can’t deny what I’m feeling. Being with you makes me happy, really happy, but it also terrifies me. I don’t want to get hurt again, and I don’t want to hurt you either.”

And I just wanna know you would catch me if I fall

If you tell me yeah, boy I might just risk it all If you tell me no, it's okay, then I will leave (ooh)

I hope you feel the same, you're the only one I see

I see, I see

The room was silent except for the hum of the TV, and for a moment, I was afraid I’d said too much, that I’d scared him away. But then Oscar reached out, gently lifting my chin so I was looking directly into his eyes.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring, “I can’t promise that nothing will ever go wrong. I can’t promise that I’ll never make a mistake. But what I can promise is that I’ll always be honest with you, and I’ll always do my best to protect your heart.”

My breath hitched at his words, the sincerity in his eyes breaking through some of the walls I’d put up. “I’m not asking for perfection, Oscar. I just… I just need to know that if I take this leap, you’ll be there to catch me.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing gently over the back of my hand. “I will be. And I want you to know something, too—I’m scared, too. Scared of messing this up, scared of not being what you need. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try, right? Because what we have… it feels real, Y/N. And I think it’s worth the risk.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I blinked them back, a mix of relief and hope swelling in my chest. “It does feel real,” I whispered, my voice shaky. “And I want to try, Oscar. I really do. I’m just… I’m afraid of falling too hard, too fast.”

He smiled then, a soft, understanding smile that made my heart ache in the best way possible. “Then we’ll take it slow. We’ll figure it out together, one step at a time. You don’t have to do this alone.”

I nodded, finally allowing myself to lean into the feelings I’d been holding back. “Okay,” I said, my voice steadier now. “Let’s try.”

Oscar pulled me into a gentle embrace, his arms wrapping around me in a way that made me feel safe, like maybe—just maybe—I’d found something worth holding onto. As I rested my head against his chest, I could hear the steady beat of his heart, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of peace.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice muffled against his shirt.

“For what?” he asked, his hand gently rubbing my back.

“For being patient with me. For understanding.”

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head. “I’m just glad you trusted me enough to tell me how you’re feeling. We’re in this together now, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered back, my eyes closing as I allowed myself to relax in his arms.

The fear was still there, lingering at the edges of my mind, but it didn’t feel as overwhelming now. For the first time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could let go of the past and embrace whatever the future held with Oscar by my side. And as we sat there together, the tension that had been building for so long finally began to melt away, replaced by a sense of hope and possibility.

The night after our conversation, I couldn't stop replaying everything in my head. I had bared my heart to Oscar, and instead of retreating, he’d held on, promising to take things slow and be there for me. It was a step forward, but the fear still lingered, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I knew that what happened next would either solidify my trust in him or shatter everything we’d been building.

Just wanna love, just wanna love on ya

A few days later, Oscar invited me over for dinner. He had planned to cook—something simple, he’d promised, since we both knew his culinary skills weren’t exactly top-notch. But it wasn’t the dinner that had me on edge; it was the feeling that this night was going to be a turning point for us.

When I arrived at his apartment, I was greeted by the smell of something delicious wafting through the air. Oscar met me at the door, a slightly frazzled but excited look on his face.

“I hope you’re ready for the best—or at least, the least disastrous—pasta you’ve ever had,” he joked, stepping aside to let me in.

I smiled, feeling a little lighter. “As long as it’s edible, I’m happy.”

We sat down to dinner, and to my surprise, the pasta was actually really good. We laughed and talked like we always did, but there was a new layer to our conversation now—an openness that hadn’t been there before. Every time our eyes met, I felt a warmth spread through me, a connection that was deepening with every word we exchanged.

After dinner, we moved to the couch, the remnants of our meal forgotten on the kitchen counter. Oscar put on some music, something soft and soothing, and we settled in, his arm draped around my shoulders. For a while, we just sat there in comfortable silence, the music filling the space between us.

“Y/N,” he said after a while, his voice low and serious, “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About being scared and wanting to take things slow.”

I tensed slightly, my heart rate picking up. “Yeah?”

He nodded, his thumb gently rubbing circles on my shoulder. “I just want you to know that I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said—I’m here, and I’m in this with you. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

His words washed over me like a balm, soothing the anxiety that had been gnawing at me for so long. But there was still a part of me that needed more, that needed to see if he was really willing to stand by me, even when things got tough.

“Oscar,” I began hesitantly, “I appreciate that. I really do. But… what if things get hard? What if I freak out or push you away? I’m not always good at this, at letting people in.”

He turned slightly to face me, his eyes serious and full of warmth. “Then I’ll be here, waiting. I’m not going to push you to move faster than you’re ready for, but I won’t let you push me away, either. We’ve got something good here, Y/N, and I’m not about to give up on it.”

My chest tightened, emotion swelling up in me. It was everything I wanted to hear, but there was still that small, lingering doubt, the voice in my head whispering that it was too good to be true.

“What if… what if one day you wake up and realize you don’t want to do this anymore? That you don’t want to deal with my issues?”

He shook his head, his expression unwavering. “That’s not going to happen. I’m here because I want to be, because I care about you. We’re both going to have our moments—times when we’re scared or uncertain—but that’s part of it, right? It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being there for each other, even when things aren’t easy.”

His words hit me deep, breaking down some of the last barriers I’d been holding onto. I wanted to believe him, to trust that he meant every word. And the way he was looking at me now, with such sincerity and conviction, made it impossible not to.

“I’m trying, Oscar,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m trying to let go of all the fear and just… be with you. But it’s hard.”

He leaned in closer, his forehead resting gently against mine. “I know it is. But you don’t have to do it alone. We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure, no rush. Just us, figuring it out together.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath against my skin, the steady beat of his heart against mine. “Okay,” I breathed, finally allowing myself to let go of some of the fear I’d been holding onto. “One day at a time.”

We stayed like that for a while, just holding each other, the silence between us comfortable and reassuring. For the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of peace, a quiet hope that maybe—just maybe—I could trust in this, in us.

As the evening wore on, Oscar pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine. “Do you want to stay tonight? No pressure, of course. We can just watch a movie or something.”

I hesitated, the old fears still whispering in the back of my mind, but they were quieter now, drowned out by the warmth and security I felt in his presence. “I’d like that,” I said softly, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’d like that a lot.”

He smiled back, his eyes lighting up in that way that always made my heart skip a beat. “Good. I’ll go grab some blankets.”

As he got up to gather the blankets, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief wash over me. This was new territory for me—allowing myself to be vulnerable, to trust someone else with my heart. But with Oscar, it didn’t feel as terrifying as it once had. It felt right.

Later, as we lay on the couch, wrapped up in blankets and each other’s arms, I felt the last of my apprehension melt away. This wasn’t about perfection or guarantees; it was about trust, about taking things one step at a time, together. And for the first time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could really do this.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Oscar murmured against my hair, his voice laced with contentment.

“Me too,” I whispered back, closing my eyes and letting myself drift off into the comfort of his embrace.

As I lay there, surrounded by the warmth of his arms, I knew that this was just the beginning. There would be more challenges ahead, more moments of fear and doubt, but for now, I was content to take things one day at a time, knowing that I wasn’t alone in this journey. And as long as Oscar was by my side, I knew I had something worth holding onto—something real, something that could last.

Just wanna love, just wanna love on ya (uh, uh)

Ay, ay (uh, uh)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ *ੈ✩‧₊˚˚☽˚.⋆ *ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆ ‧₊˚ ⋅✈︎ *ੈ✩‧₊˚

OP81 Taglist: @tallrock35, @yourbane, @evie-119, @asparklysoul, @dhanihamidi, @ilivbullyingjeongin, @ggaslyp1, @cmleitora, @d3kstar

F1 Taglist: @tallrock35, @yourbane, @hiireadstuff, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery, @dhanihamidi, @decafmickey, @cmleitora, @d3kstar

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themotherofhorses · 1 year ago

Text

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

summary: “she’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?”

warnings: explicit language. angst. much angst. nothing but angst. i cannot stress it enough.

notes: well this is rather unfortunate.

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

The raven arrives at nightfall, at an hour so late that only Aemond is awake to accept it. The princeling could not find sleep that night, instead rolling off the bed and crossing the chambers to his windows, before pulling back the heavy tapestries and throwing them open one by one.

The cool air is a welcoming feeling to his feverish skin, hot to the touch from hours of lovemaking under the sheets.

He stands facing the darkness, naked and at utter peace, in pure happiness. His precious girl sleeps soundly behind him, with the thick furs pulled up to her chin, hiding the most of her beneath the blankets. She is so utterly beautiful in the moonlight. It’s been three long months since his sons were born, and Aemond was beginning to hope his seed would again take. His loins ache at the thought, and he fights the sudden urge to slip in between her thighs. Perhaps she’d give him a daughter this time.

In his dreams, she wears her mother’s face, in a gown of Targaryen colors with a dragon hatchling sitting on her shoulder. She pokes him awake in the morning, and pleads for a quick ride atop Vhagar before grandmother arrives to begin her history lessons.

His daughter has his love’s eyes and smile, he thinks again, and her nose scrunches up in the same way hers does.

I want it.

He shakes his head.

Let her rest, you fool.

When the black raven arrives at his windowpane, he is a bit confused. He waves the bird away before it could make another squawk, and stares down at the scroll taken from it, eying the blood-red ribbon tied into a pretty, tight knot around. In his head, he weighs the choices in taking it as his own. Should he…? Or should he not? His curiosity clashes with his righteousness.

Aemond decides to, in the end.

He takes the scroll to his desk, quietly lighting a small candle before taking a seat and unrolling it out to read. The writing is in pretty cursive yet smells of cheap ink, with a slight smudge staining the edge of the paper. It is addressed to his handmaid, he realizes, starting with her name that leads to a sweet congratulations on her newfound motherhood. Twins, your uncle had said. How marvelous to hear. I hope to meet them soon, my dear.

With all the love in this lifetime—your mother, Alys Rivers.

“With all the love in this lifetime,” he repeats aloud, shaking his head, refusing to believe. His fingers tighten around the letter, the tips turning a jarring white. “Your mother, Alys Rivers.”

Aemond then glares up at the woman lying in his bed, a bitter twist on his mouth. She shifts a little bit beneath his gaze, but remains relaxed and asleep and blissfully ignorant of the rising anger sparking deep inside him.

Who is she? For the first time since he met her, he asks himself that.

He should’ve suspected this.

“A bastard, Lord Beesbury, mothered by the daughter of a milk cow.”

Aemond turns away from her, back to the darkness outside.

Her mother is a bastard rivers woman, it seems. At least that is how it reads. Alys Rivers. She carries no man’s last name in her letter. What is her daughter, if not the same as her? He picks at his mind, trying to remember if she ever mentioned her father. Aemond returns to staring up at the moon and the white stars blinking high above in the midnight sky.

He suddenly feels no desire to return to bed with her tonight.

But she is the mother of your children, his mind argues, and it leaves him irritated.

She’s given him two heirs, his first-born children, beautiful twin boys that are mirrors to their own father, himself. And the daughter he’s dreamt of…But…they’re bastards too, he then reminds himself. You love them the same way you love her, do not lie to yourself. It was not enough to ease his thoughts, and reason with him, and stop the ugly bitterness from rising in his throat.

Damn her.

Aemond stuffs the letter inside one of the desk drawers, not wishing to lay eyes on it again. Maybe he’ll burn it later in the day. He then shrugs on his robe, tying it around his waist, before leaving the room. She’ll wake up in the morning, and search for his hand buried within the sheets. When she realizes she is alone in the bed, he knows she will pout before readying to tend to her babies, like the mother he’s made her into.

Damn her.

Then she will move on to her responsibilities, like the silly, dumb handmaid she is.

Damn her.

That is all she should’ve remained, Aemond thinks, curiously calm as he strides down the hallway. He doesn’t know where he is going, but he knows he will not return this night. Bastards never amount to anything else.

Aemond hasn’t spoken to her in three days, dismissing his handmaid from his bedchamber before he retires for the evening. She no longer fetches his hot baths or crawls beneath the blankets with him. He hasn’t allowed it. He avoids the nursey too, where he knows his twin sons sleep in their cots, too young to notice their father’s absence. Aemond walks the halls of the Red Keep, as he has walked a thousand times before, but disregards all the rooms where he knows her presence painfully lingers.

She does not fight nor question him. He knows she won’t.

“Aemond.”

He hears her voice in his slumber, always- sometimes in a breathless whisper, and most times in a scream, or a whimper, or an anguished howl. She always manages to find him, following him into his dreams and nightmares and antagonizing him into insanity. Her shadow stands over his bed. And around her neck dangles the sapphire necklace, while her pretty eyes weep both tears and blood.

“Aemond, please!” she cries, bawling up the sides of her dress in her fist. The plain cloth is stained in dried blood, splashed across her belly and thighs. “Aemond, please, I need you, husband!”

“AEMOND.”

This time tonight, it causes Aemond Targaryen to jerk upright, pulled from a horrible nightmare that still clouds his thoughts. The sheets are tangled between his fingers, and his heart is heaving heavily within his breast. He hears her voice echoing, begging for her husband. “Aemond.” His attention quickly darts to the door, where his mother stands, tall and regal and noticeably pissed. She calls his name again loudly. Although still groggy, he stumbles his way towards her.

His mother does not greet him. Instead, her brown eyes remain on his empty bed, skimming across the sheets and the way the heavy fur blanket nearly hangs off the foot of his bed. He must’ve kicked it off him during his sleep.

She frowns at the sight, before looking back at him.

“So it is true, then.”

Aemond rubs at his eye, tilting his head in confusion. “What is true, mother?”

“That she hasn’t been seen in your room for the past three days; instead, she’s returned to her old room across the castle, where the other maids sleep. Three days, and three nights.” His mother spoke in anger, yet her face remained a mask that betrayed nothing. It is one thing he greatly admired about her, in the same way it terrified him the most. “And you haven’t visited your sons as well, I’m told.”

He flushes. “I’ve been busy,” he grumbles, shifting on his bare feet. “I’ll see them tomorrow, in the morning after we break fast together.”

“Tomorrow? You’ll see them tomorrow? AEMOND!” she shouts, incredulous. Her hair hangs loosely around her face, and she pushes a thick strand behind her right ear. “You wanted these babies so badly, and yet you are beginning to neglect them before their second nameday. Have you lost all fucking sense?!”

Aemond bites his tongue in an attempt to keep his own temper from flaring up in response to her yelling. He says nothing in return, which he knows only upsets his mother further.

“What has happened, Aemond?” she asks. “This is unlike you. You love those boys, and that girl too.”

“Nothing,” he says, a bit too quickly. “Nothing has happened. I’ve simply been too busy to play anymore games with her.”

“Games? Games?! That is all shit,” his mother blazes. “Utter shit. Do not begin to take me as a fucking fool, Aemond. I am not your father, and I am not your brother, and eldest sister either. Now you tell me, boy, what has happened.”

Aemond sighs. “She’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?” He meets her eyes and feels his poor heart sinking at the silent shock that instantly falls across her features and the way she makes no move to deny it. “A bastard.” Saying it aloud, it makes him wish to return to his bed, and curl up in his sheets, completely hidden from this cruel world that damned him to fall in love with a stupid bastard girl. “A damn, no good, bastard girl from Harrehnal—”

But he is then cut off by a sharp backhand blow to the side of his face that quickly sends him stumbling two steps back, almost falling hard against the wall. Aemond holds his cheek, breath hitching as he brushes a tender finger against the already reddening skin that he knows will surely show a dark bruise on the morrow. It feels hot, and it stings. He looks up at his mother, who has never hit him before.

“How dare you speak of her in such a way,” she spits, purpled with rage. Her hand twitches at her side, as if she itches to slap him again. He deserves it, he thinks. “HOW DARE YOU. She is the mother of your children, and you dare behold her with such loathing venom?”

“AND YOU DID NOT THINK TO TELL ME BEFOREHAND?” he shouts back, half hurt from the realization that she watched him fall smitten with the bastard, and never thought to tell him the truth. “She is the cousin of those bastards that took my eye, their own blood!”

“And? It is the truth, yes, that she is a riverlands bastard, born to a woman at Harrenhal. Lord Larys is her true uncle, who brought her to us at my request. But damn you, Aemond, that girl is so fucking in love with you.”

All his words fall stuck in his throat, and he fails to push them out.

“Have you nothing more to say?”

His queen mother sniffs when he says nothing, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. Perhaps it is best she drinks the moon tea, lest she gives you another child that you won’t love nor appreciate because of its mother’s unfortunate bastardy.” Aemond remains silent, and her mouth drops into another scowl. “You lied to me when you promised that you would never be your father or Aegon.”

I am not, he wants to scream out. His knees buckle in weakness at her cruel words, and the sheer disappointment laced within them. It hurts worse than her slap.

I love her so much, I swear, and my boys too. I love anything she gives me, and I promise…I promise…I promise…

“You, Aemond, carry their eyes and hair and nose, everyone can see. But I know the truth now—you carry their pig attitude as well,” she remarks, pushing herself toward him. “I’ll send her back to her mother, I promise, and find another handmaid for you, one that is to your liking.”

She says not another word, instead turning to the houseguard that had accompanied her to his hall. “I’m tired. Please help me back to my bedchamber,” she asks, pressing her fingertips against his temple. “I would appreciate such, my good knight.”

His mother leaves him silent and still, sad and scared and helpless and heartbroken, staring down at his toes as they grow damp from his tears.

tag list for "his handmaid's tales": @aemondsblog @dc-marvel-girl96 @neobanguniverse @missalycat21 @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @padfooteyes @alexizodd @avidreader73 @the-common-cowgirl @inlovewithhisblueeyes @elegantsplendour @katzarantos @fan-goddess @okfashionista @randomdragonfires @aemvnd @mochimommy2002 @fangirlninja67 @iiamthehybrid @bellstwd @katzarantos @crazymusicgirl104

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#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #handmaid!reader #his handmaid’s tales #house of the dragon #house of the dragon imagine #hotd fanfic #vic writes 🧸

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sleepyparalysisdmon · 9 days ago

Text

2 Minus 1 - Act Two

Seungcheol is doing good without you. Really good, in fact! He’s got a great job, has his own apartment, and has many friends surrounding him. He’s even done some dating in the three years that you’ve been gone. On some blissful days, you don’t even cross his mind. But when you reappear in his life, he has to come to terms with the fact that he might not be doing as good as he thought he was.

Genres: ANGST with a little bit of fluff here and there.

Word count: 6.4k

Requested? Yes!

You can find the series masterlist here.

Seungcheol stretches with a groan as soon as he hangs up the phone. He’s worked through the normal lunch hour and normally wouldn’t do that, but the client he needed to speak with is in a different time zone and he said he was flexible. It’s not a lie, but still, his stomach grumbles loudly at the thought of food, or rather the smell that’s wafting into his office when the door opens.

“Man, am I happy to see you,” he says jokingly as Minghao sets a styrofoam box on the corner of his desk. Seungkwan, Vernon, and Chan have piled in as well, making themselves comfortable on the couch in the corner and in the chairs in front of Seungcheol’s desk. They’re incredibly casual considering he’s their manager. They go out for dinner and drinks regularly, even on the weekends, and aren’t afraid to poke fun at each other outside of meetings with higher ups. He considers them friends, really. Friends that prop their feet up on his desk or lie down on his couch at 1pm for a nap. Seungcheol’s too busy stuffing his face to get after them about any of it right now.

“How was the meeting?” Minghao asks. Objectively, he’s the most responsible of his team and Seungcheol often delegates to him when he can’t handle something himself, and is always assured that Minghao will handle it with grace. Seungkwan, Vernon, and Chan look totally unconcerned about the meeting that will impact their future workload right now. They’ll buckle down when they have to, no doubt, but today is not the day.

“Fine. They have a few more requests for the contract, so I added them to the list for a few weeks from now.” Seungcheol doesn’t care if they can understand him through bites. He’ll have to repeat all of this in front of his supervisor and them tomorrow anyway.

“Oh! Speaking of which, guess who we ran into?” Chan pipes up. Seungcheol shrugs. He doesn’t feel like guessing and it doesn’t look like he has to wait long because the three youngest members look excited. “Your friend, Y/N. The one you introduced us to on your birthday? She works in contracts now.”

Seungcheol pauses. Stops chewing all together. Swallows. Drops his chopsticks. And drops his head into his hands. “Oh my god,” he mumbles.

There’s a long pause around the room before Vernon carefully asks, “Is that a bad thing? I thought you two were friends. Did I misread that?”

Seungcheol is still groaning. “Why me? Why now? What did I do to deserve this?”

Minghao’s eyes widen, and then he’s standing up, closing Seungcheol’s office door so this little breakdown isn’t heard by anyone else. “Okay, what’s the deal?” Seungcheol doesn’t respond and Minghao says his name a little more forcefully.

Seungcheol sighs, sitting back up though he looks distressed. His phone rings and he lets it go to voicemail. “It’s a long story,” he says, hoping that they’ll have a short attention span today.

“What? Do you guys have history or something?” Seungkwan asks. When Seungcheol is silent, Seungkwan simply mumbles, “Oh.”

“You know, I thought it was a little suspicious that you didn’t actually describe someone you’ve known your whole life as a friend. We just made the assumption that she was,” Minghao starts. “Tell us,” he all but demands.

“No,” Seungcheol huffs. “Go back to work.” No one moves a muscle, staring at him expectantly. Vernon even appears to be getting more comfortable on the couch. Seungcheol huffs again. “Fine. We used to date. It’s awkward now. End of story.”

Minghao nods, humming. “So it didn’t end well, then.”

Seungcheol scoffs at the man he considers to be his best friend nowadays. “What don’t you get about ‘end of story’?”

“Oh, we get it. We just don’t care,” Seungkwan sasses. “Now what’s the rest of that story? There has to be more.”

Resigned to the fact that they won’t be leaving him alone to crawl in a hole and die anytime soon, Seungcheol leans back in his chair, arms crossed and food forgotten. Y/N had that affect on him, forgetting about food and sleep and everything else important. The phone rings again and he ignores it. Over the ringing, he starts telling them the story.

He’s known her literally since he was born. Their fathers are friends and Seungcheol and Y/N happened to be born a day apart. They were inseparable for their whole lives and started dating when they were in college after he'd pined for an embarrassingly long time. Then came the news that she’d be moving for grad school. Seungcheol admits he hadn't taken it well and couldn’t maintain contact with her once she left. And now she's moved back and every interaction they’ve had to have so far has been totally suffocating to him. But, they share a ton of mutual friends and those interactions are unavoidable.

There’s a few beats of silence before Seungkwan runs his mouth again. “Ah. So you're not over it, then.”

Anger floods Seungcheol’s veins. “What?! It’s been over three years. Of course, I’m over it. I’m better off, in fact,” he insists vehemently. No one says anything and Seungcheol’s lips are falling into a small pout. “It’s just that it’s awkward now. We spent every second together for over 20 years before she left and now I don’t feel like I even know her.”

Chan shrugs. “Well, she’s back. Just get to know her again. I mean, people can change a lot in a few years, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be friends again.” He makes it sound so simple and it makes Seungcheol’s head feel like it might explode.

“No, I won’t be doing that,” he snaps, frustration bleeding into every word.

Minghao nods, shrugging. “Fine, don’t fix a life long friendship,” he says evenly and it takes Seungcheol aback a bit. “But can you be civil? We’ll have to work with her department often when this contract freeze is over. She might even take the lead on some of them.”

Seungcheol chews on the inside of his cheek for a long moment before finally saying, “Yeah, I’ll be civil.” Not that they needed to know, but the last thing he really wanted to be was mean to you. He just wasn’t sure how friendly he could be if it would twist the knife that you left in his chest.

It’s been a week since you started working here, and Seungcheol has managed to not see you yet. Not that it’s stopped his team from asking about it every single day. ‘Have you seen Y/N yet?’ ‘Have you talked to her?’ ‘Just ran into Y/N downstairs!’ He’s been brusque about responding to these little questions and comments, doing his best to appear busy, although his email is slow and his calendar is pretty empty.

It’s Minghao who eventually calls him out for the avoidance. “You know I can see your calendar, right? And you haven’t sent me anything to work on, which usually means you have a good handle on the things on your plate. So how long are you going to avoid seeing her? She’s quite literally below our feet.”

Forever, he wants to say at first. He shrugs and says he has some things he needs to get done so Minghao will let him breathe. But the comment gets him thinking because he never would have said that before. Not in a million years - he wasn’t attached to you for over 20 years for nothing. He’s not sure he really means it now. And everything else aside, not popping in to say hi to someone he’s known for over two decades and is now working on the floor right below him is not so civil. It’s only a matter of time before he runs into you in the hallway, cafeteria, or elevator. And there’s that pesky meeting on his calendar with your department.

So he stops by the tenth floor on his way back up from lunch, knocking on the door after a mini pep talk. Seokmin turns from his computer, greeting him. Seungcheol likes Seokmin. He doesn’t know anyone who doesn’t. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”

“Not bad. Pretty light load right now,” Seokmin answers. “I hear you’ll be changing that soon.”

Seungcheol shrugs good-naturedly with a chuckle. “Yeah, unfortunately, it’s part of my job description.” His eyes wander to the other side of the office and he knows it’s yours. Last month, when he stopped by to ask Seokmin a question, the desk was totally empty with not even a desk chair behind it. Now, it’s got a few succulents, a couple pictures, a cup of brightly colored pens. “Is Y/N in today?”

Seokmin’s eyes perk up and then Seungcheol hears a little cough behind him. He steps back so you can step inside. “Looking for me?” You give him a little smile, setting a coffee mug on Seokmin’s desk and then one on your own.

It kind of burns him up inside how casual you are, but he doesn’t know what he expected, so he clears his throat. “Yeah. I heard you were working here now, so I thought I’d come say hi and welcome you, all that stuff.”

“Oh! That’s nice of you, Seungcheol,” you say in your typical sweet voice, but the words burn him up too. Particularly his full first name. He was never ‘Seungcheol’ before. Always ‘Cheol’. The newfound formality makes him squirm.

“How are you settling in? Is Seokmin being a good roommate?” Seungcheol tries to keep his voice light, teasing even.

Something in your eyes light up and it kind of feels like a gut punch, because in so many ways it feels the same and it so many ways it feels like it never could be the same again. “Oh, Seokmin’s great. We’re besties now.” You pass a friendly smile to Seokmin, who returns it. Yeah, Seungcheol likes Seokmin, but something deep, deep inside him wishes you didn’t. He feels stupid for that. You continue on. “And as for settling in, there hasn't been much to settle into yet. I hear we’ll get something to work on next week though?”

Seungcheol nods. “Yeah. We’ll see you guys and Mrs. Jang next week to talk about contract requirements. Nothing crazy. It’s pretty run of the mill stuff. We’ll see how much you learned in law school.” He hopes it comes off as a joke and not an insult, but he sees the corner of your lips twitch downwards and he knows it’s landed wrong. He’s way too proud and perhaps a little too bitter still to apologize.

Still, you shrug. “It wasn’t cheap or easy, so I hope I learned something.”

That awkwardness that he thinks he’ll never get used to with you starts to seep back in, so he makes an excuse that he needs to get back upstairs, waving to you and Seokmin on the way out. Back at his desk, he slumps, head on his desk again. That definitely twisted the knife.

The meeting twists the knife too. He always knew you were sweet. He’d watch you effortlessly win people over with your charm all his life and had never felt an ounce of bitterness about it. But still, he’s surprised when you win over his supervisor within just a few minutes before the meeting even starts. Mr. Park is a hard ass and it took Seungcheol nearly two years of tireless work to win his approval and get the management position that he has now. You won him over simply by mentioning your most recent alma mater and speaking fondly of it. Turns out that Mr. Park went there as well for his MBA. Small world.

Beyond that, you don’t say much in this meeting. It’s up to Seungcheol’s team to present the contract requirements and hand them off to your department, and it’s a blessedly short meeting because your department will need some time to draft things up and gather questions. Seungcheol takes a long lunch after the meeting to walk around the block and work off the feelings that are bubbling inside of him. He also ignores his teams’ stares when he passes by their office on the way back to his. They aren’t subtle about how every single one of them peer over their cubicle walls like they’ve been waiting for him to come back.

It’s almost time to go home when Minghao comes in by himself. “So. That went well this morning, didn't it?” He starts conversationally, sitting in one of the chairs on the other side of Seungcheol’s desk.

“Sure,” Seungcheol says shortly, trying to wrap up an email. “Jang’s team has always been good. I didn't expect any trouble.”

“Oh, I’m not concerned about that. I was talking about you being civil with your ex… whatever you guys are. You were very smooth, actually. Not that I’m supposed to tell you, but the kids were taking bets.”

Seungcheol stops typing, looking out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t you guys have work to do? I’m sure there's a rule about betting in the personnel manual anyway.” He doesn’t bother reminding Minghao that he's only a year or two older than any of them and calling them ‘kids’ is a stretch, regardless of how much more responsibility Minghao pulls around here.

“No,” Minghao chuckles. “You haven’t assigned us anything this week. They’ve been playing darts for days. Tournament style. A few people from other departments have joined.” Seungcheol rolls his eyes because he most certainly told them to take that dart board home. He doesn’t want to explain to his supervisor or anyone else really. “Anyway, it was a bet about paying for lunch. No money is directly trading hands. I looked it up, it’s technically allowed.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, hitting send and then leaning back in his seat. “Don’t make me go to HR to find out if you're right, Hao. There’s a difference between ‘allowed’ and ‘loophole’.” Minghao looks totally unaffected by the threat, so Seungcheol moves on. “Who won the bet then?”

“Chan. Seungkwan bet that you’d be mean. Vernon bet that you’d look totally lovesick. Chan bet that you’d be avoidant.”

“Avoidant?” Seungcheol reels back. He can’t deny the urge to be both mean and lovesick, but avoidant? “How did that one win? I sat across from her. I talked to her.”

“No,” Minghao shakes his head. “You at no point spoke directly to her. Didn’t really look at her either.” Seungcheol falls silent because he’s not sure what to say. “I understand that you didn’t want to be honest with the kids, but you know I can keep a secret. So what’s really going on?”

He feels like he’s 22 again, sitting at the table in his crappy student apartment, about to get a knife shoved in his chest. If only he could go back and give himself a heads up not to think too hard about the future. He’s looking out of the window behind him when he starts talking. “You know, I was planning to propose? Maybe not right away, but we’d talked about moving in together and it felt right, you know? Then she rips my heart out and moves across the world a few weeks later. Never mind the fact that we’d been attached at the hip for our whole lives. It would have hurt without the dating.”

Minghao hums sympathetically. “I can understand some bitterness.” It’s not some, he wants to say. He’s been choking on it for three years if he thinks about it for too long. “How long had you been into her?”

Seungcheol shakes his head, shrugging. “A decade? I don’t know. It was always going to be her, it seems. Which makes everything harder.”

“Makes some sense,” Minghao says, and Seungcheol snaps his head to him, looking confused. “Of what little dating you’ve done since then, nothing has lasted. You didn’t seem that interested in the first place, really. It was always going to be her and it’s still her. That’s okay, really, if you just come to terms with it.”

That bitterness is constricting his throat more and more by the second. “How the fuck do I come to terms with that? I’m angry, Hao. It’s been three years and I’m still angry.”

“So, tell her,” Minghao shrugs. Seungcheol scoffs again, getting sick of how casual his friends are about this. “No, I’m serious. Lay it all out on the table so maybe you two can salvage something out of this awkward situation. You’re telling me you don’t want to recover anything with someone you’ve known your entire life? Nothing at all? You’d prefer to pretend she doesn't exist?”

He doesn’t know. He couldn’t be your friend when you left, and he doesn't think he can be your friend now. The possibility of being more with you again now that you’re back flashes through his mind like you two can pick up where you left off and he wants to light the idea on fire. No, he wants to light himself on fire before he gives you the chance to hurt him like that again. Still, he hates the longing that he feels, thinking about what it was like when it was good. It was good for a long time, even when it was unrequited.

Minghao must realize that he won’t get an answer right now, so he slaps the edge of the desk lightly, standing up. “Come on. We’re going out for drinks. You look like you could use one and you’ve probably just been wiggling your mouse all day anyway.”

Seungcheol locks his computer and grabs his things. He could use a few drinks, actually, as long as his friends can avoid this conversation in front of him.

Seungcheol gets up early on Saturday. Normally, he would sleep in and just do a few things around his apartment that were neglected throughout the week. Maybe go out with his friends later that night. But he’s been tense for weeks now, snapping at little things only to want to wallow in despair later when alone in his office. Minghao’s bluntly told him he’s being unpleasant, so he’s been hitting the gym harder lately to work out some of this frustration. He plans to go put himself through a long, excruciating work out since he has the time for it today.

He runs for way longer on the treadmill than he normally would, but there’s something satisfying about the thud of his feet hitting the track that keeps him going until he feels unsteady. He’s dripping sweat by the time he gets to the weights and he stacks them high, going heavier than he usually would. Each pump of iron reduces some of the stress and by the time he walks out, he’s drop dead tired and aching all over, but his mind is blissfully blank.

He stops by a coffee shop around the corner and gets his order to-go. When he comes out of the elevator on his apartment floor, he comes to a halt fast. There’s a couch in the way. Must be a new neighbor, he thinks. Someone moved out a few months ago and the unit next to his has been vacant since.

Seungcheol sips his coffee, patiently watching the couch move. And nearly spits out that coffee all over the couch when he sees whose carrying the tail end of the couch. “Mingyu? What are you doing here?” He asks, surprised.

Mingyu’s eyes are bright, despite the struggle of maneuvering the couch. “Hey, Cheol! It’s move in day!”

“Oh!” Seungcheol cries out. “You’re moving in? Is Wonwoo coming with you?”

“No!” Wonwoo’s voice echoes down the hall. He must be on the front end of the couch. “I would never want to be your neighbor. We aren’t the ones moving anyway,” he laughs.

Seungcheol can step out of the elevator now and trails behind them. “Mean. I thought we were friends,” he laughs. “Who’s my new neighbor then? Anyone I know?” He kind of assumes it is since he shares so many mutual friends with them.

“Help us get this around the corner and find out,” Mingyu grunts. Seungcheol drops his things off in his apartment and meets them next door, helping them angle the furniture into the doorway.

The couch is inside the main room of the apartment when Wonwoo finally yells out. “Hey, come tell us where you want this!”

“Coming!” A voice calls out from down the hall. Seungcheol’s stomach drops. Who else would Wonwoo and Mingyu be moving in, now that he thinks about it? You barrel around the corner, lugging a box in your hands. It lands on the floor in the corner with a thud. You look surprised to see him. “Oh, hey, Cheol. Joining the move in party?”

He knows you're not serious, but still he shrugs because he's at a loss for words. Wonwoo’s clearing his throat to bring the focus back to the task at hand. You gesture to a particular spot and Wonwoo and Mingyu slide it into place. “That's the last of the big stuff,” Mingyu announces. “Just boxes left now.” He turns to Seungcheol. “Got plans or are you up for a few trips? Y/N has promised beer and pizza as payment.”

Seungcheol doesn’t give a shit about beer or pizza or payment. He’s spiraling a little because he just started feeling better after a long work out, damn it! But he’s never been known to turn down helping you, and he could really use a second work out now. So he makes multiple trips downstairs to the truck, helping them get everything in. And he does stay for a beer and a couple slices of pizza, but is really relieved when he gets a message from Chan asking if anyone wants to go out for drinks. He does, if only to have a good reason to escape your apartment.

There’s a knock on his door on Thursday night. When he opens it, his eyes flare in surprise. You look a little awkward waiting outside. He’s done some serious avoiding since you moved in on Saturday and either you’ve let him or you’re doing your own avoiding up until now. Still, he gives you an awkward smile. “Hey, Y/N. What’s up?”

“Sorry to bother you,” you start, shifting from foot to foot. “I just checked the mail and found a note that a package was delivered, but I think it might have actually come to you? Did you happen to get anything?”

He holds the door open, gesturing for you to step inside. “I got something, but haven't looked at it yet. Come in and I’ll check.”

You trail after him to his small dining room table that resembles more of a desk, what with the clutter of mail, an assortment of snacks, and a laptop. Seungcheol’s kept his second room as a spare bedroom because his friends like to crash here when they go out, so this has become an impromptu workspace over the years. Still, he tries to subtly organize things as he reaches for the small package, picking it up to read the label. “Oh yeah, this is for you,” he says, handing it over.

“Thanks,” you say, relieved. An awkward beat passes and you look like you might bail now that you have what you came here for. But Seungcheol opens his mouth first for some unknown reason.

“How are you settling in?”

Your shock is clear for a split second but you recover quickly. “Oh, it’s fine. Nicer than the apartment I had back in California, that's for sure. Thanks for asking.”

“Of course.” He’s surprised by how he means it. “Let me know if I can help with anything as you get unpacked.”

You don't recover from your shock this time. “You’d… do that? Help me, I mean.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Y/N, when have I ever not helped you? I’ve been doing that since before we both could walk.”

Your eyes look a little watery as you bite your lip. It’s a look he’s seen before and it tugs at his heartstrings a little. “I just figured things might have changed too much for that to be true anymore, you know? I would understand if it has.”

Your acceptance that he might not want to be in your life anymore twists the knife more than any of your casualness since you’ve moved back. It makes him angry because he never wanted space from you in the first place. Sternly he says, “It hasn’t changed. Not like that anyway. Just call or come over, okay?”

After a few beats, you finally nod. “Thanks, Cheol. And thanks for the package. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. Have a good night, okay?” He watches you close the door behind you on your way out, but he doesn’t move for a long time. It’s hours later while he’s lying in bed when he remembers. He grabs his phone off the charger, unblocking you on everything. It’s kind of hard for you to reach out for help if he doesn’t do that. And he kind of hopes you will call, even if it just for a package mixed up in the mail. Even if it hurts to be around you, because Seungcheol realizes Minghao’s been right with all of his lectures lately. He should really try to salvage something with you.

You send him a text the following Sunday. Initially, you’re trying to make sure he still has the same number - which he does. Then you ask if he’s up for hanging some things on the wall for you. You say you’ll feed him as payment, but that has so little to do with him sliding on shoes and walking next door at 10am. You actually look happy to see him when you open your door, not just neutral like you have been since moving back.

“Hey, Cheol. Come on in.” Once he’s in and his shoes are off, you’re leading him to your kitchen. “Thanks for doing this. Wonwoo’s threatened me not to climb on anything, which would make it nearly impossible for me to do this myself.”

This brings some levity to the situation for Seungcheol in a weird way. Lovingly making fun of her clumsiness, just like he did for years and years before she left. The familiarity is warm and suffocating at the same time, but still he chuckles. “And he’s right for threatening you about that. You’d be dangerous on a ladder or stool.”

You’re chuckling too, placing a mug of coffee in front of him. “I know. I ruin everything. I’d probably put extra holes in the wall too before I break a bone. Pancakes okay?”

“Sure,” Seungcheol shrugs, sipping on his coffee. It brings a stupid wave of emotions because you remembered how he likes his coffee and has prepared it to perfection. He tells himself that it’s because you have years of practice in college and it shouldn’t be something special but it is. He’s thankful that you have your back turned, grabbing things from the cabinet, and miss that it’s made him a little misty-eyed. “How are you liking the job?”

You glance over your shoulder and shrug. “It’s alright.”

Your disinterested tone surprises him. He assumes you took this job because it was a direction you wanted to go after graduating, but you lack the passion he would have expected if that was the case. “Not what you had in mind?”

“No, it’s not that,” you drawl out, sighing. “My number one priority was coming home. In some ways, I took the first offer I got to do so. I’m not sure exactly what I want to do with my degree now that I have it.” Your laugh is incredibly humorless and he’s sure your expression would crush him if he could see it. “Isn’t that stupid?”

“No,” he says genuinely. It does burn him up inside to think that you might have left for nothing in a way, but he never wants to tell you that. In moments of clarity while you were gone, he did feel some pride that you were pursuing something you seemed passionate about. And on the heels of that, regrets that he didn’t just tell you that when you made your little announcement. “When did that change though? A few years ago, you were so excited for the program and where it would take you.”

He sees your shoulders tense at the mention of the breakup, no matter how delicately he was trying to tiptoe around it. But any discussion of her leaving would always tie back to that. “I guess I didn’t realize how many different things I could do with my degree outside of being a lawyer. I always had this image that I’d take the bar and find a practice and be in court everyday. I was about halfway through my degree when I realized the traditional career path might not be for me. Everyone keeps asking when I’m taking the bar and I’m not sure what to tell them, because it might be never now.”

Seungcheol mulls this over for a long time, letting you mix the batter, pour it into the pan, wait, flip, repeat. You have a decent stack of pancakes before he finally speaks. “That’s okay, Y/N. You shouldn’t stress about that. I mean, look at Jang. She’s got a law degree and has been in Contracts for longer than we’ve been alive. The non-traditional path is fine.”

“Maybe,” you mumble, flipping off the burner and bringing the full plate over to him. “Want anymore coffee? Fruit?” It’s clear to him that this part of the conversation is over, so he lets you bounce around the kitchen for a few things before finally sitting across from him. That tinge of awkwardness is still ever present, but he’s relieved that you two can move on to something else. Wonwoo and Mingyu. Seokmin. Seungcheol’s friends. Law school. It sort of, kind of, maybe feels like he can be your friend again, even if it looks and feels a little different.

After breakfast, he helps you clean up. Then he lets you hand him dozens of things to hang throughout the apartment. Your diplomas. Photos of your family. Photos of you and your brothers. A few of you and him as kids, teenagers, and college students, which makes him misty-eyed again. A couple with what he assumes were friends from law school. A few of you and Jeonghan, someone you both went to high school with.

“Didn’t know you knew Jeonghan that well,” he asks, hoping it sounds casual.

“We went to law school in California together. We were close. Still are.”

Seungcheol does his best to mask his awkwardness by teasing. “He had a massive crush on you back in high school, you know?”

You chuckle, handing him another thing to hang. “He told me.”

“Didn’t make a move, did he?” He’s joking, at first anyway. But you’re quiet as you hand him the next thing.

“I guess? We dated for a while. Not that he told me about that crush until it was already over,” you finally admit.

The knife twists. “Oh. Well, I’m sure he’s bummed you left.” He bites his tongue immediately because he didn't mean it like that. Your silence tells him you took it exactly how he wished you didn’t. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he mumbles, abandoning the pride that would usually keep him biting his tongue.

You shake your head up at him. “It was deserved. I’m sorry if it’s awkward to talk about him. Or anything really.”

He focuses on the hook on the back of the next frame. “It shouldn’t be. Of course you dated while you were in California.”

Another pregnant pause. “Did you date?”

He shrugs and it’s genuinely casual because there’s not much to say. “Here and there. Nothing really stuck.”

You hum. “That’s it, I think. Get off the stool before you fall.”

The scolding makes him laugh. “I’m not you. I won’t be falling off.” Still, he climbs down, returning the stool to the kitchen. You meet him at the door, probably assuming he wants to go since he’s been here for hours now. “Thank you, again. You’ve kept my baby brother off my back for now.”

The lightheartedness of the comment crushes him for so many reasons, but mostly that he spent years keeping Wonwoo and Mingyu, and often Bohyuk, off your back. Another thing that’s familiar. He desperately tries to match your lightheartedness when he says, “No problem. You know where to find me.”

At least later today you’ll know where to find him, anyway. He changes into gym clothes and hides out at the gym, working out until he can’t work out anymore.

It’s Christmas and the tradition has always been for the Jeons and Chois to get together. They did it when Seungcheol and his brother and you and your brothers were kids, and it’s a tradition that they’ve maintained despite all of the kids being in their 20s now.

Seungcheol offers to drive you to this get-together. He’s been doing that a lot lately, often times without realizing before the words are out of his mouth. If it’s raining or snowing, he’s offering to drive you to and from work because it’s right there. When the two of you go out with Wonwoo and Mingyu for dinner, he’s driving you home because it’s literally right there. When he needs to go to the grocery store, he asks you if you need anything or want to tag along, because it’s right there. You get the point. You’re right there and he can never seem to forget it.

So Seungcheol waits in your living room while you finish getting ready. He’s already got the gifts you both have purchased for everyone in the car. You come down the hall in a whirlwind, flinging on a coat over your Christmas sweater, tugging on boots. “I’m ready, I’m ready!”

It makes him laugh genuinely. The awkwardness has faded for the most part, replaced by warmth, much like it was before you left. “Not like they’re going to start with out us.”

You scoff, grabbing your bag. “A very Leo attitude of you to have.”

“And you don't have that attitude?” He chortles, meeting you at the door, taking your keys from you to lock up since you seem frazzled.

You snort. “No. Have you met my brothers? Bohyuk will eat both your portion and mine before we can get there if they don't watch him.”

“You act like both my parents and yours aren’t making enough to feed a small army,” Seungcheol scoffs again, leading you into the parking garage. When both of you arrive, it's kind of like you never left. There are even moments where he forgets that you actually did. Watching you put your youngest brother in a headlock for stealing food off your plate. Wonwoo replacing the food from his own plate while you have your back turned. You getting Seungcheol a drink when you get up to get a refill for yourself. Seungcheol’s older brother Seungmin even comments that it’s like the four of you are still children. Mentions of law school can’t even touch the good mood Seungcheol’s in when you both walk to the car much, much later that night to go home.

You’re a little bit giggly when you collapse into the front seat and he can’t help but chuckle. “Baby, I think you had a little too much eggnog.” You roll your eyes dramatically, tugging on your seat belt to try buckling it. It's not going well, so Seungcheol leans into the passenger side to do it for you. “So stubborn,” he chuckles again. “Watch your arm,” he warns, closing the door. Once in his own seat he starts up the car, blasts the heat, and gets on the road. “Did you have fun? First Christmas back with everyone.”

“I did,” you sniffle, and it makes his head snap to you. That’s right. You cry when you drink. The tiniest mention of something that makes you emotional balloons into tears. He’d lost count of how many times he’d let you curl up into his side until the emotion had passed, soothing you along the way. He can’t do that, because he’s driving and because it wouldn’t be a good idea anyway. So he reaches over, palm up for you to hold and you do on instinct. “I missed it. Holidays here, I mean. Hannie and Joshua tried to make Christmas fun there, but it wasn’t the same, you know?”

“I can imagine,” he says soothingly. “It was nice though. You hadn’t seen Bohyuk yet since you moved back, right?”

“He’s a little shit,” you chuckle, but Seungcheol knows the statement is full of love. “It was nice to see Seungmin, too. I hadn’t seen him in a long time.”

Seungcheol hums. “He asks about you all the time. Says he always thought you were a sweet kid.”

“I’m sweet now,” you whine.

This makes a laugh bubble up Seungcheol’s throat. “I know you are, baby.”

You hum, looking kind of sleepy as you lean your head back. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”

Seungcheol blinks, then realizes what he's said. Not once, but twice. He drives for a few long seconds in silence. “I’m sorry. It slipped. Habit, I guess.”

You’re sniffling again. “No, I like it. It reminds me that maybe you don't hate me.”

He’s lost in thought for the next few minutes, parking in the garage, leading you inside. He takes your keys from you, letting you into your apartment. He helps you change because he’s seen it all already and you’re totally unfazed by it. He helps you get into bed, tucking you in a bit. You’re already half asleep when he strokes your hair a few times. “I don’t hate you. Get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Cheol.” He can barely make your words out before you’re really out like a light.

The gym is closed so he just lies in bed staring at the ceiling for a while. It’s true. He doesn’t hate you. Could never, really. He just doesn’t know what that means.

#scoups #seungcheol #choi seungcheol #scoups x reader #seungcheol x reader #choi seungcheol x reader #seventeen #svt #seventeen x reader #svt x reader

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kimberleyjean · 4 months ago

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The Price of a Life: Death and Dying in Good Omens

In this meta I want to take a closer look at one of the prominent themes I’ve spotted running through Season 2 of Good Omens. While S2 has been billed as the gentle and romantic bridge towards S3, in a few ways it actually had darker tones than S1. If that’s your cup of tea - read on!

What is the value of a human life?

This is a question which has been pondered by philosophers far back into the reaches of history. More recently, economists have attempted to put a price on human life, which is then used when justifying the various societal costs associated with governing a population (i.e. healthcare, education). These two different schools of thought are sometimes at odds. Immanuel Kant proposed that humans have invaluable dignity, but not a price - being “not merely something to be used for the ends of others, or traded on the market”[1]. In opposition, value of life calculations, by definition, put a price on the value of an individual.

What side does Good Omens S1 take?

In Good Omens Season 1, one of the significant moral dilemmas, at least for Aziraphale and Crowley, was about whether or not to kill the antichrist.

I've never actually... killed anything. I don't think I could. Not even to save everything? One life... against the universe.

Following their failed attempts to influence Adam’s childhood development, once at the airfield, Aziraphale believes it to be a foregone conclusion that Adam should be killed - eliminate one to save the many. Of course, their attempts fail and Adam faces off against Death, the Four Horsepersons and Satan himself, eventually getting his own way. However, the moral question posed about killing Adam never reaches a definite conclusion.

With the flashback scenes that S1 added to the book, we are shown this same theme when Aziraphale and Crowley attend the crucifixion. The crucifixion is shown in agonising detail here, and gives us an empathetic look at the sacrifice of one life for, presumably, the overall good of humanity. (Although, what metaphysical impact Jesus’ death had in the Good Omens universe isn’t exactly clear). We see Aziraphale and Crowley stand idly by while the Great Plan is enacted.

Does S2 do things differently?

While Good Omens S1 dabbles lightly in the philosophical question about the value of life, Season 2 picks up this thread time and time again - sometimes attaching some numbers!

One of the key mysteries of present-day S2 is the mammoth miracle performed by Aziraphale and Crowley. Registering on the scales at 25 Lazari, this is 25 times the cost of human life in Heaven's accounting system. Presumably, one Lazari is the amount used when Jesus resurrected Lazarus of Bethany four days after his death. As we'll see, this attaching of numbers to human lives is then repeated throughout each of the minisodes.

Firstly we have the flashback sequence with Job and his children. Aziraphale makes the argument that just doubling the number of new children wouldn’t adequately compensate Job and Sitis for the loss of their existing children - since they “quite like the old ones”. The value of human life is not a simple accounting exercise and one life cannot be substituted for another, in the case of the people you love - they’re priceless.

We see this same idea demonstrated again throughout the Resurrectionist minisode. We first meet Elspeth MacKinnon when she is exhuming a body to sell, in order to buy her and her partner a slightly better life worth living. However, the surgeon Dalrymple is not above haggling over human remains. To him this is a business transaction, in which dead bodies are worth no more than five pounds a pop. To Dalrymple, the cost of saving future lives is that others should risk the grave gun gathering bodies which he may then dissect.

Aziraphale is first opposed to anyone being dug up, but then is won over by Dalrymple’s argument, at least until Wee Morag is killed and suddenly for sale. As Crowley says, echoing the Job minisode, “it’s a bit different when it’s someone you know”. In opposition to Dalrymple’s accounting exercises, and, indeed, the 90 guineas with which Aziraphale buys Elspeth's life, Crowley is offering an alternative view. A life is of higher value when it is someone we, personally, know and care for.

We also witness this theme during the 1941 flashback / Nazi-zombie minisode. The magic shop owner warns Aziraphale that he is about to take on a death-defying trick - one which people have died trying, no less! “Your life is worth a lot more than seven pounds five shillings,” argues the shopkeeper. Instead, it turns out that a customer’s life is worth about 27 pounds and five shillings, since he more than willingly accepts that offer - “on your head be it!”.

As human beings, the price we are willing to place on an individual life, how much we are willing to sacrifice for that person, is all dependent on how well we know them.

“He’s just an angel I know”

But it’s the knowing that makes all the difference.

“It’s a bit different when it’s someone you know”

So, for his life, what price are you willing to pay?

What if it was “one life... against the universe”?

Lastly, death is the price that all humans must pay, no matter what. As the Metatron asks at the end of S2 - “Does anyone ever ask for Death?”. But those are thoughts worthy of a future post.

Thank you to everyone at the @ineffable-detective-agency as always, but especially @lookingatacupoftea and @embracing-the-ineffable for their feedback on this post.

[1] Nussbaum, M., & Pellegrino, E. D. (2008). Human dignity and bioethics: essays commissioned by the President's Council on Bioethics. JAMA, 300, 2922.

#good omens meta #good omens #go meta #good omens season 2 #good omens edinburgh #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens speculation #good omens 1941 #good omens theory #good omens theories #good omens job

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thatsonemorbidcorvid · 1 year ago

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A few weeks after #MeToo exploded on the internet, an old friend and I did what so many women did during that time: We got on the phone and finally began to acknowledge what had happened to us. My friend shared a story of hers from college. Back then, we’d all just considered it a “bad date,” but she now recognized it as sexual assault. She also shared that at nearly every single job she’s had since college, a boss or co-worker has sexually harassed her.

The month before our conversation, I had published an essay sharing my own experience of sexual assault while traveling abroad. Like my friend, it was not my only experience—it was one of many. But I’d only included the one, because in the early stages of #MeToo, the idea of sharing one assault story still felt risky. The idea of sharing more than one felt culturally impossible. My friend agreed.

“As a woman, you’re only allowed one #MeToo moment,” she told me. “After that, people begin assuming the problem must be you.”

Out of the many celebrity #MeToo stories told in the past five years, only a handful have acknowledged the experience of multiple assaults. In an HBO documentary, Alanis Morisette spoke about repeated incidents of statuatory rape that happened when she first entered the music industry, all of which “fell on deaf ears” when she tried seeking accountability. In her memoir, Selma Blair wrote about a teacher who sexually assaulted her, as well as the many men who raped her in her 20s. In an interview with Dazed, Amber Rose said, “I cannot even count how many times a famous guy touched me inappropriately.” On a social media post during the Kavanaugh hearings, Tatum O’Neal wrote about her multiple assaults: “It was not my fault when I was 5, 6, 12, 13, 15.”

Stories that emphasize the ubiquitous nature of assault are vital in a world that so often focuses on one dramatic episode, with visceral details of the violation and an easily identifiable villain. This amplifies the false idea that assault is just a singular, horrifying incident—when in reality, many of us experience it as part of a larger, more insidious culture.

Once a person is assaulted, research shows they’re more likely to be assaulted again, a phenomenon called “revictimization.” Around 50 percent of children who survive sexual assault reexperience it later in life, and even a single incident of sexual assault in adulthood can increase the risk for it to happen again. As psychologist A.E. Jaffe and her colleagues wrote in a 2019 paper on revictimization: “Perhaps the most consistent predictor of future trauma exposure is a history of prior trauma exposure.”

Why would this be? In lieu of a good answer for it (more on that in a moment), we often blame victims themselves. We easily justify these statistics by suggesting that anyone who has survived multiple incidents of violence must be asking for it—either by acting promiscuously, hanging around too many shady men, or getting themselves into precarious situations. One survivor I interviewed told me that though she received some form of victim-blaming in response to all three sexual assaults she experienced, she noticed a stark decrease in support each time it happened again.

“After the second and third, some people began saying, ‘What’s happening in your life to attract that?’ or ‘Do you have enough awareness to know when men want to harm you?’ ” she told me. “One person even asked why I was ‘trusting men so much.’ ” Another friend who experienced multiple assaults went through a similar line of questioning, only with herself. “After so many times, I began asking myself, ‘What is it about me that brings on these experiences?’ ” she said. I told her I ask myself that question all the time.

In his essay “Spectator” for Roxane Gay’s anthology on sexual assault stories, Not That Bad, Brandon Taylor wrote about his best friend telling him she was beginning to think she was “just the kind of person this stuff happens to.” For a long time, that’s what I believed, too. As a travel writer and a single bisexual woman, I figured that at some point, I’d pay the price. Eventually, I’d have to face some element of physical harm—wasn’t that the obvious trade-off for attempting a liberated life? To me, survivorship—more than resilience, bravery, or strength—often felt like resignation.

But in some cases, it’s exactly that resignation that influences repeat assaults. While there’s no conclusive evidence as to why revictimization happens, we do know that normalizing assault can contribute to future harm. If a survivor has not internalized their experience as exceptionally traumatic, they are less likely to advocate for themselves, or demand accountability if it happens again. If they, like me, accept violence as an obvious fact of their lives, then when it repeats, they don’t seek the support they need to process and heal from each experience.

In an article for Psychology Today, psychotherapist and clinical social worker Keith Fadelici called this a “cognitive accommodation to ongoing violence.” The trauma continuously gets downplayed as victims attempt to normalize their assaults, which helps them feel more in control. “This dissociative process is a common symptom of PTSD,” Fadelici told me. “And can also later make survivors less capable of detecting risk by numbing the fear that is supposed to trigger alertness to danger.”

Oppression also plays a significant role. Those with marginalized identities are more at risk for experiencing assault in general, and thus more likely to experience it again. LGBTQ+ people are four times more likely to be assaulted than the general population (bisexual women and trangender people also are far more likely to experience assault than gay men and lesbian women). Rates of sexual assault for Indigenous women are three times higher than non-Indigenous women, and Black women are much more likely to experience assault than white women. Neurodivergent people are 11 times more likely than neurotypical people to be victims of violent crimes.

“If this is coming up repeatedly with one individual, it might be because that person is within systems and structures that facilitate assault more often,” said Jaffe. For those of us living with any of these identities, we normalize violence because living under oppression is consistently violent. In order to survive, a “cognitive accommodation to ongoing violence” is necessary. We train ourselves to get used to it, and move on.

After #MeToo, I began reading and rereading the legal definitions for rape and sexual assault to make sense of what had happened to me. Any sexual contact that occurred without consent constitutes assault? Any sexual contact that included penetration without the other person’s consent constitutes rape? The criteria felt almost too easy. Under these standards, I had been raped twice, and assaulted several other times—all stories I had not yet fully internalized, and was not yet ready to tell. Dozens of legal crimes had been committed against my body, but that idea felt so unfathomable I hardly knew what to do next.

In the three years after publishing that first story, I experienced more incidents, and I still don’t know what to call them. I don’t feel comfortable firmly declaring them as “assault.” I don’t like how it connects so deeply with an oppressive legal system, and how it automatically connotes some excessive form of violence. Even today, it seems too strong and rough a word for how these episodes played out: often with little physicality, with only brief conflict and polite turns toward quick forgiveness, until weeks later when I’d unpack the severity of what had happened. As I began sharing more of these stories with close friends, I would catch myself saying “technically” before saying “I was assaulted,” acknowledging the semantic disconnect I still felt. This hesitation is common among many survivors: As one 2019 meta-analysis showed, rates of victimization increase when participants are asked “behaviorally descriptive questions” about what happened to them, rather than questions that use terms like “rape” and “assault.”

Sometimes, people ask “How many times all together?” I say “six-ish,” a number that captures the amount of experiences that have dramatically changed the way I relate to my body—how it experiences intimacy, how it engages with the world: The one that happened at work, just weeks into my first job out of college. The one at a festival in India. The one while getting a deep-tissue massage. The one at a New York play party. The one so common I learned it has its own name (“stealthing“). The one with a lover I had loved and trusted deeply. The one with another lover, a violation that was not sexual but physical and thus, as yet another nonconsensual act done against my body, still felt so connected to all the rest.

And this still does not take into account every time I was nonconsensually touched in public—the men who pulled and grabbed my arms, my back, my butt, my shoulders to try to get my attention on the street—nor the times I’ve been followed, harassed, physically threatened by strangers on the street.

The accumulation of more and more of these events creates a compounding impact, one where each additional incident begins to amplify the ones before. For me and most survivors I spoke to, we are not healing from trauma—we are learning how to exist in a world where trauma continues to accumulate.

Every survivor I interviewed for this piece told me they fully accept the potential that they’ll experience assault in the future. Still, most of them admitted to me that it’s still easier to only share just one story with the world—never the full range of what has happened to them. “When you only have one story, the enemy is the rapist,” one survivor told me. “But when you have several people with a lifetime of these experiences, the enemy is all of us.”

This is what we mean when we talk about rape culture. The first thing we can do to start to dismantle it is to recognize what we’re up against.

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