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yabakuboi · 19 days

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merman steve pt 2

a continuation of this for @spectrum-spectre, now with some pre-steddie~!

Henderson is skulking around in the cereal aisle when Eddie spots him.

The kid has been a bit of enigma to Eddie since he met him at the beginning of last fall semester. Dustin had a tight group of friends, but often times, he caught the gang of them sans Henderson and the fact seemed to annoy the hell out of them.

"He just goes off on on his own sometimes," Baby Beyers would say.

"He won't tell anyone where or why or with who," Mini Wheeler would snarl.

"And it's definitely not to talk to his girlfriend, because we hear ALL about that," Big Sinclair would sigh, rolling his eyes.

So catching kid creeping around the grocery store minus the rest of his party, after hearing many complains of his mysterious disappearances? Color Eddie intrigued.

"Hendersooon," Eddie sang, wrapping an arm around Dustin's neck to keep him from escaping. "Whatcha doing?"

"Eddie!" he said brightly, grinning at him. "Just buying some snacks. Hey, which cereal do you think a fish can eat?"

Eddie stares at him for a moment, blinking. "Uh..."

Henderson's face scrunches up. "I guess he's not really a fish though, so I'll try whatever." He grabs a box of Honey Combs from the shelf.

"Dude, are you keeping a sea turtle at your house again? You know that's illegal."

"No!" Henderson snaps, flushing. "And I was going to take Dart back after show and tell, I had already promised Steve!"

"Steve?" That was a new name. Eddie hadn't heard Henderson talk about a Steve before, and the guy was kind of a motormouth and a terrible liar. The only time Eddie had seen him actually avoid a topic was when his little disappearing acts were brought up. "Who's Steve?"

Henderson's eyes go comically wide. "No-one! I don't know any Steves!"

Eddie knew at least three Steves, and two were in Henderson's grade. "Uh-huh."

"Anyways," Dustin says, clutching the box of Honey Combs to his chest as he backs down the aisle. "I gotta go man, nice seeing you, bye!"

Bemused, Eddie watches him go. He's planning to give Henderson a five minute head start before he goes to tail him, but apparently, he needn't to have planned a stake out after all. Henderson finds him again, two aisles over, panting and red-faced.

"Actually, can you give me a ride?"

🧜‍♂️

"Eddie," Henderson says, voice even more serious and deadly than the time the party took on Vecna last month during their campaign. "I need you to swear that you will never, ever tell anyone about what I'm going to show you."

Eddie cocks a brow at him. "Is this a drugs thing? Dude, you—"

"No!" Henderson snaps. "This is not a drug thing! This is a very serious life and death thing, and I need you to swear on you life you won't tell anyone about it."

"Dude," Eddie says, a little in awe. He stares out his windshield for a moment where they're still parked just outside of town. He can hear sounds of the ocean just past the ridge, waves crashing on the cliffs. It's a remote little area, opposite of the tourist favored beaches. Eddie, in fact, deals just a few miles down the shoreline from here. "Did you bring me out here to kill me? Are you the world's dorkiest serial killer?"

"Eddie." Eddie turns to look at him. His face is grave, brows furrowed with real worry. "I'm serious."

"Okay... Okay, then."

"You have to swear."

"I swear."

And just like that, Henderson's face breaks into a bright smile. "I knew I could trust you!" he crows, grabbing up his bag from the store and kicking open his door.

Eddie stumbles out of his van after him, listening intently as they pick their way over the rocks.

"He's so cool, Eddie, you're going to love him. He totally saved my life when I was like ten and I got pulled out on a rip tide. Like, I really almost died dude and then he just swims up out of no where and helps me catch my breath. Helps me float there while I'm freaking out too until the life guard finally came out to get me. It was crazy! I come out here all the time to visit him, I think he gets a little lonely. So it's good you're here, I've been trying to think of someone else to introduce him to, but it's hard to figure out who's going to freak out and try to sell him to Sea World, or something."

They crest over the hill to a tiny little cove bitten out of the rocky shore, and carefully begin to make their way back down to the water's edge. Eddie's still not entirely sure Henderson hasn't brought him here to die. Maybe Steve is the serial killer and he uses Henderson as bait.

"Okay, okay," Dustin says, once they reach the water. It's calmer here, the cliffs cutting this spot off from the larger waves. "Are you ready to see the coolest thing EVER?"

"Uh, sure, kid—"

Eddie doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence when he starts yelling.

"STEVE THIS IS EDDIE I BROUGHT HIM TO MEET YOU I PROMISE IT'S SAFE!"

"Jesus Christ," Eddie hisses, covering his ears. The lungs on this kid! "What the fuck dude— WHAT THE FUCK!!"

Because when he looks down, there is a face in the water. Eddie falls back on his ass, uncaring of the water soaking his jeans, and screams when the face in the water rises up out the ocean.

It looks pissed.

"Dustin," it says, glaring at Eddie. Eddie screams again, because it—the guy—the mermaid lifts himself fully onto the rocks, and he doesn't have any legs. Because he has a fucking tail.

A fucking fish tail.

"Steve!" Dustin cheers. "You came out."

"You sure?" the goddamn mermaid asks, finally taking his piercing, alien eyes off of Eddie to look at him. "Sure it safe?"

"Absolutely," Dustin says hastily, crouching beside Eddie to put his hands on his shoulders. "Eddie just screams a lot, I promise you, he's totally safe."

"R-Right," Eddie says, because he does not want to be eaten. Maybe Dustin's been dragging unsuspecting victims here to feed his pet goddamn mermaid instead of a serial killer. "Totally safe, that's me."

Steve, the goddamn fucking mermaid, looks him up and down doubtfully, and it's terrifying having those eyes on him, unnaturally yellow surrounded by black. His face is distressingly human, nose and mouth and ears with a mop of dark hair on his head. He has these bright shimmering scales across his cheekbones that dot down his jaw and neck, iridescent and glimmering in the afternoon sun. Eddie can't bring himself to look down further, scared and enraptured all at once.

Steve is terrifying and beautiful to look at.

"Fine," says Steve and pushes himself gracefully back into the water, disappearing into the dark depths.

"What the fuck," Eddie breathes. He looks up at Dustin with wide eyes. "Dude, what the fuck."

Dustin just grins down at him. "Isn't he the coolest?!"

#stranger things #steddie #ficlet fill #that's quickly turning into a fic that's fun #I WANTED YOU TO HAVE MORE HERE'S MORE MWAH #my steddies

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fatallyfalling · 5 months

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Bitter Water 0.00 ~ ♆

“ Let the Reaping of the 67th annual Hunger Games begin, “

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, etc.

{{ word count }} 2.6 k

{{ prompt }} Panem is cruel - bloodthirsty even. Every year twenty-four children must fight to the death as a sick form of entertainment. Today is the 67th annual reaping in the seaside District 4 - may the odds be ever in your favor.

{{ a/n }} Warning there’s a lot of exposition for what i think life in District 4 would be like though it may not sound 100% accurate to the canon ideation! I did way too much research on District 4’s presumed location and the general pacific northwest seafaring system for accuracy. This chapter is a lot of scene setting to reference later on top of the reaping occurring - please enjoy !

The Pacific-Northwestern region of Panem was home to District 4. Otherwise known as the “Fishing District”.

Most of its citizens are concentrated directly on or near the salty coast of the sea, working the many sailboats or on the bustling ports that harbored them. Children of the district learn to help from an early age, shucking oysters and various mussels or helping their mothers weave and repair nets for the local fishermen. Everyone smelled of the sea - fresh air, sea salt, and a damp pine, with sand clinging to their shoes and linen clothes.

Though a majority of the year brought overcast skies and rainy weather, the better parts of mid-July through late August were filled with warm, sticky sunshine and cloudless skies. Come autumn and winter, cold snaps and heavier rain storms were regular visitors, with many homes donning rain barrels to collect the excess liquid to be boiled down for drinking or bathing. The northernmost edge of the District sometimes saw snow, bringing ice fishing and skating to measured popularity amongst locals.

The port towns were anything but sleepy. Community in a constant hustle and bustle while watching out for one another in tandem with the intense seafaring labor. Days spent on the beach were filled with tugboat horns, captain's orders, and elated shrieks of children wading in the spray of the ocean. There was always a game of who could find the best cliff to dive from, or conch shell to hear the distant whispers of waves inside and whatnot. A group of older kids developed a make-believe currency of sand dollar bits to trade wooden beads, small clusters of natural quartz, seashells, rope bracelets, and more to entertain the younglings on an outcropping speckled in tide pools on the rocky shore.

More often than not, a walk down the boardwalk as dusk neared brought warm golden lights flooding from old taverns with deep, joyous shanties of the past and banter amongst hardworking sailors merging with joyous whoops and hollers of young women and barmaids. Everyone knew one another like family, and the seaside town practically breathed on its own with the rolling push and pull of the tide.

However, the Fishing District was silent today.

Waves crashed on the beach as boats creaked in their ports. Scarred wooden tavern signs wailed in the eerie breeze on salt-rusted chains. The absence of sound in the sand swept cobble streets was almost unsettling. There’s only one day a year that invokes such an abrupt halt in District 4’s beating heart.

The annual Reaping of one female and male Tribute set to compete in a fight to the death against twenty two other children from the districts all for the Capital’s sick reminder of what rebellion once cost the “great nation” of Panem.

The Hunger Games.

You knew the odds were never in anyone's 'favor'.

“It’s fine. Everything - everything is going to be fine…”

The repeated mantra is barely a whisper under your breath as you make a futile attempt the smooth the front of your lightweight, sage colored ensemble. There was a tremor in your fingertips. The idea of getting cleaned up like this just to attend your own prospective funeral made your stomach twist painfully. Tucking a few stray hairs behind your ears and a deep sigh through your nose, you take one last look in the foggy mirror on your dresser before making your way out to the main room of your home.

Although the Fourth District was deemed wealthy among the remaining 12, your seaside cottage was quaint - and quite a ways from the beach, in all honesty. The home was small, if not cozy. The outside wooden panels were worn with smears of grey from age due to the weather, paired with a tin slabbed roof that allowed every raindrop to be heard throughout the house when it rained. The inside wasn't much better. Little furniture adorned the household and appeared washed out in the summer light. Ivory walls were marked with the mayhem of childhood and clumsy hands. The large main room held a mantle and hearth with a makeshift stove built in and a rickety dark stained wood table with four chairs connecting to a barebones bathroom and two bedrooms. There were fixtures and switches for lights but no electricity. Candles were placed where lightbulbs would be for nights when the hearth wasn't keeping the house warm.

"Come on, we've got to get moving, or we'll be late."

You groaned as the younglings, twin boys with hair like your father's, sat on the oval roving rug you had finished braiding two springs prior. "You were supposed to get them washed up." You quip towards the older man seated at the worn-out table. His only reply is a gruff rumble as you scoff, stooping to rub soot off the boy's cheeks with your thumbs. They burst into giggles, and you can't help the tight-lipped smile that crosses your lips.

You tried to be patient with your father. There had been too much loss in recent years, but it wasn't an excuse to neglect his boys. You had enough trouble picking up the slack as it was, from taking extra hours on the shipyard and staying up late mending sails like your mother used to. She passed away some years ago. There had been complications delivering the twins, and there wasn't anything the midwife you'd called could have done. It left your father resigned to himself, taking up more time at the nearby tavern than on the shipyard hauling crates due for the Capital. A foolish miscalculation and one too many drinks ended up costing him his dominant hand and forearm in a freak accident at the port.

To say you had fallen on hard times would be an understatement. It was more akin to plummeting down one of the tall cliffsides bordering the port and smacking face-first into the water like concrete.

Eventually, you managed to wrangle the little rascals into their shoes and straighten the collars of their matching olive-green tunics. Hoisting one onto your back with a huff, you tried to calm the drumming of your racing heart. Your father stood with another grunt and shrugged on a deep brown leather coat to cover what was left of his arm. Allowing the other half of the youngling pair to weave their fingers through his, your father offered a firm nod in your direction, and the four of you set out toward town.

Looking back on that moment, you regret not taking in that quaint little cottage one last time.

The trek to town was about a mile or two. The beat down from the summer sun brought sweat to your brow and the nape of your neck, forcing you to set down the toddler on your back halfway. "I know it's hot, but we have to keep going," You cooed when the pair began complaining about the lengthy trip. This would be the first Reaping they might remember, not to mention the first they weren't in diapers for. You'd done your best to keep them healthy, sometimes at the expense of yourself, but it was worth all the risk in the world.

With a little more commentary from the twins, the tall brick clock tower above the judicial complex at the center of town came into view above the pine trees, and you let out a shuddering breath that made your chest squeeze. "Almost there," You muttered. Averting your gaze to the dirt path under your feet. The sun was almost at its peak when you converged with the lines of other citizens. Many reeked of sweat and body order, having traveled through most of yesterday and this morning to get to the Reaping on time.

You didn't allow your fear to show more than a tightness in your jaw as you gripped your siblings tight in an almost bone-crushing hug. You refused to say goodbye as it felt like admitting defeat before the duel with death had even begun. After a few long moments, you heard the automated voices of Peacekeepers in stark white uniforms and government-ordered guns slung across their chests, and you had to let go. "I'll come back in just a few minutes," You promised, though your voice felt meek and caught in your throat. Ruffling their hair and sparking a fit of spritely laughter, you lifted your gaze to the hardened eyes of your father. "See you soon."

"See you soon."

Another brief, tight-lipped smile, and you forced yourself to turn away and join the other prospective tributes for check-in. Families were forced to remain in a balcony above the judicial complex due to such a large population and past "complications" from reaped children's family members. Anxiety and anticipation brought a tension thick enough to be cut by a knife through the courtyard of people. Wetting your lips following a thick swallow, you tried not to focus too much on the looming Peacekeepers overseeing the procession. When it was your turn to check in, you didn't stutter when asked for your name but scrunched your nose as they pricked your finger, squeezing to pool the blood before pressing it into the paper list and scanning with a device that flashed green. "Next!" The peacekeeper barked, shooing you away with a wave of their hand. Your gaze danced around the all too familiar formation of children as you fell in line with the older Tributes.

You were led in groups through a few back hallways before being brought into a widely open auditorium. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the back wall with long Red capital banners hung on the dividing stone pillars. Clenching your trembling hands into fists, your fingernails digging into your palms, you tried again to steady your racing heart as it pounded against your ribcage.

Things were going to be fine.

Another thick swallow forced its way down your throat, and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. The anxious habit often left your bottom lip puffy, if not bleeding from the repetitive action, but you couldn't help it. Shuffling into place to stand in rows and columns with the other prospective Tributes, you had to will yourself not to look anywhere but ahead. You couldn't break till this was all over. It was a long process to get everyone inside. But once the large wooden doors behind you slammed shut with a contagious shudder shifting through the crowd, you knew this was it.

The deafening cry of an unfocused microphone wails through the room, causing your nose to scrunch and your head to lean into your shoulder in discomfort. A stocky, overdressed Capital escort appears on the short stage made of stone to match the rest of the auditorium. They release a small gasp at the noise and allow a brief dismissal before tapping the microphone twice, the poor device exerting two loud "thumps" for good measure. Clearing their throat with a phlegmy cough, the escort begins a crawl of lines that were evidently rehearsed and regurgitated the same way every year to every district.

"Welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger Games!"

The escort's tone is elated, making you feel sick at the pride they seem to take in their position. Your jaw set in place as they continued their spiel.

"Before we begin, I'd like to share this wonderful message from our dear President and our beloved Capital!" They exclaim while gesturing to a letter they seem to pull from thin air. A small "shink" whispers through the mic as the letter is opened. The escort pulls a sheet of parchment out, discarding the envelope in a dramatic toss behind themselves and another phlegmy cough before reading the page.

"Dear Prospective Tributes,"

"It is an honor as the President of Panem to welcome you all to the annual Reaping for this year's Hunger Games. As you all have learned from birth. War, destruction, and rebellion have brought great shame to our nation. A shame that runs so deep that our Districts must be reminded of the consequences and retribution that rebellion costs. War brings death. War brings dead children, dead mothers, dead sisters, and dead brothers. To raise war against your Capital, which has provided you all you've ever needed, is treacherous. To bring war against your home is treason. These Games preserve our past. And these Games protect our future."

Signed, President Coriolanus Snow."

There isn't a single round of applause that rolls through the crowd once the escort finishes reciting the letter. The letter has been identical at every Reaping you've attended since you were twelve. The silence in the auditorium is loud enough to hear a pin drop. Your palms grow warm as blood slowly seeps from where your nails dig in, but you don't bother to take notice.

"Well then, if all is said and done, we shall now move on to selecting our two wonderful tributes who will hold the greatest honor of representing District 4 in the 67th annual Hunger Games. As always, ladies shall go first." The escort exclaims once more, accompanying animated waves of their gloved hands towards the pristine crystal fishbowls on either side of the stage. Both bowls are brimming with slips of paper. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears now.

Everything is going to be fine.

The escort all but skips their way to the crystal mouth of death on the right side of the stage. Your heart feels like it might as well burst out of your chest and splatter against the backs of those in front of you. Your eyes are glued ahead as the escort makes a show of sifting their gloved fingers through the name slips for what feels like an eternity. At last, a slip is chosen in a dramatic swipe up into the air to be displayed to the crowd.

The anticipation is suffocating.

The escort comes back to center stage, coughing into the microphone again as they peel away the black seal of the name.

As the chosen name booms through the auditorium, it's as if you're suddenly underwater. But you can't be underwater because you're standing still, and nothing's wet.

The name booms through the open room again.

This time, you're shocked out of your thoughts at the recognition.

It's your name.

You have been chosen as the female Tribute for the 67th annual Hunger Games.

You barely register the prod of a gun at your back or the jab to your side to force you out of line towards the stage.

This really was going to be your funeral, and you couldn't stop it.

A wail rips apart the blanket of silence as one of the twin younglings cries out for you. On instinct, your head whips towards the cry, but your temple connects with the butt of a gun, and you're knocked to the concrete below. Somehow, a sound akin to a growl emits itself from your throat on your hands and knees as you force yourself to stand back up. Your head throbs with white hot pain from the contact point, but a bitter, spiteful decision solidifies itself in your mind as you're led towards the jaws of certain death on that stage.

You will not die.

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy

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itsmoonpeaches · 4 months

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Title: Eye of the Hurricane

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial

[NOTE: I had to create this gif as no existing gif that I wanted of this scene previously existed in the gifs search. This gif belongs to me.]

Word count: 1,004

Rating: G

Summary: Poseidon cannot change fate, but he can be there for Percy when he is needed the most. In the only way a god can.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Sally asked, her voice tremulous as the storm Poseidon had conjured outside upon his arrival. “I know you shouldn’t but maybe just to hear his voice.”

It was easy for a god to covet things, to wish for wants, and demand them to appear. It was easy too for a god to change perceptions of reality, if only to bend the rules for a moment. Poseidon tasted that potential for a sliver of time when he glanced back at the patterned pane that separated him from the young boy. He could see glimpses of Percy through that inch of glass. A boy with eyes like the sea, with blond windswept hair, and a mustard yellow sweater.

Thunder shuddered the walls of the diner, rumbling in those few seconds that brought the truth back into focus and reminded Poseidon who he was…a god who could do nothing.

It was difficult for a god to be powerless.

Poseidon forced himself now to never glance in Sally Jackson’s direction—to never tempt himself with forming something permanent with the mortal he loved.

“One day,” he said so only she could hear. “One day, when he’s ready. When he knows who he is and where he belongs. And fate has revealed to him his true path. On that day…I’ll be right by his side.”

The scent of smoke and burning chocolate syrup mixed with sundae ascended from the tall glass cup that divided them. He could still feel the tingle of desperation in his ichor, the call of a human to his domain.

He allowed himself one look. One last look at her before he left. Her eyes were closed, the single tear that had escaped her eye finished its journey down her cheek, and he imagined what it would have been like if he could hold their son between them instead of holding their distance.

When he left, he knew the rain had continued its deluge upon that little town in Upstate New York. He permitted it to happen. What else could he offer?

That autumn day, he stood on the beach at Montauk. Alone because the humans who went there thought the waters too cold apart from the summer season. The ocean lapped at his feet, the breeze a welcome comfort.

Montauk was not his most awe-inspiring work. The waves were turbulent, the climate too unforgiving to warrant many seasonal visitors. Not like plenty of his other haunts where the sands were powder and the ocean a clear sapphire when much of the world froze. But Montauk was an aspect of him. Of rocks, surf, and pebbles hidden in shores. Of sharp sea glass, short cliffs, and gray waters.

Montauk was Sally. Montauk was Percy.

Poseidon stepped into the tides. He descended as easily as he always had. A current roared overhead, so strong that it could drag any careless swimmer under in a matter of seconds.

“Lord Poseidon?” chirped a hammerhead shark in his mind. “Lord Delphin wishes to meet with you about the upcoming dolphin migration from the Carolinas. The riptides might deter them from moving any faster.”

His eyes snapped to the shark. The creature stiffened with fear.

“Riptide,” Poseidon said. He looked above him once more at the same current that had pushed him below.

“Ye–yes,” stammered the shark. “That is indeed part of the problem.”

“Or it is part of the solution.”

The water bubbled and Poseidon disappeared. He called upon a force of old, a force he had not called upon for thousands of years since the time of Heracles. That familiar thing tugged at his core and in the palm of his hand, burning and thriving.

And so, when he reappeared, he was on the shore of Long Island Sound. Night engulfed him. Apollo completed his duty. There was silence on the beach.

He walked through the forest and past curious wood nymphs who melted out of trees. He felt their eyes. He felt their words. He let them pass.

Upon the hill, he saw the Big House, its glass shimmering with starlight. A shadow shifted on the porch.

“Chiron,” he remarked as he approached.

The centaur looked startled. Chiron unfolded himself from his resting position on the deck, a mortal book about architecture in his hand. “Lord Poseidon!” he exclaimed. “It is a surprise to see you here.”

Poseidon hummed. He lifted his hand, the object he had willed into existence thrummed on his skin. "I have a task for you."

“You have laid a shroud of Mist over it, I see," Chiron observed.

Poseidon nodded. “The world outside is dangerous. Humans do not understand our world. I do not expect them to.”

"It is a curious choice to disguise a weapon as a pen."

“A gift,” Poseidon corrected. “One day, there is sure to be someone who needs it more than I.

“The story of this blade is a tragic one, but it does not have to be. You must keep it in your possession. Do not let anyone who is not worthy take it. Do not let anyone know you have it.”

“How will I know who is to own it?” Chiron asked.

“You will know.”

Chiron studied him, and Poseidon felt like a demigod would if they were one of the centaur's pupils.

“The blade is called Anaklusmos," explained Poseidon. "Riptide.”

The name rolled off his tongue, and like a whirlpool forming in the deep, clashed against the currents that had prevented him from remembering it. A reminder that even the powerful were not invincible.

“The master of that blade will drown their enemies in the depths of the raging sea. It will protect them.” He glanced away. “I will protect them.”

Chrion took Anaklusmos from his hand.

Poseidon knew this desire of his was a fool’s quest for the impossible. But though a god could not change fate or ancient laws, he could try.

Poseidon was the sea. His son was born from defiance.

Also available on ao3.

#pjo #pjo tv show #pjo tv show spoilers #flash fiction friday #a fool's quest #fff237 #percy jackson #poseidon #sally jackson #posally #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson and the olympians #itsmoonpeaches fanfic #pjo fanfic

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asumofwords · 1 year

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Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Wow, just wow. Thank you all so much for the love and kind words on the previous chapter! I honestly cannot wait for you all to see what happens, you will all need to be strapped in... (straightjacket or seatbelt)

Chapter 48: Preparations

The warmth of Daemon's body soothed you as he held you by the cliffside, brushing a gentle hand through your hair as he whispered sweet nothings into it, letting you melt into his hold. His scent grounded you as he kissed the top of your head, rocking you gently.

“Don’t be stupid. You know you don’t have to do this.”

His words brought you out of your daze.

“But I do.”

“You don’t. We will find another way. I will fly to the Keep now and-“

“We cannot risk it. I cannot lose you too.”

“They could never take me from you.” He murmured, squeezing you tighter.

You looked out at the crashing waves, as your father held onto you for dear life.

“It will work.” You told him.

“Y/n-“

“It will buy us more time.”

The Rogue Prince pulled away from you, looking down his hardened face at your impassive one.

“I won’t let you.”

“I know. But you must… Please. Let me do this.”

His purple eyes bore into yours, face not changing. Lips in a hard line, anger present beneath the fear and sorrow.

He knew it would work.

“For mother.” You dipped your head at him.

Daemon opened his mouth to argue but you cut him off, feeling a sting of impatience float up to the surface, “I am not a son. I was born a woman, and with that comes a burden. I am not even the realms second, nor third choice. I have no worth… So it must be made. I am not asking for your permission, nor will I ever. I am telling you what I am to do.”

And as any father should, he let you sit with your choice. His two large palms came to hold your face, as he let his eyes drag over your features, memorising every detail.

“The Merciless. Even to yourself.” He whispered.

“This is war.”

“This it is.”

His face moved forward as he pressed his lips against your hairline, holding you there. You closed your eyes and let yourself bask in the gentleness the Rogue Prince possessed for you, for his wife, and for all of their children.

“Iksā se rōvēgrie irudy se Gods mirre teptan nyke.” (You are the greatest gift the Gods ever gave me) He whispered.

You stood side by side, to watch the waves below crashing up against the cliff, the tide, slowly receding, revealed jagged rocks beneath. The rough swell calmed as you both did, and soon the air began to grow cold, as the sun lowered from its peak in the sky, down behind the horizon. Only then did you both move, and only then did you walk back into the castle of Dragonstone, arm in arm to face your family.

Together.

Walking back into the castle was a blur.

Your legs moved without you, whilst your arm was pulled snugly into Daemon's side. Your father did not once let go of you out of fear that you would disappear. When you finally made it to his and your mothers shared chambers, you found that they were already sitting in wait for you.

Rhaenyra looked distraught, her eyes were red rimmed and her hair had looked as though many a stray hand and brushed through it out of frustration, or grief.

Jacaerys looked ready to murder you. His brow was furrowed and his lips were pulled into a barely visible sneer, but you could see it. You could see it in his posture.

His anger. His rage.

His fear.

Instinctually your eyes flicked to another chair beside him.

Empty.

You cleared your throat as your sniffed before sitting in the other chair, leaving Lucerys’ usual spot open for him. But he would not come to sit in the chair, nor would he argue with you for your stupidity.

You wondered if your mother did the same thing.

As you took your seat, Daemon's hand did not leave you. Coming to rest gently on your shoulder as you slowly looked to your mother, who seemed to soften at your presence, though her eyes were alight.

The room was uncomfortably quiet.

No one willing to speak first, to break the silent peace of the room, but you knew it had to be you. And so you did in the only way you knew how.

With a sharp tongue and the wish to ease the tension.

“Shall we say a prayer?” You joked, hoping to lighten the space.

Daemon let out a sharp guffaw, angry yet trying, whilst Jacaerys scoffed angrily.

“Y/n.” Your mother sighed.

“What? I should start now to get used to it. I’m sure Alicent will be praying every night, thanking the Smith for the treaty.”

You tried to smile, you really did, but instead your lips pulled into a grimace.

“This isn’t a joke.” Jacaerys growled, staring daggers into his empty plate.

“Jace.” Rhaenyra warned, but you let the comment fly.

“I know. Just trying to lighten the sour mood.”

Why was he doing this.

Could he not see that you had no choice?

“This isn’t a game. You’re giving yourself to them. After all he has done to us, to you. You’re going to lay in bed with him.” The brunette sneered.

“That’s enough.” Daemon snipped.

“No. It’s true. It isn’t a game. This war, is not a game. How many more losses? Hm?” You looked pointedly at Jace, “How many more losses are you willing to endure? I could not live with myself if another one of you were killed. I would sooner throw myself from the cliffs than see that.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

You smiled sadly, “But I do. It is my duty. And I know that none of you ever wanted this of me.” You gazed at your parents, as Daemons hand tightened on your shoulder, “And you both gave me so much freedom, saved me from marriage that should have happened years before.”

“What of Cregan Stark? If we offered your hand to him, it would unite us with the North.” Jacaerys looked desperate.

“And what of Cregan? If I were to marry him, it would not change the fact that we are at a stand still. It would not change the fact that in four moons time, our supplies for the army would run scarce, and our fleets power would diminish. Trust me when I say this to you all, I have had a very long time to think on this. This offer did not come to me yesterday.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Daemon whispered.

You turned to look at your father beside you. His eyes were drawn down to the table, lips pulled into a tight line, fighting with himself as he tried to stay calm.

For you.

You swallowed, “I see little choice.”

Rhaenyra’s soft voice flittered across the table as she watched you.

“Does my birth right to the Iron Throne mean more to me than the happiness of my only daughter? What kind of Queen would I be to allow you to sacrifice yourself like this.” She seemed disgusted in herself.

Angry.

Distraught.

But the way she spoke, as if only to herself, served to tell you that she knew there was no other choice.

“A smart Queen. One who will sit upon the Iron Throne. One who will be better for the realm. For all of us.”

“You will be wed to a Kinslayer.” Jace spoke in disgust.

You paused, the energy in the room beginning to drain you. This was not how you wanted to spend what little time you had left with them.

“Daeron is dead.” You snipped, “I am a Kinslayer just as much as Aemond is.”

The table fell silent. There was no denying it.

And there was no escaping the bitter truth.

Would you have burned the camp if you had known he was there? Would you have stopped if you had known?

A part of you wants to think that yes, you would. You would never do something as depraved as killing your uncle, an uncle that you knew little about. For all you knew, he could have been kind like Helaena.

But you knew in truth, deep down, that you would have still done it.

And that was something you could not escape.

“Please. I don’t want to fight with you all, nor do I want you to feel guilt, or sorrow. I wish to spend what time I have left with you all in good spirits. I don’t want to go to the Red Keep with a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish for you all to see me, as I am right now. And I wish for you to understand that this is my choice, not yours.” You narrowed your gaze on Jacaerys, whose dark brown eyes held yours.

You could see his pain.

You could see his anguish, his anger.

But above all, his grief.

“Helaena spoke many things to me. She warned me of what was to come. She told me ‘a spool of Green to Black.’ The Greens hold will turn back to your rightful rule. I know this will work. It will. It has to.”

Then slowly, the Queen reached across the table, grasping her goblet before she stood, her chair scraping along the stone floors. All eyes were on your mother.

“This act of selflessness will not go unforgotten. Your sacrifice to not only the realm, but to me, will be a debt in which I will never be able to repay. Your courage in the Riverlands whilst reckless, bought us time which we did not have before. It has bought us this treaty and in turn, an opportunity to win this war.” Her violet eyes bored into yours as she lifted her cup towards you.

“When this war is won, and I have my brothers head, you will be heir to Dragonstone, as intended.” You looked at your mother as she continued, “Your marriage to Aemond will be annulled, and I shall ask you for one more favour.”

Your heart raced in your chest as you waited, your fathers grip on your shoulder squeezing before he reached forward to grasp his own goblet, his eyes on the side of your face.

“Your knowledge of the realm, of its politics, and its history, is more than even mine. Your dedication to knowing the realm, its peoples, and its needs, as you prepared yourself to become Queen has not been forgotten.”

Your heart raced wildly your chest.

“I ask you to be my Hand.”

The world tilted.

She wanted you to be her Hand.

“When I sit upon the Iron Throne, I will need someone who will know the realm, the people, and its laws. I will need someone who I know will not charge head first into conflict, like you had tried to prevent us from doing at the very start of this war.”

You felt your breath stop in your chest. Your mouth parted as you stared at your mother who looked at you with conviction. Your father lifted his goblet up into the air towards you, and in your periphery you saw Jacaerys do the same.

“You will be my most closest advisor, appointed and authorised to make decisions in my name.”

The tingling of tears began to spring in your eyes as you watched your mother in shock.

The Queen’s Hand.

Though not the Queen yourself one day, the second highest position. You would not be left to Dragonstone to be nothing. To do nothing. You would be the Hand to the Queen of the Seven Realms.

But a lingering piece of doubt curled its way around your mind.

The Hand of the King or Queen has never been a woman.

You would not be named heir, but named Hand instead? An honour, to be sure. But why this? Why not just offer the throne? Offer for you to be her successor?

Would this announcement not shock the realm? To have a Queen and her womanly Hand?

"You honour me, Your Grace.”

“I honour you in the way you have done me, the crown. This family.”

“To the Queen’s Hand.” Came the proud and strong voice of your father beside you, as he shifted his cup upwards.

“Hear, Hear.” Jacaerys responded.

You shakily reached forward to grasp your goblet, lifting it up as you kept your eyes on your mother, smiling graciously before taking a sip.

You were to be the Queen’s Hand.

You could scarcely believe it. You had thought that your mother would appoint Daemon to that position. You had thought she would appoint Maester Gerardys, or Lord Corlys.

Anyone, but you.

“Now,” Your mother seated herself down, pulling her chair forward back to the table, “Let us enjoy what time we have now, before we are eventually reunited.” She gave you a small smile, and you let one rise on your face.

Your evening, despite its rocky start, continued to be one of joy, albeit stiff.

You all spoke together, telling stories of youth, or memories together, acting as though the war was not raging outside. As though Rhaenyra had not been usurped of her throne. As though you were not to be married to the One-Eyed Prince.

Though the empty chair beside Jacaerys served as a stark reminder of the losses you were all desperate to ignore, just for the time being.

There was no Lucerys to laugh and make jokes at the table with his rough boyishness. There was no Lucerys to argue with you for being stupid enough to accept the terms of the treaty. No Lucerys to make you change your mind.

And in truth, if Lucerys had been there, you would not have accepted the offer. You would not have claimed Vermithor. You would not be preparing yourself to enter the vipers nest once again willingly.

If Lucerys was there with you, you would all be charging head first into battle. Not knowing the pains of grief and loss yet.

But he wasn’t there.

And so you all knew the threat and fear all too well.

After you had eaten and drank more wine than you would have liked, you let Jacaerys walk you to your chambers. You could sense that he had more to say. That he wanted to say more, though he kept his mouth tightly shut.

He surprised you with a rough hug, holding you tightly against him as he tucked your head into his shoulder. You let him hold you as you squeezed him back, smelling his familiar scent as you felt his chest rise and fall. The young man pressed a chaste kiss the side of your temple before bidding you a goodnight, stiffly walking away from you, hands clenched by his sides.

As soon as your head had touched your pillows you found yourself deep in a sleep. The turmoil and anxiety and grief of your choices draining you of all energy. You did not fight to stay awake, to fret and stress yourself further, instead letting yourself sink into the dark abyss, rather than the unknown.

On the morrow, a raven was sent to King’s Landing, accepting the terms of the treaty. You had watched the Rogue Prince write the letter himself, watching his pen curl over the script roughly in anger and regret. Once finished his writing, he handed the scroll to Maester Gerardys, before pulling you roughly against his side, holding you to him as you stared into the fireplace of his chambers.

The days bled into each other rapidly.

The Lords were informed of the treaty terms, and terms were sent to the Greens on the details of the marriage. You were expecting to be wed in King’s Landing, though Aegon sent word of Aemond’s desire to be wed on Dragonstone, in tradition, as your ancestors had for hundreds of years.

Your marriage would be affirmed before the masses in King’s Landing by King Aegon himself. No doubt his way of making a show of the treaty.

This caused quite the stir from the Lords and Maester, terrified that this was indeed a trap. And not even you knew if it were or not. After much arguing and yelling on both your mother and fathers part, Dragonstone would be emptied, save yourself and your father.

You had argued that the Queen should not be present, nor her successor. Rhaenyra had argued until she was red in the face, until you lowly suggested that this be your first act as her Hand.

Only then, did she concede.

The wedding was to be held at the end of the moons turn, only a few short days from now and that was when the chaos had truly begun. The union had been set, and the time you had left on Dragonstone with them all was now limited with a due date.

Each day you spent with your family, eating and drinking together.

Talking until you were out of breath, laughing until your sides ached, and your stomach began to curdle. You all made the effort to make new memories, ones that were not tainted with war.

You spent hours in the Library with your father, him reading to you tales of spinsters, and widow makers, his subtle reminder to you that you should kill Aemond sooner, rather than later.

You walked to Dragonmont with Jacaerys and flew your dragons around the island together, slowly strengthening your bond to Vermithor and even adding, at the behest of your brother, rope around the dragons neck for you to hold on to should you need or want it.

You did not have the heart to tell him that you most likely would not be flying in King’s landing, but accepted the offer with thanks.

With every rise and fall of the moon, the closer the day came.

And with every day closer, the more you dreamt of falling, and Lucerys.

Each time you fell in your dream, you would land back inside that cell, Aegon waiting for you before he would pounce, and then you would wake.

It put you on edge, but you knew that if you showed that to your family, they would become more distressed than they already were.

Daemon had become more irritable as the days passed, and you knew that it was due to stress. Rhaenyra however, kept strong. She did not show her anxiety or worry, and made to ensure that when you spent your time with her, and your youngest siblings, that it was to put you at ease and distract you.

She told you of tales in the Red Keep.

Of the fun she had had as a child. Of the mischief she had gotten up to. Memories of her mother, and father the King, memories of Ser Harwin Strong, of Prince Laenor, of Daemon.

You greedily absorbed every word she gave you. Every tale, every laugh and every smile. You committed it to your memory. The way her lips would pull back to show her straight white teeth and pink of her gums. The way her eyes would crinkle in the corners. The way she smelt, and the way she held you. You let her hold you against her tightly as she would stroke your hair or braid it.

You spent hours playing with Joffrey, little Viserys and Aegon the Younger, hoping to keep your memory fresh in their minds for when you would eventually come home.

You would pick them up and race around the room, hearing them squeal in delight. And then you would go to bed to sleep those evenings and cry, missing them already.

It was not until your last day together did you feel the fear steadily creep in. Doubt and uncertainty coming with it in a vicious trio. Where one came, the other followed, and you found yourself questioning your decision as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

What if this was a trap after all? Or perhaps they would throw you back into the cell? Would they publicly execute you before the masses? To set an example?

To force your mothers hand?

These were the constant questions that circled like vultures above you.

Yet you found your strength as you always did. As you always must do, and readied yourself for the day.

You flew with your family on dragonback. Watching the gold, red and olive green scales fly about you on your bronze dragon. Daemon and Rhaenyra flew beautifully together. You had not seen it for some time, but even their dragons had a bond together.

Syrax and Caraxes danced in the sky, gold and red above the clouds, as Vermax stayed close to you both, not quite as skilled in flight yet.

When you all landed, you walked together back to your chambers to change and wash, all smelling of dragon as you prepared yourself to dine one final time together.

You dressed in your finest black gown, wore earrings your mother had gifted you, and rings from your father. The long jewelled belt he had brought you hung heavily on your hips, and you had Saria and Aella braided your hair in a way that was familiar to you.

Dinner was held in the dining hall, and all the Lords and Ladies who resided on Dragonstone joined you. Baela and Rhaena sat with their grandparents, Baela on the side of Jacaerys.

The dinner was extravagant, you guessed your fathers doing. Meats and dishes of all kinds, with more spiced wine than one could drink.

Laughter was shared, and joy was present, though an underlying sense of loss was present too. Rhaena forced herself to smile, though you knew she was missing Lucerys’ presence just as much as the rest of you, and was dreading the inevitable loss of you too.

Dessert was brought out and you all ate greedily, even indulging in more than one star fruit with your father. And as soon as the day had begun, the night had ended, and you all began to make your way to your chambers.

In the days that had passed where you had found sleep, you found that it evaded you that night. You tossed and turned in your sheets finding no relief from your turmoil.

It put you on edge, it made you agitated, it made you want to scream and cry and lash out, but you wouldn’t.

As you tossed and turned, the door to your chambers opened and shut gently, and you listened to the soft footfalls reach your bed, before a weight dipped the mattress beneath you.

You turn your head to watch as Jacaerys, who also looked restless, crawled under the covers with you, clad in his deep red sleeping robes.

Your younger brother pulled you to him, tucking your head beneath his, as his breath began to even out. You held onto him tightly, feeling a stray tear slip from your eye as you gripped him tighter.

And soon the weight of the world drifted away, as you both held each other one last time, before falling into a broken sleep.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

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foolondahill17 · 5 months

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Annual Favorite Supernatural Fic Rec List of 2023:

I bookmarked 66 fics in 2023 (and read…a lot more than that), but only 9 were written/updated in this year of our lord. SMH we gotta pump out more content, friends. Seriously though, I’ve got several more 2023 fic reads in my Marked for Later, but some are still WIPs or I just haven’t gotten around to picking them up yet. I’m sure some (like the much-hyped Lighthouse Keeper AU where there is darkness by the talented quiettewandering [@wanderingcas on tumblr]) will end up on my Bookmarked favs…but, alas, they’ll just have to wait for the 2024 recap.

The list below is in no particular order, barring the first, which has joined the ranks of one-of-my-favorite-fics-ever:

A Cliff That Knew Too Many Tides by luulapants (@luulapants)

E, early series Dean/others, 94,508 words

Partial Summary:

A canon rewrite AU diverging from the events of Some Cruel Tide, in which a shifter disguised as his father used Dean's blind obedience to molest him. By the start of S1, Dean's relationship with his father is more strained, his devotion more intense, and his life consumed by the need to hide the parts of himself he is most ashamed of.

My words:

If you’ve been looking for a gay!Dean manifesto, you’ve found it. Obviously, the subject matter is dark: warnings for past childhood sexual abuse, internal and external homophobia, past suicide attempt, and traumatic outing. It is also beautiful and heart-wrenching and scratches the swollen, itchy, weeping rash on my heart in a way that only the balm of good Dean angst can.

Favorite part:

“I wasn’t acting out,” he blurted.

“What?”

“When I – I wasn’t trying to act out or anything.” Deacon’s presence hovered behind him like an aura, and Dean reminded himself, Don’t rock the boat. Don’t rock the boat.

Dad sighed. The line crackled, and Dean pictured him standing in a phone booth somewhere, probably huddled up against the cold. “Then what the hell would you call it?”

Dean tried out a few words in his head, imagining how they’d sound to Deacon. He ended up with, “I misunderstood. I thought I was supposed to.”

Asterism of an F-Series Ford Pick Up by disabled_dean (@disabled-dean)

M, Destiel, 17,408 words

Partial Summary:

When you've been to hell, desire is isolating and ugly.

Or: Cas drives his truck for a case and Dean is exceptionally horny about it

My words:

The way Dean’s PTSD is described in this fic, like a slow, oozing poison that awakens the longer he and Cas travel together, is tantalizing and masterful. Ostensibly, this fic is about Dean and Cas road-tripping to a case. It’s actually about how you, a monster-hunter, can come to terms (or not) with your body and soul when you think you’ve become the very thing you’re spent your whole life hunting.

Favorite part:

"Like everything will be going fine and then all of a sudden I just. Can’t. I can't stand it. And the more fine everything is, the worse it gets and I feel-" he breaks off, eyes on his hands like they aren't his hands, thumb rubbing over and over the ring on his index finger, "It's like everyone else is living this normal fucking life and I'm still back in the pit."

Personal Space: The Final Frontier by botley

M, Destiel, Star Trek AU, WIP, 63,570 words

Partial summary

"Captain's Log, Stardate 10918.8. Captain Ellen Harvelle reporting, First Officer… Castiel… attending. After a month of bargaining with the Gehennian government, efforts to permit a search party within the Rack facilities still proved unsuccessful. Although Starfleet’s orders dictated we tuck tail and leave, I elected to disregard this decision and beam a rescue operations team down for the recovery of Lieutenant Commander Dean Winchester.”

My words:

This fic has been on my rec lists before. It’s still a WIP, but it very unexpectedly posted an update after a 3(?) year hiatus, so I’ll cling to hope until my fingernails leave a bloody, mauled mess. This is basically a Star Trek AU where our favorite Supernatural gang are fucking around in Starfleet instead of the Midwest. Fantastic stuff – worth the read even if it does remain unfinished.

Favorite line:

"Dean made a face. Castiel decided the man was hideous."

Receding by minkmix

T, early season gen, 38,729 words

Summary:

After a visit to an old, abandoned theme park in the desert, Sam begins to notice strange lapses in Dean's memory. As his brother starts to disappear before his eyes, Sam must rush to find an answer before there isn't anything left to save... My words: A Lucky Charms fic if I’ve ever read one. Delicious, crunchy marshmallow goodness of some fantastic Dean!whump and panicked caretaker!Sam with the solid undercurrent of slightly sweetened amalgamized oat and corn cereal of a solid case fic. Yum.

Favorite part:

“Sammy?” Dean cut him off.

“W-What is it?”

“What’s Dad’s name?”

Sam’s chest heaved as he fought himself from sounding as stunned as he felt.

“John.”

Swan Upon Leda by kelsstiel (@kelstiel)

E, Destiel real-world AU, 174,096 words

Summary:

Pediatric Surgery Fellow Dean Winchester meets baby Jack Kline and neuropsychologist Castiel Novak his first week on the job. Dean’s been accused a time or two of caring a little too much in the past and it’s hard not to care about the neurotic adoptive father and his medically needy preemie. After a series of run-ins between the pair, Dean and Cas develop a friendship that everyone else around them suspect more from immediately, though it takes them a little longer to get the memo. When Dean struggles with a particularly devastating patient loss, their mutual understanding of loss and love bring them closer in a way that neither of them could have expected.

My words: A solid, old-fashioned romantic AU. It’s unpretentious, fluffy, heart-warming, authentic and the kind of could-have-been-a-novel goodness that makes up the heart and breadth of fanfiction. Warning for infant illness and death (not Jack).

Favorite part:

"I know they say there’s a chance, but I’ve just got this feeling .” She shook her head and looked down for a moment. She looked up again and took a deep breath as if steadying herself. “I wish I could see you grow up.”

five minutes to six by saintedcastiel (@saintedcastiel)

M, Destiel real-world AU, 23,383 words

Summary:

Castiel Novak has been the co-host of Good Morning, Lawrence! for a little over ten years when he stumbles across the story of a lifetime. But after a producer pulls the segment and tells him to forget it, Castiel begins to wonder who's really pulling the strings. Can he bring the truth to light while somehow managing to keep his co-host, and the man he loves, in the dark?

My words: Another Goddamn quality AU. This one is a little quippier and fast paced than the Hospital AU above, but it’s full of fantastic characterization and even a last-minute breaking and entering romp. Fun that’s perfect for the whole family!

Favorite part:

“Been asking you out all week.” Dean tells him, and Castiel realizes all at once he’s right.

“Oh my god.” Castiel laughs. “You have.”

This Is Not My Beautiful Wife by luckshiptoshore (@luckshiptoshore)

T, Destiel, one-shot, 4,755 words

Summary:

“Dean,” says the man again. “This isn’t real. You need to come with me, now.”

Dean’s been zoning out again. But he can’t escape the feeling that something’s very, very wrong … and wherever he goes, a strange man in a trench coat follows.

My words: You gotta love the Djinn dream trope. This one has everything you want in a caught-in-a-fake-reality-while-your-lover-pleads-for-you-to-return-to-the-waking-world story, plus an extra dash of on-point characterization and some truly imaginative scenarios for Dean’s alternate realities.

Favorite part:

“We could look into adoption,” says Cas. “If you’d like. Of course we could also simply take a child, but I think that’s frowned on."

we really shouldn't be doing this by LoversAntiquities (@tragidean)

E, Destiel, 17,138 words

Summary:

After Castiel goes missing for a week, Dean finds him in an abandoned cemetery in the middle of nowhere Kansas, suffering from a mysterious welt. Only, as the hours go on, the deeper the curse grows—and Dean finds more than he bargained for, namely on every surface he and Castiel can find.

My words: This is more straight-up (not straight) porn than I usual rec, but this is a fantastic take on the from-sex-to-love fic where everyone was already in love to begin with. There’s a hefty sprinkle of idiots-to-lovers and sex-curse. Also angst, which is my bread and butter.

Favorite line:

Castiel stares up at him, his eyes gone soft, hooded. Dean thumbs over his eyelid, just to watch it flutter shut. “I’m not solely interested in you for your hands, or your mouth. They are wonderful attributes, but I don’t long for them so much as I long for you.” He leans into Dean’s palm and kisses the center. “I don’t know when I fell in love with you, but it would take the death of the universe to get me to stop.”

Postpartum Prometheus by babbyspanch, saltslimes (@dragqueenpentheus @nifedick)

E, Destiel, technically mpreg, WIP, 18,959 words

Summary

Welcome to the Supernatural renaissance. Welcome to Castiel and the terrible naissance.

My words: warning for the fact that this is technically an mpreg fic even though Castiel is an angel and not really a man. Warning, also, because this is another WIP that hasn’t been updated since the beginning of the year, so I don’t know if it’ll be finished. Basically, Dean and Cas bump uglies to unexpected results. Cas kinda freaks without telling Dean he’s his baby daddy. He also yanks out his intestines so said baby can be nice and comfortable in there. Funny and angsty.

Favorite part:

“Are those—?”

“Yeah.” He waves his hand at the door again, starting to feel like one of those used car lot inflatable men, limbs akimbo. “A total murderer looking guy just bolted that way. And not like— the regular murderer-looking people who come in.”

“And he left his organs.” Dennis thinks a moment, and then shrugs, as if this isn’t the weirdest thing he’s ever seen. He’s been working here longer than anyone Henry knows, maybe it isn’t. He opens his mouth and Henry can’t help hoping some miracle plan of action is going to fall out of it. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Um. What?”

“I don’t want to offend you.” He pauses, brows furrowed. He rolls Henry’s cup over in his hand. “What is a ‘FABINISTA’?”

Add your favorite written-in-2023 fics in the tags or a reblog!

#supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanworks #spn fanfiction #fic recs #fool's fic recs #destiel fanfiction

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spiderlandry · 9 months

Text

soft place to land — rotxo

Description: Rotxo thought he had more time to finalize his plan on how he’ll court you. But as he saw you sneaking off with Neteyam to fly on his ikran, he couldn’t help but think he may be too late.

Pairing: Rotxo x GN!Reader (Metkayina)

Warnings/Tags: jealousy, misunderstandings, angst, fluff, mentions of parent death (not reader’s), neteyam being a wingman, neteyam being flirty but they’re just a couple of besties

Word Count: 4.1k

Author’s Note: rotxo my sweet boy <333 included my own hcs about his family situation in this one

At the edge of the forest of Awa’atlu sitting on a rock, you and Neteyam sat shoulder-to-shoulder watching the eclipse. Though you’ve been trying to convince him to make more friends and get out there, he always found his way back to you.

“I swear,” you watched the tides crash against the shore. “I never took you for the shy type.”

“I am not shy,” Neteyam quipped. “I just like being alone.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

His head snapped in your direction, his mouth beginning to scowl until he realized you were smirking. “You’ve been a good teacher. You deserve to reap the rewards by being in my presence,” he laughed as you shoved him, careful not to do it too hard that he fell off.

The truth was Neteyam was drawn to you because of your nurturing nature. He would never outright tell you, but it was something that he sought in people—a calmness he sensed in your soul. Yet, you entertained his little teases with just the right amount of sarcasm. He knew he wanted to be your close friend on the first day you helped teach his family about the Metkayina way of life. You accepted him almost immediately, even after he gained a few stern looks from you when he started teasing you about a certain someone a bit too soon.

That certain someone being Rotxo. On that first day, Neteyam said he noticed the way you stared, which you followed up with a concerned, is it really that obvious?

The answer, it was only obvious to Neteyam because he went through the same thing back home. When he told you this, you were able to read the solemn look on his face and he opened up about the woman waiting for him in the forest, the one he was beginning to court before they were forced to seek uturu. You both bonded over the pain of belonging to someone you couldn’t be with at that moment.

You’ve been best friends since then.

Neteyam sighed, idly fidgeting with his hands. “I miss home.”

“I know,” you whispered, unable to provide further comfort than a pitiful patting of his back. “You should tell me more about it.”

“I’ve told you many stories already,” he flashed you a flat smile, appreciating the sentiment. “I don’t know if there are any more.”

“What about your ikran?”

“I already told you how I tamed him.”

“You never told me your first flight. Neytiri said it’s the most important.”

He lightly scoffed—more of a laugh, really—he should have known you would get around his deflections. “We almost got lost,” he began.

“Really?”

He hummed. “I got carried away with trying to do all kinds of tricks. Flying just felt…good—It still does.”

“How did you make your way back?”

“Father found me,” he chuckled, “I almost got scolded. But I think he saw how happy I was.”

“What is it like? To fly, I mean.”

“It feels freeing, like the whole world is at your disposal.” He shrugged.

“I would like to fly sometime.”

“Seriously?” When you nodded, he grinned. “I could take you.”

And so, you both made a deal. Tomorrow morning, at dawn. Needless to say you were thrilled to see what the fuss was about.

When the time came, though, nerves got the best of you. You woke up two hours before the sun was fully in the sky, and had to leave your marui due to your own sleeplessness.

Coincidentally, Neteyam was also awake, feeding his ikran. He was at the cliff’s edge near your usual hangout spot.

Climbing up the small hill, he sensed your presence behind him, your gaze falling on his banshee that was giving him the death stare. “It’s been a bit difficult for him adjusting to the food here.”

You were silent, it was far too early to be having conversation. Instead you hesitantly extended your hand toward the animal, feeling its tough skin with a gentle graze under his chin.

Neteyam’s eyes widened—his ikran didn’t like to be touched, he should have warned you. But imagine his surprise when the banshee leaned into your touch, not away from it.

“I should have known he would like you,” he broke the silence.

“Hm?” You looked back at him, still scratching the animal.

“You’re good with animals. That’s why you’re a teacher, right?”

“I suppose.”

His lips curved into a soft smile. “Are you ready?”

With a scrunch of your nose, you flashed him a nervous grin. “Promise not to drop me?”

“Only if you behave,” he adjusted the straps on the banshee.

“I think I’m ready.”

“Let’s do it!”

Neteyam got on, helping you get your footing, and you settled nicely behind him. He made tsaheylu.

“Hold on to my waist,” he grabbed your arm and placed it around his middle. “Don’t let go.”

Without warning, the ikran lifted off the ground, the flap of its wings leaving behind a cloud of dust. On instinct, you squeezed Neteyam’s torso with both of your arms, and the animal shivered beneath your thighs as he must have felt it, too.

Your eyes closed and your head pressed up against his back, hiding from the wind. It was then you noticed he had tied his hair so it wouldn’t get in your face. Laughing at the realization, your eyes opened naturally—you were caught off guard by the beauty surrounding Awa’atlu.

The sea, clear as glass, reflected Eywa’s sun carefully placed in the sky as it came out of hiding. The light bounced off the wavelets in the water, illuminating the homes tied up under the large roots of the trees. Speechless, you were.

“Like the view?” Neteyam asked, his ikran circling near the reef, giving you a panoramic glimpse of your home.

“This is crazy,” you beamed.

Yet, when he turned his head to you, he found a faraway expression.

“You good?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You shook your head. “That’s Rotxo’s marui. Near the edge. It’s further away from the others.

At the mention of your friend, his eyes softened. He knew Rotxo was adopted by the leaders of the clan, but he never pushed to know about the rest.

“The Olo’eyktan gave him a separate marui after his parents…you know. So he had a private place. He’s in there a lot.”

You weren’t sure if you were right to tell Neteyam. At this point, words were just coming out without any real thought. Maybe you were lightheaded from the sheer height.

Veering away from the last part, he still kept on topic. “Are you ever gonna tell him about your feelings?”

“No.”

“Eywa, you are oblivious.” He muttered. “It is not good to dwell on your feelings alone, you know.”

“What else am I supposed to do? Court him?”

“Exactly right.”

“No!” You slapped his back lightly, and the ikran screeched. “What do I even give him?”

“What does he like?”

“He’s been wanting a new armband. He’s outgrown most of his, but—“

“But?”

“I don’t know how.” Neteyam felt the shame radiating off you at not having learned an important skill.

Going back to where you both took off, he landed on the grass smoothly.

After a beat, catching his breath, Neteyam said, “I’ll help you.”

From a young age, Rotxo hoped that being by your side would inevitably get you to see him. Not that he didn’t value being your friend, or that he was only with you because of an ulterior motive, no—he genuinely had this incessant need to be in your presence, and the realization that those feelings were more than platonic was just another side to the coin.

After that epiphany, he started a necklace. Multiple, actually. Perfecting the craft with Tsireya’s help to ensure it showed how much he loved you; his own marui was just the place to practice since nobody bothered him.

He was sort of dealt a bad hand in life having lost his parents as a child, but he was picked up by Tonowari and Ronal who took him underneath their wings. Growing up, feelings of being a burden made themselves known. You, however, being the eldest child of the leaders’s close friends, befriended him.

You both confided in each other about the pressure that came with status. You, being trained to become a warrior and a teacher, and him, as the adopted son of respected leaders. Your friendship bloomed naturally. He wasn’t as close to you as he liked, though, you were much closer with Tsireya and, lately, a certain someone.

About being the son of two great leaders, he had his own duties to perform. Often, that included having to wake up early to get them done. He was up before dawn, stretching and exiting his family’s marui. (But not before lightly kicking Ao’nung on the way out.)

Doing this for years, Rotxo was easily a morning person. So, imagine his surprise when he spotted you—strictly a night person, you told him yourself—walking outside.

He was about to come greet you, until he realized you had a destination in mind: the cliffside. He watched from afar as you climbed up and greeted that certain someone. The one you’d been spending much of your time with, which is none other than Neteyam.

Neteyam was okay. At first, at least. He listened to instructions better than his siblings which Rotxo was thankful for. But then the Sully had to go and become friends with you. Next thing he knew, you were spending most of your time with the guy.

He pictured it so clearly. You and Neteyam bonding over the pressure of being the eldest children. You had many friends, he knows. But recently your touches toward Neteyam got a bit too close, and your smile wider, and suddenly Rotxo became a beacon of an ugly emotion they called jealousy.

He always tried his best to shake it off. Now, seeing you mount Neteyam’s ikran, putting your hands around his waist and grinning when you both took off—he no longer had the dignity to deny it.

A shove from the back had him twisting to look at Ao’nung. “What?”

His brother smirked, pointing his head toward the ikran they both knew was Neteyam’s. “Jealous?”

“No.” Of course he was. But he would never give him the satisfaction of saying yes.

“You’ve been standing there for Eywa knows how long. You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Rotxo nodded curtly, jerking his head away when Ao’nung tried to pinch his ear.

Since you were always with Neteyam, and Tsireya was with Lo’ak, Rotxo was stuck dealing with Ao’nung making sure he didn’t stick his neck where it didn’t belong. Ao’nung was a good brother, protective though he wouldn’t admit that. But being him, he was also quite unbearable.

Rotxo just was not having it today. Throughout his training and helping with the clan, he couldn’t help but be short with everyone. He would never be disrespectful, but it was a sure stark contrast from his usual smiles. From crinkled eyes to empty stares.

He didn’t think it made that much of a difference, but apparently it did. He was cleaning up in the Tsahìk’s marui, listening to Ronal with one ear while Tonowari sharpened his spear.

“Say, Rotxo, do you know if Ao’nung has talked of a mate?”

Focused on organizing materials, he gave a simple answer. “No, Tsahìk.”

Unbeknownst to him, both of his parents’ heads slowly raised toward him. Tonowari stopped sharpening his spear, Ronal stopped talking.

At the silence, he looked up. “Is something wrong?”

His mother shot his father a look, and as he nodded, she left.

Uh oh. This can’t be good.

Tonowari put down the spear. “What’s bothering you, ma’itan?”

Ears pinned to his skull, he bit his lip trying to come up with a response. Lying was not on the table. “I am sorry for being curt today, Olo’eyktan. You taught me to be better. I am just…”

“You can tell me.”

“I am…jealous.”

“Of whom?”

“I don’t think it’s important.” He shook his head. “It’s trivial.”

“If it is affecting your behaviour, it’s important.”

Well, he couldn’t disagree, could he?

“I have been jealous of Y/N. Who has been spending time with Neteyam.” He looked around, desperate to see anything but the reaction.

A hand came upon his shoulder, and he finally spotted the smile that crept up on the leader’s face. “You should give them the necklace.”

“Wait—how do you know about that?”

“You know, I didn’t raise Tsireya to be a liar either,” he laughed. “Besides, I would not worry much if I were you.”

“What does that mean?”

He patted Rotxo on the back before picking up the spear and gesturing to the doorway.

“Give them the necklace and find out,” he went back to sharpening the spear.

Rotxo, stumbling out of the pod, pondered on the implications of what was just said. Was it true? Could he really have a chance with you?

With a newfound hope and determination, he headed to his own marui to retrieve the necklace. However, that faith was short lived when he ran into you.

“Rotxo,” you beamed at him. “I was looking for you.”

“You were?” The spark of hope in his chest flickered to a flame.

“I flew on an ikran this morning,” your excitement was so strong that you didn’t seem to notice Rotxo’s grimace. “I wanted to tell you about it and—“

Just like that, the fire was extinguished.

“Um. I’m sorry, Y/N. But I have to go.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “Well, come find me later?”

“Sure.”

Closing the flap of his pod, he stared at the line of necklaces on the floor, his string of failed attempts. Laughable, he thought he ever had a chance with you. Furthest from the entrance was his most recent attempt. His best one.

He laid down, taking the necklace in his hand to hold close to his chest. He let himself grieve the little chance he thought he might have had.

“Eywa,” he breathed. “Please give me a sign before I give up on the one that I love.”

The lack of light guided him into a slumber.

He was woken up after eclipse, found by Tsireya so he could come eat supper.

“Working on the necklace again?” She asked, leading the way.

“No, I accidentally fell asleep.”

She laughed, “When are you going to give it?”

For Tsireya was the one who rooted for you and Rotxo since the start, he didn’t have the heart to tell her he may never give it.

“Soon, probably.” He said instead.

She nodded.

The problem with Rotxo’s marui being so far away, it was a long walk. And because of that, he had to pass practically every single pod. Including the Sully’s.

It was only for one second. His eyes were drawn to the light coming from it, a fire for food. Then he saw you. Eating with the Sully family, handing food to Tuk.

If it were any other kid, his heart would have swelled at your parental instinct. But she was a Sully. His heart, instead, constricted at the thought of you making good relations with Neteyam’s family because you could have loved him.

Still walking, he caught up to his sister. “Why is Y/N eating with the Sully’s?”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Their parents are away on that hunting trip, remember?”

Right. They sent out a big hunting party every thirty eclipses, and your parents led them. In his haste, he’d forgotten. You must be worried like you always were. Likely searching for comfort. You found that in Neteyam, not him. He was too slow.

The silence wasn’t lost on Tsireya. And not to the rest of his family, either. Not even his little sister who was a few years older by now. But Tonowari steered the conversation away from Rotxo, knowing his situation.

In the following eclipses, he kept to himself during duties. He hadn’t spoken to you since that day you flew on Neteyam’s ikran. He wasn’t purposefully avoiding you, no, you did it for him. It was almost like you disappeared but not completely; you still sent him sweet smiles accompanied with a greeting. He hated that his name sounded just as sweet from your tongue, there was no sign of his feelings dissipating anytime.

Right before eclipse, sick of wallowing in his own misery, he went for a walk.

He spotted you on the shore with an Omatikayan. It was Neytiri, weirdly enough, and not Neteyam. He put the pieces in his head and came to the conclusion that it was because you were talking about a possible union with her eldest after he would pass his rites. Which would be…soon.

Blinking back tears, he saw a blurry glow in the corner of his eyes. Atokirina. He scoffed, pushing it aside and letting it float away as he went to a secluded spot for a swim.

Groaning at your restlessness, you continued to work on the armband for Rotxo. You could spot the mistakes. Your eyes grew hot, maybe you would never be able to make the perfect armband for him.

Neteyam was nice enough in urging you to learn weaving under a real professional in your clan. You were joined by Neytiri in these lessons, who was learning alongside you. You found solace in having someone else learn with you, because most Metkayina either learned as children or not at all. Your embarrassment was quelled when Neytiri took the lessons in stride, encouraging you on the way.

But there was one thing: you kept messing up.

With the unfinished accessory in your grasp, you sought out Neytiri, and found her sitting on a rock at the beach.

You cleared your throat, hoping you weren’t intruding. She smiled upon seeing you. “What do you need?”

“I am a failure,” your shoulders sagged.

Beckoning you to come closer, she patted the spot next to her which you took. You showed her the armband in progress.

“It’s beautiful.”

“No,” you insisted. “It is not.”

She frowned, “How come?”

You pointed out the mistakes.

“You know what I see?”

You hummed, preparing yourself for the sting of rejection.

“Love,” she replied. “You made it with love.”

“Does that even matter if it looks terrible?”

“It is not terrible.” She disagreed, “It is imperfect, but so is love.”

You finally shed a tear, partly out of frustration but at the epiphany you had upon hearing Neytiri’s words. What mattered was that it’s for Rotxo. And you already knew he would love it regardless of how he felt toward you.

“You know,” Neytiri continued. “In our clan, we often made jewelry that matched. One for the lover, the other for the loved. And if the other accepts, that is their gift, and it means they become the lover, too. The love is mutual and their bond is strengthened.”

You wiped the tear away. “That’s poetic.”

“It is.”

“Should I do that?”

“If you want to.”

“I’m going to.”

So, you took it upon yourself to keep going. You got so carried away that you lost sleep for the next two nights, finishing Rotxo’s and making one for yourself.

Early morning, sitting on the cliffside, you looked at your work side by side. A little too honed in on the armbands combined with a lack of rest, you didn’t notice a pair of large blue feet right next to you until the owner of said feet cleared his throat.

“Skxawng!” You hissed at Neteyam, straining your head to look up. “You scared me!” You swatted at his calves.

Finally noticing his state, “Why are you out of breath?”

“I ran here.”

“For what?” You stood up, worried.

“To tell you…” he wheezed, “that you should probably give it to Rotxo soon.“

“Why?”

“Tsireya told Lo’ak who told me that Rotxo has been sad,” Neteyam answered. “He thinks that you and me might be…”

“Oh Eywa, that’s gross.” You said, not really thinking. At Neteyam’s slight offended look, “Sorry, I just—I can’t think of being with anyone except Rotxo.“

“Then tell him!”

Seeing your friend so riled up made you chuckle. “Alright, I’ll do it today. Thank you, by the way. For covering my duties.”

Strolling back with Neteyam, putting your armband on, you prepared yourself for the worst. Sensing your apprehension, he squeezed your forearm in comfort. You sent him a grateful look and began to scan the place for Rotxo.

He wasn’t far, feeding his ilu just sitting at the edge of the walkway.

“Rotxo,” you called, mirroring his smile as he turned around.

His eyes darted to the new accessory on your arm, gulping.

“Y/N,” he called back. His breath hitched for a moment when you took your place next to him. After all the time apart, being right next to you still felt right. “How are you?”

“I’m—I’m okay. You?”

“Same here,” he pet his ilu.

It was now or never. “I have…something for you.”

He stopped his motions, not even minding when the animal made a noise in complaint. “For me?”

You hoped you weren’t imagining the hope in his eyes when he faced you.

“For you,” you untied it from the waistband of your loincloth, hesitantly extending it to him.

His eyes darted to the one on your forearm.

“It matches yours.”

“It does,” you nodded. You wanted him to connect the pieces himself.

“This is…for me?”

“Do you like it?”

He responded by putting it on, your smile widening. He stood up and offered a hand, which you happily grabbed. He didn’t let go, though, and you’ll admit it made you giddy.

He pulled you toward a direction, “Come, I want to show you something.”

Leading you to his marui, you wondered what could possibly be there for you. Still, you stared at the accessory, the one you made, adorning his arm. It fit snugly around his toned muscles.

He opened the door for you, letting you see the inside. There were necklaces scattered in the corner, but one, different from the others, sat further away separated from the rest. Rotxo took it and even from the doorway you could see its beauty, with the shiny beads and a medium-sized shell at its middle as the focal point.

Despite the distance between you, he heard you say, “Is that…?”

“It’s for you.”

What followed after was you running to him with such force and excitement that he toppled over, tripping over a scrapped necklace, sending you both to the floor with a loud huff.

“Easy,” he rubbed your back, elated at your gesture and also breaking your fall. He tried to calm his heart at how close you were. “Are you okay?”

His voice so close to your ear made you shiver. “With you? Always.”

Rotxo, speechless, let the silence stretch. He relished in the feeling of being surrounded by you.

“Can you put it on me?”

Ignoring the stutter of his heart, “You would have to get off me for that. Not that I mind this right now, trust me.”

You laughed, “Of course.” You did as he said, and kneeled next to him, as he did the same.

He chose to put it on you face-to-face, leaning in close with his arms around you, his breath against your neck as he felt for the clasp to secure it.

Pulling back to look at it, he couldn’t help but flit his eyes to your reaction. But you weren’t looking at the necklace, either. You were looking at him.

Before you knew it, you found the feeling of his soft lips on yours to be the only thing you needed for peace of mind. You wanted it forever, as did he.

And just like that, both lovers became the loved. The feeling mutual, the bond strengthened. It was real.

#rotxo x reader #rotxo #rotxo x you #atwow rotxo #rotxo imagine #avatar the way of water #avatar the way of water x reader #atwow #atwow x reader #rotxo fluff #avatar imagine #avatar rotxo

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creeps-and-creatures · 10 months

Text

Minotaur Jock 🏈🐮

Poor choices and alcohol lead to a heavy fall, lucky for you there’s someone who’s willing to help. :)

In hindsight, maybe getting drunk at a party near a cliff was a bad idea.

You didn’t go out much. Parties had never been your thing and you’d much rather sit around in comfy clothes than go get drunk and kiss a stranger. And uni work didn’t help.

So, when your friend invited you to “the biggest party of the year” you were hesitant. It took a lot of pestering and a fair amount of bribery to get you there, but eventually you agreed.

So there you were, at some rich frat boy’s daddy’s vacation home. Sitting on a couch, alone, red solo cup in hand. Zoning out looking at the hills around you.

Your friend had left you almost as soon as you got there, pulled away by the tide of people dancing and drinking. A fairy couple in the corner we’re making out passionately, their wings were wrapped around the other and their skin was flushed with a sensual shade of red. You thought they looked like a seriously deformed apple.

Maybe that’s a rude thing to think, after all they were just living life (probably better than you at that) and it was harmless at the end of the day. Looking at those passionate couples though, you couldn’t help but be reminded of the boy you had once shared kisses like that wit-No. Those were not helpful thoughts. You had already let him control you all throughout highschool and you’d be damned if you let the memory of him control you now.

In retaliation to your treacherous thoughts you took a swig of your cup. You were here to have fun, so why not try it? Another cup wouldn’t hurt.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The party was really going now and for once, you were a part of it! The crowd had migrated out of the house and now that everyone, including you, was more than a little bit drunk the party truly started.

The dancers from before were now thrashing, the drinkers chugging, and the kissers had mostly gone off to more private areas. You had gravitated towards the dancing clump, the liquid courage in your bloodstream now giving you enough confidence to join them.

You threw your body in time with the music, not caring where your feet landed or your arms swung. Maybe, if someone in the group was more sober they would’ve suggested you move away from the edge of the cliff that sloped downward towards the ocean shore, but no one was. And so when a beat hit dropped particularly hard, you threw yourself into movement spinning and jumping and then tripping.

A rock had been just too close to your foot and you were sent down the side of the cliff. It wasn’t steep enough to be a sheer drop so instead of falling you tumbled.

You were too drunk to tell how long you fell for, but just sober enough to know when you hit the bottom.

As you laid in the bush that broke your fall, you stared up at the sky, dazed at what had happened, until a sound from above you broke your trance. It sounded like something sliding down the hill you had just come from, something big.

You knew you should move but it just seemed so hard at the moment. Whether this was due to the alcohol or hitting your head on the trip down, you didn’t know. As you debated this issue you realized that the sliding noise had stopped, before a loud thud came from your right with approaching footsteps coupled with a smooth baritone voice coming not long after.

“Hey! Hey! Can you hear me?”

You slowly turned your head towards the pleasant sound and saw a large figure moving towards your place in the brush. As the figure got closer you saw the outline of horns on the head and the golden brown fur which covered the parts of the man not covered by his letterman and khaki pants.

“Hey!” The man was towering over you now and you could feel his warm breath on your face. “Are you alright?”

You didn’t respond, instead choosing to stare dumbly at his face.

“Oh lord you got hit good. How many fingers are Mmmm I holding up?”

You stared at the four large fingers in front of you before responding with a resounding “eight.”

The bull just stared at you before sighing “Sounds like someone’s taking a trip to the hospital tonight. Let’s get you to my car”

The bush beneath you disappeared, suddenly replaced with strong arms and big hands as the minotaur hefted you up.

“Up ya go. Ok then,” he gave you a stupidly charming grin that would’ve made you blush if you hadn’t already been flushed red. “My name is Jason, and you’re going to the hospital.”

A/N: I’ve been working on this one for a while and I’m excited to get it out to y’all! I’ll (hopefully) be releasing part 2 of my closet monster series (which you can find here) next! Sorry for the wait but I hope it’ll be worth your time lol

Have a lovely day and thank you for reading!

#monster boyfriend #monster x reader #slow burn #terato #monster bf #monster x y/n #monster fucker #monster x you #🏈🐮 oc (Jason)

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starogeorgina · 1 month

Text

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬

Pairing: Harwin Strong × Targ oc

Warnings: Mentions of blood

3.08

Puffing out your cheeks, you watch as Otto Hightower gleefully receives praise from lords from Old Town for resuming his old position as hand of the king. Alicent had poured her honey in your father's ear and assured him her own father would be the best choice. Lord Lyonel spoke with your father not long after you arrived at Driftmark, and they decided it would be for the best if Lord Lyonel temporarily resigned from his position at court. But in truth, you doubted he would ever return.

“Vaella, you look more like my mother as the days go by.” Your father says this before embracing you and kissing you on the cheek. “Have you spoken with Daemon?”

“I have, and I do believe he misses you,” you sigh. It has been so long since your father and uncle spoke; their reuniting would be the only positive outcome from this horrible situation. “You should go to him, father; Daemon is far too proud to reach out first, but he needs you.”

He glances at Daemon, who is talking to his daughters, then shakes his head. After staring at your uncle for a few seconds, your father chuckles. “Lord Lyonel says you have repeatedly insisted he stay on Dragonstone.”

“Harwin has lost far too much.” You run your hand along the reddening patches spotted across your neck. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but I want your former hand close for my husband’s sake.”

“And if he had chosen to return to court?”

“Then we would have moved back to King's Landing.” You pause, feeling your throat go dry. “I’m not ignorant of the gossip at court, and I’m aware of why Lord Lyonel was hesitant for his son to marry me, especially since Harwin almost died when he was my sworn protector. But he is a good man who has served you faithfully over the years. Lord Lyonel needs his family to help him overcome his terrible loss, and I would never rob him of that.”

“You may look like your grandmother, but you have your own mother's kindness.” Your father leans forward and kisses your forehead. “Now, I shall attempt to speak with my stubborn brother.”

When your father walks over to Daemon with a member of the king's guard close behind him, you are left standing alone, but Harwin is by your side swiftly.

The wake for Lady Laena was being held in a cliffside courtyard on High Tide Castle, and it was by far the most awkward funeral you had ever attended. Almost all conversations seem forced, as many lords and ladies gossip about how Jace, Luke, and Joff lacked Velaryon features. As tragic as the reasoning for the gathering was, there was something rather magical about watching Varos, Ashwing, Nightmare, Caraxes, Seasmoke, Sunfyre, Syrax, Meleys, Dreamfyre, and Vhagar gathered together around the cliffs of the castle.

Noting Harwin's hardened expression as he and Criston stare at each other, you take his hand, so Harwin’s focus is off him. Criston and Alicent’s sly looks and snide comments hadn’t gone unnoticed by your husband. Quietly, you say, “He’s not worth it; besides, they are probably doing it deliberately, waiting on you to react.”

You didn’t know Laena well, but her death had cast a dark shadow over your family. Daemon was devastated, and your heart broke for Baela and Rhaena. You knew firsthand how painful it was to be without a mother so young.

Harwin places his hand on your lower back and says, “It’s getting late; we should get the kids to bed soon.”

Feeling the baby kick, you rub at your stomach, feeling the movements, and nod in agreement. You glance around the small groups gathered across the courtyard at Rhaenyra, whose eyesight is firmly locked onto Daemon, who seems to be in an intense conversation with your father.

“Mama!”

Ada pushes her way through the small crowd to reach you and buries her face into your side, weeping. You brush the back of the hair with your fingers, being careful not to pull on the black bow, which is identical to your own. “What’s happened, sweet girl?”

Between sobs, she squeals, “I don’t want Daddy to die!”

Her loud sobs attract the attention of others, many of them pulling sympathetic facial expressions. Concerned Lord Lyonel excuses himself from the conversation he’s in and comes over, waving Vaegon, who is standing with your younger siblings, to come over.

In one swift moment, Harwin lifts her up and wipes away her tears with his thumb. “Now what would make you say a thing like that?”

Ada doesn’t answer him; she just cuddles with her father and continues to cry. Harwin sighs. “I’m going to take her inside.”

Noticing the uneasy look on Aerion’s face, you get the sense that he knows something but doesn’t want to address it to everyone. “I’ll join you shortly; I’m going to get Jace and Luke.”

When Harwin is out of earshot, you take Aerion’s hand and gently rub the back of it. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

When he tells you Varos roars loudly in the distance as anger boils inside you, it takes everything inside you not to snap. You pat the back of your son's hand and say, “Go back inside with Ser Harwin and your sister.”

—

You feel as if you’re floating in the ocean, with blood seeping from an open wound and the scent of dragon's blood attracting the sharks as you cross the courtyard to where the greens are standing. Otto, Alicent, Criston, and Lord Hobert, the head of house Hightower, watch your actions carefully. You come to a stop and clear your throat, making your presence known in front of the man who was quickly becoming the root of many of your family's issues.

“Princess.”

The smug look on Larys face threatens to cause the simmering fire inside you to combust, but you manage to keep your composure. “Lord Larys, my condolences on the loss of your stepmother and sisters.”

“Thank you. It has been a difficult time for myself, as I’m sure it has been for my father and brother.”

“The fire at Harrenhal was nothing short of a tragedy, but I’m sure you thank the gods that Harwin and Lord Lyonel weren’t caught up in it.”

His smugness is replaced by a look of irritation.

The fierceness you feel to protect your children causes the invisible cord connecting you and Varos to pull. The dimming sky is suddenly aflame with the fury of your dragon's breath, Varos’s wings beating the air with a thunderous roar. Seconds later, Ashwing and Nightmare join him. All three dragons startle the onlookers below with their boisterous behavior.

“Pray tell me, Lord Larys, what makes you think it’s wise to speak to a girl who is only nearing her sixth name day about her father dying?”

“I was trying to clear up any confusion she may have had. I was under the impression that my niece wasn’t aware she would be the heir to my family's home once my own father and brother had passed.”

Darkness overshadows where you stand as Varos flies dangerously low and your eyes blaze with an unyielding fury. You glare at Larys, silently daring him to continue. It was becoming clear just how dangerous Larys was; you’d even bet on him playing a hand in his father's mystery illness, which seems to have vanished when he left the red keep.

When he says nothing, you turn to walk away and briefly lock eyes with Alicent, whose expression is hard to read.

“Does my brother know about this misunderstanding? He is a reasonable man, but a father's love will make the best man do unspeakable things.” Larys gets to his feet, making a show of dragging his foot behind him. Nervously, he licks at his lips. “I truly hope you pass on my deepest apologies; I meant no offense.”

“Of course,” you say quietly, so only Larys can hear your next words. “But if you make another one of my children cry again, this will be the next funeral we attend.”

—

Harwin’s voice fills the bedchamber as he laughs at the sight of you scrunching your face up and spitting out the tea in your mouth. You rinse your mouth out with water before spitting it back into a bowl, then accept the cup Harwin is offering you.

“Not as nice as the tea you usually drink?”

“No, that was overly sweet.”

He picks up the tea and smells it. “That is rather vile. I’ve never seen a tea that shade of red before.”

You sit on the side of the bed and watch as Harwin removes his shirt in preparation for bed. He often slept naked due to how warm he’d become during the night. You smile. “The children are all safely tucked up in bed.”

Harwin grins and walks towards you.

“So,” you reach out, looping your fingers into the top of his trousers. “I suggest you join me in bed, husband, as we will have an early rise in the morning.”

Your heart flutters with excitement when Harwin gently takes your face between his large hands and kisses you passionately.

—

You smiled, feeling Harwin holding you closer as he nuzzled his face into the back of your neck, his hardness poking into your back. But you were utterly exhausted from having your bodies entwined in dances of desire for most of the night, and you needed a moment to catch your breath. Against your skin, he mumbles, “That tea is really strong-smelling.”

“We could throw it out!” you laugh.

“Hmm, I’m rather comfortable like this.”

Feeling Harwin part his lips and place soft kisses against your bare skin, you’re unable to resist him. Rolling on your back, you lean into him, desperately craving to feel his lips against yours once again, but he suddenly pulls away and sits upright.

“What’s wrong?”

He swipes his thumb under your nose and says, “You’re bleeding.”

Quickly, he climbs out of bed, gets a cloth, and holds it to your nose. “I should get the maester.”

“It may pass.”

Harwin quickly redressed, then helped you put your nightgown and robe on while you pinched your nose, attempting to stop the bleeding. Harwin shakes his head. “I’m going to send for the maester.”

Just as he goes to unlock the door, there’s a knock at it. He opens it, and one of the knights of the king's guard steps forward.

“Ser Erryk.”

“Ser Harwin, princess. There has been an innocent involving prince Vaegon and prince Aerion.”

#house of the dragon #Harwin Strong x oc #ser harwin strong x you #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #broken bonds #broken bonds 3.08 #ser harwin strong fanfic #Harwin Strong/oc #harwin strong fanfic #Harwin Strong x fem oc #harwin strong x you #Harwin strong

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finduilasclln · 1 year

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Welcome to my Buddie Fic Rec List!

Since I read so many Buddie fics, and some of them are so good, I thought I’d share them in some handy lists. I’ll be posting them in different categories, and you will be able to find all the posts HERE.

Disclaimer: Always read the tags and warnings! Also, tastes differ. These are my personal favorites, which doesn’t mean they’ll automatically be yours of course.

If you want to reblog and add some of your own favorites that fit the category, please be my guest! I always love discovering new fics. I will also add new recs of my own whenever I stumble upon them.

One last thing: Please like and comment when you’ve had a nice read. It means so much to authors to hear your thoughts! And don’t hesitate to share this post and spread the love for these fics around!

Buddie Fic Rec: "Lightning Strike / Buck's Coma".

Fics that are dealing with episodes 6.10 and 6.11 aka Buck getting hit by lightning and his subsequent coma. (Speculation as well as canon compliant)

It only falls into place when you're falling to pieces, by justhockey || 4759 words ||

“You don’t deserve him,” Eddie says. “You never have, and you never will.”

And then he hangs up the phone and lets out a ragged breath - one it sounds like he’s been holding for much longer than the length of that conversation.

It makes Buck’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch him. He’s reached through fire and over cliff sides, across blood-soaked asphalt and between a decades worth of trauma, all for Eddie. This - this is nothing.

one more tomorrow, by fallingthorns (@fallingthorns) || 4438 words ||

He presses Buck’s hand into his forehead and breathes in the scent of antiseptic that lingers on Buck’s skin. He doesn't understand how he missed so many clues, doesn't know how he's been so clueless. But he thinks that some part of him did know that he was in love with Buck, because he put him in his will and made him Christopher’s guardian. Some part of him, deep down, knew what Eddie himself didn’t even realize.

He exhales and squeezes Buck’s hand again. It’s not supposed to be like this – the will doesn’t cover this. It was never supposed to be Buck that goes first.

“Bobby,” he whispers, voice cracking as he closes his eyes against the dorsum of Buck’s hand again. “What am I going to do?” -- Or, in the hospital, Eddie waits, and thinks, and dreams.

coming back as we are, by markofalover (@markofalover) || 4178 words ||

“Hey, Buck,” Maddie cuts in, soft. “Evan. Look at me.”

Buck looks at her. His heart rate is up, he can hear it on the monitor, and the nurse is looking between them with a raised brow. He’ll have to remember to apologize later, after he gets to his—

“They’re in the waiting room.”

...or, wherever he was, Buck comes back.

the tide comes (and goes and goes), by renecdote (@renecdote) || 3402 words ||

It’s almost funny that Eddie brought him to the beach today. To the ocean. He doesn’t know—can’t know, Buck hasn’t told anyone—but Buck feels unbearably seen by it anyway. He almost wishes Bobby was here too, so he could let his captain wrap an arm around his shoulders and say, “See? It didn’t take either of us.”

(That’s not true though, is it? It took them, it just didn’t keep them.)

Buck, Eddie, the beach, and conversations about okay.

For BTHB: hyperventilating

like the peel clings to the pomegranate, by fallingthorns (@fallingthorns) || 3482 words ||

Buck startles awake to Chris prying his eye open. Chris’s concerned expression swims into his vision as both eyes adjust, squinting at the morning sun streaming in through the window.

“You’ve been sleeping for fourteen hours,” Chris deadpans. Buck is still half asleep, but he catches the slight waver in his voice, can see his eyebrows furrowed as he watches Buck carefully. “You went to bed at seven last night, and now it’s nine in the morning.”

“Nine in the morning, huh?” Buck’s own voice resembles more of a croak as he sits up, muscles aching and head still throbbing. It’s all a result of being struck by lightning and in a coma for a few days, he knows, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

But what he does like is the smell of Eddie’s sheets, the pictures of him and Eddie and Chris on Eddie’s bedroom walls. He likes the feeling of Eddie’s arms around him in the middle of the night, making sure that he’s okay and breathing.

“Christopher.” Eddie’s voice hisses through the crack in the bedroom door. “I told you not to bother him.” -- Or, Buck recovers and doesn't quite realize what he means to others.

Raise my hand before I can speak my mind, by Mellaithwen (@mellaithwen) || 1696 words ||

“My name’s Eddie, by the way. Eddie Diaz.”

“Buck,” Evan says in response, before frowning. He’s never introduced himself as Buck in his entire life. “Uh—I mean—my name is Evan but…"

“But your friends call you Buck?”

Evan wants to say no, actually, because they don't. The youngest Buckley sibling has always gone by his first name, or his full surname. Never anything in between. The closest he’s ever come to having a nickname is when kids like to call him Mr Bee! And he buzzes back in response, but….Buck? No, that’s...that's new..

Eddie meets his son's favorite teacher, although it's not technically their first meeting at all... aka a coma!dream meet-cute.

let me know you (bedhead and morning breath), by burnthatbridge (@burnthatbridge) || 6157 words ||

When Eddie wakes, it’s to Buck’s arm slung across his chest, Buck’s ankle hooked over his, and Buck’s erection pressing into his hip.

Two out of three of those aren’t unusual.

It’s six weeks since the lightning. Five weeks and two days since Buck woke up. Four weeks and three days since he was released from hospital. Four weeks exactly since he came home, came to stay at the Diaz house while he recuperates, like he should have from the start.

It’s been three weeks and four days since they started sharing the bed.

or: Buck hasn't gotten off since the lightning strike. Eddie watches him do something about it.

Fragile lines (and wasted time), by Mellaithwen (@mellaithwen) || 7457 words ||

“Hey Buck,” Christopher says a little shyly, before reaching out to grab Buck’s foot through the hospital blankets—shaking it in the same way he’s woken his father up on many a bleary-eyed morning. The familiarity of the gesture makes Eddie’s head spin.

But of course, there’s no response from the comatose man on the bed.

“I thought you said he was sleeping,” Chris mumbles, angrily swiping at his cheeks, and Eddie’s already broken heart shatters all over again for whatever hope his son had just lost when his expectations were so cruelly dashed..

While Buck sleeps, and dreams in the aftermath of the lightning strike, Eddie tries desperately to hold himself together.

***

I will be adding my own fics that fit the category, in case you want to read those too:

lights will guide you home, by Finduilas || 916 words ||

Buck and Eddie have a talk after Buck gets back from the hospital.

#Buddie #Buddie fic rec #911 #Buddie fic #Fin's fic rec list #NEW CATEGORY!#Because this one needs a new page :)

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luulapants · 1 year

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A Cliff That Knew Too Many Tides - Chapter 15

A Cliff That Knew Too Many Tides | Dean/Others | Rated E | Chapter 15/16

“All right,” Dad snapped, and goddamn he really was mad at Dean over this. “Something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me.”

He thought about Sam, five years old and crying-sick with whooping cough, the two of them arguing about whether Dean needed to call someone. If it was an emergency. Thought about that rainy August night Sam left, how Sam screamed at Dad, and Dad screamed at Sam, and Sam screamed at Dean, and the moment he left, Dad lit into Dean. How could you not tell me about this sooner? Thought about standing behind that gas station in Lawrence, begging Dad to call him back.

There were times, early on when he was hunting, when Dad gave him instructions so specific even a dumb kid with shaking hands could get them right. Dig there. One shovelful down all the way across – don’t let it get too uneven. Only toss the dirt up on one side so you can climb out the other. A quarter bottle of lighter fluid if it’s dry, half if it’s drizzling, the whole thing if it’s really pouring down. Bring up a piece of the coffin wood to light and toss in. He dug until his too-soft hands blistered because Dad would tell him if he needed to stop. That certainty was like floating. Freedom.

The rest of the time, he just guessed.

Over and over, he guessed wrong.

Read the rest on AO3

#tidewaters #a cliff that knew too many tides #dean winchester #john winchester #gay dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #work in progress

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limerental · 7 months

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ficletvember 2023 - day 4

In the wake of the events of the Thanned coup, in an attempt not to fall apart, Yennefer falls into Jaskier's arms.

cw for twn canon and mentions of canon injury and assumed gory character death

It had taken only hours for Thanned to be rent to pieces but would take days, maybe weeks to repair the damages. To knit the fragile protective wards back together and force the very foundations of the island not to sink into the sea. To recover magical artifacts from the rubble, praying that none had been made unstable in the desctruction, would not ignite fresh fires and cause more casualties.

It would take several days to bury the dead.

Yennefer pushed on for hours through the trembling of her limbs and aching hunger, her body and mind the wobbly sort of stretched thin that warned of too many incantations used far too close together. Too much more and her very being may rattle apart. Nothing left to give to the veins of power she called on than her own marrow made dust.

It was not some selfless, newly-awakened devotion to her sisters that drove her on. If she did not rest, did not slow, her mind could not return to the myriad of ways she had failed the ones she loved.

If she stopped even more a moment, she could hear only the deafening concussion of Tor Lara.

There was a harsh whistling and buzzing in her ear when she reached for Ciri's presence and found–

Echoing again and again, the telepathic whisper from Triss about the state she had found Geralt's body, all but a corpse, her message interrupted by hysteric weeping, and then silence as they vanished.

Yennefer could not think about those things or she would fray to pieces whether or not she overtaxed herself magically. She would sink into the sea that churned against Thanned's broken cliffs and dissolve.

By the tenth hour, Keira Metz grabbed her by the elbow and swore colorfully in her face, spittle flying, until she sat down and had a cup of tea in an undamaged alcove that still smelled sweet with domestic magic.

She and Keira had not been friends before this, not really, but they leaned their exhausted bodies together and for a moment, Yennefer's thoughts drifted back to–

She stood abruptly, turned to thank Keira and found her dozing against a column, dusty tear tracks drying on her face.

If she had not run into Geralt's bard not long after, she may have thrown herself back into the thick of salvage and repair, but she encountered the man in a dingy hallway traipsing about picking up side tables and setting decorative vases back atop them with great care, as though such a thing were as vitally important as dragging their dead from the ruins.

Hours and hours ago, they had embraced in the rubble and she had told him what she knew and tried not to collapse in his warm arms and sob and she had thought he'd be gone by now, returned to Gors Velen with the other minstrels and unfortunate outsiders from the banquet who had been caught up in the deadly affair.

She watched Jaskier clumsily try to set a fallen chair to rights only to find several of its legs charred to nothing and then flounder over what to do with the thing, and in that moment, Yennefer found him so pleasantly foolish and human and wonderful that her tired limbs at last gave out.

He caught her, voice pitched high, and then he dragged her up in his arms. Yennefer must have been a babe the last time she was carried in someone's arms. She felt weightless in his iron grip, one arm curled tight under her bent legs and the other around her shoulders. The long spill of her hair swayed.

He carried her so easily, even while he moaned about the weight. The chatter of his teeth betrayed his fear as he complained casually, lips against her hair, about the roles they were supposed to play in this story. That she was meant to carry him like a bride from the wreckage, not the other way around.

Yennefer lost track of reality. She thought of Geralt, milk-white hair stained bloodied red even as the tide rose and washed it away. She thought of Ciri. Wondered how they would bury her if the explosion of the portal had reduced her body to a fine mist of viscera lost to the air above the island. Atom by atom?

She woke on a bed in a dark room, buzzing with the acrid burn of healing magic. Jaskier sprawled beside her, their hands clasped tight.

He woke when she did, eyes catching with a glassy shine in the dark, and he told her she'd apparently nearly unraveled her own cellular structure. He called her an idiot. He pushed back the curtain of her hair.

Yennefer kissed him, full and thorough.

Maybe she had thought about kissing him before this, had admired the narrow dip of his waist and imagined fitting her hands there, had been struck by the full pout of his lips and wondered how he would taste, but the right time had ever evaded them.

This was the wrong time.

The grief crescendoed, as though it was her body that had been splintered and broken and reduced to a cloud of ash.

Jaskier kissed her like he knew what she was thinking. She knew what he was thinking, caught by his feeble human anxieties of feeling like something very small standing in the midst of a hurricane.

His grief stood in miniature beside hers, his little sigh of an attempt to help fix something, anything, to help hold Yennefer's fracturing pieces in his hands and clutch them tight enough that she did not spill like sand between his fingers.

When their bodies fit themselves together, rocking sweetly in each other's arms, she felt the sore echo in her thighs of her love-making with Geralt and ached through her whole body with the wish that he were there instead and then ached with the guilt of that thought and clung to Jaskier and held his weeping face in her hands and kissed away the spill of tears.

In the stillness after, she did not weep, but she pressed her cheek against the softness of his chest and imagined that they could have been lovers in another life.

She, a humble peasant girl and he, a travelling minstrel. Dancing around the bonfires at a village festival, kissing under the stars, eloping at dawn with a new life in mind. No monsters or magic. No blood-stained prophecies.

He asked what she was thinking, long fingers tiptoeing along her temple, and she asked him to marry her and he laughed a wheeze against her scalp and she held her face to his breast and imagined another life. How ugly their filthy peasant children would look, how they would argue and argue, how she would waste away one day of consumption or dysentary and he would remarry but visit her barrow in the woods and lay down soft sprigs of chamomile.

Yennefer tried her very best and her very hardest not to shake wholly to pieces in his arms.

#my fic #yennskier #witcher fic #ficletvember #yennefer x jaskier #twn

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blinddreams24 · 20 days

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Marine Biologist

A Mermay Prompt

(Note: please forgive me if I incorrectly write diving. I’ve never gone diving before so you’ll have to bare with me)

Masterlist

Weightlessness. Peace.

You drifted lazily between the boulders riddled with coral and a few fish darted between the colorful plant life. You hummed out a couple bubbles, imitating the deep breath you couldn’t take while submerged. No oxygen tank this time, just a snorkel, you weren’t going that deep anyways.

The current pushed gently at you, trying to coax you out into deeper waters. You would not be fooled. The ocean was a terrifyingly dangerous place, one wrong stroke and you’d be swept out into the middle of the ocean with nothing but a snorkel. Bad idea. You could go deeper when you had the right equipment and company. For now, you were studying how the coral was adapting to its environment.

Something… big moved.

In all your years in the water, you prided yourself on being the most observant when it came to water pressure and currents. You could locate most of your fellow coworkers when you all would briefly spit up. Something about the awkward way they shifted the water always tipped you off. Fish, being naturally adapted to the water, were far harder to locate. Which made sense. They had to hide, whether predator or prey. It just came natural to them.

However, sometimes, something big enough would move too quickly and you’d notice it. This helped you warn your team of sharks and barracudas in the past.

And there was something big.

Behind you.

You spun around as fast as you could without startling an attack, which was much slower than you would like. Your eyes fell on… nothing. Just a few anemones and a school of fish quickly darting out of sight. Maybe the school set off your senses?

Something white vanished behind a boulder.

White? There weren’t any white aquatic creatures in your area. Your brows knit. It could be trash. Ugh. Why couldn’t people clean up after themselves?

A few gentle kicks sent you over the rock to find the stray bit of trash when a muffled scream and a flurry of bubbles blinded you. You yelped out a few bubbles yourself as you desperately tried to backpedal in water. Whatever it was, and it was huge, darted around you and went for your back. There wasn’t much you could do but try to spin to defend yourself before your arms were wrapped up in a hug from behind.

What in the drunken stars?!

You thrashed in the hold of this creature. What was it? A person? A fish? Some sketchy internet cryptid come to life here to take yours? Or worse… a giant cuttlefish? You shuddered. Hopefully, whatever it was would at least leave you alive. Not that that outcome was looking too likely.

Water pushed your snorkel to the side as you slowly realized you were moving. It was taking you somewhere. Where, you couldn’t tell. Every time you tried to look forward or up, something hard would push your head from behind so you couldn’t see.

You tried to growl out a warning and noticed just how much air you had left. Your eyes widened. You needed air. Fast.

Your useless flippered feet tried to kick behind you but you could barely move them at this speed. Your captor was a far better swimmer than you.

Light glanced off your goggles and into your eyes moments before a loud splash drenched you in air. You gasped and drank in the air before turning you attention back to escaping your captor.

You started thrashing again and screamed.

A skeletal hand clamped down on your mouth.

“Shh! You’re gonna get us both killed!” Whisper-snapped a breathless, masculine voice in your ear. His chest heaved gently as he tried to calm himself and you at the same time. He’d taken you to a cliff side shallow beach that would be completely submerged come tide. Not many people knew this little alcove beside you and you’d hoped to keep it that way.

“Mph!” You retorted. If he wanted you calm he shouldn’t have kidnapped you across the reef! You were… half a mile from your car!

“Ah. I’m sorry. I’m not used to… people….” His grip loosened. “I… Please don’t scream. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

…That wasn’t threatening or ominous at all.

You nodded.

With a heavy sigh, the hand over your mouth slowly let go, obviously ready to silence you without a moment’s hesitation but giving you a chance to speak.

You tried to push away from him but he held you still against his chest, not letting you see him. You growled. “What do you want from me? I don’t have any valuables on me. And I’m not worth much to anyone.”

“Woah. Uh, stars. No, I don’t- stars, are you okay?” Actual concern laced his voice.

You thrashed again but stilled when his arm came forward to cup your mouth. “I am not confiding in my kidnapper! You can go meet a sharks third layer of teeth first!”

“Heh, already have. Listen, I’m not here to hurt you, and I’m sorry for scaring you. If you really want me to leave, I’ll leave.” There was a… serious tone in his voice. Like a soldier awaiting a command.

“Yes! Go! I don’t want to be kidnapped today!” You snapped.

“Yessir.” His arms grabbed yours and pushed you away from his chest. “Little tip, get out of the water as soon as I let go. There are… sharks nearby. Very aggressive sharks. Stay safe.” He released you.

Taking your chance to see your captor, you spun around to see…ripples. He was gone. A nervous glance at the secretive waves had you taking the stranger’s advice and swimming to shore. You rode a wave onto the pebbly beach and heaved yourself into an upright position.

You could have sworn you saw something red flash across the water at you but nothing was there when you looked.

Flippers came off and you ran. Barefoot or not, you were not going back in the water.

Not today.

#undertale #mermay 2024 #cross sans #siren

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thehistoriangirl · 2 months

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The Tides Have Veiled [Sixteen]

This is the end of the third part of this story! :D A new interlude will be posted soon :3 Hope you like it!

Viktor x Fem! Reader-----/Gothic AU/Haunted Sea/---1.8K----SFW*

> MASTERLIST <- Previous // Next ->

Synopsis: Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: What does the sea want?

Taglist: @lunar-monster @local-mr-frog @bittercyder @blissfulip @ihopeinevergetsoberr @ultimateslasherfan

Sixteen: Desperate Offerings

They were wrong about the sea. Always bestowing it with human qualities this silent world doesn’t have.

Greed. Such a familiar inkling, as if humans were made to claim and take everything in their wake, yet only finding their stop once their bodies were suspended in water, lungs burning in agony. When the world they walked upon dipped into an endless abyss.

Many considered the sea greedy, and all-consuming. Its waves conquering the land and sweeping the terrestrial lives once reigning in the surface a more than considerable reason for such argument; waves being a limit humans could not surpass.

But you knew better.

It wasn’t greed—greed needed the desire to consume, to take, an inherent purpose of seeking. The sea was hungry, underwater beasts copying the nature of their master in existence and lurking, just… waiting.

It'll be all-consuming, yes, but not for a self-fulfilling search and hunt. Rather, it'd be everything left.

It was always what remained.

What would remain of you.

The freezing water bit your skin, descending your throat once you tried to scream the creeping fear out. But you couldn’t, not with the gargantuan figure suspended below you, its eyes each as big as your head. White sclera, black pupils seemingly floating in the ocean.

You were torn between surfacing, allowing your lungs mercy, and keeping your attention toward the eyes, where the currents pushed bubbles forward with unmistakable movement.

Where is Viktor? You observed the eyes, impassible, the only thing inside this dark and dead ocean surrounding you.

You resurfaced, waves lapping lazily at the toppled boat’s hull. Gone were the shiny algae contrasting neon blue against the black water, as if the lurking giant had devoured them all.

Perhaps it has taken him, too, the water hitting your ear muttered in cold, merciless succession.

To wade was useless once the waves hugged you down, anxious of having you, soaked clothes too heavy and constricted to keep you afloat.

And soon, it’ll be your turn.

The sensation of being observed loomed nearby, coming from under. You fell and floated, broken time down the water; the only living being suspended in this world built of death and salty tears.

Cold and slimy, long appendages swirled around ankles, hooks like needles prickling the numb skin of your legs. You couldn’t see it, but the eyes did see you. The eyes and its limbs pulled you down, down, down.

Suddenly, you were that kid your uncles would tell you about. Following that shiny fish until their body was surrounded by water. The monster would grab their legs with whetted hooks, slicing the tender flesh and tinting the blue waves pink until the water was dark enough that the body nor the blood could be seen anymore.

Hungry. Always hungry.

Go upwards, don’t stop looking down, you thought, aching legs kicking the ever-present water in a fleeting attempt to break into the surface. The eyes gazed back at your desperate attempt, stoic, enjoying the struggle of your mortal, terrestrial body trying to survive in this alien world.

An unfamiliar world, and yet… under all the vast expanse of darkness, the water bubbled, illuminated with familiar glimpses. How the murmur of the sea crashing ashore filled the eerie silence inside the cramped bedroom; soft hums only a loving mother could mimic. The rocking motion of the waves soothing your mind, and body already exhausted after a productive overnight fishing trip aboard your grandfather's boat.

The ocean had always been there where everything else faded.

You shouldn’t be afraid. The bodiless voice said, floating as you sink. What a twisted irony as much as it was to finally see the clear night sky just right before falling into a bottomless inkwell. Don’t fear it. Just let go.

No.

You couldn't submit to the ocean's will—at least not until you've found Viktor.

At this stage of your life, it was pointless to pledge ignorance regarding the sea’s wishes. The pull that left you petrified, obliged to gaze at the raging storms hitting the coast during autumn. All the tears cried and were taken by the waves while the bodies morphed into nothing but sea foam.

It wanted you. Perhaps all your kin; but for now, it’ll be satiated once you found your everlasting rest on the seabed; feast for scavengers, a refuge of bones while it lasted.

The cold air hit you once you surfaced, lungs burning, panting in desperate attempts to inhale as much oxygen as possible. Your oppressed chest is heavy and about to burst.

The appendages of the being slid swiftly up your ankles in a loose grasp. Barely tugging. Barely… nudging. Guiding.

Over the black waters laid the defeated boat, its hull covered with barnacles, making the surface rough and uneven under your fingertips, like another body deformed and desecrated by the sea.

You wanted this to be a nightmare, to succumb to the waves and wake up on the lighthouse’s old couch, warm and still haunted, but with him.

“Viktor!” You called, voice strained, either by the cold or the piling tears.

Because now you were alone and cold and scared in this inky, abysmal world that was starving for an offering more satiating than those left by the cliffside—vivid memories of despair and the loss of an unknown loss, a void as deep as the ocean itself.

There was no answer except for the waves moving, whispering in their ancient language, running like flicking hopes through your fingers with each wade and kick. And yet, it was only a matter of time before your body tired out, for when you’d had to relent control and float aimlessly like algae in, once again, hope the sea would carry you home.

If it even knew where it was, because you weren’t sure yourself.

The appendages loosened the grasp, untangling like an untying ribbon with barely the sensation of friction of those hooks prickling your legs.

You stopped kicking, this twisted support abandoning you, too.

You floated, eyes closed to hear what the sea wanted to tell you. What it wished you to do.

Black sea; navy sky. It was you and the boat, the crippling cold burrowing inside your bones, claiming shivers from your lips already.

You wondered who would take you first, if cold or sea.

As if answering, the swaying waves started covering your body in the biggest, darkest dress ever conceived. First ankles, slowly creeping its way through thighs and torso. Soft sways, like a dance, an intimate embrace. You raised your view to the sky one last time, ears filled with the waves’ language until your head got covered by it, too.

Without the panic building chaos inside your mind, you stayed still and waited. Hearing the echo of this world, each whisper of water current like a whisper of running wind. All black, but not empty.

Not anymore.

The creature was still there, water bubbling and displacing when it swam toward you, both suspended and both gazing, even if all you could see were its gigantic eyes fixated on you.

You shouldn’t be afraid.

Drowning was deemed for you as a terrible form of dying; just the thought of this unwelcomed element conquering its way through those channels on your body that weren't meant for water. But you've heard stories.

How the water calmed you once oxygen had run out, how mermaids seduced before lounging. How the ocean kept swallowing you without you even noticing you were moving.

Don’t fear it.

This. Was this the same your mother felt? The oppression on your chest settled into a mere ghost, blurry vision clearer than ever, seeing dozens of forms lurking nearby to watch your demise.

Perhaps this destiny had been written of the sand, perhaps you’d been too distracted in nimieties to catch it before the tide swept the shoreline.

Just let go.

You looked down at your witnesses; at the tall giant that gazed at you still. Chin high and rigid hands balled in fists.

Let him go. And take me instead.

He may be your cursed husband as much as you were his cursed wife—his end may be on land, inside the lonely walls of the grey house by the cliff.

You opened your mouth in the primal reflex of gathering air. Fire entered your veins, tears mixed in with the salty seawater, finally arriving down your being, and filtering through bloodstream, flesh, and bones.

If the ocean had always been home and shelter, prison, and origin; did it matter that you end here? Like this? If the sea was so jealous of letting you go, what better end than this?

Away from the perpetual rain and the ever-present mist, of hunting ghosts and failed families.

With the sea you could be free.

Black waters broke into an eerie, dreamy world of vivid navy and mossy green. You were enveloped by the waves, but you could now understand their words as they tangled around you, pulling down while suspended in time. The echo of deformed ripples ran through your ears, eyes locked with those of the creature.

A blood-red squid so big you couldn’t take in its whole size, tentacles sinking deeper into the abyss where the darkness and the sand blocked visibility.

The knowledge bestowed you with courage, extending one of your hands toward the magnificent being, only to find them morphed. Unfamiliar.

They were the hands of a monster.

They’re all ghosts, the squid seemed to tell you, but it could’ve been the sea itself, the disembodied voice coming from everywhere. Just as the silhouettes came from everywhere, slowly rising toward you. Just like me. Just like you.

Where once was all but water, you saw bodies, all of them bloated and deformed, barely human, and yet, you knew that only a human spirit could be stubborn, vengeful enough to force themselves to remain. Even here, where they would never belong.

The squid looked at you, almost pitifully.

We’re all but ghosts.

There was no time to fear nor react once they grasped you. Their icky touch, slimy and soft, too soft, swarmed you. An entire graveyard claiming another victim.

That sensation of oppression on your chest returned. That human instinct to survive.

I won’t be one of them. You gazed at them, empty sockets still locked into your face, as if somehow, they could recognize you like the one the sea longed for. Not yet.

You had to see Viktor again. Even if it was only to say goodbye. You needed to know if the sea could fulfill its pact.

Consciousness started slipping off your grasp, vision darkening at the edges like a damaged photograph, drenched in water that had made the coloring run off in amorph shadows, creating faceless people and erased backgrounds.

Then, you heard the voices—low hums, haunting chants.

The sea shifted once the mermaids came, yet you only could catch a glimpse of blue and green tails and grey skin. You wanted them to sing you a lullaby before your lungs gave up.

Then you were claimed by the sea.

#arcane viktor x reader #viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x you #viktor fanfic #arcane fanfic #arcane viktor #viktor arcane

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shion-yu · 3 months

Text

I Still Think Of You

Whatever proceeded or followed this moment was worth it, if only just to hear Elliot's voice one more time. Cliff and Elliot reconnect nearly three years after their breakup. A complete rewrite of an older story that I wasn't content with and deleted. Also my fill for my @badthingshappenbingo space "I Will Only Slow You Down." 2,351 words, original writing, no TWs, CW depression, chronic illness whump.

The song hit Cliff like a stray bolt of lightning. He was sitting in the outpatient infusion center getting his monthly infliximab when it came on the regional variety station.

Sometimes I'm driving

Down ninety-five in your car

I imagine it still smells like you

But that was so long ago

And you're gone

Like dust in the wind

Like the tide pulled you in

Like you're never coming back

To me again

To whisper in my ear

"You're my whole life"

And I'm yours

I'm still yours

It was Elliot. The voice was unmistakably Elliot's because nobody else's voice sounded like that: that perfect mix of confident yet wavering and gentle. Cliff knew it immediately because it was the voice that he fell in love with. He also realized quite quickly that the song was about him. All those other love songs that Elliot had written could be excused away as generic, the classic ballad about a faceless lover. Maybe a few coincidences, but never anything like this one that pulled so directly from the time that he and Elliot spent together.

Cliff had told Elliot so many times: "You're my whole life." At first it seemed romantic. Later it seemed possessive. "I can't be your whole life, not all of it," Elliot had told him the day they broke up. "You need to keep some for you, too."

Cliff wished he had understood what Elliot meant by that back then. Maybe if he had, things would have turned out different. Maybe Cliff would have been more honest, braver. But they were victims of the age old cliche: you can't love another person until you love yourself. It hadn't just been Cliff though. Neither of them had loved themselves, they'd only loved each other. They'd relied on each other too much before the other was ready to carry the burden of another.

That was almost three years ago. A lot had changed since then. Cliff was diagnosed with sarcoidosis. He started law school and then made the difficult decision not to return after the first year. He dated Phoenix, who broke up with him when he dropped out. He never loved Phoenix though. Cliff wasn’t even sure if he ever even really liked him. It was just another poor attempt at hoping that if he pretended to be someone he wasn't, he'd stop being the real, pathetic version of himself that actually existed.

Cliff had been trying to ignore Elliot's steep rise to fame for a while now for his own self-preservation, but after I Still Think Of You hit the billboard 100 it became impossible. Elliot was everywhere: on talk shows and TV performances and magazine covers. The other half of his act, some guy named Alex, always hovered behind him providing bass and backup vocals. Cliff thought he looked like a little kid. He rarely smiled, as opposed to Elliot who couldn’t stop except for when he was crooning so passionately into the microphone that it gave Cliff chills to see. Everyone seemed to think Elliot's permanant smile when speaking was adorable, but Cliff knew it was just a nervous habit.

He watched Elliot sing his heart out on a YouTube clip of Good Morning America. Elliot was always incredibly talented, but his voice had gotten much better with age and confidence. He owned every word and his presence was immense. The announcer described him as a prodigy, but Cliff disagreed. He knew Elliot worked his ass off to get to that point, it didn't just come naturally. But Elliot laughed and thanked everybody profusely. It sounded like the audience was mostly girls based on the squealing every time Elliot said something sweet. Elliot had never denied his sexuality in interviews, but it seemed that didn’t matter.

Cliff didn’t know why he did it. Maybe because he thought there was no way Elliot wouldn't have changed his number by now and even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t answer Cliff right? Maybe it was because he was lonely and figured he didn't have anything to lose. Or maybe it was because he thought he might die before he ever had a chance to address his single most burning regret in life. Nobody said he was dying, but Cliff wasn't sure. He didn’t leave the house anymore, too sick to have the energy and too self-conscious about his inability to control himself to try. He couldn’t get farther than the length of his apartment without his crutches and he couldn’t skip the oxygen if he wanted to walk further than a single block without his lips turning blue. It felt pitiful, and he spent many nights thinking that if someone offered him a magic pill that would let him never wake up again, he'd take it.

The text was tapped out, deleted, then rewritten and sent before Cliff could change his mind again.

'I still think of you too.'

He told himself not to wait for a response. Even if Elliot did receive the text, he might not respond. It had been three years since they'd talked after all. Three very long years in which both of them had undergone a tremendous amount of change. Elliot was now successful and brilliant, shining for the world to see like Cliff always knew he would. And Cliff… He was the opposite. He was dull and empty. He had nothing left but a broken body and the bones of all the things he'd ruined over the years. Elliot shouldn't talk to him anyways, Cliff thought to himself - he’d only bring Elliot down.

Cliff nearly dropped his phone when it rang almost immediately after he pushed send. It was Elliot. Cliff answered in shock. "Hello?"

"Cliff!"

And that was it. Whatever proceeded or followed this moment was worth it, if only just to hear Elliot's voice one more time.

"Yeah, it's me."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cliff was sitting in Barney's waiting for Elliot to show up. It was their old stomping grounds, the café that they used to visit during late night study sessions when they went to NYU. Elliot asked him to sit in the back, presumably so he could avoid being recognized by any fans while he met with Cliff. Cliff thought maybe if Elliot knew what he looked like now, he wouldn't have even taken that chance.

Cliff tried to clean up nicely, but he was so pale now from a mix of illness and never leaving the house. He wore his oxygen to get here, but he arrived early so he’d have time to catch his breath and hopefully get away with stashing it in his bag while they talked. His crutches weren't something he could hide though, and neither was how thin and brittle his hair was from the methotrexate (although at least it hadn’t fallen out). He was starting to decide this was a terrible idea, that he ought to just go home before Elliot ever had the chance to arrive, but then suddenly Elliot was standing right there in front of the table - in front of Cliff - and it was too late to turn back.

Elliot looked older. More mature. His dark curls were shorter and tamer than they ever were when they dated. “Hi Cliff,” Elliot said with a nervous smile.

Cliff thought he looked incredible. He wondered if he should stand and give Elliot a hug, Elliot always was a hugger. But instead he just smiled back and motioned for Elliot to sit. “Hello Elliot,” he replied, equally as nervous. Elliot took off his black leather jacket that fit him astonishingly well and hung it on the back of his chair before sitting.

“So,” Elliot said. “It’s been… what, two years?” Almost three, Cliff thought to himself as he nodded in agreement. Surely Elliot had to know it'd almost been three years since Cliff messed what they had up so immeasurably. "Wow."

"Wow," Cliff repeated. "You look great, by the way."

Elliot's flustered face made Cliff worry he'd already messed up. But Elliot just said, "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself." Cliff was sure that was a lie. "How have you been? I heard you got diagnosed with an autoimmune disease."

Cliff wondered where the hell Elliot possibly heard that. Then again, they had still gone to the same school for their final year of undergrad even if they hadn't been dating anymore. Their majors had no crossover at all though, and any friends they'd shared had obviously ended up staying friends with Elliot, not Cliff.

"Yeah," Cliff confirmed uncomfortably. "Sarcoidosis." So awkward.

"I'm sorry," Elliot said.

"Sorry for what?" Cliff said.

Elliot rubbed his hands together, glancing down. "Well, I never called after I heard you got sick. That wasn't very nice of me. I wanted to, but we were... You know."

"Yeah. I know," Cliff said. This is so not how he'd hoped this meeting would go, although he had tried not to have any expectations at all about it. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. Tell me about you."

"Me?" Elliot asked with such innocence that Cliff had to laugh. He barely ever laughed this days, but he couldn't help it.

"Yes you," Cliff said. "Like you're not totally famous now."

Elliot blushed and looked flustered. "Stop, I'm not that famous," he said quickly. "I mean I've been so lucky and so fortunate but, famous is a little..."

"Sure," Cliff smiled. "Okay. Successful. You're so successful now. You really earned it."

"Really? Thanks, Cliff," Elliot said, smiling back. "It means a lot to hear you say that."

It was Cliff's turn to be surprised. He wasn't sure why Elliot would value his opinion much. He cleared his throat, coughing a little. "Well, yeah, of course."

They were silent for several awkward beats until Cliff interrupted it by coughing again. Was sitting at a table in a coffee shop seriously too much for him, he thought in annoyance? But it was also the first time he'd left the house for anything but a doctor's appointment in... Weeks? Surely not months.

"Do you have a cold?" Elliot asked worriedly.

Shit, five minutes reunited and Cliff was already making Elliot worry again? Cliff had to get the situation under control. He shook his head, pulling a napkin from the dispenser on the table and covering his mouth with it while he continued to cough. He could feel his lungs twitching, protesting in annoyance that they weren't being treated like the main attraction as usual. Cliff closed his eyes and tried to pretend Elliot wasn't right across from him for a second while he weighed his options. He ultimately decided it was less embarassing to wear oxygen than have a full on asthma attack right in front of everyone. "Sorry," Cliff said hoarsely. "Don't think that... I just don't want you to worry."

Elliot looked confused until Cliff pulled his oxygen tubing from the bag slung across the back of his chair and looped it over his ears. "Oh," Elliot said softly. Cliff couldn't read his expression. Pity? Disappointment? "Cliff, you didn't have to not wear that for my sake. I know it's... Things are different now."

Cliff took several deep breaths through his nose, trying to control his cough. He could feel his head getting a little clearer. "I'm not saying you should care," Cliff said when he caught his breath. "I'm not saying I deserve you to. But I don't want you to think I'm not trying. I am."

Elliot nodded as if he understood. His face was so tender, so gentle and delicate... Cliff pushed away the desire to reach out and brush Elliot's cheek with his fingers. "Like I said. Things are different."

Cliff relaxed a little, his shoulders falling from their tense position. He rested his chin in his hands and said, "Thank you."

The long minute of silence that followed was still awkward, but not as awkward as the first one. Elliot shifted in his chair and said, "Why did you text me?"

"What?" Cliff asked, startled.

"You must have had something in mind. After all this time. Why'd you text me?"

Cliff had asked himself that a million times in the week since he'd sent that message. At first he really didn't know, but now he realized two things. One, his life without Elliot had never been as happy as when Elliot was in it. And two, if he wanted Elliot back in his life, he had to be honest, not like the first time. So, he was honest. "I just missed you."

"Oh," Elliot said. Cliff half expected him to run away, slap a hand on the table and say he knew Cliff hadn't changed. But instead he smiled shyly and said, "I missed you too."

Now they both looked surprised and a little embarrassed. Cliff had wondered for years what it would be like if he ever saw Elliot in person again. He'd at times wanted to apologize, beg for their relationship back, to convince Elliot he'd changed. But as time went on, he'd gotten more tired. He was still that anxious, guilty person he was before, but he'd had the time to think about what had gone wrong and learned to appreciate what had gone right. Elliot had agreed to meet him, and this was his chance to do things right this time. Even if it was never the same and Elliot wasn't his, Cliff's main desire was to make it up to him now.

"I was wondering if I could text you sometimes," Cliff said. "I know you're really busy. Just, talk to you every once and a while."

"You mean like friends?" Elliot asked.

Cliff nodded. "Yeah. Like friends."

He waited for the answer feeling like this was judgement day. There was no other question he was dying to know the answer to more. He only had to wait a second.

"Okay," Elliot said. "I'd like that. Friends." God, that nervous smile, Cliff thought to himself as he melted in relief. No wonder all those teen girls fell in love so quickly.

#shionwrites #oc: cliff #oc: elliot #sickfic #whump #bad things happen bingo #I will only slow you down #chronic illness whump #angst with a happy ending #hurt comfort #male whump #emotional whump

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totowlff · 2 years

Text

➝ star-crossed

almost 30 years after his last formula 1 world championship, elisabeth lauda's father decides to invest in the struggling mercedes f1 team. she joins him as his business partner in the investment. little does she know that it will change her life forever.

➝ fireworks

elisabeth wasn’t fond of parties, and a new year’s eve party in vienna was no exception. niki would never refuse such a generous invitation from his new business partner, and he wouldn’t let elisabeth get out of it, either.

➝ never be the same

nico’s win at the monaco gp portended better things to come for the mercedes f1 team, but after the celebrations, elisabeth knew that things between her and toto would never be the same again.

➝ 200km/h

elisabeth never wanted to visit the nurburgring, where her father nearly lost his life. fate had other plans.

➝ trust

ross brawn’s tumultuous departure from mercedes was nothing compared to what elisabeth and toto’s relationship had become. elisabeth goes to brackley to manage the fallout, but things only get more complicated.

➝ barbarazweige

the annual lauda family christmas dinner had one hard-and-fast rule: no cell phones. but some rules are made to be broken.

➝ dreams

a new baby in the lauda family prompts discussion between niki and elisabeth about the path her life is taking.

➝ courage

it takes courage for elisabeth to confess her feelings for toto, and even more to face the consequences of her cowardice.

➝ pretense

elisabeth plunges headlong into work to stop herself from thinking too much about her personal life, but niki tells her she needs to relax a little.

➝ atemlos durch die nacht

elisabeth dreaded seeing his name on her caller id, but the voice on the other end of the line told her something she was really afraid of.

➝ spür was liebe mit uns macht

everything was a blur. nothing seemed to make sense in toto's head. in his mind, just a thought. a person. liesl.

➝ the cliff

elisabeth’s feelings for toto have pushed her to the edge of a cliff. the only thing she could do was jump.

➝ a proper start

two years after their story began in a penthouse in the middle of vienna, elisabeth and toto go back to the start.

➝ partner in crime

toto and elisabeth need to keep up appearances at the fia prize giving gala - they’re just co-workers and business partners, nothing more. at least, that’s what everyone else needs to think.

➝ pumpernickels and dance moves

elisabeth and toto are two incredibly busy people. once in a while, though, they get a chance to enjoy some peace and quiet in the morning.

➝ thin ice

toto & elisabeth find out that keeping their relationship hidden from the world is one thing, but keeping it hidden from elisabeth’s father is a different, more complicated matter.

➝ selfishness

in a moment of frustration, elisabeth says something she doesn’t mean. it opens old wounds of toto’s that run deeper than she realized.

➝ das herz ist eine schlecht gebaute brücke

toto never wanted to depend on anyone in any way. however, he realizes the hard way that some people depend on him. and he has been failing them miserably.

➝ under the spotlight

elisabeth gets an opportunity to impress toto, and takes it as a chance to face her fears.

➝ how many secrets can you keep

it’s race weekend in austria, which means toto has some very special guests with him at the race. elisabeth’s anxiety has nothing to do with what’s happening on the track.

➝ you can’t shift the tide

after a long day, what toto wants most is to get to his room and rest. but he has one more unfinished business to take care of.

➝ attention

toto seems distracted, and elisabeth can’t help but feel like he’s ignoring her. she comes up with a plan to get his attention.

➝ deja vu

mercedes’ second championship win brings back some old feelings, but things between elisabeth and toto feel brand-new.

➝ mistrust

elisabeth’s brother had made his opposition to her and toto’s relationship known, which is hard enough to deal with. but someone else feels the same way, and that’s even harder still.

➝ powódź zniszczyła ten dom

after finding elisabeth in tears in the bathroom, toto sees no other way out than a serious conversation with his mother

➝ lipstick and confessions

going to a gala in geneva is stressful enough, but some familiar lipstick and a familiar face make for a weekend that elisabeth hadn’t expected.

➝ intention and redemption

all it took was a black dress and red lipstick for toto to realize the mistake he was making with aurélie. and he was determined to fix it.

➝ this party became a funeral

elisabeth’s nephew adores her, and his birthday party should have been a happy occasion. but even his son’s birthday won’t stop mathias from making his feelings about elisabeth and toto known.

➝ promise

elisabeth wraps up a business deal a year in the making. It’s a day she’ll never forget, but not for the reason she expects.

➝ edvard

an intimate moment between elisabeth and toto goes public. they decide they need to have a serious talk with niki.

➝ quan estem separats

distance is painful for elisabeth. however, worse than that is the uncertainty about the future.

➝ peace

that summer break wasn't how elisabeth and toto imagined it would be. however, that doesn't mean it wouldn't be unforgettable.

➝ won’t forget, can’t regret

the dam broke. the game is over. now everyone knows that elisabeth lauda and toto wolff are completely in love with each other. and he can't help but feel a little relieved about it.

➝ before everything

a photo. an audio. a voice message. and niki never saw elisabeth the same way again.

➝ what won’t you do for love

the moment of truth has arrived for elisabeth and niki.

➝ bellyache

returning to the paddock after the summer break was nothing like elisabeth imagined.

➝ cover up the blank spots

it was supposed to be another normal day for alma, until she read the name on the form in her hands.

➝ waltzes and wreaths

no cameras, no pressure. on that night in helsinki, they were just liesl and toto.

➝ anger leaves a great void

as a polish writer would say, “anger always leaves behind a great void, into which a flood of sadness immediately pours and flows like a great river, without beginning or end”.

➝ when the party is over

benedict's birthday dinner had everything to be a happy moment for the family. however, there were still things to settle between elisabeth and joanna.

➝ empty apologies

some wounds are too deep for simple dressings.

➝ take my breath

is there a better birthday present than love?

➝ no more secrets

sometimes the fear of losing someone to stupid ideas drives people to do stupid things.

➝ breaking point

the hardest part of a fight is realizing you're wrong. again.

➝ finish line

calm seas never made good sailors. however, that storm seemed to be the end of it all.

➝ a secret place

there is no place in the world where elisabeth felt more at peace. and she was looking forward to sharing it with the man she loved.

➝ the last thing

in brescia, toto made a decision about his relationship with elisabeth. but, he still needs to talk to someone about it.

➝ a question

after days of peace, elisabeth and toto prepare to return to the eye of the hurricane. but, not before without answering a question.

➝ on the cover

check now the new issue of karriere by der standard magazine!

#wlffog #natsversion

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