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creatur3featur3 · 27 days ago

Text

ੈ✩Street Rat p3✩ੈ

word count: 5.4k

A/N: OKAY HEADS UP- THIS PART FOCUSES PURELY ON STREET RAT, THERE IS ONLY MENTION OF SEVIKA AT THE END MY APOLOGIES!! ANYWAYS- This series is actually becoming one of my biggest pieces of work, I never expected the amount of love this series had started to accumulate, with that being said- I am so grateful for all of the support and encouragement I have been receiving to continue writing and working on this series. thank you everyone for continuing to support me and my writing, I plan to continue to work on this series for as long as the creative juices keep flowing!

warnings: character death, mentions of alcoholism, child abuse, implications of PTSD

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

The scent of fresh bread and the faint hum of laughter filled the small but cozy home in Piltover. Your mother was at the kitchen table, rolling out dough with practiced hands while your two sisters—Nia, the youngest, and Sera, the middle child—sat nearby, squabbling over some silly game they’d made up. You sat at the edge of the table, carving tiny figures out of leftover wood scraps, the little knife in your hand wobbling slightly as you focused.

"Careful with that, sweetheart," your mother warned, her voice soft but firm. She glanced up from her dough, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Last thing we need is you losing a finger before supper.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “I’ve got it, Mama. Besides, look!” You held up the crudely shaped figurine of a bird, the wings lopsided but unmistakable.

Sera gasped, her eyes lighting up as she leaned over the table. “It’s a crow! Can I have it?”

“No way,” Nia cut in with a smirk, grabbing it first. “She made it for me. Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t make it for either of you!” you huffed, trying to snatch it back, but Nia was quicker.

“Girls,” your mother said, her voice calm but with a warning note that made all of you freeze. She shook her head with a small laugh, brushing flour from her hands. “Honestly, it’s like having three tornadoes in the house.”

You settled back into your chair, muttering something under your breath about Nia being a thief. She shot you a wink, and Sera stuck her tongue out at both of you, her childish laughter filling the room.

For a moment, everything felt perfect.

But perfection never lasted long.

The door creaked open, and the warm, lively air in the room seemed to cool instantly. Your father's heavy boots echoed against the floorboards, a sharp contrast to the light laughter that had just filled the space. His face was flushed, the smell of liquor faint but unmistakable as he stood in the doorway. His eyes, clouded by whatever weighed on him, flicked to each of you before landing on your mother.

She stiffened, the rolling pin in her hands faltering for just a moment before she straightened her posture and forced a smile. “You’re home early,” she said, her voice even but lacking its usual warmth.

Your father grunted, stepping further into the room. “Work ended early,” he said curtly, though his tone carried no satisfaction. His gaze landed on the table, and his brow furrowed at the scattered wood shavings and half-carved scraps. “What’s this mess?”

You flinched slightly but didn’t reply. Nia, ever the bold one, sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “She’s making things, that’s all. It’s not hurting anyone.”

His eyes snapped to her, sharp as a blade. “Did I ask you to speak, Nia?” The tension in the room thickened, and even Sera, usually oblivious to such moods, shrank back in her seat.

“Leave her alone,” your mother interjected softly, stepping between him and the table. Her hands rested on her hips, flour smudged across her apron. “The girls aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Your father’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching at his side as though grappling with some invisible force. He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “And you,” he muttered, “sitting there wasting time on nonsense. You think those little carvings are going to put food on this table?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came out. Your throat felt tight, your hands gripping the small knife and wooden bird as though they were your only anchor.

“Mama likes them,” Sera’s small voice piped up, breaking the silence. She sounded hesitant but defiant, her wide eyes darting between the two of you.

“Enough!” he barked, and she flinched, her little hands clutching the edge of the table.

Your mother stepped closer to him, her voice lowering but steady. “That’s enough, Richard. You don’t talk to them like that.”

For a moment, the two of them locked eyes, a silent battle playing out in the space between them. Then, with a growl of frustration, he turned away, stomping toward the small sitting room without another word.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Your mother let out a slow breath, smoothing her apron as she turned back to the table. “Girls,” she said softly, her voice strained but kind. “Why don’t you take your things and go play in the other room?”

Sera slid out of her chair immediately, clutching her little game pieces. Nia hesitated, her defiant gaze lingering on the doorway where your father had disappeared. Then she grabbed your arm, pulling you up. “Come on,” she whispered, her voice a mix of annoyance and protectiveness.

You followed, clutching the bird tightly in your hand. As the three of you retreated to the small bedroom you shared, the faint sound of your mother’s voice could be heard again, calm and soothing as though trying to mend what had just unraveled.

Nia shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a scowl. “He’s such a—” She cut herself off, glancing at Sera, who was quietly settling on her cot. “...a grump,” she finished lamely.

You sat on your own cot, turning the wooden bird over in your hands. Its lopsided wings suddenly seemed so silly, so pointless. But then Sera crawled up beside you, her big eyes hopeful.

“Can I have it now?” she whispered.

You hesitated, glancing at Nia, who shrugged with a small smile. “Go on,” she said. “Let her have it.”

With a sigh, you handed the bird to Sera. Her face lit up, and for a moment, the weight in your chest lifted.

Outside, the muffled sound of raised voices carried through the thin walls, but here, in this tiny shared space, the three of you held onto each other and the fragile threads of something better.

“Why doesn't Mama do anything about Dad?” Nia asks, your stomach churning at the thought.

“Because dad is a big pile a shi-”

“Sera!-” you hiss softly, Sera throwing her hands up in defiance, “What?! it's true!”

She- wasn't wrong…

suddenly a loud crash out what sounded like a glass bottle being broken, and your father’s unmistakable booming slurred voice…

The sound of shattering glass tore through the thin walls like a gunshot, making all three of you jump. Sera scrambled closer to you, clutching the wooden bird like it was a talisman. Nia's face darkened, her jaw clenching as she moved instinctively toward the door, though you reached out to grab her arm.

"Don't," you whispered, your voice shaking. "Just stay here."

But it was too late. Your father's voice followed the crash, loud and venomous, each word landing like a blow.

"This house is a goddamn disaster!" he roared. "I work all day—all day—and this is what I come home to? Mess everywhere, screaming kids—" His words slurred slightly, the alcohol in his system making him stagger as he continued his tirade.

"Richard, lower your voice," your mother said sharply, her calm tone replaced by steel. It wasn’t a request; it was a warning.

"Oh, don’t start with me, Marie," he snapped back. "Don’t you dare. I told you, I never wanted this! Never wanted—" His words faltered as his frustration boiled over into a bitter laugh. "Three kids crawling underfoot, a house that looks like a pigsty, and you just standing there!"

There was a pause, and then your mother’s voice, quieter now but firm. "I’m doing the best I can, Richard. We all are."

"The best you can?" he mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The best you can is a filthy house and three brats who don’t know how to stay out of the way?"

Nia moved to the door again, her fists balled at her sides. "I’m not just gonna sit here and—"

You pulled her back, your stomach twisting painfully. "Please, Nia," you begged. "He’s drunk. You can’t reason with him when he’s like this."

Nia’s lip curled, but she stayed put, though you could feel the tension radiating off her.

"Why didn’t I listen to my gut?" your father continued, his voice rising. "I told you I wasn’t cut out for this. But no, you just had to have a family, didn’t you? And now look where we are. I’m breaking my back out there, and for what? To come home to this circus?"

You heard your mother take a step forward, her voice unwavering even as the air seemed to crackle with tension. "You don’t get to speak to me like that. Or them."

"Oh, don’t play the saint, Marie," he sneered. "You wanted this life. You wanted these kids. Don’t act surprised when I remind you that I didn’t."

Your stomach turned violently, his words cutting deeper than they should have. You weren’t even in the same room, but it felt like a punch to the chest. You glanced at Sera, who was curled into a ball on your cot, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

Nia looked like she was ready to explode. "He’s such a coward," she hissed under her breath. "Blaming everyone else for his own damn choices."

The argument outside raged on, your mother standing firm against his drunken anger. But you couldn’t hear the words anymore. It was all just noise, a storm you’d heard too many times before.

You swallowed hard and turned to your sisters, your voice shaky but as steady as you could manage. "We just…we wait it out. Mama’s got this. She always does."

Though, even the hope that your thoughts were true always seemed to be smushed out by the your father as another glass bottle shattered downstairs followed by incoherent yelling.

You couldn't take it anymore, “Sera, Nia, I swear to the gods, stay here…” you commanded before slipping out of the room. What could a 7 year old do? Kick at your father's legs until he finally stopped?

As you carefully made your way down the stairs there you saw it- your mother's nose bleeding, fear , unmistakable in her eyes. Your father, his movements sluggish and messy as he leaned down close to her face, whispering something into her ear that you worried about as your mother's eyes widened.

“Dad, stop it!” You finally squeak out, stepping out near him as your body shakes slightly from the anxiety facing him caused.

Your father's head snapped toward you, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in disbelief at your audacity. His towering frame cast an imposing shadow across the dimly lit room as he stumbled toward you, the jagged neck of a broken bottle clutched in his hand.

"And what the hell do you think you're doing, huh?" he slurred, his voice booming as he waved the bottle in your direction. His steps were unsteady, but his anger burned clear as day. "Think you can just come down here and tell me what to do, little girl?"

You flinched as the sharp edges of the bottle caught the light, but you held your ground, even as your knees trembled and your breath came in shallow gasps. “Leave her alone!” you cried, your voice cracking but defiant. “Y-you’re scaring her! You’re scaring all of us!”

Your words seemed to strike a nerve. He sneered, his lips curling into something cruel and mocking. “Oh, so now I’m the bad guy, huh? That’s rich. Big man comes home to this wreck of a house, and I’m the one who’s scaring people?” He stepped closer, pointing the jagged bottle at you with every word, his anger unfocused but dangerous.

You instinctively backed up, your heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of your mother’s shallow breathing behind him. But you forced yourself to keep his attention on you. "It’s not her fault!" you blurted out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “She’s doing everything, and you’re— you’re just making it worse!”

His expression darkened, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. His grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles white, and his face contorted into something almost inhuman.

"Don’t you dare talk to me like that," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous now. "You don’t know a damn thing about what I do for this family. You think it’s easy, huh? Keeping a roof over your ungrateful little heads? You don’t get to judge me, you—"

He took a wild step toward you, and you stumbled back, your hands outstretched as if that alone could keep him at bay. “I’m not judging you!” you yelled, your voice breaking. “I just— I just want you to stop! Please, Dad, just stop!”

For a split second, his expression faltered, a crack in the armor of his rage. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that all-consuming fury. He raised the bottle slightly, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Richard!” your mother’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding despite the tremble in her tone. She had risen to her knees, blood still dripping from her nose, her eyes blazing with defiance. “If you take one more step toward her, so help me, I’ll—”

Her threat was cut out by the sound of your cry- your father hitting your face with the already broken glass, ripping open your lip…

Your breath was shallow, hands dabbing at your lip, feeling if the blood was real- it was, warm, fresh blood…

The room seemed to hold its breath, and then, with a guttural growl, he turned and hurled the broken bottle against the far wall. The shattering sound was deafening, and you flinched again, your hands flying up to shield your already bleeding face.

“Worthless,” he spat, stumbling toward the door. “All of you. Worthless.”

And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The silence he left in his wake was suffocating.

Your mother was on her feet in an instant, rushing to your side and pulling you into a trembling embrace. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” she whispered, her hands frantically checking you for injuries.

You shook your head covering your lip with your hand, shielding what he did to you from your poor mother, though your tears betrayed you. “Mama, your nose…”

She wiped at the blood with the back of her hand, shaking her head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Her voice wavered, but her arms around you tightened, as though she could shield you from the world with her embrace alone.

Nia appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pale and full of worry, with Sera peeking out from behind her. None of you said a word, but the unspoken understanding between you all was clear: this wasn’t the last storm you’d weather, but at least, for tonight, you had survived.

–

Your father had never come back after that, good riddance you had told yourself time after time you and your family were better off with him gone forever, but- it always made a strange sting shoot up your chest anytime you thought of your father.

You hated it.

Today was like any other day, Nia and Sera sleeping in per usual, they had always poked fun at you for waking up so early even on weekends but you enjoyed the quietness of Piltover when most of the city was still asleep, dreaming of great inventions, it was a sweet thought.

“Mouse, darling,” your mother called from the kitchen, making you perk up from your post on the couch, where you had been tinkering with a broken watch your father had. He never wore it, a present from you when you still saw him as a good man, when he was sane.

“Yes, Mama?” you called back, setting down the watch and walking into the kitchen where she was making breakfast for you and your sisters, “Could you run to Mrs.Namitte’s shop and grab me a fresh cut of sweetbread? You know how much your sisters love it.”

You nodded softly, grabbing her pouch of money and running out the house and down the street.

The air of early morning in Piltover was crisp and cool, carrying the faint metallic tang that always seemed to linger in the city. The streets were still quiet, most of the noise coming from the distant hum of steam-powered machinery and the occasional clatter of hooves against cobblestone as a carriage rolled by. The sky above was a pale gray, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting soft golden light across the sprawling cityscape.

Your neighborhood was tucked in one of Piltover’s less glamorous corners, a place where the buildings leaned together like old friends whispering secrets. The houses were a mix of brick and wood, patched up with whatever materials people could find, giving them a mismatched charm. Laundry lines crisscrossed above the narrow streets, sagging slightly under the weight of damp clothes left to dry.

Despite the modest surroundings, there was a warmth to the area. You passed the Grelle family’s house, their windowsills overflowing with flowerpots that brought splashes of color to the otherwise muted street. Mrs. Grelle herself waved at you from her stoop, her ever-present knitting needles clicking away even this early in the day.

“Morning, Mouse!” she called, using the nickname everyone seemed to have adopted from your mother.

“Morning, Mrs. Grelle!” you replied, offering a quick wave as you hurried past.

As you moved closer to the heart of the district, the streets widened slightly, the humble homes giving way to small shops and stands. This part of Piltover always smelled like fresh bread and coal smoke, the two scents mingling oddly but not unpleasantly. The cobblestones here were worn smooth by countless footsteps, their surfaces gleaming faintly with morning dew.

You passed a blacksmith’s forge where the faint glow of embers illuminated a young apprentice already hard at work, his hammer ringing against hot metal. Across from him, a tinker’s shop displayed delicate clockwork creations in the window, the tiny gears inside the contraptions turning with almost hypnotic precision.

It wasn’t long before you reached Mrs. Namitte’s shop, a cozy bakery nestled between a fabric store and an apothecary. The front of the bakery was adorned with peeling paint and a crooked sign that read Namitte’s Sweetbreads and Pastries, but the smell wafting from the open door was enough to make anyone’s mouth water. The aroma of sugar and warm bread enveloped you as you stepped inside.

Mrs. Namitte herself was bustling around behind the counter, her gray hair tied back in a neat bun. Her round face lit up when she saw you. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite early bird!” she greeted, her voice warm and cheerful. “What can I get for you this morning, Mouse?”

You couldn’t help but smile as you handed her the pouch of coins. “Mama sent me for some sweetbread. She said to get it fresh.”

Mrs. Namitte laughed, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Fresh is all we’ve got here, darling. One loaf coming right up.”

While she wrapped up the loaf in parchment, you glanced around the shop. The shelves were lined with all kinds of baked goods—flaky pastries, golden-brown loaves, and rows of sweet buns dusted with powdered sugar. There was something comforting about the place, from the warmth of the ovens to the faint crackle of the firewood.

“Here you go,” Mrs. Namitte said, handing you the loaf with a wink. “Tell your mother I said hello.”

“Thank you!” you said, clutching the warm package to your chest as you stepped back out onto the street.

The city was beginning to wake now, the quiet hum growing louder as more people emerged from their homes. Shopkeepers were setting up their stands, calling out to passersby to come see their wares. Somewhere in the distance, the sharp whistle of a steam engine pierced the air, a reminder of the bustling innovation that Piltover was known for.

You hurried back toward home, weaving through the growing crowd, the warmth of the bread against your hands and the thought of your family waiting for breakfast spurring your steps. Despite everything, mornings like this made Piltover feel a little less overwhelming, a little more like home.

Though on your way home, something felt- off. The air wasn't as clear as you remembered, the smell of- sulfur filling the air.

Your pace quickened naturally, worry bubbling in your stomach as you broke into a sprint when you saw smoke rolling into the air- from your neighborhood.

The smell of sulfur grew thicker with every breath you took, the weight of it pressing down on your chest. Your feet pounded against the cobblestone streets, urgency pulsing through your veins. Something was wrong—deeply wrong. The usual hum of the city was overshadowed by something darker, the sounds of distant shouting blending into the eerie quiet of the morning.

As you turned the corner and saw the familiar stretch of houses, your heart dropped into your stomach. Smoke billowed into the sky, dark and choking, swirling in a heavy cloud that turned the morning light to an unnatural, sickly shade. The distant crackle of fire mixed with the angry yells, the harsh metallic clinking of enforcer armor, and the shouts of voices you couldn’t quite make out.

The panic in your chest rose with every step, the pressure of something terrible bearing down on you. Your eyes darted from side to side as you searched for any sign of your family, of your mother and sisters.

"Mom!" you screamed, voice hoarse as you ran faster, your heart thrumming painfully against your ribcage.

You reached the end of the street, but the sight before you made your blood run cold. Flames had already devoured much of the neighborhood, crackling hungrily, the heat enough to make the air shimmer. Buildings you’d passed countless times were now nothing more than burning husks. The fire had spread so quickly—too quickly.

And then, you saw them.

Your mother, her figure smaller than you remembered, clutching Sera to her chest, while Nia was pulling at your sister’s hand, urging her to run. They were running, your family running toward you—but the fire… the fire was so close. The flames were creeping toward them, licking at the edges of the houses, curling up the sides of the wooden beams like snakes eager to strike.

"Run!" you screamed again, desperation clawing at your throat. Your voice was barely audible over the roaring fire and chaos, but they heard you. They saw you.

Your mother’s eyes locked with yours. Her face was streaked with ash and dirt, her lips parted as though she were about to call your name, but no sound came out. It was as if time itself had slowed, the world around you muffled, like you were watching from underwater. She stumbled, clutching Sera tighter, her face stricken with fear, and then—then, the ground shook beneath you.

The house—your home—collapsed in a deafening crash. The roof caved in first, the thick beams splintering like matchsticks. The explosion of debris sent dust and ash into the air, blurring your vision. The shriek of wood splintering was followed by an unbearable silence that stretched on for what felt like hours.

For a moment, you thought you might’ve imagined it. Maybe you were still dreaming, or maybe, somehow, you could still reach them. But when the dust settled, there was nothing but the rising smoke, the blackened silhouette of the house that had been your home.

Your body went numb, your feet frozen to the ground as you stared at the place where your family had stood moments ago. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding so loud it was a drumbeat in your ears. You wanted to scream, to run to them, but you couldn’t. Your legs wouldn’t move, and the world seemed to stop spinning around you.

"Nia... Mama..." The words slipped out of your mouth, barely a whisper. You felt the sting of tears at the corner of your eyes, but they refused to fall.

The crackle of fire was the only sound now, louder and more ominous than ever. The flames had consumed everything in their path.

And then, the faintest flicker of movement caught your eye—an enforcer, their armor gleaming like a dark shadow, standing at the edge of the destruction. They had their back turned, focused on the chaos unfolding around them, the violence, the fire. They hadn’t seen the wreckage they’d left behind. They didn’t even notice you standing there.

But you saw them.

The anger and helplessness surged inside you, cold as ice. The world had taken everything from you—the life you knew, the people you loved. And in that moment, as the tears you had been holding back finally streamed down your face, the burning rage started to take root deep within you.

You woke with a sharp inhale, eyes wide and fearful, looking around your makeshift home as you panted, chest heaving, anxiety rising in your chest as you tried to calm down.

Just a dream, just a dream

It had felt more real than last time, the nightmares getting stronger each time. You groaned softly as you sat up in your cocoon of blankets and rugs, rubbing your temples as you tried to ease your mind.

You grab your bag, throwing it over your shoulder haphazardly as you make your way down the fire escape and down onto the dirty streets you had come to know.

The streets of the Undercity had a familiar hum to them, the constant murmur of distant voices, clanging metal, and the occasional shout or crash. The air was thick with the smell of burning coal, stale sweat, and something far less pleasant that you couldn’t quite name. It felt like the UnderCity’s grime had seeped into your skin and never really left. Even now, as you walked among the wreckage of your life, it was all too familiar.

You rubbed at your eyes, trying to shake the vivid nightmare from your mind, but it clung to you like the oppressive fog that hung over the slums. The tightness in your chest wouldn’t loosen, no matter how many times you breathed in deeply. They weren’t real. Your family wasn’t gone. The fire hadn’t happened. It was just a haunting memory, a shadow of something that almost was.

But it felt real. And that was the worst part of it. It had always been the worst part of the nightmares—how everything felt so tangible, so vivid. You could hear Nia’s laugh. You could smell your mother’s perfume. The way your father’s hands had felt around your throat when he was angry. The weight of the grief that pressed into your chest when you realized they were all gone. All gone—and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

It was enough to make you want to curl up in a corner and block it all out. But you couldn’t. Not today. You didn’t have the luxury of slowing down and feeling sorry for yourself.

The undercity didn’t wait for anyone.

You adjusted your bag, the weight of the various trinkets and scraps that filled it dragging at your shoulders as you walked. Your hands fidgeted, feeling the bruises that had yet to fade, the remnants of a life spent scraping by, of fights you’d won and lost. At least I’m still here. That was the only consolation you had left. Even if everything else felt wrong. Even if you felt broken inside, even if you were more scared than you let anyone see, you were still breathing.

You wandered through the streets, passing by familiar faces, the other street rats that wandered the same alleys you did. Some ignored you. Others gave you a glance that was too sharp to be friendly. Keep your head down. Don’t make waves. Stay small.

You didn’t really know where you were going; your feet carried you through the maze of metal and trash, through forgotten corners of the UnderCity that no one cared about. Places like these held their own kind of loneliness—like a pocket of emptiness that even the brightest fire couldn’t warm.

Your stomach growled—loudly, obnoxiously. That was the problem with skipping meals, trying to scrape by on what you could find, or what you could steal. Your pride didn’t let you ask for help.

You groaned under your breath, reaching for your pouch to see how much you had left. A couple of cogs, a piece of broken glass you’d picked up somewhere, and some scraps of fabric that you had meant to sell, but hadn’t found a buyer for yet. Not exactly what you would call a hearty meal.

And that’s when you saw him.

A figure, hunched over in the alley ahead, fiddling with something. At first, you didn’t think much of it—another one of the city’s forgotten wandering souls. But something about the way he was moving caught your eye. It was the faint glint of metal against his hands, the way he seemed to be... repairing something?

You slowed, instinctively drawn to him, curiosity beating out caution for once. Your gaze locked onto the object in his hands, a small but delicate mechanical piece, a gear. You had seen something like it before—a few times, in fact. Was this... another tinker?

You took another step closer, and that’s when he noticed you. The stranger’s eyes flashed up, meeting yours for the briefest of moments before he quickly looked back at the gears in his hands.

Something about his demeanor made you pause, an unease settling in your gut. He's watching me too closely. But you couldn't place why, or even if you should care.

The silence between you two lingered for a beat, before he spoke in a voice rough with disuse. "You need something, kid?"

You hesitated for a moment, still unsure of what to make of him, before you nodded slowly. “I could use a meal.”

The man scoffed, flicking the gear in his hands one last time before tossing it to the ground, where it clattered against the pavement. He dusted off his hands before standing up fully, revealing his thin frame beneath a worn-out coat. His hair was messy, unkempt, his face haggard with the years of life lived under these same grimy skies. "Ain't no charity here, kid. You gotta earn your keep."

You winced at his words, but something in his tone stirred a defensive response in you, but- you bit your tongue.

Keep your head down, stay out of trouble

Those were the rules.

You fucking hated those rules.

You just turn away and walk off, you don't need to get into another fight, didn't need Sevika telling you off for not being careful enough.

Speaking off Sevika, you hadn't seen her in awhile, a week or two now. Where was she?

You found yourself searching for her, not really sure why you were, why bubbles of worry formed in your stomach. You checked her usual spots, the alleys where she played cards, the food booths where you two got food from time to time, you asked a few regulars if they had seen her, to no avail.

You shouldn't care, she was only a asset to you, a small help when you were at your lowest and yet-

You felt like you had found something.

Something that felt real, or at least as real as it gets in the Undercity.

You needed to find Sevika.

#sevika x reader #queer #lesbians make the world go round #street rat sevika fic #street rat #sevika arcane #sevika x y/n #i'm doing this for you #why am i all of a sudden so fucking motivated #writing #fanfic #fanfic writer #i cried while writing this #Spotify

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msfantasy-comics · 1 year ago

Text

The Opposites Attract

Dick Grayson x Reader

Summary: A Head Cannon on which Dick Grayson and Y/n oppose each other yet remain wholly compatible.

Warning: Y/n is depicted as angsty and a little feral.

Masterlist - Tip Jar

Opposites attract they say.

Yet Dick and Y/n are such polar opposites surely their difference outweigh each other.

Despite it all, the two love birds gravitate each other due to their completing differences.

Extrovert vs. Introvert

Dick is insanely outgoing and is recharged by socialising. His perfect setting is in a crowded rowdy rooms where the conversation moves like wildfire. Wild and Abrupt.

Y/n on the other hand, prefers a quite space with one-on-one conversations.

In typical extraverted fashion. Dick adopts the introverted Y/n and encourages her to step outside her comfort zone and talk to others.

But it’s just not in her nature.

How the hell are you meant to jump into a conversation?

How are you meant to have a say on a topic when three other people are talking over each other to get their 2 cents in?

You gave up almost immediately and retreated back to your safe corner always from the shoulder bashing and elbow jabbing walk way.

Dick was initially disappointed to see you give up so quickly until he noticed that you were carrying on your socialising in your own way.

You sat silently as strangers poured their heart out to you.

Silently nodding and humming in agreement every now and then before the person sighed, thanked you for listening and walked off.

Dick really admires that about you.

Dick: “Need some company.”

Y/n: “Only if you bring me the good vibes.”

Optimist vs. Pessimist

Dick is a buzzing bundle of bountiful energy.

Dick is never short on absurdly positive outcomes despite all odds indicating otherwise.

Why live in a delusional state? You know the realities of life.

And the reality is that life can be shit and it doesn’t turn out well for everyone no matter how much they try or desperately scramble to achieve their hopes.

Hope is pointless.

There is just something obnoxiously wonderful about Dick.

How is it that your boy wonder lights a flame in you that fills you with certainty that all will be right as long as he is here?

You greatly admire how infectious Dicks positivity can be.

Y/n: “Why keep sending them to Arkham only to escape and ruin lives? Might as well just put an end to their burdensome presence.”

Dick: “Oh honey nooooo. Everyone deserves a chance at redemption. Snuffing out the life of a person doesn’t solve the root of the issue.”

Y/n: “Who cares! Nothing matters in the end anyway, we will all die and become obsolete. Only to let the next generation bitch and moan about the inequality of it all.”

Dick: “Ah, my precious little sunshine can be such a downer, yes you can.”

*Condescendingly pinches cheeks*

Secretive vs. Open

Dick just wants the best of both worlds.

To be the figure head for heroism, hope, peace and safety, without an of the consequences of having your image publicly known.

Dick would never want to endanger the lives of those around him due to his passions in crime fighting.

Therefore, he must maintain the secrecy of the bat and the mask.

You, however, don’t understand how or why your boy wonder hides his true identity.

It’s not like Dick Grayson is an every day normal civilian.

He’s a fricken heir to Gotham wealthiest philanthropist.

It’s not like he doesn’t have any privacy on either alter egos.

But the Bats secret is not your own to share.

So instead you live freely by your own rules.

You admit your identities and aren’t afraid to show the public your true self.

You honestly couldn’t care less about public perception.

Dick, admires your unapologetic lifestyle.

Aggressive Random: “You shouldn’t -“

Y/n: “Piss Off- no one asked you.”

Dick: “Ah sweetie… maybe you should listen to what they have to say.”

Y/n: “I couldn’t give a rats!”

952 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months ago

Text

1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 8.7k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”

“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.

Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse��s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”

“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.

“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”

“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”

“How many pills?” you ask.

“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”

“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.

“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”

All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.

“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”

“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”

You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”

“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”

“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.

“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”

“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”

“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”

His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”

“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.

What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.

Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”

“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.

“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.

Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.

“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”

Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”

Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”

“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”

Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”

Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.

“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”

Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.

Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”

Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”

“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.

Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.

Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”

The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”

“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”

The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”

Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.

As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”

“What?” Fosco asks.

“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.

“The first thing I remember knowin’

Was a lonesome whistle blowin’

And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride

On a freight train leavin’ town

Not knowin’ where I'm bound

And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”

Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.

“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.

“One and only rebel child

From a family meek and mild

My Mama seemed to know what lay in store

Despite all my Sunday learnin’

Towards the bad I kept on turnin’

‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”

At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.

“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole

No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied

That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”

Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.

“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.

Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”

“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”

You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”

“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”

“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”

“Honey—”

“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”

“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”

“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”

Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”

You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.

Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.

“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.

“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”

You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.

“What the hell are you doing—?!”

“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.

“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”

He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”

“Ask for what?”

“You know.”

If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”

“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”

“You’re a fucking coward.”

“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”

“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”

Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.

“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”

“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.

In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.

“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City

You’d better detour around my town

‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head

And I’ll lift you off of the ground

I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t

And that he won’t cat around with a kitty

I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man

If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”

You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!

You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.

You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”

Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”

Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”

“Well, he was there.”

“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”

Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.

Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.

“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”

“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”

Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.

“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.

“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.

Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.

The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.

“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”

“I can’t.”

Ludwika stares at you. “What?”

“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”

“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.

“I can’t,” you whimper.

They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.

He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.

“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”

“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.

The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.

“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.

People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.

Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.

Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”

You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”

“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”

A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!

In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.

“Dio mio, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.

“Are you sure—?”

“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.

It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.

There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.

There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”

“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”

“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”

Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”

You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“Whatever it is, I can help.”

“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.

“No one else knew him.”

“I did. I was there the whole time.”

“Only because Aemond made you stay.”

“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”

“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.

“And I’m still here now.”

Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”

“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”

You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.

“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”

“You can ask.”

“Do you want more children?”

More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”

Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”

“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”

Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”

“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”

“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”

“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”

“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”

You stare at him. “The roof?”

“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”

The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.

Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”

“Probably married to someone worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”

You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”

Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”

“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”

“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”

I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”

“I think you matter, old man.”

“Really?”

“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”

You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”

“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”

“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”

Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”

You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.

He asks: “You think I could make that?”

“No.”

“Should I try?”

“You definitely shouldn’t.”

“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”

You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”

“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”

“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.

“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”

You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.

“For you.”

“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”

“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”

“How did you get these?”

“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”

“Maybe they are.”

You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”

“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”

“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.

In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.

“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.

“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.

Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”

“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”

Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not��um…whatever you’re thinking.”

“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”

“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”

“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”

“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.

“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.

There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.

“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”

You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”

Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”

You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.

“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”

Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.

Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.

“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.

“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”

Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.

“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”

“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii x you

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sigh-tofm · 5 months ago

Text

if you’re a gym rat… (some 18+)

… price

- gets back into it. has always had a certain level of physique he’s had to keep up being in the army, but he isn’t the young sergeant he once was anymore. still, he usually jogs twice a week and lifts some weights when time allows.

- that is, until you start pulling him along. early morning leg sessions with the sunrise and lighthearted planking contests during the footie halftime. equally enjoys getting back into the workout game, spending time with you and getting to look at your body in the tight gym wear. especially loves the the soft pudge at the bottom of your stomach and the way all of you jiggle when you do burpees.

- showers with you after the fact. long, steamy showers in each other’s arms. no sex in there (you’re both sore and the floor is slippery), but it’s not necessary. you’re content with the hot water massaging your spent muscles and the feeling of your solid lover around you.

… kyle

- hypes you up. already spends more time in the gym than you do, so he knows every exercise and machine in and out. eagerly teaches you everything and anything you ask him about. never lets anyone else spot you, always does it himself. especially likes spotting your squats.

- follows your pace, whether that means exhausting himself for you or slowing down for you. will join you on hill sprints and long distance runs, but is thankful he gets to hold the stop watch and blow the whistle when you do beep tests.

- thinks the act of exercising together can be as intimate as sex itself. getting to observe and explore each other bodies, each other’s strengths and weaknesses. half of it is a mental game and not too unlike kink, he thinks, as you groan and contort your face while pushing your feet into to ground, tensing your muscles into the belt to help with the deadlift. he nods approvingly when you straighten your back and breath out at the top of the lift. ‘one more for me, baby.’

… johnny

- eggs you on. like kyle, always helps you go harder, faster, longer, but does it by way of teasing. ‘that all, then? come oan, ye had more in ye last night.’ always toes the line between encouraging and infuriating, but to his credit he also tricks you into lifting the bar one more time instead of putting it down.

- jogs become races and walks become dogwalks. johnny is restless even if you’re both coming straight from an intense hiit-session. if you’ve decided on a leisurely pace, johnny will run ahead and circle back, take detours to look at interesting buildings and natural features, and constantly weave left and right on the path ahead or behind you, like a border collie.

- does not mind the sweat after a session. will eat you out in the parking lot until the car windows fog up. eventually pulls your panties back up and pat your belly over them, only to drive back home and do it all over again in the shower.

… ghost

- never leaves you. you’d think he keeps up a pretty strict routine with that pure strength he possesses, but he will drop anything if you suggest going hiking or practice a specific form. nothing is too boring, basic or easy if he’s doing it with you. that includes yoga, where you are actually leagues ahead of him in balance and flexibility. the only thing he has going for him is his sniper’s patience.

- effortlessly lifts the bar up when spotting your bench presses and you hit failure. leans down over the bar to kiss your nose while you catch your breath. ‘look at tha’. i’ll take ten kilos off, let’s end this on a high note.’ won’t hear your protests about how that’s not how it’s done, and make you do another rep with less weight, to keep the muscle memory of perfect form.

- ends each session with you practicing grip, which is something you both need to work on, you’ll hang face to face on the power rack and simultaneously try not to laugh while also gripping the bar for as long as you can. having an excuse to look you dead in the eyes is simon’s favourite part of each session.

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dancingbirdie · 1 year ago

Note

This request is really out of the blue but, i need I CRAVE i require a fic where tav and astarion finally find a cure for his vampirism (in dnd5 it can actually happen yay!) and he manages to see his reflection again and finally have his natural eye color again (blue bc he's prob a moon elf but I don't mind other colors too). The fangs can stay or not, idc, i just want my boy happy, in love, and cared for. Bonus points if there's cuddles too

OK first of all, thanks for this prompt!! Second, I had to break this up into two parts because I'm afraid of how unwieldy it would get otherwise. So see part 1 below. I'm actively writing part 2 and should have that posted within the next few days. Hope you enjoy!

UPDATE: Chapter 2 available here!

I Promised You (Chapter 1)

Rating: G

Pairing: Astarion x GN!reader

Word Count: 3.1K

Warnings/Tags: mentions of unconsciousness, cheeky banter, domestic life, post-events of BG3, potentially problematic levels of self-sacrifice by reader.

***

“All right. I think you’re ready,” Gale affirmed as he peered over your shoulder, analyzing your hand movements as you practiced the incantation.

“You think? Shouldn’t we wait until you’re sure?” you replied, heavy skepticism coloring your tone.

“I can’t give you my complete assurance because you haven’t actually cast the spell,” the wizard sighed.

The two of you had had this argument many times over the past several months as you studied and practiced. And studied and practiced some more. The conclusion was always the same, but your anxiety always managed to convince you that a different outcome would be had if you just asked him again.

Conjuration magic was one of the most difficult forms to master. Yes, you had specialized in it during your formative years, under the tutelage of several learned wizards across Faerûn, but this spell was perhaps the pinnacle of feats in conjuration. Only a handful of wizards could perform it. Thankfully Gale was among that number, which is why you had come to him for help.

“As I’ve said, this isn’t a spell you can just cast for practice runs,” he continued. “You have one chance. And if it works, the sheer power of it is undoubtedly going to knock you unconscious.”

“I know, I know,” you grumbled. “I just… I need to be absolutely perfect. I have to do this. For him.”

“Have you told him what you’re planning yet?” Gale prodded.

“No. Not yet. I didn’t want to get his hopes up. Or have him tell me how unlikely success will be. Not until I was absolutely sure I could do this.”

“I see,” the wizard returned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, tonight is as good a time to tell him as any. There’s nothing more I can teach you to prepare for this. You know the incantation by heart. You perform the gestures almost through muscle memory now. You’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” you repeated, as if saying the words would will it to be so.

“Send me a missive if he wants to go through with this. I’ll come to the cottage and oversee the spell’s casting.”

“All right,” you nodded.

“It’s going to work. You have to believe it’s going to work,” Gale encouraged, meeting your eyes with a serious, stern sort of expression.

“It’s going to work,” you agreed. “It’s going to work.”

***

It was dusk by the time you returned to the cottage. It was a modest home you shared with Astarion, situated just outside the city walls. It had a lovely view of the rolling hills that surrounded Baldur’s Gate, and proximity to the Chionthar River gave the air a refreshing, misty feel. Pastoral communities dotted the countryside with sheep and cattle grazing freely during the day, though they had returned to their stables long before your return.

Astarion was no fan of the bucolic lifestyle, as he was wont to remind you. But you both agreed that this living situation afforded him better meal prospects than the rats, cats and errant stray dogs that dwelled within the city limits. At least this way, he had more fulfilling options for food, since the livestock attracted their fair share of large predators. A mild, perpetual confusion charm that you cast kept the neighbors from questioning why – unlike their peers in neighboring villages and towns – their animals were never plagued by roving bears and panthers.

Astarion was lounging listlessly in the bay window of the den when you entered your home, one leg dangling off the ledge of his reading nook while he carelessly flipped through a book. Probably one he had pilfered from Gale’s stockpile a few weeks ago, you surmised. There had been an uptick in the wizard’s grumbling about discrepancies in his library catalog of late.

“Anything interesting?” you asked as you shrugged out of your traveler’s cloak and hung it on the coat rack by the door.

“Ugh, hardly,” Astarion grouched. “Nothing but debunked theories and philosophies from bloated scholars who died a hundred years ago.”

“You’re going to have to return Gale’s books to him eventually, you know. He’s beginning to realize how many from his library are missing.”

“Haven’t the slightest clue what you’re referring to, darling,” he replied breezily.

“Of course, love,” you chuckled, planting a kiss on his forehead as you passed him by to make your way into the kitchen.

“Care for a glass of wine?” you called.

“Mm, yes,” Astarion returned. “Red, please, dear.”

Uncorking the bottle and pouring the glasses gave you a brief moment to collect your thoughts. To steel your nerves for the conversation looming before you. Drawing a deep breath in and exhaling it slowly, you made your way back into the den and braced for the inevitable.

“Darling, do you have a moment?” you asked as you offered Astarion his glass before taking a seat next to him. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Gods, it must be serious,” he teased, straightening from his reclined pose to take the proffered glass and make room for you. “You like you’re about to be ill. Go on then, love, before you faint and spill this vintage all over the floor.”

“It is rather serious, in fact,” you began, clearing your throat that had suddenly become tight with nerves. “I’ve waited to tell you until now, but I’ve been researching some more difficult conjuration magic with Gale the past few months…”

“Oh?” Astarion prompted as you paused. “For what purpose, darling? I thought you had already mastered the school of conjuration.”

“I have. But this is a more specialized form. More… niche, I guess one might say. And, well…” you trailed off again, hesitant.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“I’ve-been-researching-a-spell-that-cures-vampirism-and-I-think-I’ve-found-a-way,” you spat out all at once, the words tumbling into each other like a wagon train gone wild.

Astarion met your eyes with a blank stare, seemingly forgetting that his one hand had been in the process of lifting the wine glass to his lips.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked hoarsely.

You coughed to clear your throat. “What I mean to say is: I’ve been working with Gale for months now to learn a spell that can cure your vampirism. He and I believe I’m ready to perform it. If you would allow me to try, that is.”

“If this is your idea of a joke,” he murmured, a slight quiver in his voice. “Then I have to tell you, it’s absolutely not funny at all.”

“It’s not a joke!” you assured. “I swear to you, Astarion. It’s not a joke,” you continued, squeezing one of his hands in yours.

He nodded absently, his gaze trained on your thumb as it soothed over the knuckles of his fingers.

“H-how?” he whispered finally. “How can you cure it? I’ve read every tome I could get my hands on for over two hundred years. Nothing, nothing, I’ve read has ever offered a solution.”

“Because this is a highly guarded spell. It’s only passed down through oral tradition among wizards who specialize in conjuration magic. Which is why I’ve needed Gale’s help,” you explained. “I broached the topic with him some time ago, told him how we were going to look for some way to cure your vampirism. Being a master of magicks himself, I thought he would be a good source of information for me to begin my research. I wasn’t even aware of the spell until he shared it with me. He’s been teaching me the mechanics of it since then. It’s been a difficult spell to master but–”

“What’s the cost?” Astarion interjected suddenly, meeting your gaze with a new intensity.

“It will cost you nothing, obviously,” you retorted, disliking where the conversation was heading.

Astarion huffed through his nose. A caustic, frustrated sort of sound. “Don’t play cute with me, darling. You know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t,” you hedged.

“What will the spell cost you,” he bit out through a clenched jaw.

You bit your lip, hesitant to reply. Astarion’s gaze never wavered.

Finally you sighed. Better to reveal the consequences of it all than attempt to hide the downsides from him. Even though they were negligible in your eyes, compared to the wonder that would be returning his elfhood to him, you knew he would resent being told only partial truths. You couldn’t fault him for it. You would feel the same, were the roles reversed.

“It will permanently weaken me. There’s a small, very small, chance it could kill me if I perform it wrong,” you confessed.

“No,” Astarion responded bluntly, without a hint of hesitation. He rose from the bench and made to leave the room. As if the matter had been settled and it was time to crack on.

“Wait! What do you mean, ‘no’?” you blurted. Jumping to your feet, you snatched at the sleeve of his nightshirt.

He turned to peer at you with a haughty gaze, one eyebrow arched delicately. “Exactly that. No. You’re not risking your life on the off chance of this working.”

“But it’s not an off chance. It will work! And the likelihood of me dying is incredibly slim!” you protested.

“But the likelihood of you being ‘permanently weakened’ is essentially certain, yes?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds. And besides, I don’t mind. I want to do this, Astarion.”

He scoffed. “Have you gone absolutely mad? ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds.’ Do you even know what will actually happen to you afterwards?” he shot back angrily.

“No,” you admitted, a bit quieter.

He deliberately widened his eyes at your response, crossing his arms across his chest as if to say See? My point proven.

“But I know I can handle it! And I love you enough to try!” you retorted.

That appeared to be the wrong choice of words. You realized it immediately as his expression morphed from outright anger to something darker, icier.

“Well then, it seems we’re at an impasse, darling,” he growled. “Because I love you enough not to have you go through with this.”

You opened your mouth to object once more, but he continued, ignoring you.

“AND, since it is my body and my life we’re discussing, it means I have the final say on the matter. My answer is no.”

You had anticipated this conversation going many different ways. You thought you had prepared for the most likely scenarios. But, in all your pondering, you hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Astarion would reject this opportunity outright.

Your eyes welled with tears. Hot, angry, disconsolate tears.

“Astarion,” you murmured, desperate. Angry though you both were, you couldn’t resist the urge to curl into his embrace. Gently, you pulled at his arms in an attempt to un-cross them. With a soft sigh, he allowed you to manipulate him so that you were pressed chest to chest. Your arms banded around his waist, locking him against you. Slowly, he raised his arms to mimic your stance, peering down at you.

“Astarion, my darling, this is your chance. It’s the only chance we’ve found in over two years of searching. I know I can do it. And you can win it all back. I can help you. Let me do this,” you pleaded.

“Darling, how could I ever ‘win it all back’ when there’s a possibility I could lose you forever? Or that you could be seriously harmed in the process?” he lifted a hand to cup your cheek, smiling sadly. “I would never forgive myself if you were harmed in an attempt to cure me.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. “Please. I know I can do this. Please let me do this. I want to do this for you.”

“Come, pup, no more tears. I’ve given you my answer,” he murmured, swiping a thumb across your cheekbones to catch each tear.

You opened your eyes to glare at him. “If the roles were reversed, would you want to try this for me?”

“Of course,” Astarion huffed. “But that’s obviously different, I –”

“WHY? Why is it different?” you cried, clutching him.

“Because you’re worth it!” he implored, arms vibrating as though he were resisting the urge to shake sense into you. “Your soul is worth a thousand of mine! It’s not marred by death and torture and sacrilege. Can’t you see that? Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t,” you argued obstinately. “Because you are worth it to me. Your soul is priceless to me. I love you. You’re the love of my life.”

Astarion said nothing, just stared at you with sad eyes. You couldn’t tell if his silence meant you were persuading him, but you couldn’t relent without giving at least one more desperate plea.

“I promised you. Remember? After everything that happened, I promised you we would find a way for you to walk in the sun once more. I didn’t make that promise lightly. I want to do this for you.”

“Darling…” he murmured sadly, shaking his head.

“Astarion, please,” you beseeched, shifting to clutch his face between both of your palms. “I’m literally begging you to let me try. Gale and I have been practicing for almost a year now. He wouldn’t tell me I was ready unless he was certain. I know I can do this. Please. Let me try.”

“Don’t you have any regard for your own life?” he whispered. “How is it that I’m more concerned for your well being than you are?”

“Darling, all of us have the slightest potential of dying every single day we continue to breathe. Anything poses some risk to our lives. I’m telling you, the risk of me dying from this is the same as the risk I take casting any other magic.”

“But there’s still a permanent cost to doing this. Have you even asked Gale to elaborate on what that entails?”

“No,” you admitted a bit sheepishly. “I didn’t really think about it.”

Astarion rolled his eyes but planted a kiss against your forehead. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”

“I’m sorry that I was so ecstatic about finding a cure that I leapt straight into studying it!” you said defensively, although your tone lacked teeth.

He chuckled and wrapped you in a tighter embrace, resting his cheek on the top of your head. The two of you stood like that for some time, arms wrapped around each other, lost in thought.

After a while, Astarion cleared his throat. “I want us to speak to Gale. I want to know the full details, the consequences of a spell like this.”

You jerked your head up in surprise, staring at him with wide, elated eyes.

“I’m not saying yes,” he clarified, attempting to tamp down your burgeoning excitement. “But I’m willing to hear more about this… possibility.”

A delighted squeal rocketed up your throat. Quick as a flash, you jumped to wrap your legs around his waist. Long used to your ebullient antics, Astarion caught you with a practiced ease. His arms banded under your thighs and across your lower back, squeezing gently.

“I love you, you daft, feral thing,” he chuckled, nuzzling your cheek.

***

“I would have gone over this months ago, had you afforded me the opportunity,” Gale had groused upon arriving at the cottage the following evening. The three of you shared a bottle of barrel-aged Callidyren while Astarion peppered the wizard with umpteen questions about the spell’s mechanics. To his credit, Gale managed to assuage Astarion’s concerns. At least for the most part.

The permanent effects of casting the spell, you both learned, would diminish your inner well of magic, rendering you unable to cast as many spells as you currently could before resting for a longer period of time. Almost as though the cost of performing the spell would revert you back to the strength you had had as an apprentice so many years ago. You would still be powerful, capable of wielding even the most intricate of spells. But your endurance would be shorter, more concentrated. It was a price you were more than willing to pay. Even more so now that you had actually allowed Gale to describe the effects in detail.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t press for more details,” Astarion grumbled.

“It didn’t seem important at the time,” you sniffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Still doesn’t, in my opinion.”

“You know, in some schools of thought,” Astarion countered dryly, “people believe the difference between bravery and complete idiocy is so fine a line that it frequently gets crossed.”

“So I’ve heard,” you crooned. “But, alas, I’m nothing if not an incredibly adept fool in love.”

Gale observed the two of you warily, as if uncertain whether this exchange constituted harmless domestic banter or an undercurrent of severe agitation.

“Yes, well,” he interrupted awkwardly, “as I said before, you’re as ready as you will ever be to perform this magic. I’ll be here to supervise and intervene, if necessary, though I don’t think it will be.”

“Bully for us. Is there anything else we should be prepared for, if we’re to go through with this?” Astarion snapped. “Sudden onset sliminess? Gills? Frothing at the mouth?”

You winced. He was always his most discourteous self when he was afraid. Gale might not realize it, but you knew him well enough to tell when his rudeness was obfuscation.

“Ahem,” Gale coughed, clearly affronted by the impertinent question. “No, nothing of that sort. But this spell is incredibly demanding on one’s body. It’s very likely they’ll fall unconscious once it’s been cast. The effect shouldn’t last for more than a few hours. Enough time for a proper rest.”

“You failed to mention that yesterday,” Astarion said peevishly, glaring at you from across the dining table.

“Because it’s the equivalent to me needing a good sleep after a tiring day,” you quipped.

Gale winced. “It’s a bit more serious than that, I’d argue.”

“Thank you,” Astarion intoned.

“Tsk. An inconvenience at worst. Nothing unmanageable,” you retorted. “So, what say you, darling? Are you willing to give this a try?”

Astarion’s glare shifted between you and Gale, studying you both.

“And you both swear to me that all information is now disclosed, yes? No partial truths, no hidden side effects?”

“I swear,” the two of you responded in unison. You reached for Astarion’s hand across the table.

“My darling, this will work. I’m going to be fine. And you’re going to be cured,” you smiled gently. “Please, trust me.”

He squeezed your hand, crimson eyes boring into your own.

Finally, after a moment, he gave you a terse nod.

“All right. Let’s try,” he agreed.

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just-a-ghost00 · 6 months ago

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A message from a beloved soul 🕊️

Recently, I felt called to ask for advice from passed on artists that have greatly impacted my life. A few months ago, my role model and most beloved artist passed away suddenly. I never thought this day would come. Or rather I didn’t want to think about it. And lately I feel his energy very strongly. I thought that maybe some of you could need some advice from an artist you miss dearly as well. I’m sorry if this triggers anybody. I thank these beautiful souls that have provided us with light and love for all these years for their messages and I hope that wherever they are in the Universe, their soul is at peace. ❤️

Group 1

Letters : B Y I T J S L G K M U A P G D F Words : guys, tails, mask, Sag, just, Jiluka, Atsuki, July, Aug, days, pay, gay, Yumi, Yuki, Bad guy, kid, must play, guita(r), fly, BSK, family, silk, ask my pals if I still must (???), stalk, dumb, Mt Fuji

Tissue box messages : Singer, blue eyes, Scorpio I TRANSFORM Nov 23 to Nov 29, Capricorn I CREATE Jan 20 to Feb 16, 6th house daily life I LOVE, 12th house Spiritual life I DREAM

Their channeled message to you :

Baby the world is yours to take. Fate is yours to create. No matter the pain, no matter the fears, no matter the obstacles, you must live on. Do you hear me? Live. Scream at the top of your lungs. You can cry too. But don’t give up. I am with you every step of the way. My wings will carry you for as long as I can.

Clarifications - 10 of swords, Black Numen, King of cups, King of wands, 10 of pentacles, 10 of cups

This artist that you are asking about knows that you are going through a hard time and that a part of you doesn’t believe in your ability to make it through but they want to reassure you because not only do you have what it takes but the outcome is going to be much more brighter than you could ever imagine. You’re getting there. You’re so close to reaching your goal. I believe that there are actually two artists that are surrounding you with their love. They are both encouraging you to keep moving, though you may not understand where this will lead you, though you may not see the bigger picture. Because after this period of grieving and emotional turmoil, of hardships and uncertainty, awaits a bright and warm future, full of joy and abundance. While one helps you heal your wounds and deal with possible depression/mental health issues, the other is helping you manifest success in all areas of your life by fueling your fire and inspiring you. You may feel like your creativity is boosted and your mind is fuming with new ideas. Both of them are masculine in their energy. One of them may especially connect with you through your dreams while the other would rather put on your way resources and people that are beneficial to your growth. The channeled message you received was from the one you were asking about. But the other artist still wanted to silently show their support. I believe that in their living time this person wasn’t very talkative but would instead show their love through actions. They remained the same in the after life.

🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️

Group 2

Letters : A V U S E I F S V N A U I M K P Words : miss u, veins, pain, pause, Suki, fave, fame, pave, Mana, Aki, naive, invasive, Nivea, niveau (French for level), suave, Kaname, kiss me, five men, fans, vie (life/live), Pisa

Tissue box messages : Gym rat, creative soul, dorky/quirky, Scorpio I TRANSFORM Nov 23 to Nov 29, Ophiuchus I HEAL Nov 29 to Dec 17, 1st house awareness of self I AM

Their message to you :

My Jade ~ You are so beautiful. Your soul is so beautiful it shines all the way to heaven. God and the angels are so pleased with you. Seeing you grow so much has been my biggest joy and pride. I believe that you can light up this world and save so many people from themselves. But first make sure to save yourself, okay?! Love you ❤️

Clarifications - 9 of pentacles, The Lovers, Knight of cups, Judgment, King of cups, 6 of cups

You must prioritize yourself by choosing to give yourself the love you so willingly give to others. That much is clear. When the time is right and balance is restored, a soulmate will be sent to you to pour more love into your cup. They will come to you slowly but surely. You will recognize them by their piercing gaze and their powerful voice. You know them already. Wow that was very specific. There are a lot of water related cards, three of which can be associated with Scorpio. Then there is also Gemini energy and Taurus energy. I believe that in their living time the artist you asked about was a very generous and wise person. They were probably an old soul and had a hard time finding people they could deeply connect with. I get the feeling that you followed this person since you were a child and you looked up to them. They are a soulmate of yours. Their energy feels very balanced. I believe this person was very spiritual and always did their best to do the right choice and be the bigger person. They would always think of their loved ones before anything else and maybe that is one thing that caused this person a lot of sadness. Which is why they urge you to prioritize yourself. They know too well the cost of overgiving to others only to be left with so little.

🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️

Group 3

Letters : C N L C Z E K U V O T B E A V M Words : clean, zen, luck, black, block me, metal, zone, cat, melon, love u, meat, meet u at ten, note, bone, tune, name, bake, cake, Ameba, volcano, Kubo, Kobe,

Tissue box messages : Gym rat, bookworm, unconventional, Leo I SHINE Aug 10 to Sept 16, Taurus I PROTECT May 13 to June 21, Sagittarius I KNOW Dec 17 to Jan 20

Their message :

Dear friend,

I am so glad the universe has sent me to you. I am so proud of you for fighting for your dreams and doing your best every day to be a better person. You have no idea how much this means to me that you are working so hard to walk in my footsteps. My soul is filled with warmth because of you. Thank you so much.❤️ I love you too!

Clarifications - 6 of cups, 6 of swords, King of pentacles, 8 of pentacles, Queen of pentacles, High priestess

This artist is a soulmate of yours. They had to leave for you to thrive. It was part of their journey to pass on to the other side for you to grow and for them to guide you. It was necessary because their departure triggered an awakening in you. Your gifts wouldn’t have woken up the way they are now otherwise. It was their duty to contribute to your accession to your throne. By that I mean that in order to claim your power and rise up to their level, they had to eclipse themselves and now evolve in the « dark » or in other words on the other side of the curtain. You and this artist mirror each other, especially when it comes to your careers. I would even go as far as to say that for some of you they are a divine counterpart. You are the High priestess. And I saw behind her the Magician. They were the spark and you are the torch that will pass on the knowledge. They’ve taught you everything they had to while they were living. Now is your turn to do the same. You can connect with this person through hard work but also by working on your gifts, especially your intuition. When they were living, they were very intuitive too. They were known as a hard worker and a force to be reckoned with. They inspired people to leave behind what didn’t serve them. And they are now trying to help you do the same thing they did : be a mentor and a guide for others, especially younger souls.

#pick a card #pac reading #just-a-ghost #spiritual pac #tarot reading #oracle cards

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fictionalreads · 7 months ago

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This Was Never Meant to Be What It Feels Like (Part 2)

A/N: Soooooo I couldn't help myself. Ya'll really showed me love on part one and it encouraged me to write this part. I'll admit this isn't my favorite piece of writing but it's necessary cause it sets up part 3😅 Give me a few days at least for that one though. Hope y'all like it. 18+/Minors DNI

Part 1 Part 3

Pairing: Armando Aretas x Original Female Character

Fandom: Bad Boys Movies

Song I listened to while writing: Back To Love by Robert Glasper featuring SiR and Alex Isley.

Prompt: It's been six months since Armando left Shay but things feel unfinished for him.

Warnings ⚠️: Talk of smut (y'all I can't write that shit, I tried and it was trash so I just talk around it)

Armando was only supposed to be in LA for a couple days. He was still a wanted man and he didn’t exactly enjoy putting himself at risk of being caught, but it was unavoidable. A contact had needed a job done and since being on the run, he wasn’t afforded the option of being picky when it came to money. Besides, Martinez had been helpful in getting him jobs so he considered the extra risk a favor.

Nobody wanted to work with a snitch.

It didn’t matter that the feds had him serving life and he was just trying to survive, hopefully shave off enough time to not die in a cell. He was a rat and had nothing but enemies on both sides. Mierda, his parents had really screwed him over. His mother had ensured he would always be seen as a criminal and his father had ensured every criminal saw him as a traitor. He was destined for a life of solitude.

Then he met Shay.

He had been eating at a restaurant frequented by his target, canvassing the place, when he heard her laugh. Usually he would ignore other patrons as he did his job but there was something so uninhibited about the sound that it captivated him. He looked up to find the source and saw her head thrown back in obvious joy, curly hair flowing freely behind her. Her eyes were damn near shut, smile big and bright.

He was in LA for work but a little play never hurt anybody so he had his waitress send a drink to her and watched as he was pointed out. She lifted the drink he sent in a silent thanks and he raised his glass back, nodding at her with a smirk. He was aware when she had left and he finished his own meal and work soon after. He was unsurprised to find her waiting outside for him. That was the beginning of them.

He had thought once he had slept with her, they would both be satisfied and she’d be out of his system. A win-win situation, truly. But there was something about her that had him acting stupid. After he took care of Martinez’s problem, he laid low for a week, letting the heat die down. When it was safe enough to go back to Mexico, he just…didn’t. Instead he went and found her. He expected to have to work for it seeing as he left in the middle of the night and didn’t call for a week, but she let him back in.

So instead of going home like he should have, like he would have if he was smart, he stayed for her. He knew he should get the hell outta dodge, but he wanted to know her. So he called Martinez and picked up a couple more jobs he needed done out in LA and the surrounding area. When he wasn’t working he learned everything about her like it was his job, careful to never give her any real information, steering the conversation back to her every time. He was enchanted by her beauty, enthralled by her passion. Everything he learned about her got him closer to that dreaded L word.

Then he fucked up.

It had been three months of playing this dangerous game when she asked about him. He kew the day would come eventually when she wouldn’t allow him to just brush off her questions but he was somehow still unprepared and suspicious of her motives when it came. She had asked to know about his parents and he should’ve just fed her some bullshit story but he just got quiet. He realized he wanted to tell her. He wanted her to know him, the real him, and still choose him. So he had told her an edited version of his parents, only to immediately realize his mistake. He didn’t want to, but he was going to have to leave.

So after fucking out his feelings, he left. He went back to Mexico and told himself to forget about her. Except he couldn’t get her out of his head. For six months he was constantly reminded of her. Every woman that flirted with him was compared to her, every one of them coming up short. Every time he smelled shea butter and coconut, he thought of her freshly showered. Every time he needed a release, he pictured her blissed out face, his hand not nearly as good as the real thing. So he did something even dumber than staying in LA for three months.

He went back.

He watched her for a few days, Shay never knowing he was there. He watched as she went out with friends. He watched as they encouraged her when some fucker had the audacity to step to her and flirt. He watched as she went on a date with the man. A better man would have taken that as a sign that she had moved on and he should too, but he never claimed to be a better man. He watched as she gave restricted smiles, restricted laughs and came to the conclusion that this ‘date’ wasn’t doing it for her.

So he left them at the basic ass restaurant the guy chose and went to her apartment to wait for her. He found his way inside like he used to and set up on her armchair, turning on her lamp so as not to completely scare her. He waited almost an hour before he heard her keys in the door.

She clocked the light being on the second she walked in the door.

To prevent her from running and calling the cops because she didn’t know it was him, he spoke, “hola Amorcita.”

“Armando?” She question in disbelief.

He stood and took in his fill of her before telling her what he’d been thinking all night, “you look beautiful. Nice night?”

She shut the door behind her and cautiously stepped past the kitchen to reach the living room. She was still too far, standing at the edge of her breakfast bar across the room. Why wouldn’t she come closer? On one hand, she could be pissed that he left her for six months. Something told him it wasn’t that though. If she was pissed she wouldn’t be trying to keep herself as far from him as possible, as if out of reach. No, instead she’d probably get close enough to slap him. A heartbreaking realization hit him. “Are you afraid of me now, Amorcita?”

Shay stood tall, facing him head on. “Your rap sheet says I should be,” she bit out.

There it was. The confirmation she knew who he was now, that there would be no more hiding behind omissions of truth. He tilted his head in contemplation, “that’s not what I asked.” Was she not phased by who he was? Or was she just biding her time?

When she didn’t say anything else, he slowly walked to her. He could feel the energy in the room shift and amplify. He still wasn’t sure if she was gonna knee him and run or invite his touch. He wasn’t sure if he could take the betrayal from her, but he would understand. Any sane person would run from the likes of him.

When he stood mere inches from her he ghosted his fingers over her arm, noticing her intake of breath. “Are you afraid of me now, Amorcita?” He repeated, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Shay looked up, her eyes meeting his, “no.”

“Maybe you should be,” he brokenly admitted.

She lifted a hand to cradle his face, “You’ll never hurt me that way.” She said it so surely, as if she could see into him, see his soul. There was no doubt in her voice, her sureness both a surprise that she felt that way and a relief that she understood.

It didn’t escape his notice, however, that she was very distinct in her words. He may not have hurt her physically but he had hurt her all the same.

“I’m sorry for leaving, Alma.” He turns his head to place a kiss on her palm.

She gave him a slight smile. “I get why you did.”

“Doesn’t mean it hurt you any less or make me any less sorry.” He placed his hands on her waist, pulling her even closer, her hands going around his neck. Her scent took over his senses, clouding his thoughts.

She didn’t refute what he said, just reached up to press her lips gently against his in a quiet acceptance. When she pulled back he stared into her eyes, wondering if this was real, wondering how she could be real. He saw nothing but the love he wished he could keep. Unable to stop himself, he drew her in for a longer more passionate kiss. It was slow as if they had all the time in the world, or rather if time and the rest of the world didn’t exist. He hoped she felt the words he couldn’t say aloud.

He felt her hands stop their playing in his short hair and move towards his shirt buttons. Before she got to the first one, he pulled back and held her hands in his own, needing to tell her, owing her and her loving heart the truth.

“I can’t stay.”

Eye to eye, love and determination shining bright in hers, she whispered, “I know.”

From there, clothes shed quickly and they made their way to the bedroom. They both knew this was a goodbye, closure for them both. Their last attempt at an ending had felt lacking, like there was more to be said. This time it was all laid out in front of them. Emotions may not have been said but they were felt and known, the reality of their situation acknowledged.

This time they would both take what they needed, giving them a more satisfying conclusion.

After she fell asleep he fixed his gaze on her white ceiling, wishing things could be different for them, wishing he could stay and give her the life she deserved rather than a few memories she’ll hopefully look back on with fondness. He allowed himself a few minutes more of wishful thinking and soaking in the feeling of being with her. When it came time to leave, he hated himself for it, but he laid her on the bed and quietly collected his things. Finding a pen and a scrap piece of paper, he scribbled out a note for her, leaving it where he should have been laying next to her. He spared one last look at her before leaving her for good this time.

If you ever need anything, find Detective Mike Lowrey. Miami PD.

-A

A/N: How we feeling about this part? Let me know what your favorite line was in the comments! Don't be shy with the comments and reblogs, they motivate me. Likes are appreciated too!

Translations:

Mierda - Shit/Damn

Amorcita - Little Love

Alma - Soul/soulmate

Taglist: If you request to be on the taglist, you're agreeing that you're 18 or older.

@yeahnohoneybye

#Armando aretas #Armando lowrey #armando aretas fanfic #Armando aretas x oc #Armando aretas x ofc #Armando x oc #Armando x ofc #bad boys #bad boys for life #bad boys ride or die #fan fiction #Jacob scipio #original female character #Isabel aretas (mentioned)#Mike Lowrey (mentioned)#minors dni

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stoneagedevil · 6 months ago

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“I’m Not in Love” | Human!Alastor x F!Reader

TW/CW: Suicide, guns, hunting, allusions to murder, initial unrequited love, grief, death, hysteria fueled by grief.

PART 2: “Reunion”

-♥️-

He remembered the day he met you. It was a Monday, and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. The summer sun’s rays beat down on the back of his already tan neck, and he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of his mama’s scolding while she gently applied aloe once she saw how scorched he was.

Mama. She sent him to pick up a few things from the store for supper tomorrow. He couldn’t do it the day before, as there was church and the stores weren’t open.

Maybe if he went Saturday, or even Tuesday, it would’ve saved him the trouble of meeting you. You bumped into him, change flying from both your hands as you both scrambled to pick up your funds.

“You should watch where you’re walking.” He warned. At this rate, who knows if he even has enough to get what his mother asked?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bump into you. Here, this quarter can’t be mine, I’m over some change.” You shyly held out your hand, the quarter at the center of your palm.

“How do I know you haven’t stolen any other change?” He swiped the quarter from your hand, not trusting of you at all. Your eyebrows furrowed. Did you really seem like that much of a street rat?

“Why would I go and do a thing like that?” You tilted your head at him, and the question stilled him. Maybe he was being too harsh with you. No one intentionally bumps into another person.

Unless you planned this entire ordeal and wanted to steal his change with your little thieving hands.

He was back to not trusting you again.

“Just count your money. Tell me if it’s right.” You said, desperate to make this stranger not think so ill of you.

He didn’t like that you were telling him what to do, but he counted anyway. “I’m a nickel short.” He frowned.

You sighed, looking at the change you had left. You had a nickel, but it was part of the original amount you had. What little you scrounged up. “Here,” you held out your nickel, “it was my fault that I bumped into you. Take it.”

The hand that previously swiped the quarter from you hesitated at the chance to take this coin. He was too harsh with you.

“Go on, take it. It’s alright.” You encouraged. You put on your best smile to show how pure your intentions were.

His shoulders relaxed, and a soft smile appeared on his face, as if yours was contagious. “Thank you…”

“Y/N.” You finished.

“Y/N. I’m Alastor. I apologize for my behavior, and I appreciate your honesty.” He said, slightly looking off to the side.

That was the start of this horrible situation.

—

I'm not in love

So don't forget it

“I don’t love her mama!” He pouted at his mother. Normally he wouldn’t dream of going against his mother’s words, but this was different. He was growing up. He was a man with aspirations. He didn’t have time for love. You were just his friend to pass the time. A phase.

It's just a silly phase I'm going through

Even when you patiently awaited his calls on the telephone, he didn’t want you to get any ideas.

And just because

I call you up

Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made

You both grew up. Him into a strapping young gentleman his mama worked so hard to raise, and you, a vision. A beauty filled with a fiery determination that no one could put out. Except for him.

I'm not in love, no no, it's because

He wasn’t in love. Why? Well, because! He…he just wasn’t! It didn’t matter how much time you spent together. He just wanted to see you. He just wanted your company.

I’d like to see you

But then again

That doesn't mean you mean that much to me

Just friends. A mantra he’d been repeating to any other person in his life who brought you up. He wished everyone would stop this nonsense. When you were away, he simply missed talking to someone about anything, surely.

You could be replaced. Surely.

So if I call you

Don't make a fuss

And yet you always would make a fuss. Always fawning over him, asking how his day was, how work at the radio station was, what he ate that day. Silly inconsequential questions.

Don't tell your friends about the two of us

I'm not in love, no no, it's because

“I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a party my friend is hosting. She said I could bring a date.” You twisted the telephone cord around your finger, nervously hoping he’d agree to it.

“A date? Don’t tell me you’ve been telling your friends I’ve been courting you. You know it would never come to that.” He said, defensively. His cheeks were warm and his stomach felt funny at the notion of accompanying you as your date for the night.

Your throat felt tight. Maybe throughout all of these years, it truly was hopeless. A blink of an eye, and a decade went by since the day you both met, and he still hasn’t asked to court you. Maybe you were reading the glances he gave you wrong. Maybe his face wasn’t warming at you. Maybe he never thought your jokes were funny, and he laughed out of pity. “N-No, no. I haven’t told them anything like that.” You paused, sniffling. “It was only an invitation. I could ask another, if you aren’t interested.”

“Please do.” Space. Perhaps what he needed was time away from you. You were making him feel things that he didn’t like. That he didn’t understand. Maybe he hated you, and he just didn’t know it.

Be quiet, big boys don't cry

Big boys don't cry

So if you meant nothing, why was he tearing up at the thought of you going to a party with another man?

Big boys don't cry

His father told him men don’t cry. His mother told him big boys don’t cry, but it was okay because he’d always be her little boy. So here his eyes and heart were, stuck in the middle of two parents that weren’t even here. Not even his mother to comfort him.

I keep your picture

Upon the wall

He looked at the portrait of you and him that you gifted on the anniversary of your friendship. The five year anniversary. You’d carved the wooden frame yourself, imagery of activities you’d both done together sculpted out of the walnut. Bullets and antlers from the times you went hunting. Champagne flutes and feathers from your times dancing in the clubs. A microphone and a pencil from the times you’d sit in during a broadcast of his, drawing him until he was finished.

And within the frame, you and him. You wearing the biggest smile he’d ever seen you make. Him with the softest one he’d never seen himself make.

It hides a nasty stain that's lying there

So don't you ask me

To give it back

It wasn’t anything special. He didn’t hang it up right away in his room because he was excited to see it everyday. There was just a blemish on the wall. Nothing more.

I know you know it doesn't mean that much to me

You knew. One of the only friends you’d had didn’t care about you as much as you thought. Even if you tried to convey how much you cared about him. But you could lead a horse to water, that didn’t mean you could make him drink.

I'm not in love, no no, it's because

He wasn’t in love. It was what was under the frame that made his heart race. Only the bad memories under the portrait that formed a stain. Not your smiling face.

Ooh, you'll wait a long time for me

Ooh, you'll wait a long time

“Alastor. I just want to know. How much longer will you drag my heart around?” Your tears were camouflaged in the rain, but nothing could hide the sadness in your eyes.

He was planning on walking you home, but you stopped in the middle of the route to interrogate him on his behavior. His heart tightened as he felt backed into a corner.

“You’ll be waiting a long time for me. You might even be dead before I can catch up.” Why did he say that? Whose words were coming out of his mouth? It sounded wrong. It tasted horrible. It felt even worse.

Ooh, you'll wait a long time for me

Ooh, you'll wait a long time

It was him that needed to do the catching up. But the most important things typically come too little too late, didn’t they? You walked home alone that night. You expressed your wishes never to see him again, and that maybe he’d get his wish.

I'm not in love

So don't forget it

It's just a silly phase I'm going through

And just because I call you up

You didn’t answer his calls, and the wetness in his eyes never ceased. He slammed the telephone onto its cradle harshly, pulling at his chocolate locks. Denial. Caught in the middle of two organs again, this time his heart and brain. One that yearned for the love that was within arms reach, and one that couldn’t comprehend such a thing that was so freely given to him of all people.

Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made, ooh

He treated you so terribly. How could he do something so terrible to someone so sweet?

“You’re no better than the cretins you kill, Alastor. Mama would be ashamed of you.” He told himself, voice cracking.

Ever since his mother passed, it was like he shut off any emotional facet in his life to protect himself.

I'm not in love

Liar. He just picked up an apology bouquet.

I'm not in love

Liar. He planned on confessing and apologizing. Feet taking him straight to the home he never got to drop you off at that night.

He was a liar. A liar knocking on the door of the home in which you resided in with your aunt ever since your parents passed away.

The door opened, revealing the face of your aunt, button nose red and cheeks showing tear stains; something he’d come to grow familiar with in your absence.

“Alastor?” She questioned. Her voice was wet with grief.

“I’m here to apologize to Y/N.” He said, uncertainly. A deep sadness wafted from the house, squeezing between his ribs and slithering around his heart. Something wasn’t right.

A choked sob rang out into the space between him and your aunt. “She’s- she passed away. I’m so sorry.” Her hand cupped her mouth, as if willing the words back into her face. Maybe if she held out a little longer in voicing your demise, you’d have come back.

It was like the ground was ripped out from under his feet. The floating feeling he had at the utterance of your name was replaced with mortal dread. His head had a mind of it own, shaking back and forth unconsciously. No.

“What?” What else could he say? Did he even say anything? Or did he imagine the word he just said?

—

It’s not like you’d be missed. Your parents were gone. Your aunt had another mouth to feed that she couldn’t afford. It was a decision you should’ve made a long time ago. Alastor didn’t want you, and it truly wasn’t a surprise. Deep down you were a terrible person.

You’d hurt people who tried to woo Alastor. No sane person does that.

You loaded the hunting rifle Alastor had gifted you. Maybe it was a subtle (but rather expensive) way of him telling you to follow through on the plan you made all of those years ago.

You looked in the mirror, looking deeply at yourself. At the person in front of you. “Well Y/N, this’ll be the easiest game you’ll ever shoot. She’s not running anywhere.” You pressed your forehead on the barrel, opting to not taste gunpowder for the split second before the afterlife - if there truly was one.

A deep breath.

One.

Two.

You never got to three. You didn’t like landing on three because that’s when everyone expected something to happen. You preferred to rip the bandaid off. To pull the trigger on pulling the trigger, so to speak.

Suddenly, everything was cold, and then so overwhelmingly warm.

—

The apology/confession flowers were turned into apology/confession/memorial flowers as soon as he stepped foot into the cemetery he’d gotten used to. It was the same one his mother was buried in.

Now the weight of the location was that much heavier.

Your plot was just filled in. Just a few flowers placed onto it. He set his bouquet down, his bouquet being the biggest. He wished he realized how much he cared about you, as he obviously cared about you the most. Everyone saw it but him.

His throat closed around a sob. He obviously cared about you, and how absolutely awful. The one to care about you the most hardly showed it at all. What did that mean for the other people in your life?

What a terrible human being he was. It was subhuman the way he acted. He should’ve let those men that tried to court you live their lives. You could’ve been engaged by now. Happy without him instead of dead because of him.

“Y/N. I’m a selfish liar. You know how you always said my mama knew best? Well you’re right. You were always right, and she was right too. I’m so unbelievably in love with you it scares me. I’m someone different with you.” He lowered himself to the Earth, cheek and chest pressing into the fresh dirt as if to hug you for one last time. He wished to sink into the dirt and lay with you. “I’m all alone. And now I know how you felt. I wish I could bring you back so you wouldn’t have to be. I- you were my greatest adventure. I truly didn’t deserve you. I still don’t. I- I’ll spend the rest of my life and afterlife indebted to you for the unconditional love you gave me. I’ll give it to you in return. I love you.” He curled into a fetal position, knees planted on your plot. Sobs racked his body, and his lungs gasped for air to combat the onslaught of grief that struck him. “You hear me?! I love you!” His fists pounded on the ground, hands joining together to form a cup that housed the dirt that kept you from him. He writhed in a pain that was purely internal, dirt-filled hands coming up to his hair and rubbing the earth into his scalp as his fingers pulled at his strands of hair harshly.

He couldn’t see it through the tears. He couldn’t see it through his tangled fringe that fell over his eyes. He couldn’t see it through the dirt that began to cake his face, turning into mud with the mixture of dirt and tears. He didn’t even feel it.

A chain, white in color and glowing clamped around his throat from beyond the grave.

A deal that would last for forever had been made, one from the land of the living that bridged to the underworld. The very first of its kind; fueled by the most intense love ever felt by two beings since Lilith and Lucifer.

He wasn’t just in love. It was far greater than that.

-♥️-

Thinking about adding a part 2 to this. I hope you enjoyed.

#x reader #fanfic #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #human!alastor #human!alastor x reader #alastor fanfiction #alastor x you #alastor x oc #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin x reader #alastor hazbin x you #Spotify

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shazzbaa · 2 months ago

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DEATH AND TAX EVASION WAS SUCH A GOOD ES FOR SAM....... I got so invested in heckin Christian Rat Church so heres a bunch of church rats............... more specifics notes under the cut:

the rat church is dealing with a schism, so early on there's a chance to break up a fight and THIS IS JUST A RLY FUNNY MENTAL IMAGE TO ME.... SAM JUST GOES IN THERE AND STARTS PICKING UP RATS

A thing that's come up a few times in chats and rp with friends is that in order to not constantly feel crazy when verses he knows by heart change slightly in every edition, Samuel's kept his own Bible from the surface to refer to. With the rats specifically taking issue with St. Cyriac's edits, I really want to believe Sam got a moment to share older versions of these verses with the Layrat, before all the verses on death were changed to exclude rats....

IF YOU'RE CONNECTED TO FINGERKINGS then in Cheese Heaven the fingerkings specifically notice you're not a rat and only rats are supposed to be there -- instead of helping you leave, they just politely warn you that you'd better escape soon or else they'll have to turn you into a rat. RULES ARE RULES!! Thanks so much guys. I'm still losing my mind abt how much cheese heaven scrambled sam's brain.... just rly thought he was a rat for a bit there......

ALSO I HAVENT STOPPED THINKING ABT BEING ABLE TO HEAR THE LAYRAT PRAYING FOR YOU. I compared this ES early on to another ES I played a while back, All The Saints, where the Intrepid Deacon is sort of looking to you during a crisis of faith, and Sam worked hard to keep him un-tempted. But... for this one, Samuel was less sure, and uncertainly encouraged the Layrat to be willing to question what he grew up with, and to follow his heart on these strange new ratty religious ideas. But... this little rat was the one to keep faith and help him when Sam nearly forgot himself... I DONT KNOW MAN. IVE GOT EMOTIONS ABT RAT FAITH.

#fallen london #fl: the bloodstained deacon #fallen london oc #shazz art #fanart #exceptional story spoilers #es spoilers #death and tax evasion #this es was ALSO FUNNY but just made me feel so many feelings #apparently this author is the same one who did a bunch of light fingers so DO HIS STORIES JUST ALWAYS TAKE FIVE DIFFERENT SURPRISE TURNS???

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awwyeah107 · 30 days ago

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2024 Fic Recs

Hello and welcome to my fic recs from 2024 post :)

Like in 2023, the vast majority of fanfiction I read has been Tolkien-centric; my hyperfixation is still going strong, lol. I also got into Longmire (the TV show; I haven’t read the books yet), so there’s a handful of Longmire fanfics in here too. And as I said last year, buckle up, because it’s a pretty long post (this one’s got roughly 80 fics, not counting series!).

For each fic, I’ll give a one-sentence summary and then my thoughts on the fic! I’ll also mention whether the fic is a oneshot, doubleshot (2 chapters), or a multi-chapter fic, as well as the fic rating. I’m sorting the Tolkien fics into series, topic-based, character/time/place-focused, AUs & others, and then I’ll put the non-Tolkien fics at the end. I am including in-progress fics in each of those categories.

Credit to @cafekitsune for the galaxy banners used to separate the sections :)

Intro: What to Expect & Fics Legend

Expect: Lots of angst—LOTS of it. I didn’t realize how much there was until I went back through all of these! Also a bunch of fluff and hurt/comfort. Majority of fics are genfic. Mostly Silmfics; some Lord of the Rings and/or Hobbit characters are featured. Most fics are rated T, with a few rated G or M.

Do not expect: Stories with a focus on romantic!Russingon (or any other first cousins x cousins ships), smut, or excessively gory or dark stories. No E-rated fics.

Notes about formatting: Sometimes, the bullet points may be spaced out a little strangely; that’s because Tumblr won’t actually tag more than 5 people at once in a set of bullet points, so I have to space them out in order for people to get tagged properly. When a fic has quotation marks around the summary, that means it’s taken straight from the summary of the fic. Occasionally, I’ll consider a fic to be rated differently for my personal taste than it’s marked on AO3, and in those cases I will mention that. For example: G [AO3 rating] / T [personal rating]. Otherwise, ratings are from AO3.

Fics Legend/Key These emojis are used to denote any stories that have the following elements, and I’ll do my best to put appropriate warnings/mentions of certain potentially triggering topics as well, when needed. Most if not all the stories do have necessary tags or content warnings given by the author, so if I miss something, the author and/or the fic tags should tell you about it. My apologies if I do miss anything.

🔒 Fic only available to AO3 users

🩸 Features somewhat shocking or graphic violence and/or heavy topics (including abuse, severe trauma, mental illness, etc.)

*️⃣ Features background romantic!Russingon or other cousin ships

🏳️‍🌈 Features LGBTQ+/queer ships and/or characters (for those who do or do not prefer to read fics with queer ships/characters. If you have any questions about this, feel free to send me a DM.)

✍️ Fic is in progress/incomplete

Also, this may go without saying, but I feel like it does need saying: Your mileage may vary with these fics, especially those that are not particularly fluffy. So, read what you’re comfortable with, and don’t read or skip what you aren’t.

I will tag authors who are here on Tumblr; I've included multiple fics by the same authors, so I will only tag each author once.

To all the fic authors, people posting meta/analyses, and fan artists: Thank you for sharing your work with the world. Your stories, musings, and art have brought me a lot of joy (and frequently, encouragement) this past year, and it’s still kinda crazy to me that I can read or see it for free. Because you loved canon enough to make something from it, and you wanted to share the results of that love with others. Thank you. ❤️

Series

Annaáuchiwee by @thegreenleavesofspring (Brievel on AO3) & The_Anonymous_Coauthor 🩸✍️ - [Modern AU] The story of how a biker thug scrapes a street rat up off the street and discovers, for the first time in thirty years, that he has a conscience, which leads him halfway across the country and into a lifestyle of love and sacrifice that he had long forsworn. (In-progress series of 4 works, multi-chapters, T) Y’all. Y’all. I cannot recommend this series enough. If you follow my sideblog, @fandomsandfairytales, you have almost certainly seen me posting about this over there. This series is essentially set in the Sons of the Star universe, which is a “sons of Fëanor as a biker gang” modern AU, but it’s a step to the left of that AU. Annaáuchiwee is focused on the modern equivalent of Celegorm, named Riser Way, and his journey (both literal and figurative) to become an honorable man. I absolutely adore the characters and writing in this series. There’s so much: humor (and lots of it), angst (and lots of that too), violence, domestic fluff, thoughtful moments, and so much character growth. I get excited every time I see an update in my inbox! (Warning: The series features a fair amount of violence, and it deals with heavy topics, including trafficking, rape, and child abuse.)

On Elrond Peredhel by @elvinye (leodesic on AO3) ️*️⃣ 🏳️‍🌈 (Russingon + biological son Gil-Galad; prominent in one work) ✍️ - "A series examining Elrond's kidnap-adoption [and Elrond himself] from a variety of different characters’ perspectives." (In-progress series of 13 works, oneshots and doubleshots, all rated T or G.) I enjoy reading lots of different perspectives on kidnap fam, and I love how this series explores a huge spectrum of characters’ reactions to a very Noldorin Elrond. It’s so well-written and gives me major Elrond feels. Seeing Elrond through so many different lenses is really cool; I think leodesic does a great job handling each character’s inner narrative and also showing Elrond as a kind and caring yet assertive individual, no matter what that character thinks of him. If you are into pro-Fëanorian kidnap fam, you’ll like this series!

Quenta Nossëo by HonoraryDawn ✍️ - Elrond accidentally travels through time and space and arrives in Valinor just in time for Fëanor’s birth in the Years of the Trees; Elrond decides to change history and raise Fëanáro himself. (In-progress series of 2 works, multi-chapters, T) This is such a cool series! I love how it changes history, and all the twists and turns throughout! Nature vs. nurture is a key theme in Fëanor being raised by someone other than Finwë, and Fëanor’s development and the way tensions rise differently in Valinor in the Years of the Trees are fascinating. Highly recommend! (I also recommend Fanarts for Preventative Measures by Leira_E, which has several pieces of fan art and fan-written blurbs for the first installment in this series.)

Horrible Goose Fingon by @pearlescentpearl (PandaFlower on AO3) - Fingon, having experienced life in Beleriand, wakes up in the Years of the Trees Valinor and immediately decides to make it Morgoth’s problem. (In-progress series of 2 works, oneshots and multi-chapters, all rated T or G.) Fingon hits the ground running here, and his quick deductions and planning are so much fun to read! I enjoyed his interactions with Maedhros and with Ingwë’s family, and I’m looking forward to more.

Topic-Based

Post-Thangorodrim

I went through a period of time where I was really into rescue-from-Thangorodrim and post-Thangorodrim fics, so here are my top Maedhros-Thangorodrim-trauma recs from this year!

The Shackle by @valarhalla (Elisif on AO3) 🩸 - Fingon rescues Maedhros from the cliff of Thangorodrim. (Oneshot, M) This fic was exactly what I was looking for when I was craving a rescue-from-Thangorodrim fic!!! Masterfully written. It really depicted the sort of state Mae would have been in, neglected and hanging from the cliff as he was. The entire thing is SO angsty and incredibly heartrending and I loved it. (Warning: Graphic descriptions of injury, bodily fluids, and the effects of an extended period of physical neglect.)

Open Wounds by @markedasinfernal (theeventualwinner on AO3)🩸*️⃣ - “Maedhros' post-Thangorodrim recovery.” (12 chapters, M) I devoured this fic over two days and oh my goodness. What an amazingly well-written piece. I loveddddd all of the medical terminology and the very analytical (though never at the cost of emotional, or vice versa!) way Maedhros’ healing was approached. There’s so much angst and tension amongst the rest of the sons of Fëanor and Fingon as well, yet it is borne out of care for Maedhros, and that care is shown very clearly in all their interactions with Maedhros himself. The richness of the relationships in this fic is really beautiful. (Note: Any Russingon in this fic is very, very lightly implied. Warning: Descriptions of injury, physical trauma, and PTSD.)

Whoops, They’re Both Asleep by until_the_stars_are_all_alight - Findékano comes to visit Maitimo when he hears his cousin wanted “Káno” and finds Makalaurë [Kanáfinwë] is already there. (Oneshot, T) A short, absolutely adorable oneshot! It’s only 350 words, but everything is so well-portrayed: the tension between Fingon and Maglor, the way Maedhros is dealing with his recovery, the affection he has for both his brother and cousin. I’ve reread it a few times now and I love it more every time.

No Resemblance by Elisif - Nolofinwë struggles to recognise his nephew after his rescue from Angband. (2 chapters, incomplete, T) This is SO PAINFUL and angsty and so good. From Fingolfin barely recognizing Maedhros for who he was (when Fingon brought him back) to all the memories of young Maedhros in Valinor, it’s shot through with feelssssss.

Dawn by potatoesanddreams - Maedhros’ first sight of the Sun. (Oneshot, T) A proper drabble clocking in at 100 words. I really enjoyed this one—I was fascinated by the second person point of view for Maedhros! The descriptions are so evocative and eloquent.

More About the Things that You Take With by @imnotdyingbutyouallare - Maedhros struggles with Maglor cutting his hair. (Oneshot, T) There is so much gentleness in this fic despite how much Maedhros is still suffering, and so much awareness of each other on both Maglor and Maedhros’ parts, which I loved. Even a “simple” thing such as cutting Maedhros’ hair is difficult for him, and I could really feel the fragility of Maedhros’ state of mind throughout. So, so good!!!

breakdown by @leucisticpuffin 🔒 - Maglor breaks down and Maedhros struggles to comfort him. (Oneshot, T) Oh my goodness, ugh. This is soooo painful and I love it. I feel terribly for Maglor, and for Maedhros feeling so helpless. What an angsty vignette of their relationship in the immediate aftermath of Maedhros’ rescue.

Let them see! by BarbieBlue - Maglor attempts to console Maedhros in a difficult moment during Maedhros’ recovery. (Oneshot, T) I loved reading this fic! I felt the acute frustration on Maedhros’ part that he can do so little and Maglor’s intense guilt. Maglor’s compassion and determination to prove to his brother that he cares is very compelling. (Fingon’s bewilderment at the end is rather hilarious, too.)

Us Against the World by @annoyinglandmagazine (Caranthirwasalesbian on AO3) - It’s the first feast after Maedhros’ recovery, and he realizes only having one hand makes table manners difficult. (Oneshot, G) To me, this fic really demonstrates how much the sons of Fëanor care for each other, and I simply adore it. It’s a beautiful picture of love on a practical level.

Crablor

Oneshots of our favorite singing elf-turned-crustacean, Crablor!

Soft-Shelled Soul by @thescrapwitch (theScrap_Witch on AO3) 🔒 - Maedhros learns from Námo that his brother has been transformed into a crab, and he is determined to find him and bring him home. (Oneshot, G) I really enjoyed this lovely Crablor story! I loved the fact that it was Maedhros and Celegorm who found Maglor—it makes perfect sense to not only have Maedhros, the caring older brother, searching but also Celegorm, the one who knows animal languages. Everything back in Valinor (the reactions! Maglor’s new living space!) are wonderful, too.

The Trial of Crablor Fëanorion by theScrap_Witch 🔒 - Maglor, in crab form, is put on trial for his crimes. (Oneshot, G) This fic could very well go in my humor section as well as the Crablor section. I found myself laughing throughout, and even typing this I’m smiling just thinking about it. The format of a court trial record is delightful, along with all the shenanigans included for the sake of the record!

lured to be loved by LadyHaleth - Elladan and Elrohir search for their long-lost grandfather…who they discover has been turned into a different form. (Oneshot, T) A sweet adventure! Elladan and Elrohir’s dedication to finding and caring for Maglor is so admirable, and I enjoyed their dynamic as twins and with Maglor. The details in every scene really make this fic! (And don’t miss the awesome art in the middle, since the art and fic were one of the TRSB collabs for this year.)

Humor

to speak, to scream and laugh with the echo by @artandsuffering (Tamatoa (SaltandtheSoul) on AO3) - When Maglor wakes up in the past after the Fourth Age, he decides to make it Sauron’s problem. (Oneshot, T) This fic is SO FREAKING FUNNY. The understated humor in this is incredible, and I love the phrasing throughout. The framing of the atmosphere of Angband as a corporate workplace of sorts (while still being fully in Middle-Earth, of course) simply makes this fic.

This Battle Could Have Been An E-mail by @tilion-writes (Tilion on AO3) ✍️ - A series of emails in Maedhros’ inbox throughout the ages. (4 chapters, in progress, T) INCREDIBLY hilarious. The email addresses, the domains for the email addresses (nargothrond.com! himring.net!), the email sign-offs for each of the characters, the subject lines, the files, the messages (including punctuation and tone of professionalism, or lack thereof) from each character—all of it was priceless.

Please Do Not by @mynameisjessejk - “In which Maedhros has all the foresight of the House of Feanaro and uses it entirely to prevent brother and cousin shenanigans.” (Oneshot, bullet-point, T) This fic is absolutely hysterical. I probably broke something trying so hard not to laugh (I was reading this when there were people around). The phrase “the transitive property of Finrod” still lives rent-free in my head months after I read it XD This fic also turned out to be really heartwarming and gave me many feels. So, so, so good.

How Dare by @catkin-morgs-kookaburralover (ATalkingCat on AO3) - The palantir experiences Pippin picking it up. (Oneshot, G) I laughed out loud multiple times reading this. It’s a short, delightful read with a VERY snarky palantir point of view, and I highly enjoyed it!

Give A Whistle by Prackspoor - “After the sacking of Ost-in-Edhil, the Dark Lord Sauron ordered his prisoners crucified and carried at the head of his army as banners so that their approach would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies; no one could have imagined that the last resistance of the Elven City had no plans to go out quietly… literally.” (Oneshot, T) A VERY humorous, somewhat dark oneshot (with a second chapter solely for references). It’s very Monty-Python-esque, with some direct Monty Python references, so if you enjoy that sort of humor, this will be right up your alley. The sympathetic orc captain point of view is fantastic! (Warning: There’s a few dark mentions/descriptions of torture.)

Romance-focused

Tax Fraud and Picnics by @thesummerestsolstice - Haleth and baby Erestor convince Caranthir to go on a picnic. (Oneshot, G) I’ve got three words for this fic: SUPER. DUPER. CUTE. This fic is as sweet as candy. I adore how much Caranthir loves Haleth, and the light humor sprinkled throughout made me grin (the Caranthir-Turgon arguments over taxes will never not be funny to me).

Mending by theScrap_Witch 🔒 - “Caranthir sits by Haleth’s side as she dies and thinks of his family, his life, and his craft.” (Oneshot, T) Very sweet! I loved how the story wove Caranthir’s memories into the present day (pun very much intended), and his love for his craft is so beautiful. I also really enjoyed the visitors at the end :)

Your Eyes Are Like Knives (And I Really Like Knives) by @sweetteaanddragons (Drag0nst0rm on AO3) - Haleth knows that Caranthir is hiding something, and she is determined to find out what it is. (Oneshot, T) I saw that this fic was going to be part of TRSB 2024 a few days before the fics all got released, and I was so excited to read it! I had a fantastic time eagerly devouring it with much excitement and laughter, and as per usual, I thoroughly enjoyed Haleth flustering Caranthir.

Yours Dearly, Most Sincerely by Drag0nst0rm - “Five times Nerdanel had to help Feanaro write a letter, and one time he returned the favor. (And two times they had to write a letter alone.)” (Doubleshot, T) This fic both filled me up with the love Fëanor and Nerdanel had for each other (and their sons!) and ripped me to pieces with angst. The way Nerdanel often balances out Fëanor’s fiery spirit when it comes to composing a letter—and the way he chooses to listen to her!—is wonderful to read; the scene with the third letter practically gave me a heart attack from how adorably fluffy it was. Of course, this makes it all the more heartbreaking when they are apart. A very emotional read all around!

Breaking Into Light by @starspray ✍️ - Glingaereth happens to meet Fingon, the crown prince of the Noldor, and the two begin to take an interest in each other. (4 chapters, in progress, T) I haven’t read any Fingon x OFC fics before, and I really liked this one! Glingaereth and the other original characters stand well on their own, and the chemistry between Glingaereth and Fingon feels natural. I also liked the outside perspectives of the Noldor royal family and the uneasiness amongst the Sindar about the sense of doom following the Noldor.

Nothing in the World is Single by StarSpray - Eärendil and Elwing become friends…and then more. (5 chapters, T [AO3 rating] / G [personal rating]) This is so sweet! I really enjoyed this fic—the easy pacing, Eärendil’s friendly nature, and Elwing’s more reserved personality all combine to make a great read. The descriptions are wonderful, and I liked Eärendil and Elwing’s adventures.

Character, Time, or Place-Focused

Kidnap Fam

What matters is ‘you’ and not the state of you. by @havenotwillnotreadthebooks (EclecticKefi on AO3) - “Maglor contemplates the Peredhel that he and his brother have taken in, then contemplates the effect of this new life on Maedhros.” (Doubleshot, T) This was such an enjoyable read! I loved reading Maglor’s reflections, especially on Maedhros as a father figure to Elrond and Elros. I also enjoyed reading how the twins’ nature as peredhel (and being somewhat eldritch to boot) affects their domestic life with Maglor and Maedhros.

I keep my enemies closer than the mirror ever gets to me by EclecticKefi 🔒 - Elrond and Elros hide in Maglor’s closet and overhear Maedhros and Maglor talking. (Oneshot, T) This fic is both heartbreaking and heartwarming in multiple ways. The two peredhel have seen far too much trauma and suffering in their young lives, but their empathy is really sweet. Also, I’m always a fan of eldritch!peredhel, so I liked the notes of that scattered throughout the story.

On Monsters and Lullabies by Tilion - Maglor is the one the twins like, not Maedhros, and Maglor confronts his brother. (Oneshot, T) I will never tire of the angstiness of Maedhros and Maglor arguing over the twins and the role they play in their lives, nor how Maedhros becomes someone the twins can trust. Maglor’s softness with the twins is so sweet (baby Elrond and Elros are ADORABLE), and the reflections (both Maglor’s and Maedhros’) on how much Maedhros had changed since being in Valinor are really well-written.

And Love Grew by @polutrope (polutropos on AO3) ✍️ - Maedhros and Maglor deal with the aftermath of their attack on Sirion, and Maglor leads their host—including two young peredhel and their caretaker—to Amon Ereb. (6 chapters, in progress, T) A wonderfully complex, angsty, deeply woven tale. Every character and relationship has so many layers, and polutropos does a great job of exploring the darkness of the Oath and the ripple affect it has on the sons of Fëanor, their followers, and the people of Sirion.

And when we’re in the dark, it echoes in your heart by ElectricKefi - Elros unintentionally triggers Maedhros’ Sauron-related trauma. (Oneshot, T) Poor Maedhros AND poor Elros! The idea that the peredhel with Maia blood would bring back Maedhros’ memories of being tortured by Sauron—especially when Elros is trying to help him—is so sad. I loved the instantly-on-alert Maglor who is there to de-escalate the situation, too.

though the shadow closes in by millyfaraway - Maglor and Maedhros strategize to keep Elrond and Elros safe. (Oneshot, T) I really like the dialogue and OCs in this one! The discussion of Sauron and Morgoth’s desire for the peredhel, the plans to keep moving, and the connection Maedhros and Maglor share all flow quite well.

First Age Beleriand

Finwëons & Fëanorians:

Mind the Gap by Tilion - Maglor visits Himring. (Oneshot, T) Loved reading this!! Great characterization of both the characters themselves and their relationship. They are SUCH siblings in this, and I really enjoyed reading them snarking at each other and checking up on each other and seeking to ensure all was truly well. I’ll also never pass up a scene with Maglor braiding Maedhros’ hair.

The Light Behind Your Eyes by Tilion ✍️ - Scenes of Maglor and Maedhros after Thangorodrim. (2 chapters, in progress, T) I love how beautifully this portrays Maglor and Maedhros’ relationship. It balances the past and the present really well. Even though Maedhros is still clearly suffering from his time in Angband, this fic has a calm tone to it, and I can see the healing taking place in Maedhros’ spirit. A lovely read.

Scribbles and Squabbles by @dreamingthroughthenoise (Alantie on AO3) 🔒 - An argument between the Fëanorians, through letters. (7 chapters, T) This was a delight to read! Humorous at times, and heartfelt at others. I could pick up on the underlying hurt and desire to be seen that sparked the argument, and the love and care rising from the letters as things resolved. (The very clear and present sass was quite fun, too.)

Gingerbread Cookies by Elisif - Aredhel and Fingon supervise Idril and Tyelpë while they make Christmas cookies. (Oneshot, G) This is such an adorable fic—tiny Idril and Celebrimbor are so cute, and I loved Aredhel and Fingon’s brother-sister relationship. Their interactions have such fond sibling energy!

A Mere Shadow by Elisif - Maglor comes to visit Maedhros and is reminded of Thingol’s Quenya ban. (Oneshot, T) So good and so sad! I could immediately feel the shift in Maglor’s mood when Maedhros inadvertently reminds him of the ban, and the sorrow oozing from both brothers, as if from a wound.

the raging storm of a foreign war, and a face i'd seen before by @arafinweanappreciation (TelerinJedi on AO3) - Finarfin comes to Beleriand. (Oneshot, T) This fic is short yet so expressive!! I love Finarfin seeing Tol Sirion and him talking about avenging his son in such a terrifyingly calm manner.

Ill-Tidings by TheScrap_Witch 🔒 - Maedhros brings news to Curufin that Nargothrond has fallen. (Oneshot, T) Poor Curufin 😭 This fic has all the dad!Curufin feels!!!! Curufin’s humanity (or elvish equivalent, lol) shines through in this fic in his anguish over his son. His grief and rage are so palpable (and so well-written!).

Too Big, Too Heavy by @hwestalas - Maedhros visits the new High King of the Noldor after the Dagor Bragollach. (Oneshot, T) Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Fingon’s grief over Fingolfin is so raw and real, and I love how he tries to keep it together but fails in the face of Maedhros’ calm, devoted friendship. Such a great read.

ever an anguish that pursued by @thelordofgifs (TheChasm on AO3) 🩸 - Maglor tries to save Maedhros from the fire, but he keeps waking up. (Oneshot, T) UGH SO ANGSTY. So so angsty. All of the “what if”s that Maglor dreams could have happened are so terribly sad, because he can see so many ways out that don’t involve Maedhros jumping into the chasm. (Warning: suicide and multiple near-suicide attempts.)

stone on the board by @dalliansss - The Finwëons play games with politics in Beleriand at Mithrim. (Oneshot, T) So good! Love the politicking going on in this fic, primarily between Maedhros and Finrod. Quite an intriguing read.

there's no timer on grief 🔒 by Kat_isaconfusedbean - After Losgar, Amras mourns. (Oneshot, T) This is SO painful. Especially for how short this fic is. My heart aches for Amras (and for Celegorm). I love Celegorm coming to comfort his brother, along with Huan.

Unrepentent by theScrap_Witch 🔒 - Maedhros will not give up on obtaining the last Silmarils. (Oneshot, T) The Oath has Maedhros in its grip so tightly in this fic (along with his own memories and experiences), and it’s horrifying yet understandable to see him act and think the way he does. I love the dynamic between Maedhros and Maglor in this fic, too.

the ways of birds by @welcomingdisaster (welcoming_disaster on AO3) - “When Maglor is captured in the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, he doesn't expect a rescue. (for the prompts maglor + maedhros + "need to keep quiet" & "roadside wound tending.”)” (Oneshot, T) SO MUCH MAGLOR WHUMP. And so much tension, too. I could really feel Maglor’s raw, gritty pain and the ugly experiences he endured. It made the comfort part of “hurt/comfort” that much more relieving when he was, indeed, rescued.

Non-Finwëons:

Mad, Not Angry by AfricanDaisy - Young Thranduil is woken from a thunderstorm, and searches for a source of comfort: his father. (Oneshot, G) SO so cute! I could really feel Thranduil’s panic in searching for Oropher, and then his simultaneous relief and upset when he did find him. The descriptions are vivid and well-crafted, very fun to read!

no vela, no orion by TelerinJedi - A comment from Andreth’s sister causes her to wonder if she is in love with Nóm (or vice versa), and it is harder to have a discussion with him about this than she thinks. (Oneshot, G) The adolescent awkwardness and embarrassment in this fic brings me back to my teenage days XD This is really sweet though, truly. A light bit of fluff!

Second and Third Age Middle-Earth

living arrows sent forth by @balrogballs (timelessutterances on AO3) - Thranduil and Elrond discuss fatherhood at Arwen and Aragorn’s wedding reception. (Oneshot, T) SO. SO. GOOD. I seriously love the phrasing in this one, as well as Thranduil’s and Elrond’s characterizations, their long-held opinions and memories of each other, and their discussion of parenthood. Thranduil is so snarky and Elrond so earnest. Phenomenal all the way through.

rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated by @lighttrls (thunder_and_stars on AO3) - Unaware of elves’ habit of sleeping with their eyes open, Estel finds Elladan unmoving with his eyes open and thinks he must be dead. (Oneshot, T) POOR BABY ESTEL aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. The angst is off the charts in this one; my heart was breaking for tiny Aragorn. I was so glad that his assumption was corrected, in the end.

i'm fine, i prom- by thunder_and_stars - Elladan and Estel are captured by orcs and tortured. (Oneshot, T) Oh my goodness, I wanted to kill each and every orc right along with Elladan. The descriptions of the orcs’ actions, their impact on Estel physically, and the impact on Elladan emotionally were so vivid. It’s some good, heavy whump (with some comfort at the end).

sticks and stones may break my bones by thunder_and_stars - Some people don’t like the fact that Estel lives with the elves. (Oneshot, T) Once again, right there with one of the twins on wanting to beat up people for mistreating Estel. The way Estel tried to hide his injuries and then admitted what happened and what was said and done to him was so sad. Lots of hurt/comfort here.

A Long Way To Go In The Morning by @nocompromise-noregrets (likethenight on AO3) 🔒 - “The night before the Fellowship of the Ring leaves Rivendell, Elladan and Elrohir give Aragorn some encouragement.” (Oneshot, T) I really enjoyed this one! Elladan and Elrohir are such good brothers to Aragorn, and the way they lifted his spirits was really sweet. I liked the discussion of mortality as well as the hopefulness that the twins had about the Quest and Aragorn’s success.

Advice Unlooked For by sehellys - Aragorn talks to Elladan and Elrohir when they return from the Wild, and then he goes to the Feast in the Hall of Fire. (Oneshot, T) The descriptions in this one are simply beautiful—and so is the dialogue! I loved the shift from serious to “shenanigans mode” after the twins update Aragorn on what’s going on in the outside world.

Re-embodiment in Valinor

Red, Red Moon (Keep On Rising) by Tilion 🏳️‍🌈 (Celegorm/Oromë features somewhat prominently, especially in the back half) - Celegorm wakes up outside Mandos with two silver-haired elflings and no memories; he sets off to bring the boys to their parents and figure out his identity. (24 chapters, T) This was such a fun fic to keep up with as it got updates! Celegorm and the twins (kidnap fam 2.0, one might say) were incredibly adorable. I loved Legolas and Tauriel’s inclusion, and I highly enjoyed the whole identity crisis Celegorm went through (seriously, it was awesome). Celegorm feels SO Celegorm to me in this fic: cocky, rough around the edges, more caring than he’d like to admit. Overall there’s so much to this fic, and the twists and turns kept me on the edge of my seat.

Hemlock and Niphredil by theScrap_Witch 🔒 - “In Fourth Age Valinor, Elrond and Thingol connect over a shared love of gardening and grief for their daughters.” (Oneshot, T) I had never really thought about Elrond and Thingol’s similarities before this fic, and I loved getting to read them interacting and forming a friendship! Both have lost daughters by the choice to give up immortality, yet they have quite different personalities (and a complicated family tree), and it’s beautiful to see them connect through their shared experiences. (It’s also interesting to read Thingol portrayed in a more sympathetic light than most fics—yet not without his imperfections, certainly.)

Memento Vivere (Remember, You Must Live) by Drag0nst0rm - “Maedhros and Maglor have a long overdue discussion of what happened at the edge of that chasm - and what happened after.” (Oneshot, T) UGH so GOOD and so ANGSTY. There are so many emotional beats in this fic, and I found myself bracing for each one. I painfully love Maglor’s instincts when it comes to protecting/taking care of Maedhros after all these years, and how he doesn’t want the people he loves to be hurt because of him—though he has been in so much pain himself, and Maedhros sees that. Really, really good. (Warning: Discussion of suicide.)

White Water Flowing by StarSpray ✍️ - In Valinor and homesick for Imladris, Celebrían decides to build a new one. (6 chapters, in progress, T) This is such a lovely fic!! I’ve really enjoyed reading it. I love Celebrían’s characterization—many people underestimate her, and it’s wonderful to see her bloom after healing in Lórien. She simultaneously has a gentle soul and an admirable tenacity and drive. I also love reading her interacting with members of Elrond’s family and seeing how those relationships develop.

Handle with Care by theScrap_Witch 🔒 - “When Fëanor left the Halls of the Dead, he did not expect Mahtan to be the one waiting for him.” (Oneshot, T) I loved this!!! I don’t see a lot of Mahtan and Fëanor interactions, and I really enjoyed reading their conversation. (I grinned at Mahtan telling Fëanor off about Nerdanel. I haven’t seen that before and I’ve really wanted to, so it was quite satisfying.) It’s clear that they both carry a lot of grief, and they have a familiar relationship underpinning everything.

From Ruins We Grow by TheScrap_Witch 🔒✍️ - Fëanor learns how to live again (and how to garden!) when he is returned to life and placed under Yavanna’s responsibility to tend a small corner of Valinor. (7 chapters, in progress, T) I get so excited whenever I see an update for this fic in my inbox! There’s so much feeling in this fic, which is very fitting for Fëanáro’s fiery, intense character. It’s in turns amusing and exasperating to see him humbled by learning a new craft, yet I always find myself rooting for him in his endeavors. I love the relationships he forms with the visitors to his garden, and all the sweet memories of his sons practically make my heart melt.

AUs

In-Universe AUs

An Unexpected Rescue by SpaceWall - Fëanor realizes that someone has taken on the form of his half-brother Fingolfin, and that the real Fingolfin has disappeared. (Doubleshot, T) This is SUCH a cool AU!!! I really enjoyed reading this one. I love Fëanor’s insistence on figuring out what happened and finding Fingolfin, though of course in denial that he cares for his brother deep down. I’d say more but I don’t want to spoil it!

Will You Greet the Daylight Looming? by Tilion - Maglor persuades Maedhros to live. (Oneshot, T) Oh, this fic is terribly, delightfully angsty. I love how Maglor and Maedhros’ relationship is portrayed here, and the vivid imagery really brings it to life. Lots of thee/thou and ‘dearest’ language, too!

Reforged by theScrap_Witch 🔒🩸🏳️‍🌈 (background Celebrimbor/Gil-Galad) - Maeglin survives the fall of Gondolin, and Celebrimbor and others help him to find his way to healing. (20 chapters, G [AO3 rating] / T [personal rating]) What a story. Just—what a story. It takes you on a rollercoaster of emotion and growth and change and just, wow. I am so freaking proud of Maeglin in this fic, and I love his characterization. He digs his claws into life and doesn’t let go, and it’s incredible to see his transformation over the course of centuries. I also loved the inclusion of many other Second and Third Age characters in this story and how Maeglin’s life becomes intertwined with theirs. This fic is angsty and agonizing on so many levels, but it is fiercely emotional and cathartic in good ways too. I really enjoyed getting to follow along with this fic as it was published!

Scion of Mystery by Tilion 🏳️‍🌈 (minor Erestor/Curufin) - Elrond is determined to uncover Gil-galad’s true parentage. (7 chapters, T) Absolutely BUCK WILD Gil-Galad theory. Complete and total plot twist that I did NOT see coming until a few sentences before it was revealed!! Elrond’s shenanigans along the way to uncover Gil-Galad’s parentage were so much fun to read. Features kidnap fam and Celrond, along with other Fëanorians.

Parley AUs This is a subset of in-universe AUs where someone other than Maedhros gets taken at the parley with Morgoth. Apparently this was the year for me to get into parley AUs, and it even inspired me to write my own, lol!

The Price We Pay by theScrap_Witch 🔒🩸 - “In which Makalaurë goes to parlay with Morgoth, Findekáno still performs his dramatic rescue, and Maitimo struggles with both his little brother’s recovery and his responsibilities as king.” (Oneshot, T) This fic yanked out my heart and stomped on it and then tossed it off a cliff for good measure. I’ve read a few different Maglor-is-taken-at-the-parley fics, but oh boy, this one poured on the FEELS. Everything in this fic is heartbreaking—from Maglor’s belief that he is a “pretty bird” meant to sing to Morgoth, to Maedhros’ distrust/fear of Fingolfin, to all of Maglor’s brothers’ pain over his traumatized state—yet there is an undercurrent of hope that slowly rises throughout the story. It’s so well-written, and I highly, highly recommend it.

Despair Like Poison by theScrap_Witch 🔒 - “Thinking that he’s protecting his family, Maedhros rides to the parlay alone, unaware that Morgoth has a different trick in mind.” (Oneshot, bullet-point, T) Sooooo so angsty!! I really can’t say much about this without spoilers, but aaaaaaaaa. Maedhros is firm about his decision to go, but he’s so gentle with his brothers at the moment of departure, which makes what happens after so much worse.

A Crown of Bones by theScrap_Witch 🔒 - Maitimo and Makalaurë are taken in the parley with Morgoth, and Tyelkormo must take up the crown. (Oneshot, T) I really liked this AU! Celegorm has a lot to deal with here, both in being the oldest Fëanorion and being king of their people. The reminder that he can handle himself in political situations and display his power in words—not just physical action—is fantastic, and the way he cares so deeply for his younger brothers and misses his oldest two is heartwrenching.

Boldness Be My Friend by @a-tehta (tehta on AO3) - Celegorm has been captured by Morgoth, and it is up to Aredhel and Huan to rescue him from the cliff of Thangorodrim. (Oneshot, T) This one is surprisingly humorous for being a rescue-from-Thangorodrim fic, yet also sweet! I really loved getting a Huan POV (so cool), and I enjoyed Aredhel getting to be the rescuer. (There is a bit of implied future Celegorm/Aredhel at the end, but it’s mostly, if not entirely, played for humor.)

Modern AUs

Little Stars, Little Souls by Tamatoa (SaltandtheSoul) - Fëanor looks for his second son, who is dressed up for Halloween. (Oneshot, G) SUPER. CUTE. This is some of the fluffiest fluff to ever fluff and I was just gobbling it up. Baby Maglor is the cutest thing and I love Fëanor as a dad here.

the adventures of Elf Guy by red_01 - “A group of friends obsessed with The Silmarillion discovers a guy who bears a resemblance to Maglor—and uncover the truth.” (Oneshot, T) This was so much fun to read (and highly amusing)! The Twitter format was a great choice, and I’m impressed by the dedication to it. I enjoyed the back-and-forth chaos, internet-typical keysmashes and all caps, and references to artists in the Tolkien fandom (e.g., Clamavi de Profundis, “Phobs-style” cosplays).

Cookies by Brievel 🔒 - Girl Scouts visit the Ways’ house. (Oneshot, G) This absolutely delighted me. I love everything about it—the POV of the girl scouts, the way they were all intimidated by Max, a cameo by Nell, Birdie yelling for cookies in the background. It’s so sweet and made me grin so much.

Valentines Flowers by Brievel 🔒 - “Max brings Misty flowers.” (Oneshot, G) Max and Misty are just straight-up ADORABLE. The way they interact and how they familiar they are with each other’s habits shows how comfortable they are with each other. They both are down so bad, and I love to see it. I also love to see Max doing something nice for Misty :)

Other Tolkien Fics

These are fics that didn’t fit into any other category or had less than three fics within each category.

Miscellaneous:

The War of the Ring by @winterinhimring (morwen_of_gondor on AO3) - The sons of Fëanor are re-embodied and sent to Middle-Earth to atone for their crimes during the Third Age when the Quest for the Ring begins. (42 chapters, T) PSA: if you’ve read The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings, you must read this. Required reading. I am only very slightly joking. This story is absolutely PHENOMENAL. I was curious to see what the sons of Fëanor joining the Fellowship would be like, and I was blown away by how beautifully written it is. Y’all. It’s written in the style of The Lord of the Rings books. Like, legitimately. I never knew how much I needed to see the Fëanorions interacting with the hobbits, or showing the strength of ancient Valinorian-born elves in battle, and it all being written in true Tolkienian style is so incredibly wonderful. I can’t recommend this enough.

Joys to Come by @darkfrozenabyss - “Glorfindel, from Tirion to Rivendell.” (7 chapters, T) Loved this fic!!! I love darkfrozenabyss’ characterization of Glorfindel so much. There are so many emotionally powerful, simple and sweet, and feels-inducing moments in this story, and I really enjoyed Glorfindel’s family and how close he is with them!

Years of the Trees Valinor:

Little Father by feanorianswelcome 🔒 - “Maitimo finds little Atarinkë and brings him home for luncheon.” (Oneshot, G) Cute little Curufin oneshot with big brother Maitimo! I haven’t read a lot of Curufin & Maedhros together, so this was enjoyable (and very sweet).

Fine Feathers, Pretty Songs by an_evasive_author - Everyone loves tiny Findaráto (as they should). (Oneshot, G) SO. FREAKING. CUTE. All the fluff for Findaráto! I loved him so much (and the writing style of this fic, too).

Rings of Power:

Look into the Mirror (Tell Me What You See) by Drag0nst0rm - Second Age!Gil-Galad and Rings of Power!Gil-Galad switch places. (3 chapters, T) I have watched one (1) episode of the Rings of Power series, but I have thankfully read enough articles about it that I understand enough to read this fic! It’s a highly amusing and enjoyable read :) The difference in Gil-Galads is quite noticeable, and I loved seeing Second Age!Gil-Galad quite surprised at his (supposed) past actions in RoP, whereas RoP!Gil-Galad is a little less aware of the change in his surroundings (but everyone else certainly is).

Another Skin by crystal_buizel - Second Age!Elrond and Rings of Power!Elrond switch places (based off of “Look into the Mirror (Tell Me What You See)”). (Doubleshot, T) Another swapped places fic! Poor Elrond in both situations, but especially poor Second Age!Elrond. Like the other fic, I can’t say too much about it without spoilers, but this one is also enjoyable, with a bit more angst on the part of both Elronds.

Tumblr Oneshots:

just you wait by @lintamande - “being brilliant in mind and swift in action she had early absorbed all of what she was capable of the teaching which the Valar thought fit to give the Eldar…” (T) I really liked this oneshot! Galadriel in her youth is rather clueless when it comes to social interactions, though she is vastly intelligent in intellectual matters, and I can feel her frustration, restlessness, and pride so strongly in this. Really well-written.

Oropher and Celeborn have a conversation by @amethysttribble - At a party, Oropher and Celeborn talk about the line of Lúthien. (T) SO good!!!! I loved this so much. Oropher and Celeborn’s characterization and views on things make a lot of sense, and I love how their discussion flows. They are the last two of Doriath, and that weight on their shoulders is so evident throughout this fic.

Non-Tolkien Fics

Longmire

A Never Ending Bake Sale by ladygray99 - Walt and Henry spend a casual evening together at The Red Pony. (Oneshot, T) I absolutely loved reading this fic. I feel like ladygray99 really nailed the characters, their relationship, and their mannerisms. Everything in Walt and Henry’s conversation, said and unsaid, felt very natural and relaxed. You can feel the depth of their 38-year-long friendship and how comfortable with each other they are. Although I’ve only seen the TV show and not read the books, I liked how it incorporated things from both. A great read!

Every Page You Turn You’re Writing (Typing) Your Legacy by @cminerva and @whatamess 🔒 - “For nearly four decades, Mathias has found many reasons to admire Ms. Ruby Mason née Taylor and in that time Ms. Ruby has found just as many reasons to be fond—and so proud—of the man Mathias has become.” (Oneshot, T) Oh my GOSH. This fic is adorable and cringy (in the best way!) and so freaking cute. I highly enjoyed the descriptions of Durant high school in the early 80s, complete with a typing class; although I wasn’t alive at the time, it feels quite realistic. I loved seeing Mathias’ journey through high school into adulthood and the way his and Ruby’s friendship developed over time, from Mathias’ schoolboy crush to his respect for the amazing woman she is. Mathias and Ruby’s friendship has now become canon to me, to the point where I’ll watch episodes and get excited whenever these two characters (who, for anyone who doesn’t know the show, are minor characters and very rarely interact) get to see each other, even only for a quick nod or short smile.

Something New by cminerva - Though they’ve known each other for years, May Stillwater and Mathias Littlesun have never been friends—and indeed, they’ve been enemies before—but perhaps it’s time for something new. (Oneshot, T) I am now a May/Mathias shipper after reading this fic XD I really liked how this not only addressed the (admittedly few) interactions they had in the TV show but also added more “off-screen” ones to give more depth to their on-screen appearances. They have a lot of reason to dislike each other, but I loved how in this fic, they began to see reasons to respect each other and then caught feelings. So cute!

Quigley Down Under

Morning Sun by Brievel 🔒 - Matthew and Cora wake up together. (Oneshot, G) This fic is SO SOFT. I can totally picture this happening as an epilogue after the end of the movie, and I can hear their voices so well. The details are quite lovely. Quigley Down Under is a pretty niche film, but if you’ve seen it, you deserve to read this fic!

I mentioned this at the start, but I wanted to reiterate because I truly am very grateful—To all the fic authors, people posting meta/analyses, and fan artists: Thank you for sharing your work with the world. Your stories, musings, and art have brought me a lot of joy (and frequently, encouragement) this past year, and it’s still kinda crazy to me that I can read or see it for free. Because you loved canon enough to make something from it, and you wanted to share the results of that love with others. Thank you. ❤️

And thank you to all who read this far XD Hope you enjoy some (or all!) of these fics!

Other Fic Rec Lists: 2023 Fic Recs, Fic Recs for Elrond Week 2024 (on fandomsandfairytales)

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