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simpingforstardew · 4 months

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misty [chapter one]

pairing: sdv harvey x reader

synopsis: harvey has always been a man of routine and order— although just as he begins to tire of his life in pelican town, a new farmer moves to the valley and turns his life around. chapter one.

warnings: pure fluff and romance; eventual smut, but that'll be tagged when the time comes !! please enjoy my harvey playlist while you read ♡ (this is crossposted from ao3).

word count: 2.2k

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Harvey gently lets the needle of his record player caress the notches of the vinyl; after a skip, his apartment is filled with the soft melody of Ella Fitzgerald— he hums, content.

The apartment itself is unremarkable, a guest would consider it lived-in, cozy perhaps, but as the doctor looks around his living room all he can see is mess. Abandoned laundry draped over his plush red sofa, dishes waiting patiently to be washed after his microwaved dinner, and his newest TAMIYA model plane yearning to be completed.

Although the glow of the early winter sunset through his window paints a picture of comfort, it’s certainly a bachelor’s flat.

He walks to his kitchenette, stretching his tense shoulders, as he discards the dirty dishes into the sink and grabs a wine glass. Placing the glass onto the small dining table, Harvey considers which wine to indulge himself with tonight; after some performative consideration his reaches again for his usual Merlot— he chuckles to himself, realizing that he has always been a predictable creature of habit.

He pulls out the only chair at the table, bringing the glass to his moustached lips before being interrupted by the ringing of his phone. Glancing at the caller ID, he smirks. Had it been anyone else interrupting his evening, he would have been rather disappointed.

“Elliot, what do I owe the pleasure?” He says, moving from his place in the kitchenette to turn his music down, wine glass comfortably in his grip.

“Harvey! I don’t suppose you’re free tonight?” Elliot sings down the phone, “We haven’t been able to catch-up in quite a while, and I’m finally finished with the first draft of my newest manuscript!”

Elliot has always been a good friend to Harvey since the writer moved to Pelican Town over a year ago— although excentric in his own ways, Harvey has always appreciated having someone else in town to rely on for advice and wine recommendations.

“Congratulations, but I’m afraid I can’t tonight,” The doctor sighs, looking down at his drink, “I’m… rather busy this evening.”

“Lying will get you nowhere, my friend,” Elliot chuckles, “I have it on good authority that the clinic has been empty all day, and besides I still owe you a drink.”

“Yes well,” Harvey racks his brain for an excuse, pacing around his small living area, “The clinic being empty is a blessing, but the medical files won’t update themselves.”

“Very well,” Elliot sighs, melodrama has always been the writer’s strength, “Perhaps another time then.”

Harvey drops his phone unceremoniously, guilt infesting his mind. He could very well have finished his wine, grabbed his favourite green coat from the hook on the front door and travelled down to the saloon. Despite himself, however, he finds himself returning to the dining room table to pour the last of the Merlot into his glass.

Despite knowing every citizen of Pelican town after years of check-ups and festivals, he’s found himself drawn to isolation. Not that he didn’t adore the village and all of it’s quirks, he had just grown despondent over the recent weeks: stressed from his medical work, bored of his own repetitive routine, and— if Harvey is being honest with himself— hopeless. Winter tends to shine a spotlight on your own loneliness, particularly after an unremarkable birthday spent working.

After finishing the last of his wine, Harvey places the glass into the ever-filling sink and combs a hand through his brunette hair. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks away the minutes, echoing through the silent apartment. He sighs, the weight of the day finally settling in as he loosens his tie and prepares for bed. The soft glow of his bedside lamp casts a warm hue on the room, a lone figure moving through the routine of solitude. Perhaps the new year will be better. Perhaps, at the very least, it will provide Harvey with the change he so desperately needs. He thought about praying for such a change, but Harvey has never been a religious man; instead, he begins to dream.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the half-open blinds, painting streaks of gold across the bedroom floor. Harvey stretches, the stiffness in his shoulders a testament to a night’s restless sleep. The clock on the bedside table blinks 7:30AM. Harvey walks down the rickety stairs to the clinic, the call of songbirds outside travelling through the open windows— a melody that almost makes the dispassionate off-white of the practices’ hallway feel a little more pleasant.

“Good morning Maru,” Harvey waves, spotting the coily pink hair of the nurse behind the front desk. He adjusts his tie as he slips into his doctors coat, “You’re here early, what’s the occasion?”

Maru chuckles as she relaxes into the uncomfortable blue office chair, “What? I can’t come in bright and early to start the year right with some administrative work?”

Harvey scoffs, a smirk tugging on his lips, “Frankly, I would have thought people your age are preoccupied nursing hangovers on the first day of the new year— although your help is always appreciated.”

“Well frankly,” Maru imitates the older man, “I can’t believe you take me for such a party animal, Doctor Greenwood. How about I run out and get us some coffee, hm?”

“Have I ever told you how wonderful you are, Maru?”

“Not nearly enough,” Maru giggles, standing up from behind the reception desk to leave before stopping with a gasp “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you— we received an application for someone new to register with our clinic, their paperwork is on your desk.”

The bell on the clinic’s front door chimes as Maru exits, leaving Harvey baffled at the implication of a new patient. With the exception of Elliot last year, nobody has moved into the valley in a very long time. Perhaps with more excitement than is needed, Harvey dashes to his office; sure enough, a single document lays on his desk.

APPLICATION FOR REGISTRY, PELICAN TOWN CLINIC (GENERAL PRACTICE) (Y/N) (L/N) | +19201 184523 Hilltop Farm, Pelican Town...

Harvey adjusts his glasses as he reads the application in awe, why hadn’t he known someone was moving to Pelican Town— let alone into the abandoned farm on the outskirts of the valley? Perhaps he would have known if he had gone to the saloon last night with Elliot: the writer is typically much more aware of the town’s news and gossip than he is.

As he moves into the waiting area of the clinic, Harvey finds his eyes glued to the application in his hands— as if he is attempting to memorise every letter formed from the delicate handwriting on the form. The familiar bell of the front door chimes, failing to distract the doctor from his reading.

“Maru, that was extraordinarily fast— you didn’t get decaf again did you? That prank just isn’t as funny as you insist it is.” His large hand reaches up to adjust his glasses as they slide down the length of his freckled nose.

“Oh, not a fan of decaf,” An unfamiliar voice replies, “I’ll try to remember that.”

Harvey looks up from the paperwork, a faint blush washing over his cheeks as he coughs, “I- I’m terribly sorry I-,” He takes a selfish moments pause, just to look at the stranger in front of him, “I thought you were… somebody else, can I help you?”

“It’s okay, I just came in to make sure my application to register here arrived, I’m (Y/n)” You smile, extending your hand out to him as your eyes sparkling under the clinic’s soft light.

“I know-” Harvey scolds himself for his bluntness; he goes to shake your hand, “I mean, I was just reading through your application! Consider it approved… Forgive me, I had no idea anybody new was moving into town.”

“Well, yeah— it was kind of a last minute decision, I’m taking over my grandfather’s farm just west of here. You must be Doctor Greenwood?” You ask, not wanting to dwell on discussions of your late grandfather.

“Harvey,” He lets his arm fall, already missing the warmth of your smaller hand clasped in his own.

“Excuse me?”

“Please, you can call me Harvey,” The doctor places the now forgotten application on the reception desk behind him, “If you would prefer, of course—”

“—Harvey,” His name sounds heavenly coming from your lips, almost as angelic as your soft laughter, “It was nice to meet you.”

In an instant, you're gone. The bell chimes as you leave, singing it's own goodbye.

Harvey is dazed, his hands clenching together as his blush grows darker, “It was lovely to meet you too,” He says to an empty waiting room.

As he turns towards his office, the bell chimes once more; quickly followed by Maru’s animated voice, “Order’s up! One totally-not-decaf coffee for you, and a mint-hot chocolate for yours truly,” Maru giggles.

“T-Thank you, Maru,” Harvey takes the paper cup from his assistant’s hand, “Guess who just left the clinic.”

“Oh no, was it George? I told him that his prescription won’t arrive until next week!” Maru perches on the reception desk, sipping from her hot chocolate, “Do you want me to reschedule his appointment to this afternoon?”

The doctor chuckles, finally tearing his eyes from the front door of the clinic, “No, there’s no need for that— thank you though, Maru.”

The pair drink their beverages in a comfortable silence; Harvey quickly realising that one decaffeinated coffee wouldn’t be enough to satiate him.

“Right, well… I’m going for another one.” Harvey slips out of his doctors coat and into his dark-green cardigan, “Will you be okay here alone for five minutes?”

“You can trust me, Doc,” Maru offers a confident thumbs-up, “I’ll just call if there’s an emergency!”

After a nod to Maru, Harvey is quickly out the door. He basks in the spring warmth before walking down to The Stardrop Saloon— an unnecessary journey considering his coffee machine lay unused in his apartment, but Gus’ coffee is just so much better! At least, that’s what he tries to convince himself. In truth, Harvey just needs an excuse to leave the clinic; a trip upstairs to his apartment will only leave him feeling more claustrophobic.

“Wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are better fate than wisdom” Elliot sings, falling in pace with the doctor as the clinic door slams shut.

“Whatever are you talking about now?” Harvey turns his head to Elliot, slowing his brisk pace to enjoy the short walk with the writer.

“E.E. Cummings, Harvey! You haven’t read his work?” Elliot tuts, patting Harvey on the back as they walk together, “Shame on you.”

“Ah, of course,” Harvey playfully scoffs, sending a smirk to the shorter man, “Consider me utterly embarrassed.”

The pair are greeted by the music from the jukebox as they walk into the Saloon, both waving to Gus.

“Well I can tell how embarrassed you are by the blush on your cheeks,” The writer leans against the bar, eyebrows raised, “Or, has a certain new farmer caught the doctor’s attention?”

“I haven’t a clue what your talking about.” Harvey knew better than to feed into Elliot's delusional romanticism, he simply rakes a hand through his already swept back hair.

“You know you’ve always been a horrid liar, my friend.” Elliot smiles, “They’re quite lovely, aren’t they?”

“Who?” Harvey continues to feign ignorance while ordering a coffee from Gus.

“(Y/n), we met earlier this morning.” Elliot replies, “You would know that they’ve been the topic of conversation in town for a while now… If you came out of that small apartment once in a while.”

“You’re right, you know,” Harvey slouches, ignoring his own advice to his patients about the importance of posture, “I do regret not coming out last night, for what it’s worth.”

“I’m always right,” Elliot gleams, “My question is, was I right about you needing to come out more, or right about (Y/n) catching your eye?”

Harvey takes the coffee from Gus, placing 300g on the bar, “You know you’ve always talked too much, Elliot.”

The writer laughs as he watches Harvey leave the Saloon, “And you love me for it, good friend!”

On the short walk back to the clinic, Harvey finds himself thinking about you as he sips on his coffee. It wasn’t hard to make an impression as a new person in a small town, but never before had Harvey been struck by a stranger’s beauty so quickly, their interaction was short, yet the doctor’s heart raced as he remembered the way the farmer looked up at him.

The bell rings as he enters the clinic, Harvey realises this is probably the most the bell has chimed in a single day.

“Hey, Doc,” Maru greets, continuing her work on the computer in front of her, “Don’t forget that Evelyn has an appointment tomorrow at 10:30.”

“Thank you, Maru.” Harvey sips his drink, walking through the waiting room into his office, “Oh, and make sure it’s on file that (Y/n) (L/n)‘s application to register here is approved.”

Perhaps it’s selfish that a doctor would want to see his patient so soon— he certainly wouldn’t wish for emergency visit, his heart hurts at the thought of (Y/n) being injured— but as Harvey sits down in his office chair and begins to file his paperwork he can’t help but want to see that new farmer again.

#sdv harvey x reader #sdv harvey x farmer #sdv harvey fanfic #sdv fanfic #sdv harvey #stardew valley harvey #stardew valley harvey x reader #stardew valley harvey x farmer #sdv harvey x y/n #stardew valley #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer

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ozarkthedog · 3 months

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𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞

18+ mdni

warnings: shotgunning. slight thigh grinding. no spoilers wc: 649

“Where’re you runnin’ off to?” Lucien asks, stopping you in your tracks.

You spin on your heel on the edge of the dimly lit patio, your summer dress twirling in the warm night breeze as you face the dark-haired beau. He tips his head back, keeping his burning eyes on you as he blows a trail of smoke into the midnight sky.

The tendons in his throat glide under his dewy, golden skin. Your cunt clenches at the thought of getting your mouth on him, tasting him.

An alarming darkness washes over his face as he presses the cigarette between his lips. His feral eyes zero in on your frozen state as he stalks toward you like a panther in the jungle—calm and relaxed, ready to sink its claws into unsuspecting prey.

Before you have a second to think, Lucien winds a thick arm around your waist and tugs you against him. He’s big, warm, and so fucking broad. The cigarette hangs limply from the corner of his mouth as curls of sandy hair fall across his forehead as he backs you up and into the large brick wall surrounding the patio. Your hands instinctively rest on his chest; the satin button-up is butter-soft, and you can’t help but dig your fingers into the firm muscles hidden beneath.

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes as he lifted his free hand and cupped your jaw. Those wicked irises tempt you deeper into the murky darkness. You can’t tell which way is up, tumbling in the black as he presses a solid thumb between your lips.

Your eyes bug at the intrusion. A heavy wave of arousal crashes into your belly, making you wantonly moan around his digit. He tastes like a mix of ash and cabernet as he grinds his half-hard cock into your belly. Your eyes flutter like you’re staring at an eclipse as your lips close around his thumb without thinking.

“Keep that pretty mouth open for me.” Lucien softly commands with a thick, sultry voice that drips down your spine like molasses. He presses on your tongue, tugging your jaw open. “Thatta girl.”

His cheeks hollow as he takes a deep breath. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a beat. Dark eyes wash over you as you innocently wait for his next command. He holds your stare before pulling the cig from his mouth and leaning in. His plush lips barely graze your own as he exhales, releasing the smoke into your mouth. His thumb rubs along the edge of your lips, encouraging you to inhale his offering as he presses you into the rough wall.

You breathe in, letting the ashy smoke burn your insides. His lips pull into a smirk, and he hums. Your eyes water from the fumes, and you sputter, coughing out the remaining smoke.

Those sinful eyes travel the expanse of your face before moving south, down your neck to your exposed clavicle, and between the valley of your breasts. He takes his time like he’s considering his next move as your chest anxiously rises and falls under his calculating gaze.

He chuckles under his breath and lifts the cigarette to his lips once more. “Looks like we’ll have to work on that.” The cigarette bounces as he speaks, the tip burning red hot like the arousal dripping from your cunt.

He crowds you, pushing you further into the wall, and slots a burly thigh between your legs, forcefully grinding your throbbing core. A pitiful whine tumbles from your lips, and he cups a heavy hand along your jawbone and presses a deft thumb on your chin, keeping you locked in place.

“Don't worry now," He muses, shifting his thigh back and forth, pulling a wreaked gasp from your throat. "The smoke won't be the only thing you'll gag on tonight."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

be sure to follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

#lucien flores #pedro pascal #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #the uninvited

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incognit0slut · 10 months

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Right Kind of Wrong (11)

She ever thought she would be involved in a murder investigation and encounter her one-night-stand again, the awkward guy who isn’t exactly that good in bed—Or is he? Offended by the sentiment, Spencer is determined to prove her wrong… But as he gets tangled with the beautiful stranger, he realizes there is more to her than what meets the eye.

Part Summary: Her involvement in the case becomes more crucial than she lets on. wc: 2.7k

Series Warnings: 18+ explicit content, graphic details of murders, mentions of suicide

a/n: I know this part is long overdue, I've been very busy lately and I can't seem to write anything good for me to post. But do not fret, I am back and better than ever before (lol) Also, thank you for patiently waiting for this update🤍

Other parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

"I WOULD HAVE STRANGLED HIM IF I WERE YOU."

Y/n frowned as she watched the slight furrow on her friend's brow, adding an element of emphasis to her words.

A moment of silence passed between them before Sandy rolled her eyes, leaning against the plush couch in the living room with a tall glass in her hand. "I'm just saying," she explained. "He was being a total jerk."

She let out a sigh. A slight confusion weaved itself whenever she contemplated him. She thought that voicing out her emotions on what occurred these past few days could ease her, yet thinking of him was only making her question her sanity. It was as if her mind was attempting to decipher a language it didn't fully comprehend, leaving her caught between curiosity and apprehension.

She honestly didn't know what to think anymore. One minute she felt like she was head over heels for the guy, and the next minute strangling him didn't seem like a bad idea after all.

She could even list all of the things about him that riled her up, yet somehow the thought of having her hands wrapped around his throat reminded her of something entirely different, which was why she found herself saying, "You know, he would actually enjoy that."

Sandy raised her brows. "What? Getting choked to death?"

She scoffed. "No, not to that extent. But like, in another context." She then narrowed her eyes. "If you know what I mean."

The subtle innuendo didn't go unnoticed as Sandy's eyes widened in surprise. "No way."

"Way."

"Damn," her friend mused before taking a sip of her drink. "Smart and kinky. If only he wasn't such an ass to you."

Smart and kinky weren't exactly words she considered using in one sentence, but the sound of them put together surprisingly sounded enticing. It sounded enticing enough that her mind was starting to play tricks on her. It sounded good enough that she found herself starting to miss him, even when logic dictates that she shouldn't.

And now it sounded compelling enough that she couldn't help but weigh in the pros and cons when it came to the man, putting the cons on his ability to switch attitude in a span of seconds into a completely different person—not to mention his tendency to assume biased reasonings based on poor judgment.

On the other hand, the pros were very hard to ignore. There was a certain charm in his awkward demeanor, especially in his shy and uncertain smile every time it was directed her way. Then there was also his intelligent mind she was definitely drawn to.

But above all that, he was, without a doubt, a certified freak in the sheets.

And that was on top of her list.

A subtle sigh escaped her lips, revealing a hint of her internal struggle. "I mean, he did have a good point, don't you think?"

"Y/n," Sandy warned disapprovingly.

"What? He was only doing his job..." She glanced at her. "...right?"

"This is the alcohol talking," Sandy dismissed before standing up. "You would never forgive a man this easy if you were sober."

"It's Margarita Night, what's the point of being sober?" She proved her point by finishing the last drop of liquor from her glass, the vibrant notes of freshly squeezed lime and tequila playing across her taste buds.

Sandy simply scoffed as she took her glass and disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of utensils clinking together following behind as she started making them a refill.

Y/n leaned back and closed her eyes, her body poised for a moment of relaxation. But just as the first tendrils of calm began to envelop her, a sharp interruption pierced through the air—the sound of the doorbell ringing.

A grin tugged at the corners of her lips as she rose from the couch. "Our pizza is here!"

Light steps carried her to the door as her stomach grumbled in anticipation, the scent of cheesy goodness already wafting through her imagination. She slowly wrapped her hand around the doorknob and swung the door open, but instead of being greeted by the delivery guy clad in his familiar uniform, the last person she thought would be on the other side of her door stood right in front of her.

Her eyes widened, capturing the shock that rendered her momentarily speechless. Time seemed to slow as her heart raced with caution while she attempted to process on what was happening.

What were the chances of seeing him again right at the moment when she had her friend coming over just so she could rant about the guy?

It was as if the universe was playing a trick on her, presenting a twist she could never have anticipated. As the seconds ticked by, she then finally found her voice, a mix of caution and confusion lacing her words as she muttered, "You're not the delivery guy."

"I'm not," Spencer—god, she still couldn’t believe he was here—responded, his eyes scanning along her features. "Sorry to disappoint you."

There was a fleeting moment where their gaze met, an unspoken wariness passing between them. The memory of their last meeting surfaced with a wave of tension that tugged at the corners of her mouth. She watched as his expression shifted, the space between them seemed to shrink, the air heavy with the weight of their unspoken words.

Then a throat being cleared cut through the silence, a soft disruption that broke the spell of their locked eyes. Startled, her gaze broke away from his, shifting to the source of the interruption. And there, standing beside him was another figure—a woman she hadn't noticed until that very moment.

Recognition flashed in her eyes as she glanced at the familiar face, recalling the blonde-haired lady as one of the agents she met at the bureau the other day. Agent... Jareau, was it?

Yes, that was definitely her name. She was one of the few agents who actually treated her without judgment, checking in on her from time to time, which was why she focused her attention on her instead.

"Agent Jareau, what brings you here?"

"Sorry to barge in this late," she replied with an apologetic smile. "But we'd like to have a few words with you."

"It's fine." Y/n stepped aside and pulled the door wider. "Do you want to come in?"

"No, it's alright, we'll be quick—"

"Yes."

Her gaze turned back to the other man and narrowed her eyes.

"I think it’s better to have this conversation inside."

She studied him for a moment before nodding, letting the two agents step inside her home. There was a clatter coming from the kitchen as she closed the door before walking down the hallway, expecting them to follow behind. "We can talk in the living room but—"

"We're putting you on protection."

She abruptly turned on her heels. "What?"

Agent Jareau sent a disapproving look towards Spencer as if trying to say this was not how they usually handle things in this situation. The woman turned back to her and gave her a reassuring smile before explaining, "We've been investigating the situation thoroughly, and it appears that the Unsub we're dealing with might have developed an unhealthy obsession with you."

Her heart slowly raced, a mix of fear and disbelief coursing through her veins as the words finally sink in. "Obsession?” Her brows furrowed deeper. “What do you mean?"

"As you may know, all of the victims were related to you in one way or another, where you received some kind of mistreatment by them all. We believe the Unsub might be doing this out of his way to protect you."

She felt a knot tightening in her stomach, a growing sense of vulnerability she had never experienced before. "P-Protect me? But why?"

Agent Jareau's expression softened as she continued, "We're still working to understand the motives behind their actions. But given the escalating behavior and the potential danger it poses, we've decided it's best to put you under protection."

Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear. "Protection? Like... witness protection?"

Spencer, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. "Something similar. We're proposing a protective measure—having an officer discreetly follow you during your daily routine."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You want me to be followed?"

Agent Jareau interjected, "It's for your own safety. We believe that having an officer close by could deter any potential threat and give us a better chance of identifying the Unsub."

Her mind raced as she considered the implications. "But how will I know? Will the officer be obvious?"

"Officer Anderson is currently outside in a separate car. He's trained to blend in while keeping a watchful eye on your surroundings."

"I..." she trailed off, then shook her head. "Will he be there all the time?"

Spencer nodded. "Yes, but we'll do our best to be inconspicuous. You won't even know he's there most of the time."

The idea of having an undercover officer tailing her sent a mixture of emotions coursing through her veins. Safety, yes, but also an unsettling feeling of being under constant scrutiny.

"Is this really necessary?"

"Yes, it is."

Her thoughts suddenly spun like a whirlwind, torn between disbelief and grim realization. She had always taken her daily routines for granted, the simple act of going to work or meeting friends devoid of apprehension. Now, each step she took seemed laden with an invisible weight, as if unseen eyes were tracking her every movement.

And to top it all, was she actually the sole reason behind these murders? She wasn't exactly the one acting out these gruesome crimes, yet it might as well happened because of her. Who could harbor such an unhealthy fixation on her? What had she done to attract this unwanted attention?

The unanswered mysteries gnawed at her.

Agent Jareau reached out and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she read the familiar look in her eyes, it was the same look whenever a witness was starting to blame themselves. "This isn't your fault, we're here to support you through this. Your safety is our priority.”

With a deep breath, she nodded, silently accepting the protection they offered. The blonde-haired woman then gestured for her to open the door, which she did, and pointed towards a car parked a few blocks away with its window down, revealing a normal-looking guy sitting behind the wheel.

"That's Officer Anderson, he'll be trailing behind you at a safe distance. You won't even notice he's there."

The officer caught them staring and lifted his hand, a gesture of his greeting. Y/n waved back at him. "Great, I've always wanted a personal bodyguard."

Unfortunately, none of the two agents standing beside her caught the sarcasm in her voice. Agent Jareau turned back to her. "You have our number, right? You can call us anytime if you need assistance."

She did have her number, she also had Agent Prentiss' number who constantly assured her to call if she ever found anything new that could help with the investigation. But surprisingly, out of all the agents she met, the one agent she didn't have their number was the one she had been sleeping with all along.

Not that she was ever going to call him. She simply nodded out of politeness, and as she did, she could feel watchful eyes staring at her intently. Agent Jareau's keen eyes also caught the subtle interaction unfolding before her. She caught the way Spencer's gaze fixed with unwavering intensity on Y/n, who seemed determinedly oblivious to the weight of his stare, or rather, she was purposefully attempting to ignore his scrutiny.

Sensing the tension in the air, she took a step back, offering a fleeting glance to Spencer before turning to leave. "I'll wait in the car."

Her footsteps softly echoed in the night as she disappeared, and Y/n wasn't sure whether being left with him was a good idea.

She could feel the subtle shifts of his movements, the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, as they stood just inches apart. She could also feel the warmth radiating from his body, a tantalizing contrast to the cool breeze that brushed against her skin.

"You okay?"

The air felt charged with tension as he spoke, his voice carrying a mix of nervousness and sincerity.

"It's safe to say I'm far from being okay," she decided to say.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his fingers curling and then relaxing by his sides. His lips parted slightly as if he were on the cusp of forming the words he had carried within him for so long. His gaze, intense yet searching, traced the contours of her face as if trying to find the right entry point into a conversation that had been left untouched.

And then he finally spoke.

"I'm sorry."

She finally dragged her gaze on him with an expression that betrayed little emotion. "Are you sorry because a serial killer out there has an unhealthy obsession with me or are you sorry about your misconception of me?"

"Both." He seemed to search her eyes for a reaction, his uncertainty palpable. "But you must understand I was doing my job, it was never my intention to hurt you."

"But you did hurt me," she answered, her gaze dropping momentarily before returning to meet his. "Whether it was intentional or not."

He seemed to struggle for words, a mix of emotions playing across his features "I know. I'm sorry."

She tilted her head slightly, her expression remaining impassive. After hearing the new update on the case and how much she was actually involved, she wasn’t in the mood to be having a serious conversation.

"It's getting late,” she mumbled, crossing her arms. “You should probably leave."

Spencer let out a sigh. "Listen, I—"

"It’s getting late,” she repeated, her voice sounding severe. “We can have this conversation another time.”

His shoulders slumped, the weight of his remorse heavy on his chest. He had hoped for a reaction, a sign that his apology had made a difference. Instead, her indifference left him feeling adrift, as if it was a barrier that he couldn't breach, a shield that rendered his efforts to make amends ineffective.

There was nothing else he could do as she turned to face him fully again, her eyes meeting his with a calm finality.

"Good night, Dr. Reid."

He reluctantly took a step back.

"Good night," he murmured.

Then with a nod, he slowly turned away, leaving her standing there all alone. Her gaze remained fixed on his receding figure, his form gradually blending into the night.

Doubt suddenly gnawed at the edges of her consciousness—Had she made the right choice? Was her choice to distance herself a shield to guard against potential heartache, or was it a missed opportunity to rebuild what had been lost?

She shook her head and went back inside, closing the door behind her before leaning against it. It wasn't until she heard footsteps emerging from the kitchen that she realized Sandy was still here.

"What was that all about?"

Y/n glanced at her friend. The two freshly filled glasses in her hands were calling out to her and drowning herself in heaps amount of alcohol seemed like a good idea, even when she was probably going to regret it tomorrow morning. But she needed to feel numb by all of these emotions.

She watched as Sandy offered her a glass, waiting for her reply. There were a lot of things she could answer with, but the only matter that stood out to her was the new revelation on her involvement on the case. So she took the glass from her and pressed her lips around the rim as her mind drifted toward the disguised officer sitting right outside her house.

There was no other way than to explain it as it was.

"I think I might be in danger."

>> NEXT PART

taglist #1

@tereresrock @casthings @vader-is-hot @maevethelesbian @whereintheworldisspencerreid @reidverseq @niyahwhoreworld @l4venderia @theintrovertedthespian @lovelyxtom @tayzerr-72 @mulbsstuff @dorothleah @stevenknightmarc @prettyboyspenceee @gracesmusings @kalulakunundrum @fearlessmoony @r5court @simp4f1 @thecrazytealady @nyeddleblog @ghostheartbeat @comfortzonequeen @iiheartbowie @louderfortheback @busy-buzzing @alexis-exe2008 @imtherealslimmoony @baeofevery @elamultistan @lyxennz @avid-fic-reader-05

@cowstealer427 @thollandsdarling @ghxst-heart @cashtons-wife @kyuupidwrites @you-sunshine @comboboo @sebastiansstanswhore @panic-monster @marimorena06 @alice-ace299 @uncle-eggy @bollzinurmouth @julezs-bl0g @ruhrohragu @eternally-passionate @kazuumii @spencerr3idd @withered-rxse @broken-pieces @siredtomsgilbert @kaiya3333 @furiousbanditnickelknight @pinkangelavenue @slay-and-gay @woahnotmecryingoverafanfiction @zeysartzone @frxcless @sadroses98

PLEASE READ: If you already asked me to be added but you're not on the list OR you want to be added in the future, please comment on this post so I can see it. But make sure your blog can be searched or I can't tag you. Or if you want to be removed you can also tell me. Thank you :)

Don’t forget to interact with the story!

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askdiscordwhooves · 6 months

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Ask Discord Whooves has come to its conclusion, and that means the posts below this point contain major spoilers for the story! This post will also have the author's final comments below a 'read more' to avoid spoilers. In this commentary, I will talk about new details about the story, such as what the future looks like in this universe and clearing up some lore.

If you wish to read from the beginning, you can start from the first page here!

Or, if you were in the middle of reading and wish to start where you left off, go to the table of contents here!

Also for consideration, you can read the prequel blog @lovestruck-derpy and the side blog @askthetimemaster to get more insight on the story. It is recommended you read Lovestruck Derpy first, then Ask The Time Master after you've read Discord Whooves.

Other side blogs involved in the story that can be read after everything else for a little more insight are as follows:

@tantamount-time-turner @torchwoodv @valtavia

Thank you for being interested in the story, I hope you enjoy your read!

!!AUTHOR FINAL COMMENTS BELOW!!

It would be appreciated if people who have read the blog to its end read this post and give their input on the overall story via comment or reblog, or sending the author @jitterbugjive a comment via ask or submission.

Surprise, everyone! Coach is The Doctor's next life!

This was the original plan from the very start of when I made Coach. Look, here's some proof, the plush I had commissioned of him has a cutie mark!

For those who don't know who (Pony) Coach is, you can read a bunch of asks sent to him here and get to know him, and for those who do know him you can re-read with context:

[Coach at The-Character-Lounge]

Now, I know I've moved on and made Coach a human and his own character for my current main project, My Magic Grandpa, but that was because I loved him as a character so much that I couldn't just end him after Discord Whooves.

He and his Granddaughter Suzie have paranormal fantasy adventures in the 90s starting in Oregon. You can read the comic which has been updating for 4 years here: http://www.mymagicgrandpa.com OR http://www.mymagicgrandpa.net for better phone viewing.

If you want more Doctor Whooves content from me, consider following the youtube series "Doctor Whooves and Assistant", where I am the head writer and voice actor for Derpy. It is still active and hopefully will be for quite some time.

I also want people to know about three more of my original projects,”Bedeviled Dotty” ( @bedeviled-dotty), “Once Upon a Calamity” ( @nightmaretales) and “WTF? I’m a Magical Girl’s Familiar?!” (@magicalgirlsfamiliar) Two of which I want to start updating in 2024 and one that's been updating for a few years now.

OUAC has been around for a very long time, it’s a collection of familiar but twisted fairy tales and it has been on hiatus for years because of my other projects taking priority. I'm excited to be bringing it back.

WTF?MGF meanwhile is an adult dark comedy magical girl comic combined with an apocalyptic outbreak scenario. Its pilot will launch in January of 2024 and the comic will begin properly in 2025.

“Bedeviled Dotty” has been going for a few years now, and is a story about a magical anthro rabbit who makes a deal with a kitsune in order to obtain the love of her professor.

I highly encourage people to check them out!

Now about The Doctor version of Coach! When he first regenerated, he was ecstatic to have a small nose!

Not only that but he had a new appreciation for life and took on a life to the fullest attitude. He also cast away the identity of 'The Doctor', letting himself become his own as 'Coach' because he considers himself a referee to the universe and a sort of life coach to whoever he encounters. (Those that can stand him of course) He loves interacting with others, but he can be impatient and snippy at times and quite pushy without meaning to. He also has a hard time reading others' emotions, and can only think in context of how he would feel. This is because in this life he has something akin to ASD that he's unaware of, and it's a huge challenge for him because of how much he wants to help and entertain others.

He likes to use sports words and phrases in his vocabulary, which would be his quirk. He also collects sports equipment and uses them for experiments and inventions, though he doesn't really like sports themselves.

One of the last things Derpy said to him before she died was that she had no regrets, and neither should he. So in his next life, as Coach, he took this very seriously and is always moving forward with no regrets. This can make him seem heartless at times because of how easily he leaves things behind, but he always needs to be on the move and needs to change things up because he's teaming with chaos magic.

That's right, the chaos energy stayed with him, but it manifested in a more controllable form because he became a unicorn. He can't use normal unicorn spells, a lot of his magic has a mind of its own. It will often do as asked, but it will do it in random ways. 'Open a locked door' for example could mean unlocking the door, or turning the door into popcorn. One of his first magic mishaps was transmogrifying his sonic screwdriver into a golf club. It still functions the same, just has a different shape now.

Coach spent about 60 years exploring on his own and taking on temporary companions that he'd keep a distance from so chances of anything bad happening to them would be less. But he eventually longs to see his Grandaughter, Tootsie Flute, and wants to take her on adventures with him, feeling like it would be a good do-over from the old Doctor's life. He fondly calls her Suzie because of reminiscing about the memories of Susan from the 1st Doctor days. While Suzie is often exasperated with him, she is also fascinated with him and the things he shows her. She has to keep their adventures a secret though, because Coach is scared to face his old family again and disappoint them. He doesn't want to see them without being able to understand them any more, it would break his hearts.

In order to take Suzie on adventures with him, they find a rogue changeling to replace her at home.

Speaking of changelings, he keeps in contact with [Tantamount Doctor], who has since started his own hive and is now a Royal. He gets much adored offerings of cheese from Coach.

The Doctor also never really felt like there was a right time to approach The Master’s daughter, Eighth Note. He kept feeling like it would ruin her otherwise good life to introduce her to time and space like that. She grew up to be a nurse in a maternity ward, her beautiful voice soothing babies as she would sing to them. Perhaps she has a little hypnotic influence from her father?

But Coach meanwhile with his no regrets attitude charged right in to take her on as a temporary companion to show her the ropes of being a Time Lord and having a TARDIS of her own. Needless to say, she’s trouble for Coach, as she can be a huge tease and she enjoys flustering the poor guy who just doesn’t want the Master to come back from the grave to kill him. It’s all in good fun for her and never serious, though, so nothing of an intimate nature really happens between them.

Finally, whenever Coach regenerated which wouldn't be for a long time, it would be because the chaos magic would become too unstable and the only way he can stay alive is to regenerate into a draconequus. Which gives us -drumroll-

Pandemonium!

Pandemonium is on the chaotic good alignment and he finds a way to bring back Gallopfrey and allow the true pony Doctor and Master to exist. He playfully antagonizes them and tries to keep them on a good path as best he can.

And that's pretty much how the whole thing ends!

When I started Discord Whooves, I was in a pretty dark place. I was bitter, angry, feeling like I had to fill peoples' expectations without really having anything special of my own. Discord Whooves started as a vent blog because A. The Brony fandom's constant pressure on me as a well known voice actor for Derpy, which made me bitter about her, B. Because I was upset I was getting known more for my voice than my main talent, drawing, on top of feeling dysphoric about my feminine voice, and C. The expectations that were on me reflected on how I acted, and I wanted to do something dark without my old name attached to it to prove I could do something interesting besides PG rated radio plays. I gained a lot more popularity than I thought I ever would, and had so much support, and as JitterbugJive I got to be myself without any expectations. It helped me come out eventually not only as BaldDumboRat, but as a transgender male.

Popularity sadly got to my head, it caused a lot of stress and a lot of outbursts and when I started my mod blog I was a very calm person who brushed things off. But more and more people started to pick fights with me and I felt the need to defend myself. This was also during a time I made another vent blog that was for dealing with the abuse I'd been through in the past, so I was facing a lot of demons at the time and could be triggered easily.

And then I had my bi-polar manic episode that made me literally insane for months, which threw me in to a year long depression that destroyed my art for a good while (It looked really really awful during that time, a lot of people noticed it) but the good thing about it was that it got me in touch with a therapist and got me diagnosed not only bi-polar 1 but PTSD, which was a shock to me but it made a lot of sense. I got a PTSD service dog, anxiety medication, bi-polar medication, and while the year of depression sucked I slowly got to pull myself back together and reflect on who I'd been. With anxiety meds I wasn't getting as angry any more, and therapy was helping me properly cope with the past and with the popularity issues. I wanted to be a better person, and I became one.

I even decided to take on a career path where I could help other people like me and like Discord Doctor, becoming a peer wellness specialist to help those experiencing mental illness and addiction. I use my own experiences to connect with them, give them hope, and show them they are not alone and there are people who do understand what they're going through who will help them. The training I went through ended up changing a lot of aspects of how Discord Whooves was treated moving forward, giving him a more realistic journey and showing people a very true message of hope and recovery. And the only reason I'm where I am now is because of experiencing that first psychotic episode that made me reach out for help.

I had two psychotic episodes in the span of Discord Whooves’ run, and they gave me a first hand experience of what it’s like to completely lose control of your own actions. I hurt people, I caused a lot of damage, and I had to face the consequences of those actions. And because of this, I had personal knowledge of what it’s like to come out of such a horrible state, and all the guilt and fear that comes with it. The Doctor’s journey suddenly became so much more personal to me, because I’d been there. And his journey of recovery is to show that despite everything, there’s still hope. Recovery is possible.

Something else my mania did was lead me to the idea of My Magic Grandpa, because my head came up with so many crazy ideas that I wanted to use and I was looking for a lot of inspiration during my depression that it all started coming together. And thus Coach and Suzie evolved into humans in their own story, because I didn't entirely want Discord Whooves to end where Coach and Suzie only just begins. And now they can continue on in their own way, in my own way, and I can let go of a blog about depression and anger and instead make a story about growth and inspiration.

In a way, it's like I regenerated with The Doctor, and I hope people can appreciate that and continue to support me.

I want to thank all the people who have worked with me on this project, be it for crossover, to contribute guest art, to Warden and Lauren and a handful of other people who helped me write the story and brought fantastic characters into it. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you, and the story would be in a much worse place now if it weren’t for everyone’s help.

Thank you all for staying with me on this 12 year journey. Looking back, I've made some dumb mistakes, but I learned a lot from them and your dedication helped me stick to my guns and end my first large scale project! It hit some bumps but dammit I made it happen and I am so happy I did! Now I hope people will check out my other projects that were linked above. I will still produce pony content on @the-character-lounge on occasion when I have the time and motivation.

I want to continue to bring everyone compelling stories that will tug at their emotions, and I don't plan on disappearing. So if you want to continue this journey with me, to see what Coach and Suzie have evolved into, please give my other works a follow!

Thank you, everyone! Your comments on this post in particular would be greatly appreciated! What did you think of the story as a whole? What do you think of Coach being the Doctor’s new life? Are there things you were expecting or wished would be different? How would you have ended the story? Did you enjoy the finale? Did you have a theory that Coach was The Doctor? Who was your favorite character? Favorite moment? Least favorite moment? I want to know! Please talk about it!

#spoilers #warning #discord whooves #author

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heartsofminds · 1 year

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and at every table, i’ll save you a seat - part i

“Well, apparently Baby Goose’s been losing his mind ‘round the base about how this really smart and sweet girl invited him to a wedding and won’t text him about it.” or you invite Bradley to a wedding but your big fat crush on him won’t let you actually. . .invite him.

“and at every table, i’ll save you a seat” - tunes of the gossipy Hard Deck patrons and liking someone so much you feel like you can’t breathe

A/N: hey guys!!! so in the midst of writing this, i realized how long it actually is and how many dividers i had on my google doc? anyway, i thought it would probably work out so much better if it was released in parts rather than just one, big, fat, HUGEEEE piece that would probs crash on mobile. listen along to the playlist (that will be updated with each writing update) and relish in overly flirtatious bradley with me! which btw, he’s the lover album personified with a dash of red and a hint of fearless!

“I’m not asking him.”

Phoenix rolls her eyes before she takes a sip from her Ultra. The thought of it tasting revolting because of its lukewarmness crosses her mind despite her head pounding unceremoniously. She almost speaks up to answer you, but closes her mouth.

She softly places the bottle back down on the counter instead.

She can’t quite tell if the pain in her temples is from the sound of excited chatter all around her, the sound of Mickey, Javy, and Bob shittily singing Go Your Own Way on the karaoke machine in the corner, or the sound of your blue glitter gel pen scratching away at the scrap paper you have by the register; frantically carrying decimals for tip calculation and pathetically adding and subtracting since Penny’s “older than dirt” cash register bit the dust an hour prior.

She almost concludes that the pounding ache working its way to the forefront of her brain is because of your absolute and utter refusal to do the simple and the obvious. But wait.

I haven’t eaten at all today. Yeah, that’s it.

A deep breath fills her lungs before she exhales. Her elbows find themselves on the lip of the bar top and her forearms come up to rest her head on her hands. She notices that the scribbling stops from what she assumes is you looking at her.

An uncomfortable beat passes which is unusual for you two. There’s always some sly remark made or interminable giggling filling the gaps of silence.

You pop your hip on the corner of the table. Your magenta tank top was far too bright of a pink to be welcome in the warm-hued bar. Your bracelet screams “graduation gift” and you can feel the oil on your face contorting your makeup as your time in the muggy air passes.

Out of place is always in your thoughts but doesn’t become an insecurity until you’re left alone with them. The absence of Phoenix’s voice makes this fact more obvious to you.

“You good? Not gonna hurl all over the place?” you cautiously ask, “Because it’s fine if you gotta puke, but I’ll murder you if you make me clean it up.”

Natasha lets out something short of a laugh but too informal to be considered a huff. “I’m fine,” she says, leaning her head into her hand and adjusting herself in her seat.

You nod, returning to your scribbling when the man sitting next to her hands his card to you. “You know, if you write any harder, you might permanently etch,” she pauses, leaning over to get a peek at what you had just written, “ten dollars and eighty-three cents into the counter.”

“Maybe it’ll convince Penny that a new cash register is a need and not a luxury.”

Natasha scoffs. “Could say the same about your plus one, but hey, if you don’t want my advice, then certainly don’t take it.”

You hand the gentleman back his card with a smile and a small “thank you” before returning your attention back to Natasha. She digs her teeth subtly into the plush of her bottom lip.

“I already told you. I’m not asking him.”

She groans, pushing herself to stand up from her seat. Even dressed in civilian clothes, she looks like she belongs. Her aura demands respect; even in a lacy wine-colored top that Hangman had tried to tease her about earlier when the brood of rowdy pilots had first arrived.

“Well, you said no to Jake.”

“You say it like he would be willing to say yes.”

“You said no to Rueben.”

“He’s in a situationship with that girl from my spin class. Going with me to a wedding and her seeing the pics on Instagram would just make shit weird,” you start scrubbing at the permanent water stain near the beer taps anxiously, “Especially when I set them up.”

Natasha rolls her eyes again. She swears that by the end of the night, she’ll know exactly what the inside of her eyelids look like.

“Whatever,” she huffs, “You said no to Javy and Bob.”

“Javy would rub the fact that I asked in Jake’s face and they’ll start a pissing contest on how to woo me…and Bob,” you look around to make sure no one who knows you all is within earshot, “He’s sweet. Like, sooo sweet.”

Natasha tries not to crack a smile before you get your words out, but she certainly knows where the tail end of your sentence is going. “But it’s definitely not believable that we would be together and my aunt is one hell of an FBI agent and I’m sure he’d crack and rat us out and I’d have to sit there and eat my weight in tiramisu to drown my embarrassment.”

Business is painfully slow for a Thursday evening despite the upcoming weekend. Your eyes dart around the room to look for anyone to come and rescue you from this conversation (and even volunteer to be your date to your bitchy cousin’s wedding next weekend without you asking, but you know to only hope for one miracle at a time). And when your eyes turn up empty for an ample opportunity, your shoulders droop while Natasha snickers at you.

“Cut your losses and just ask him. I know he won’t say no,” she says, coy smirk at home on her face.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“What is so wrong with him that you don’t wanna do it? Huh?”

You ponder on her statement before shaking your head. You’d rather be shot in the foot with a nail gun eight times than expose your silly little schoolgirl crush in the middle of the Hard Deck in front of his best friend turned your best friend since moving to the area five months ago.

“Why not Neil or Brigham? Or hell, even Mickey? I know he’s like, engaged, but Mariella is so freakin’ sweet and I know she’d understand so like-”

“Mmm-mmm. No, no, and hell no.” Your frown plasters itself on your lips faster than you can comprehend at her words. “Rooster or bust.”

Your spine straightens as you begin to engage in protest before you’re cut off by the man himself.

“Rooster or bust, what?” he asks, lips coming out to lick the dryness of the San Diego sun away. Your knees start to buckle and you can hear Natasha stifle a laugh as you try to conceal your lack of balance.

He stands in front of you, hand on his hips and sunglasses tucked on the tight, white tank top underneath his button-down shirt. Today’s print was red with cream-colored hibiscus flowers and you wonder how he could pull them off so well. If it were anyone else, you would have had to try your hardest to keep it together with Natasha in front of you; the jokes about touristy dads and low-budget porn actors in the works.

You realize he’s waiting for an answer as you see Natasha getting called away to sing karaoke with Javy and the gang out of the corner of your eye.

Great. Just fucking great.

“Taking bets on who the best pilot is or?” Bradley speaks, trying to get to the bottom of the small fragment of the conversation he had walked into.

“I-,” you stammer.

Fuck. Can someone just come to the bar and order so I can avoid this?

“You?” he looks at you through his eyebrows comically. Everything he does makes you nervous.

“I-,” the lines in his forehead raise with the infliction of your voice, “I need a favor. Like a big one.”

“Okay,” he laughs, “How big are we talking?”

“Umm-”

“Like ‘giving you my other kidney’ big or letting you borrow my car big?” he interrupts.

“Well-”

“Or do you need me to house sit? Dogsit? Babysit?”

You inhale as you place your hands on the countertop. Your eyes find his honeyed-colored ones and you almost drown in them before your pride kicks in.

I cannot embarrass myself in front of him.

“I need you to come to a wedding,” you speak gently. You can see the wheels turning in his head without him having to say anything. Bradley’s face always gave his thoughts away.

“If you don’t have plans, of course.”

The realization of what you had just said starts to kick you upside the head the longer you look at him. He doesn’t say anything. His face doesn’t move at all. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t even blinked yet.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

“And if you’re comfortable! Obviously!” you start to ramble before you can convince yourself to shut the hell up, “It’s next Saturday in Long Beach near the seaside. You don’t have to say yes or anything but I just thought I’d ask because I had a plus one when I had a boyfriend eight months ago and now-”

“I’ll go.”

“-we’re not together anymore and my bitchy cousin is the one getting married who, by the way, makes everything a competition but that’s beside the point. But I know my mom is gonna be pissed if I don’t bring someone because my aunt is her sister and she’ll bitch about how they wasted money and how my mom is running out of time to become a grandma because I’m not married yet and that’s totally not true because I’m not even thirty so my biological clock hasn’t even started ticking yet but -”

“Hey!” he raises his voice slightly, amusement hidden in his tone, “I said I’d go with ya, kid.” He steps forward to put his hands on your bare shoulders. You try not to melt into his touch.

“S’all good. I love weddings and the beach. Promise it’s not a hassle.”

You’re dumbfounded by his response and how collected he is about your word vomit, not to mention being invited to a wedding where he’ll meet not only your parents, but your entire extended family in a little over a week. You know for certain you wouldn’t have handled the situation as calmly as he had.

“You - you’ll…go?” The sound of Britney Spears’s “Toxic” and Jake absolutely murdering the high notes in the back of the bar is the only thing keeping you from spiraling into another dimension.

“Well, I’m not a liar,” he sits down on the seat Phoenix was previously occupying, “I don’t just say things I don’t mean.”

Your head nods solemnly in silent understanding, your hands grabbing a glass to pour him a whiskey on the rocks. He raises his eyebrows in suspicion at you knowing what his usual drink is, but throws away the thought to comment on it before it can even develop all the way. The subtle pang in his chest of you taking that much notice of him makes itself known. He would be lying if he was to say he didn’t hold a brightly lit candle for you.

You’re a regular, Bradshaw. Get your head out of your ass.

“To be honest,” you start, placing the chilled glass in front of him, “that sounds a lot like something a liar would say.”

He gives you a soft smile as he reaches into his back pocket to grab his wallet. “Well good thing that I’m not one then, right?”

Your heart flutters in nervousness and with about as much grace as a stampede of elephants. You’re positive that Bradley can see the outline of it beating out of your chest.

“No, no, no. Your drink is on the house.”

He shakes his head, forcing the twenty dollar bill that lays in between his fingers next to the scrap paper you have laying near the register. “No, I insist.”

“No, I insist. It’s on me, Bradley.”

He cracks a soft smile as he forces the money into your hand. His fingers wrap yours around the beat-up bill that has definitely seen better days. “That just won’t do ma’am.”

“I”m awaiting Bar results, not living in a shoebox on I-405. I assure you that two dollars and sixty cents won’t break the bank.”

The loud scrapping of a bar stool against the hardwood floor (which will probably leave a noticeable scratch in the hardwood flooring that Penny will pretend not be upset about) interrupts the cocoon of the world that existed with just you and him. Just you and Bradley…and Jake Seresin’s loud ass mouth yelling, “Bradshaw! What the hell, man? Get your ass over here and sing some Journey with me!” across the bar.

He shakes his head in disbelief and if you didn’t know any better (didn’t feed into your delusions, is more like it) you would almost think that he was…disappointed? That he didn’t want to leave you and that he was almost as desperate as you to give each other attention; eyes fully and ears solely attuned to the other.

Hoots and hollers and the sound of his call sign being screamed from his rowdy group of friends make the delusion hard to manage, and the reality finally kicks in that he’s not here for you. He’s here for them.

You wish you weren’t so good at hurting your own feelings sometimes.

“Your spotlight awaits you,” you sigh, trying not to show how dejected you felt to him.

A beat of silence passes before he slides his palms on the front of his jeans.

“Here.” He snatches your blue glitter gel pen off the table, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he begins to write. “Text me the details?”

He offers a slight smile that makes your words catch in your throat; the butterflies dinging around in your stomach begging you to reach out and touch him. To lean forward. To say something. To do something. Anything.

But before you can he’s zipped across the bar and the sound of Call Me by Blondie inflates the room. You look down at the cerulean ink with specks of shimmer in it.

xxx-xxx-xxxx Call me, kid! Bradley B

You’re definitely not gonna call him anytime soon…

“Sweetheart, I love you, but if you dry those glasses one more time I think I’ll have a brain aneurysm.”

Penny snatches the dish towel from your hands as your mouth gapes in silent protest. She throws it lazily on the countertop and snags the crate of beer glasses that you were going to town on away from you. The clinging sound of the dishes makes your head droop with disappointment.

“I wasn’t done yet! They still feel slippery! ”you complain and she just teasingly shakes her head.

“So?”

She winks at you and you have to find it in your heart not to be a little annoyed at her for cutting your task off mid-attempt.

Perfectionism fuels your life and she knows this. She knows that you’re using the glasses to stress clean. She knows that your cousin’s wedding weekend starts on Friday and you’re fighting the urge to tear your hair out. She also knows that you have Bradley’s phone number on a slip of paper that’s burning a hole through your nightstand because you still haven’t called him.

“So?” you ask, lightly mimicking Penny’s statement, “Someone’s gonna drop the glass because they’ve never learned how to hold it the right way and then there’s gonna be glass shards everywhere and they’ll get hurt and-”

“You are such a worry wart, my dear. Reeelaaax,” she interrupts, placing her warm, nimble fingers on your shoulders.

The subtle sunburn you had gotten this past weekend is slowly starting to calm down, but the initial sting still startles you. She can see the small happenings of a frown starting to form on your lips and she decides to frown along with you. She spins you to face her and holds your forearms in her hands, offering them a gentle squeeze of encouragement.

It’s not a secret that Penny Benjamin takes pride in knowing her staff well and loving them even better. In the five months she’s gotten to know you, she’s taken you in as one of her own without making her love for you about her. That was kind of her thing; knowing all without having to be told and giving so selflessly without having to ask if you were in need.

Penny just got it, and it’s hard to find people like that nowadays; people who love you genuinely and truly expecting nothing in return.

The thought of her warmness makes you sniffle, and you’re sure that if the jukebox wasn’t turned on and playing some Beach Boys tune, the tears would’ve made their way down your face at a speed that Formula One drivers would envy.

“I know what it feels like to have your every movement judged and not being able to say anything to defend yourself,” she starts, “But you’re smart. You’re kind. You’re so important. And you’re nothing less than amazing, so don’t let anyone treat you like you aren’t.”

You can’t muster up the words to keep the conversation alive. You’re sure that all that would come out of your mouth is a blubbering mess you don’t feel like trying to force out in between choked sobs. Besides, the car doors closing in the parking lot alert you both to the Wednesday night crowd making their way in.

You settle for a small “thank you” before she cracks another smile at you; lips quirked up in amusement. She saunters off to the back to grab the bucket of prepped lime wedges.

“You never have to thank me for the words you deserve, sweetheart. Those are on the house.”

You snort before wiping your nose with the back of your hand. Only she could manage to subdue the mini meltdown brewing in the depths of your chest. But Penny was just like that.

Always calm, cool, and collected.

The night moves slowly in a frame-by-frame manner (one that emulates the night you asked Bradley to be your date, but you shake the thought whenever it tries to enter your head because you think you may actually puke). It’s nothing too out of the ordinary for a Wednesday night.

Mickey and Mariella pop in for mango margaritas after their weekly date night. Mickey gives you a small “hello” before flashing you a knowing smirk. You try to ignore Mariella swatting at his chest, but the imagery eats you up inside. You know that he knows and that she knows, and not taking the steps to actually ask Bradley to a wedding you invited him to makes you feel guilty.

He picks up on your guilt when his eyes catch you twisting your ring around your pointer finger. His eyes soften and he almost considers apologizing to you before he thinks about it. Bringing more attention to it would embarrass you more, he figures. The apology sitting on his tongue is swallowed down with a sip of his drink and Mariella’s kick to his shin.

“Well, we’re about to head out. We’ll see you Friday?” Mickey declares as Mariella narrows her dark eyes at him.

Your heart stops and your fingers feel numb.

Fuck. He wants to bring up Bradley. What do I say? Fuck. Shit. Wait. How does he even know? Has Bradley brought me up? Fuck, wait. He wouldn’t do that. Why would he even be talking about me? He probably told them that I’m obsessed with him and he was cornered and couldn’t say no and-

“Uh? Are you good?” Mickey looks at you with soft eyes and waves his hand in front of your face.

Mariella slaps it down from in front of you. “Don’t do that. She’s not a fucking dog, Mick.”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “Duh. I know that. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t having a seizure or anything like that.”

“A seizure?”

“They’re called absence seizures. Went down a whole YouTube rabbit hole about them a couple of nights ago.”

You chuckle at their antics and can’t wait for the day they finally have their wedding. At least when the time comes you know you won’t have to forge a story about having a boyfriend. And it’ll be a wedding filled with people you actually like; ones that don’t make you order water out of feeling insecure about how many calories you’re consuming or ones that gossip about the shade of blush you wore making you look too “flushed” behind your back.

“I go down rabbit holes all the time,” you chide, “I watched this documentary about the Pentagon Papers and the atomic bomb from World War II the other day, and now I’m confident I could get my Ph.D. in like, Historical American Screw-Ups.”

Mickey and Mariella let out chortles at your statement before starting to head toward the exit.

“Well, we’ll see you later then. Tell us about that wedding on Monday?”

Your mouth hangs open as they stride out the front doors of Hard Deck. The shock of what just happened makes your heart beat erratically.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He told.

Mike Metcalf sits at the corner of the bar top on his regular stool with his sweating glass housing a whiskey neat. He sends you a teasing smirk as you move near him to wipe the countertop down.

“Still haven’t texted him?” he asks.

The shock continues to run through your body. You have to place your hands on the edge of the table to keep yourself from stumbling over.

Why does everyone in this bar know what’s going on?

Admiral Metcalf was friendly with you - one of those regulars who offer you engaging conversation, tidbits of grandfatherly affection, and generous tips.

You would tell him not to tip you so much for a single drink, but he would always insist; quoting something along the lines of you reminding him of his granddaughter and that you treated everyone with such kindness and respect that you deserved it back tenfold.

You take a deep breath, arms pushing you up slowly to stand upright. “I’m scared to ask how you know.”

He chuckles, a real belly laugh, and you struggle to find out why you can’t piece together a logical explanation for how he would know.

“Well, apparently Baby Goose’s been losing his mind ‘round the base about how this really smart and sweet girl invited him to a wedding and won’t text him about it.” He shrugs before taking a long drink from his glass. “Thought it sounded like you. I meant to ask about it the other night, but once you turn eighty you forget things at the drop of a hat.”

“Smart and sweet?” you want to ask, but you know that it would confirm rather than get you the answers that you want. You shake your head to dislodge the thought before furrowing your eyebrows.

“. . . Baby Goose?”

The older man plays with the paper coaster underneath his drink. A soft smile blooms on his lips. “We’re talking about Bradley Bradshaw. Correct?”

You start to drum your fingers against the lip of the bar top. The thought of lying briefly crosses your mind until the sound of James Brown’s shriek at the beginning of “I Got You (I Feel Good)” startles you.

“Uhh, hello? You still there, kiddo?”

I have got to get better at answering quicker.

You straighten your spine and pop your hand on your hip. “Wouldn’t the correct terminology be ‘gosling’?”

He raises his brows, “Rooster. Baby Goose. Bradshaw. Gosling,” he rattles off, counting the phrases on his fingers, “Does any of this ring a bell?”

You chew on your lip. The toe of your sneaker slides underneath the sole of your other one. The fidgeting tells Admiral Metcalf all he needs to know.

“Maybe,” you say under your breath.

“Maybe?” he questions. He leans forward to investigate your expression with his eyes.

Another sigh exits your lips. “Okay, well, maybe a little.”

You sound defeated, he thinks. He decides to investigate even though he can hear his wife’s voice in his head telling him not to. If he turns his head just a little bit to the right, his hearing aid catches the sound of the jukebox. He can’t focus on you talking and his wife’s voice if he also hears the jukebox.

Sorry, Carrie.

His chair swivels a little bit and he wipes his hands on his jeans. “It’s certainly more than a little, kiddo. Especially if you asked him to a wedding.”

You scoff, annoyance painting the inside of your brain. Nosiness is one thing you absolutely cannot stand, and it’s the reason why you insisted on not moving back in with your mom after law school. Working yourself to the bone to study for the Bar during the day while mixing drinks and popping caps off of beer bottles at night seemed worlds better than having your privacy invaded constantly. Tired or private. From where you stand currently, it’s safe to say you picked the latter.

Or so you thought.

“So is this just a thing?” You can feel your heart rate speed up as you start to become defensive. “Like, a trend where all you Hard Deck patrons like to gossip and spread rumors?”

“It’s not a rumor if it’s true.”

You almost roll your eyes but the politeness you were raised with paired with your people-pleasing won’t let you.

“Yeah, but it’s technically gossip if you didn’t hear it from me,” you state directly, “How do you even talk to all these people on the base? Aren’t you retired?”

Admiral Metcalf chuckles. “I may be in bed by 8 every night but it doesn’t mean I’m not social, my dear.”

“Okay, but why would your connections be talking to you about Gosling?” You lean on your forearms and glance at the cash register to make sure someone isn’t waiting to be served. Your eyes glance back to the older gentleman sat in front of you. “Aren’t you guys like. . .fifteen generations removed from each other?”

He gently pats your arm with his calloused palm. “You’re a funny girl.”

“You’re dodging my question,” you frown, sitting up straight and grabbing him his usual glass of water he drinks before he decides to go home.

He mouths a quick “thank you” before taking a sip. “Did it ever occur to you that I was a pilot?”

The wheels in your brain start turning to decipher why he would say that and how it would mean that he and Bradley know each other.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“And a Top Gun instructor.”

“Okay. . .?” You’re starting to get the hint now, but it still just seems like a lot of abstract events put together.

“I taught Maverick and Goose.”

Penny’s “boyfriend, not-boyfriend” who comes in to pick her up or hang out on days when the crowd is as dead as a cemetery. Maverick.

But who’s -

“Goose?” you ask, finishing your question out loud.

“Bradley’s father.”

And shit. Oh shit. Fucking shit!

“I- You- Wait-” you stammer. He simply sips on his water, amusement painted on his features at the signs of your internal panic.

“So that’s how I know. I keep in touch with Maverick and he just happened to mention the absolute mess Rooster’s been the past couple days about this wedding,” he declares, “Which, by the way, is kind of rude to invite someone and then not go into detail about it. Don’t you think?”

Your mouth opens and closes in shock, the magnitude of your recent revelation being endorsed by the silence coming from you.

Your brain can’t even begin to wrap around all the degrees of separation and acquaintances and friendships Bradley has from the bombshell of information that was just dropped on you. This place is just littered with people who probably knew him before he was Rooster; all puppy fat and awkward haircuts. You bet there’s probably a series of his prom and high school graduation photos that circulated from eye to eye.

But this also means that if you go through with it, that if you actually bring him with you to Long Beach this weekend, you’ll become part of that essence of knowing - everyone knowing what Bradley told them and your entire weekend spent with him being a topic of discussion.

You try to get over the dehumanizing feeling that will come with being called “Hard Deck Girl” after this weekend when he inevitably tells Maverick about his weekend who will then tell Iceman who will probably tell Admiral Metcalf. You can’t bear to think about all the snickers and teasing that will come from Bradley’s group of friends.

Hangman loves to tease you already. You don’t think you’ll survive more “pigtail pulling” if word gets out about Bradley having to hold your hand and awkwardly slow dance with you on Saturday.

Admiral Metcalf lets out an impressive-sounding whistle that catches your attention and brings you back to Earth.

“That’s one gorgeous Bronco,” he comments, head turned to look outside the windows of the bar. “Used to have one just like it years ago.”

Your eyes follow his gaze to see the cobalt blue vehicle parked in one of the empty spaces of the parking lot. The headlights fade as the owner steps out of the vehicle and -

Fuck!

He has a soft bounce in his strut. His Raybans are tucked into the collar of his white t-shirt. The light-wash denim of his jeans hugs his legs just the right way. His slightly rosy cheeks and tanned forearms bulging from his shirt make him unmistakable.

Bradley Bradshaw is about to walk into the bar. On a Wednesday night. While the crowd is drier than the Mojave.

And there’s nowhere for you to run.

He has a slightly faster pace set to his walk than he usually does. . . Not like you spend your time watching him walk (even though you do, and you’d rather roll over and die than admit that to anyone).

“Good luck getting him back on that perch,” Admiral Metcalf speaks up. He opens his worn leather wallet and fishes out a fifty-dollar bill. “He won’t fly back up there once he gets off.”

You follow him to the cash register to ring him up. The drawer is opened and the bills counted for his change before he stops you.

“Keep it. Part of your tip,” he says, “Least I can do for all the trouble I’ve caused you tonight.”

You begin to thank him before the saloon-style doors open and Bradley stands dead in the center, hands on his hips and eyes grazing the surroundings.

“Good luck, kiddo. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it,” Admiral Metcalf says before turning on his heel. He claps Bradley on the shoulder as a brief greeting and continues his stride outside to the parking lot.

Your heart starts beating in your chest erratically; a tell-tale sign of white hot panic that makes your knees buckle and heat grow on your scalp.

And you’re. . . starting to sweat?

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Bradley spots you while you stand paralyzed at the cash register. Your fingers are shaky and a lump in your throat starts to form. You feel like a deer in headlights when he begins to stalk forward to approach you.

“I’ve gotta bone to pick with you, missy,” his voice booms, his steps coming to a halt.

His hands spread and turn as he leans on the table; eyes locked on your face.

Your adrenaline kicks in and your feet start to move faster than your brain. A harsh swallow plagues your throat before you book it to the kitchen; french braid slinging heavy on your back and the bucket of lime wedges on your mind.

Bradley zips around the oval-shaped bar top and grabs your waist before you make it out of the opening. His hands squeeze your sides softly. If you were in your right frame of mind, your cheeks would have flushed.

“Uh-uh,” he says, whipping you around to face him. His grip falls to your forearms; holding you firmly but not enough to hurt. “What’s your deal, kid?”

His breaths are exasperated. When he left work today, he had no idea that he would be chasing you around the bar like a goddamn dog who had gotten off its leash. Despite being in good shape (which he takes pride in, given the number of shirtless runs he does in his neighborhood) he still finds himself a little winded.

Your eyes are almost bulging out of your head. His touch feels electric and you feign the ability to even think about opening your mouth to respond. Bradley Bradshaw is here, right in front of you, and almost holding you hostage.

Hostage is dramatic, you think. But so is chasing me.

“I-” you start. Another harsh swallow forces its way down your throat. At this point, you think that swallowing your spit is the only way you can remind your body to breathe.

Bradley’s eyes soften at your frazzled state. He takes his hands off of you and drops them back to his sides.

“I- I need to get the lime wedge bucket,” you rush out, the entire sentence sounding like one phrase.

“Let me come with you,” he says.

Your eyes widen in surprise. “You’re not allowed back there.”

“Yeah well, you’re not allowed to ghost me about a wedding you invited me to, but look where we are,” he counters back. His legs start toward the kitchen hidden behind gray steel doors near the back.

You stand frozen; trying to catch your breath and looking around to still see an empty bar with no signs of life.

“Are you coming or not?” he calls out, a smile on his face juxtaposed to the annoyed expression he wore a few minutes ago when he caught you.

And if it were anyone else, you would be utterly annoyed. You would refuse and start rattling off how it’s a health code violation for patrons to be in the back serving area or how it was inappropriate or how you didn’t want anyone to come in and clean out the Hard Deck while you were distracted.

But because it’s Bradley and because you have this stupid big fat school girl crush on him, you don’t say anything even though you so badly want to.

He’s already a little annoyed with me, you think. He doesn’t want to hear me ramble on top of that.

Your sneakered feet follow him into the terracotta quarry-tiled kitchen in the back. He moves to the side to allow you to step in front of him in pursuit of the infamous lime wedge bucket you had your heart set on.

The silence between the two of you is deafening, but you can’t even rub two of your brain cells together to form a coherent sentence that won’t leave you hunched over in embarrassment. Having a crush as an adult is downright embarrassing. But having a crush as an adult on an older, more refined adult is absolutely humiliating.

The industrial refrigerator stands sleek and tall. The door weighs as heavy as it looks and you damn near pull your shoulder out of socket every time you attempt to open it. More than often, Penny has to come save you and open it because you can never seem to get the resistance of the rubber door gasket to give way.

Thankfully, the door opens with a heavy tug and the bucket of limes was left on a shelf you could reach. You pop the fridge door closed with your hip before you start a fast-paced walk back to the bar; leaving Bradley behind to scramble up to you once again.

In hindsight, your body language and lack of talking makes you seem furious and annoyed. And maybe you are, but it’s mostly frustration and annoyance pointed at yourself because you can’t just be fucking normal.

No, because you have to be the odd one out of your family. You have to be the one cousin who got dumped by her “perfect” dentist boyfriend (who treated you terribly, but you never complained aloud to your family for your fear of being called ungrateful and unbecoming). You have to be awkward and sensitive and young with a silly-ass schoolgirl crush on a gorgeous man who David of Michelangelo envies.

The bucket of lime wedges is slammed on the counter before you realize what your hands are doing.

Bradley rounds in front of the cash register, a sheepish look on his face. “Hey, kid,” he whispers, “I’m sorry for barging in on you like that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

A wave of guilt breaks the tide in your brain. He’s apologizing, and it’s sincere. It’s certainly not anything you’re used to. Usually, everything is your fault and you find yourself pushing your feelings aside to accept a half-assed apology.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have invited you to something that’s such a big deal and then refused the details,” you say.

And you should stop there, you know, but you do that stupid thing you do about having to over-explain everything and keep going. Word vomit to the maximum.

“I mean, I think I kind of bombarded you about it? I know you said that you would go and that you didn’t mind, but it’s really a lot to ask of someone to come with you and fill in for your ex in front of your shitty family who has a cow because you didn’t get married right after undergrad.”

You rock back and forth on your heels and you pinch your fingers together to help soothe yourself. The anxiousness exuding off of you is obvious and Bradley can’t help but feel extremely guilty for making you feel horrible on top of what feelings you were already dealing with.

“You can really say no, Bradley. My feelings won’t be hurt if you do. Honest,” you whisper, finishing your statement.

Feeling small isn’t foreign to you in the slightest.

His eyes soften even more. He recognizes the doubt written all over you. He’s felt that way so many times before.

“I said what I meant, and I really wanna go to that wedding with you. Honest to God, I mean it,” he says, taking a seat on a stool nearby. “I just need to know what the plan is so I can pick you up and everything. Don’t want my suit to clash with your dress now, do we?”

A small giggle leaves your lips. “Alright, Casanova. You’ve convinced me.”

He extends his hand out to you. “Deal?” The large palm looks inviting, but you’re sure the adrenaline coursing through your veins has made your hands clammy.

Your brows knit together and your lips pull themselves into a straight line. “What the hell are you doing?” Suddenly, you’re self-conscious about the potential armpit stains that may have soaked your tank top.

Goddamn nerves.

He contorts his expression into one of faux offense. “Making you shake on it. What the fuck does it look like?”

You let out a breath through your nose. “I mean, exactly that, but don’t you think that’s too. . .”

“Sophisticated? Formal?” He grins as if he had just won the lottery.

“Little Rascals -esque.”

Bradley kisses his teeth before laughing. “You’re never too old to relish in the magic that’s The Little Rascals.”

“What happens if I don’t shake?” you question, fingers drawing circles on the surface near the cash register, “Will I be a target of the He-Man Woman Haters Club?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t confirm but I can deny only if you shake on it and promise me a dance.”

You shake your head before he finishes his sentence.

“I’m a terrible dancer.”

“Then I’ll make sure my dress shoes are steel-toe,” he reasons, shrugging his broad shoulders. His biceps subtly flex and you almost bite your lip but the fact that he’s so close and can see your expression makes you withhold.

“You really wanna go still?”

“How many times do I have to say yes, kid? I want to go with you and I promise you that we’ll have the best time ever. Is that clear enough?”

Penny waltzes back in before you can answer. Her eyes hold a mischievous glint as they look at the interaction going on between you and Bradley. She sends you a soft wink before she joins you behind the bar.

“Bradley!” she greets with a grin, coming to come rest next to you and in front of his seat.

“Hey, Pen. Mav taking you out on the bike today?”

She subtly bumps your hip with hers. She’s about to stir up some trouble.

“No, no,” she sighs, “I have to close up here tonight so we’re going this weekend.”

Bradley nods as you stand frozen next to her.

“Speaking of weekends,” she chirps, “What are your plans, Bradley?”

I love Penny. I love Penny. I love Penny. If I say it enough, I won’t wanna kill her.

“Oh, the kid and I were planning on going to her cousin’s wedding in Long Beach. We were actually just talking about it,” he answers as Penny lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Oh thank God. The suspense of if she was actually gonna talk to you about it was killing us.”

“Us?” you ask, voice filled with irritation and concern.

“Me, Pete, Tom, Mike,” Penny lists, “Jake and Rueben started a money pool. Guess Hangman’s a hundred and twenty dollars richer now.”

You groan and pinch your nose between your fingers as Penny takes your shoulders into her palms and rubs them. She picks up a crate of shot glasses before turning to leave.

“Bradley?” she calls, and his ears perk up.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Stay out of my kitchen,” her eyes narrow playfully, “That’s a health code violation.”

He holds his hands up with a grin. “You got it.”

“You kids have fun this weekend. Gonna have to take tons of pictures and show them to me!” she exclaims before disappearing behind the same steel doors Bradley had followed you into earlier.

A beat of silence passes; partly because you’re so stunned by what had just occurred.

“So,” he clears his throat, “Now that I know you’re old enough to have watched The Little Rascals, what’s the plan? Like is this an overnight thing or a reception thing or?”

You perk up at his question.

“Oh, umm.” You subconsciously pick at your cuticles before forcing yourself to stop. Your mom and aunt would be disappointed to see them ripped to shreds. “So I kinda - well, it’s an overnight thing but we definitely don’t have to stay overnight.”

He nods his head, ears intently listening to what you’re saying. You think he’s nodding his head to queue up a firm decline to your plans despite his insistence on going with you.

“I mean, you don’t have to! You can like, drive home and come back the next day? Or not go to the rehearsal dinner and just meet me at the wedding? I just know that sleeping in the same room is gonna be weird and I think my room reservation only has one bed because like I said, I had a boyfriend whenever they booked it and I never changed it after we broke up and-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he interrupts your word vomit, “Breathe, kid. Breathe.”

You take a deep inhale in and you want to kick yourself for doing it at his request.

Are you just gonna do whatever Bradley tells you to do, or do we actually have a fucking mind of our own?

“Why would I leave you hanging like that? Huh?” He licks his lips subtly and you have to keep from drooling. “You asked me to come with you and I’m gonna go the whole time and have a blast.”

You nod your head. Your thoughts and emotions have been bouncing off the wall in a vapid fashion from the two hours you’ve been clocked in.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily.

“Okay,” a laugh jumps from his throat and he leans in closer. “Can I get your number, at least? So I can call you instead and make it easier?”

You’re reaching beneath the bar and grabbing aimlessly at the mason jar full of random gel pens and a roll of open receipt paper that was too short to be put inside the machine but too long to be thrown away.

Lime green glitter ink spells out your phone number on the stark white paper before you wordlessly slide it over to rest near Bradley’s fingertips.

He sends you a smile before pulling out his phone and typing the number into the keypad. You have to look away because if you don’t, you’re sure you’ll start hyperventilating.

Your cell phone buzzes in your back pocket once, twice, thrice.

“Are you…calling me?” you ask, head tilting to the side to meet his mischievous glint.

“Context clues, kid. C’mon,” he replies. He holds his phone to his ear as he listens to the dial tone.

You stand in disbelief in front of him.

He shoos you with his hands. “Go on! Answer!” he urges.

You sigh and playfully roll your eyes before slinging your phone out of your back pocket. You click the green phone icon on your screen before bringing it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Alright, missy. What’s the address I’m picking you up from Friday afternoon?”

Bradley Bradshaw may not be your boyfriend and probably will never be, but he sure knows how to play the part well enough to fool your family. He may even have you fooled too.

“Shit!” you yelp. Your upper body tenses up and you slam your curling iron on the countertop of your bathroom sink.

The strong vibrations of your phone ringing move your device closer to the edge. You scramble to pick it up and bring it to your ear. You didn’t bother looking at the caller ID before answering. Odds are, it’s either your mother or your only cousin that you can actually stand, Hallie.

“Fuck,” you whisper before clearing your throat, “Hello?”

You flash your neck in the mirror, fingers dancing around the irritated baby pink skin surrounding the already darkening magenta wound. The skin feels hot to the touch and you know that its placement makes it look more like a hickey than anything. Your mind starts to wonder if putting makeup on it would be a bad decision.

“Hey, kid.”

Fuck. Bradley. It’s Bradley. I forgot about Bradley!

“I’m outside.” You take a deep swallow that you pray he can’t hear over the phone. “You said the house with the purple hydrangeas near the front steps. Right?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Am I this fucking stupid that I can’t even think of another word to use right now?

The long pause doesn’t make Bradley hang up.

“Kid? You okay in there?” The sound of a car door slamming can be heard through the receiver. You listen to the Carlsons down the street mowing their lawn. A few dogs are barking and the sound of Bradley’s shoes hitting the pavement plays a symphony with the bliss of what is a Friday afternoon at 2 PM encapsulates.

His knuckles rap against your front door and you audibly gasp. Your finger hangs up the phone before sprinting to let him in. The flutters in your stomach make you feel like you might projectile vomit any second. No amount of pep talks you had given yourself in the past two days can prepare you for the events of this weekend; not to mention Bradley and your big fat crush on him being the cherry on top.

You swing the door open; a shocked Bradley staring at you and a frenzied heart damn near beating out of your chest.

“I’m not ready yet!” you exclaim, turning your back and rushing back into your bathroom. You move so swiftly that you don’t even notice the bouquet of flowers clutched in his right hand.

Fuck! The curling iron is still on.

Bradley lets out a laugh. “Well, hello to you too.”

You pick the iron back up and finish curling the piece of hair you had started on before being interrupted.

“Sorry!” you shout back, “Give me five and I’ll be ready to go.”

Bradley lets out a puff of air he didn’t know he had been holding in. If someone had asked him a month ago where he thought he would be spending a Friday afternoon in mid-March, he probably said he wouldn’t know for sure.

Which is true.

He’s worked out a schedule where he’s able to leave work by 11 AM on Fridays and what he does is often a wild card; his Fridays range anywhere from mundane errands to impromptu skydiving endeavors with Coyote and Phoenix. He might even go for a quick afternoon surf session if he feels up to it.

He’ll admit, sometimes he imagines spending his Friday afternoons with you. In one timeline, he convinces you to ride down the coast with him at sunset. Another has you laying on your stomach at the beach with your nose shoved in a book pretending not to be ogling him while he surfs.

Bradley even lets his mind wander to the possible tan lines on your hips and how he would graze his thumbs just beneath your bikini bottoms to feel the fullness of the skin there, but then he realizes how inappropriate that may be, and he lets the thought sit in the back of his brain unwatered and underdeveloped.

Besides, he was raised better than imagining women naked. . .Even though he thinks you’re absolutely stunning both clothed and naked. . .And would love the opportunity to see you na-

That’s beside the point. Get it together, man.

His eyes survey the surroundings of your living room. Throw pillows and blankets. Candles on the coffee table. Books everywhere. Open windows create sunspots on the carpet. A vintage record player on the shelf of your bookcase and your Tango in the Night vinyl playing softly.

He likes to think that in another life (he’s hopeful for this one, but he’s learned what having too much hope does to a person) your blue fuzzy blanket has a home on his cream-colored couch or that your Fleetwood Mac vinyl finds solace next to his Otis Redding and James Brown records.

Bradley takes a seat on your couch. The brown butcher paper holding together the peony floral arrangement he had picked up crunches in his hand. The other pats along to the soft rhythm arrangement in time with “Mystified.” He can smell the faint scent of your perfume and the sounds of life you make, the small gasps and soft humming and whispered curse words, fill him with endearment.

He’s so wrapped up in melting into your aura that he doesn’t even realize that you had left the bathroom until you stood dead in front of him; curled hair, makeup on, and an electric blue dress laying flawlessly on the silhouette of your body.

You make his mouth dry and any words that he wants to say disintegrate with how amazing he thinks you look. Him not saying anything makes you panic and you wonder if you forgot to blend the bronzer near your neck or if your blush was too pink or if there was a piece of hair you had forgotten or if the dress you had on actually made you look like a frumpy version of Aquamarine (a lot of or, or, ors).

Bradley, please say something.

He sits up straighter upon seeing you. The navy blue dress pants on his long legs bring out the green in his hazel eyes. Your heart feels warm at the thought of him matching you; especially after offhandedly mentioning that you were thinking of wearing a blue dress to the dinner rehearsal.

Your eyes glance to his non-dominate hand and spot the pink peonies wrapped in butcher paper. The simple notion of him getting you flowers makes your knees weak, and the fact that he didn’t get them from the grocery store - that it was an arrangement that he had gotten from a florist - makes you wish you were a better woman and weren’t thinking of dropping to your knees right there in front of him and thanking him with a blowj-

He doesn’t even think you look pretty enough to say something. Don’t get too ahead of yourself.

“Oh,” he wipes his empty hand on the fabric of his pants, “These are for you.” He pushes the bouquet forward for your observation.

A smile is center stage on your lips as you grab them from his grasp. “Thank you. This is really kind of you, Bradley.” You turn to head into your kitchen to grab a vase.

She didn’t say they were pretty. Does she even like peonies?

The silence surrounding you both is deafening. If you could ignore the slightly prickly feeling of heat eating away at the hairline on the back of your neck, you can almost forget that Bradley is even here.

But the thing is, Bradley is here. He’s here and so present and you’re gonna have to give your poor heart a break from beating so fast if you want to survive this weekend without having a stroke.

All the thought does is make you even more nervous (as if that’s even fucking possible at this point).

“Okay, kid. If we’re gonna be together all weekend, this,” he points his finger between you and him, “Ain’t fucking happening. We need to tallllkkkk.”

You swallow. “I -We are talking.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“Okay,” you whisper sheepishly, your bare toe grinding into the carpet. The friction sends a wave of heat to your otherwise numb toes. It’s unconventional, but at least it’s helping you feel something other than anxiety.

He nods his head before standing up. His eyes glance at the gold watch on his left hand. “Well, it’s 2:30 and the rehearsal dinner is at 5. We need to get going if we wanna beat traffic.”

“Okay.”

He sighs, watched wrist coming down to lay his hand flat across his stomach. “Talking means more than just saying ‘okay.’ That’s not a conversation.”

You pause for a moment. The flowers he had brought still rest in between the crease of your inner elbow. More silence ensues. You just don’t know what to say.

He starts heading down your small hallway. The whiff of his cologne kickstarts your reaction.

“Hey!” you say, starting to stalk after him, “What the hell are you doing?”

He snickers. “Grabbing your bags? I was serious about getting a move on. Don’t want your folks to think your boyfriend is a slacker now, do ya?”

Bradley grabs the two bags you had struggled to set outside your bedroom door with ease. You never forget how strong he looks (oggling at a guy three days out of the six you work will do that to you) but you always seem to forget how strong he actually is.

You close your mouth before you begin to drool. Bradley will for sure be talking about this weekend with his friends and uncle. You don’t want to add any more embarrassing details to the story. Besides, your awkward preteen pictures from your mom’s Facebook hadn’t even been brought up yet. Some room needs to be saved for your utter humiliation.

Your feet slide into the pair of heels you had set aside before you scramble to grab your keys and purse. How Bradley can move so quickly is beyond your thinking capacity as you haphazardly take the needle off of your record. Your eyes do a quick sweep over your living room to make sure that everything is turned off so you won’t magically come home to a fire safety example at the conclusion of your weekend.

Now, if you can just make yourself stop feeling so jittery, you might be able to actually manage to fit your key into the lock of your front door.

After what feels like three years (and the embarrassment of knowing Bradley probably watched you struggle), the keys are stuffed back into your purse before you pause on your porch.

A black Ford F-150 sits curbside to your driveway. It doesn’t fit in with the SUVs and small sedans that make up the neighborhood you live in. You had never seen a car like this where you lived at all. Come to think of it, you had never seen this truck ever.

Doesn’t Bradley drive a Bronco?

Your eyebrows remain wrinkled with your puzzled expression as he rounds the back of the car; the resounding noise of the back door shutting makes his entrance known. He opens the passenger door for you and stands next to it.

He squints as he looks up at you. The sun is blazing and he forgot to grab his sunglasses from his side of the door.

“Cold feet?” he calls.

You start to head down the stairs and onto the pavement. “It’s seventy-six degrees. I think cold feet is kinda ill worded.”

“It’s a saying.”

The crossed arms over your chest signal your apprehension. Bradley stands before you, leaning against the truck and his arm slung on the top of the cab. He raises his brows at you and does a gentle motion of his head to the seat, inviting you to climb in. Even next to the large vehicle, he still looks. . .huge.

In a good way! In a good way. He’s actually really fit and I’m shaking inside and I’m sure I’m sweating and I have got to stop wearing light colors in front of him because he can probably see the sweat and - Oh God. Oh God, the seats are leather. What if I sweat all over them?

The lump in your throat is swallowed as you stand before him. “This isn’t your car,” you say lamely.

He scoffs. “Spying on me? Do you have my license plates memorized too?”

You know he’s teasing and that he doesn’t mean it literally, but you almost answer, “yes” because you do. Thankfully, you’re in the stage of your anxiousness where you clam up instead of puking your words out.

You cock your head to the side, eyes narrowed because of the bright sun.

“How do I know it’s not stolen? What if we get pulled over because it’s stolen?” you wonder, and then the word vomit picks up and - “ I can’t go to jail! I had nothing to do with it and the ABA is gonna pull my Bar application if we get arrested and I spent too much damn money and worked too damn hard to let an F-150 ruin it for-”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters into a small laugh, “I know you love the Bronco,” he gives you a teasing look, “But the Bronco has no air and I figured that since we’re driving two hours on the highway, you would appreciate not having to ride with the windows down the entire time.”

“You still haven’t confirmed that it’s your car.”

“You know, for someone so smart, you are extremely bad at picking up on obvious context clues. Why the hell would I steal a pickup truck and then drive you to a wedding in it?”

You scrounge your brain for a reply. “. . .For the plot?”

He whistles and crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking your current stance. “Wow. I have a comedian for a date.”

“I’m serious. It could be a possibility!”

“Well I don’t think “felon” looks good next to “painstakingly handsome,” so I’ll pass.”

You remain standing in front of him. Stubbornness was a quality that your mother both loved and loathed and you know it, but Bradley has yet to see this side of you yet. Your arms wrap around your torso tighter and your eyebrows are raised every so slightly.

Bradley knows what you’re doing. He used to do it to Maverick all the time when he was growing up. You’re digging your heels in.

“C’mon. Don’t start poutin’ on me before I even get to disappoint you with my dancing,” he quips. He brings his face closer to yours before flashing you a toothy smile.

You sigh dramatically before letting him help you into the seat. The gentle “Atta girl,” he gives you pinkens your cheeks. You pray he won’t notice your flushed face when he sits on the driver's side of the car. Every interaction you’ve had with him has kept you tossing and turning at night because of your nervousness.

So many things you wish you could take back and so many ways you wish you could act normal; a never-ending cycle of “could’ve, would’ve, should’ve,” and the thought leaves a small seed of sadness in your stomach.

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fatedtime · 11 months

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Fate/Grand Sketchbook ~ Page 5! Barghest is the bestest girl in the whole world. She deserves nice dates and plush toys and to not murder her loved ones. ♥ Wanna order a page like this? Check out my Ko-Fi! Wanna see my art unglazed, vote on new pages, and get extra tickets in drawing raffles on Twitch? Patreon's the place to go!

If you like my art, consider following for more of it, updates on streams, and more!

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#barghest #fgo #fate grand order #lostbelt 6 #digital art #artists on tumblr #BEST GIRL BEST GIRL BEST GIRL #bediart #fairy knight gawain #tam lin gawain

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jinkookspencil · 4 months

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i got you | ksj

back from his service, jin tests out his strength and a theory of his

tags/note: jin x chubby / plus size / curvy reader (f) / fluff + suggestive / established relationship (they're engaged!) / low-key seokjin has soft-dom loving energy here but it doesn't get that steamy

wc: ~1.3k words

description/note: just domestic fluff in the kitchen / spoiler alert for jin's theory: he's sure he can carry his fiance and wants to try it out / no mentions of insecurity on yn's part, she just doubts jin can actually do it / intended with a plus sized woman in mind, but i think you can read and relate even if that doesn't apply to you? as long as you have any doubts that jin can carry you lol / no mentions of idol life, this jin can be whatever you want him to be / they're in the kitchen and jin had been cooking but no other mention of food / i actually wrote a jk version of this first but i will post that second - very soon, it's basically done! i have such a thing for fics based around jin's return i miss him yall / i shared an update post recently detailing where i've been and how i'll be with this blog moving forward! /also, happy valentine's day, here's a lil love from me and jin to my fellow chubby/curvy/plus-sized beauties!! <3 again, jk version coming very sooooooon! / update: jk version available to read here!

The clang of pots and pangs echoing through your apartment warmed your heart. It was an irritating sound when heard regularly, of course, but considering how long it’s been since you’d had your fiance messing about in the kitchen… it was more than welcome. Following the noise, you find Seokjin with his back turned to you, cleaning his used kitchenware and cutlery in the sink and quietly humming a tune. You cursed yourself for not peeking in earlier just to see the man in action - it always was a turn-on seeing Seokjin’s dedicated, sweaty, albeit chaotic cooking. This still did something, though. Hopping onto the freshly cleaned marble-topped kitchen island, you take it all in: the faint smell of something delicious in the oven, the sound of the gushing tap water, more clangs of metal on metal, but you really focus on the man that stood before you. Your man. His adorable growing hair was too short to be long, too awkward to be short. His broad shoulders and new muscles now pressed through his tee instead of his bones. His silver singing voice, even as a gentle whisper, which you hadn’t realized abruptly stopped.

“Drink it in. I’m enjoying this just as much as you are.”

You wonder what gave it away. The sound of your footsteps, the ruffle of your pajama fabric, or perhaps an admiring sigh you hadn’t noticed escaped you. It didn’t matter. You were enjoying the view, surely, but it was even better now when he turned to face you, a shy smile on his face.

“Missed cooking that much?”

“Cooking, yes, I missed being in the kitchen. I don't need to tell you how much I fucking missed your bratty ass, but what I meant was that I am enjoying you. I’m elated I finally have my girl and soon-to-be wife ogling me instead of the men at the base.” He chuckles, turning away and hiding a sudden shyness while drying his hands with a kitchen towel.

“And I'm elated just to be with her... Now that that’s done…” he whispers, undoubtedly ready for what you were with his hands and eyes on your plush thighs, his fingertips toying with the hem of your pajama shorts.

“It’s like you read my mind,” you smile, wrapping your arms around his neck, trying to pull him in for a kiss, only for him to pull away.

That was a first. Since Seokjin was back, at least. The two of you barely kept your hands off of one another….

“Or not…” you ask curiously, cupping his face in your hands. “Seokjin?”

Your fiance silently continues tracing the skin of your plush thighs, squeezing the flesh in his hands. He exhales before doing it once again and finally looking up at you.

You jump from the counter and face him, trying to look into his eyes, but he’s lost in thought. You pull his hand to lead him to the bedroom, but he doesn’t budge.

“Seokjin…?” you ask once again.

“Jump back on the counter for me, love.”

You do.

“Wrap your legs around me, honey.”

“Well, I was going to anyways,” you say, following his orders. “In there…”

“I’ll take you there.”

“What? No!” you shriek, unwrapping your legs from his body.

“Yes, come on, honey,” he says, his voice steady yet soft as he reaches for your leg.

“Seokjin, you cannot carry me,” you say, now pushing him away while he tries to tug you closer.

“Yes, I can,” he insists with a sternness to his voice that reminds you where he’d spent the past 18 months.

“Just because you’re all buff now doesn’t mean you can carry me, stupid. I’m still big, you know?”

“Well, guess who’s also big now? I mean, I always was, of course,” he says with a giggle and a flushed face as he raises his brow and tilts his head downwards, reminding you that he’s still your Seokjin. You promptly roll your eyes with a smile, pinching his arm. He regains his composure in mere seconds, a hand brushing your hair and tilting your face up towards his.

“I will admit that I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it before enlisting, but… I can now, honey. I can.”

“I don’t want you to,” you pout, unable to meet his gaze no matter how intense you knew it was, so knew it was best to shut it down as quickly as possible. Seokjin never forced you to do something you didn’t want to do…

“You.. why not?”

“Because in the case that you try to carry me but then realize you cannot, we could drop to the floor and one or both of us will get hurt. You could get hurt physically since I have padding and you don’t. I’d get hurt mentally, and I’ll be so fucking embarrassed that it was because of my weight.”

“The number of things wrong with that…,” Seokjin tsks, cupping your face and forcing you to look him in the eye. “First of all, I can carry you. Second, muscles are a form of padding, too, idiot.” He pokes your forehead and puts your hand on his shoulders to feel how strong he’d gotten while he takes your soft thigh in his hand. “I can take it, sweetie - all this tells me is I haven’t told you just how much work I did in the service. Third, it’s not because of your weight - nothing ever was. It’d be because I wasn’t strong enough.”

“Seokjin… I don’t know.”

“And you have nothing to be embarrassed about, my love. Ever. I mean… it’s me. I’ve seen and touched you in the most ungodly ways possible, and this would be what would embarrass you? Falling? When I-?”

You shake your head and interrupt him with shushes - nothing he could’ve said would have helped his case. “Can’t we at least put a mattress down or something? In case we fall?”

“Babe, this isn’t Jungkook’s apartment. We don't have an excess of mattresses here…”

The comment makes you giggle.

The way Seokjin rubbed your skin calmed your racing mind.

The kiss he plants on your lips reminds you that this is home.

This is safety.

This is love.

“Just trust me,” he whispers.

You nod, allowing Seokjin to wrap one of your legs around his torso and then the other. His hands sneak their way between your thighs and the marble countertop, digging into your plush skin already. You’d expected Jin to start a countdown, ease you into it at least… but before you knew it, his head was nestled in your chest, and you were off the counter, held up high in his arms.

A loud shriek escapes you, making your fiancee giggle beneath you.

“See, love? I got you...”

He was holding onto you securely, with no sign of any struggle on his part…. If he had been struggling with the weight of you, he hid it well…

“The view’s nice up here,” you smile, resting your head atop Seokjin’s when he finally looks away from you and buries his face in your flesh, kissing and biting you there.

“Seokjin, I can’t smell your shampoo anymore. When was the last time you showered?”

“Mm,” he says against your skin. “Fuck, that’s… that’s a perfect idea, honey,” he says, wide-eyed and excited, though he misunderstands. “It’ll be like a movie scene. But first…”

Seokjin dashes towards the bedroom with you still in his arms, shrieking until he plops you down onto your shared mattress.

“Safe?” he teases, pretending to check your body for any bruises before you pull him towards you until he’s leaning over you, his face a centimeter away from yours, with his hands already all over your soft body.

“Safe,” you say happily.

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 9 months

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I'm genuinely curious-

Based on your spidersonas abilities, strengths, and weapons:

Do you think your Spidersona could win in an 1-on-1 fight against:

Jess with her motorcycle

Peter B. without MayDay

Gwen

Pavitr

Hobie with his guitar

Miles

Miguel

If you had to guess - Earth42!Miles

Name another seen character that you think they can beat in a fight (WebSlinger, Ben Reilly, Margo, 60s Spiderman, Spider-Plush, etc)

This is a training scenario:

You've got one hour prep. Don't worry about full on hurting them. They're trying to best you, not wound.

Headcanon:

Between missions and work in your home universes, Spider Society also includes mandatory training courses and evaluations. Like today. Lyla is algorithmically keeping count.

The training field is a continuously updating holographic New York, standard Spider-man setting.

This is your final for the quarter. They REALLY want to beat you.

Who you beating for sure without a doubt? Who's gonna be a problem?

I'm SO curious

DO NOT BE MODEST They're Spider-people, so don't worry about your OC seeming OP cause like... That's hardly possible considering what they are - so like your Sonas BEST DAY and they're a good test away from a raise.

Cause it's not about strength - it's about fighting style, swinging style, experience, using their special abilities to outsmart a certain person. Etc, etc.

I wanna hear how you're sonas be fighting. We talk a lot about backstory but like - CAN THEY THROW HANDS THOUGH

ALSO BONUS QUESTION;

Duos:

You have to pick two people to fight.

You get to pick 1 partner.

Who are you fighting? And who got your back?

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wildemaven · 1 year

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Sweet Creature: Chapter Two

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

WC: 5145

Summary: A washed up movie star with a failing career, fresh out of rehab and looking to turn his life around. He moves back to his small hometown to take a break from stardom and help his sister out with his niece— He’s traded the high-life for school runs and crafting. What he doesn’t except is to meet you, his niece’s school teacher who couldn’t care less about his extensive filmography or his dwindling fame.

Warnings: 18+ Blog; talk of drug use (no actual using), absent parents, mention of food and alcohol, slow burn, brown fuzzy coat, self doubt, break-up mention, annoyance towards actors, cursing, 2nd POV, that should be it but if I missed anything please let me know

A/N: It’s here!! I’m really excited for this chapter, lots of little things I love about that I’m so excited for you to read. This chapter is where we meet reader and learn a little bit about her. I wanted to also note, there will be an eventual nickname used, we just haven’t gotten to it being used yet so for now I’m not mentioning it. The response to this series has been so amazing and I’m so grateful for all the wonderful feedback!! Another big thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for taking the time to beta for me!! You’re a champ for putting up with my spelling errors. Update: adding link to mug that is mentioned -> etsy shop

Series Masterlist / Sweet Creature Playlist / Main Masterlist

Previous / Next

“Diem, you can’t really be considering this?! Did you forget, he was literally doing drugs off of your toilet!”

You pour another glass of a sweet sparkling wine you’d picked up before heading to Diem’s for your weekly chat session, then settling back into the array of plush couch cushions— a night to decompress a bit, vent and just catch up on the week’s happenings.

“Well, I’ve already considered and told him yes.”

“What?” You nearly spit your drink out in shock. “I don’t want to say I told you so, but I kind of called it when you invited him to Wren’s party. I just— I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

“Look, I know you’re just being protective, and I’m so grateful for that, I truly am— but you have to just let me make this decision and trust that he’s going to be clean like he says he is. This is his longest stay in treatment, that’s got to be a good sign, right?”

The one thing you loved most about Diem was her big heart and her constant need to mother everyone around her.

She had literally taken you under her wing when you’d decided to uproot your entire life and move to a random city you had zero ties to.

A chance meeting in the halls of your new employer, Ojai Valley School, while rounding the corner and bumping into each other. Your stack of lesson plans scattering about the concrete floor and her basket of snacks toppling over— a dozen or so clementine oranges rolling around the haphazard mess of papers.

In sorting out each other’s disarray, you’d learned she was a parent of a kindergartener, to which you shared being the new first grade teacher.

Somewhere in the midst of an over abundance of apologies for the mishap and swapping mini life stories on the walk together to your classroom, her daughter’s class coincidentally next door, there was an exchanging of phone numbers and a no pressure invitation for drinks and appetizers at her place— she dubbed it as a proper ‘welcome to the neighborhood.’

A week later you found yourself in Diem’s living room bonding over similar interests with wooden platters of too expensive crackers, hard to pronounce cheeses, thinly sliced deli meats paired with quickly mixed and shaken cocktails over ice.

She shared her struggles being a single mom who was embarking on a new business adventure all while co-parenting with her ex-boyfriend. You learned her family didn’t live close, parents usually traveling through some part of the world or staying in one of their many extravagant vacation homes, while her brother was some big name movie star— Dieter Bravo, whom you’d seen plastered on the covers of gossip magazines.

There was an instant friendship between the two of you that flourished as the months went on— a sisterly bond you’d never had being an only child.

Weekly chats developed into spending not only more time with Diem, but with Wren as well. Dinners and movie nights became a regular thing, rotating hosting duties while Wren always had the final say in the movie. You shared your love for art with them as much as you could, making sure to invite them both when a new artist had their latest installment showing at one of the many galleries in town, Wren always so captivated with your interpretations of the art on display, encouraging her to seek out her own. If Diem ever found herself in a pinch with the hotel, you were more than excited to spend more time with Wren, especially on the warmer days where you both could take advantage of the pool and soak up the California sun.

You felt like an instant local and less of a transplant after a few months, building your own connections with merchants and finding your own niche outside of teaching within Ojai— you were a welcomed presence.

“I’m sorry Diem, I just have flashbacks to seeing him slumped over on the bathroom floor, high out of his mind— That look on your face ate me up inside.” You sigh at the recollection of your first meeting of her brother Dieter, all disheveled and extremely inebriated. Diem had cried on your shoulder for hours after everyone had left the party, but you did your best to comfort her as time went on. “I’ll be here for you if you need anything.”

She reaches over to you and gives you a hug, reassurance that she appreciates you always having her back.

“Thank you. I promise, any little inkling of something being off and he’s out. Just try to be a little nice to him, give him a chance to prove himself. He said he’ll be here in a few weeks and I’d love for you two to get a proper meeting, so let me know what your schedule is looking like.”

“I’ll try to be on my best behavior.” You playfully roll your eyes at her, but you would really try to be as open as you could be, especially for her and Wren.

“Okay, enough about me and my stuff. What’s new with you?? Any hot dates??”

Your dating life was near nonexistent. Yeah, you dated, but that was as far as things went.

Your last relationship had ended in a breakup before your move. Both of you wanting different things, you wanting him to move with you and him wanting to stay rooted, while also refusing to try the long distance thing, deciding a clean break was best for the both of you.

“Ugh. I went on one the other day. One of the teachers cornered me in the break room and insisted on setting me up with her neighbor.”

“And?”

“And, it was a disaster. He was late to the restaurant and then he was excusing himself every fifteen minutes to go to the bar to watch some sport’s playoffs. He also ordered for me off the kid’s menu, said he thought the restaurant was overpriced— he picked it mind you. Safe to say there was nothing ‘hot’ about the date. I literally give up. I’ll live the rest of my life alone— maybe I should get a cat or two.”

Your body slinks back amusingly into the couch cushions.

“Oh my god. Stop!” She swats jokingly at your limp arm. “You’re so dramatic. Firstly, don’t accept any dates from colleagues— those are always bound to be disastrous! Secondly, you won’t be alone forever. You just have to open yourself up to the possibility of something just happening organically— like fate! Thirdly— no cats! Wren’s allergic and I can’t deal with that mess of meltdowns from her wanting one of her own.”

“Why do you always have to be my voice of reason?!”

“Because that’s what friends are for… Babe!”

“I hate you!” You’re both in a fit of giggles as you toss a pillow across the couch at her.

“Oh! I do have some good news though! The gallery said they’re holding one last artist showcase before closing the doors and they offered it to me.”

Reverie Studio, a cute little art gallery and workshop space, had become a sanctuary for your creative imagination to live freely. They offered classes throughout the year to varying types of artists, novice to well seasoned, in their workshop space in the back of the gallery.

The gallery itself was spacious and washed in white, perfect for featuring painted canvases, framed photographs or ceramic sculptures. Giant bright windows facing Main Street, allowed for ample viewing for visitors.

You’d taken a few classes as a way to submerse yourself into the community, hoping to build some connections with like minded individuals. At one point you’d noticed the bulletin board that held a plethora of business cards, class schedules and other various information about town happenings, had a help wanted flier for the studio itself looking for someone to teach a few classes. You, being a teacher already, as well as an artist, decided to seek out more information. They hired you on the spot and allowed you to decide what classes you wanted to offer.

The latest flier was informing that the owners decided they would be closing their doors soon. If you had the means, you would have put an offer on the business to keep it open, unfortunately with your salary as a teacher it wouldn’t be feasible. While you were sad you’d be losing Reverie, you were grateful they considered your art to be shown as their last installment.

“What?! That is amazing! Finally people can see the amazing things you paint— I’ve been dreaming of this moment for you!! Also, I told you my brother’s an artist right?”

“Like, ‘I’m an actor, art is my passion’ while having zero idea how watercolor works…” Air quotes adding emphasis to your mockery.

“I thought you said you were going to be on your best behavior?” She tosses a pillow right back at you, nearly knocking over your empty glass in the process.

“Sorry, I had to get it out.” Thankfully she could sense your campy tone.

“I’m going to head out, there’s a stack of papers calling my name that I need to grade.” You state, grabbing your purse and making your way to the front door. “I’ll see you at drop off.” Throwing her a wave as you walk down the path leading to the main sidewalk.

“Oh! Before I forget, Wren asked if she could come paint sometime. Told her I’d run it by you first and see if there was any space for her.”

“Of course— Anytime!”

“Perfect. We'll chat more about it later then. Text me when you get home!” Diem leaning into the door frame, practically shouting as you cross the street, knowing you live a less than five minute walk down the block.

“Oh! And I want to have you over for dinner when Dieter gets here!!”

“Goodnight Diem!” Throwing a lax wave back at her.

Dieter can’t remember a time he’d slept so well. Could be the comfortable pillow top mattress, or it could be due to the fact this is the most relaxed he’s felt in years.

There’s clanking coming from what he can only assume is the kitchen, followed by the strong aroma of fresh brewed coffee. Diem is awake, still the early bird that she’s always been.

He begins to extricate himself from the cushy bed, swinging his legs over the edge, his body following suit into a somewhat hunched over sitting position. His fingers pick at the tiny sleep crystals embedded in the corners of his eyes, a few blinks to adjust to the light, his sight still a bit blurry.

An audible lazy yawn works its way through his mouth, sleep still ruminating within him for the time being. He reaches over to the side table to grab his black framed glasses, a few swipes over the lens glass with the crumpled top sheet before he’s lifting them to the window for a quick smudge inspection— passable and now snug to his face.

He convinces his body to rise to his full height, joints and muscles adjusting to their proper positions after several hours of a sedentary vacation. A quick roll of the neck and overhead arm stretches ramp up his alertness.

Stepping over yesterday’s clothes still plopped in the middle of the floor, he digs through his bags in search of something to cover his boxer clad body with the intent to make the trek through the house to a cup of rich amber heaven.

The air has a slight chill to it, not an uncommon occurrence being tucked in a valley on a California morning. He pulls on his favorite lounge pants, dark stripes pair with a thin cottony fabric worn in from years of wearing— a security blanket of sorts. Throwing his giant fuzzy overcoat over a wrinkled shirt while taking a few deep breaths, schooling his trepidation and the fact that a new life awaits him on the other side of the door.

Sure enough, Diem is busy moving about the kitchen. A mom through and through multitasking her way through the morning— coffee made with mugs set out, breakfast of eggs and toast plated waiting to be eaten, and a million other little tasks that seem to keep her attention focused.

“I can’t believe you still have that damn coat, I beg you don’t wear it in public.”

“Good morning to you too!” That first sentence a bit gravelly as he looks down to inspect the coat Diem had just insulted. “What’s wrong with my coat?”

“It makes you look— a little tacky and less ‘I’ve finally got my life together.’” He shakes his head at her remark, deciding he’ll leave out the part that it’s just a house coat these days.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good. Best sleep I’ve had in awhile. Gonna need to know where I can get one of those beds for home.” Grabbing one of the mugs and pouring himself a decent amount of coffee, then positioning himself onto one of the barstools in front of his awaiting breakfast.

“That would be a “we’re so proud of you, here’s a bed” gift from mom and dad.” He can sense her somewhat sore tone as she wipes up the counters.

“You hear from them lately?”

“Aside from the gifts they send regularly for Wren and a few emails updating on their whereabouts, they seem to be living up to the absentee status quite well.”

He doesn’t expect the weight of her response to hit him so fiercely, knowing his own presence had been equally lacking as well.

“I’m sorry.” It seems like the only adequate answer.

“For what? It’s not your fault our parent’s decision to be unavailable the majority of our lives. I mean, I love them and I know they love us, but they sure have a weird way of showing it.”

“Yeah— well, I can’t say my track record has been any better over the years.” He wishes he could omit the guilt, but acknowledging and accepting his own absence seems like a more appropriate approach to mending the past.

“Hey, no! I’m not trying to project any of my thoughts onto you.” Her movements halted, giving her full attention to the conversation. “You made an effort, regardless of your— your situation through the years, you still made time for us. We see them maybe twice if we’re lucky. Sometimes they surprise Wren with a FaceTime call, probably so she doesn’t forget what they look like.”

His fork scrapes through his runny eggs, taking his anger out on them seems like a better alternative to a seething phone call to his parents. He’s not sure they’d even answer if he did call. Communication between him and them was tenuous, having sent them a few emails while in rehab, their only response was “That’s great. We love you!”

“Plus, you’re here now. Look at it as a second chance to make up for lost time.”

Before he’s able to give much thought to the prospect of a second chance, the trotting of tiny footsteps is heard coming from the hall.

“Uncle Dude!!! You’re here, you’re here!” Wren’s tiny little body launched into his chest as he tried to squat down to her level.

Uncle Dude. When Wren was younger, she had trouble with his name when her vocabulary started to expand, certain letter patterns fairing more difficult than others. Dieter joked around with the idea of her calling him ‘The Dude’, The Big Lebowski being one of his comfort films. Diem tried everything in her powers to make it not happen, but it only took an entire weekend of Dieter coaching the then 3 year old and Uncle Dude came to be.

“Hey Birdie! Gosh, you’ve gotten so big!”

“I know, mama said I hafta eat all my vegetables ‘cause they will make me grow and grow and grow.” She wraps her little arms around his neck, squeezing him tight before pulling back and fully inspecting him. “You brought teddy jacket wiff you!!” Her little hands running through the brown sherpa fabric of his coat, which she claimed felt like a teddy bear— Teddy Jacket.

“Brought it just for you.” He shoots a sarcastic smile over to Diem, who is doing her best to not make her eye rolling obvious, then plants a kiss to Wren’s tiny forehead.

“Okay Miss Wren, you’ve got to eat breakfast and get dressed for school.” Diem pulling out the mom voice, making both him and Wren exchange a brief scrunched expression.

Wren climbs the legs of the barstool and settles into its seat. “But I wanna stay wiff Uncle Dude! He always gets me donuts for breakfast!” Her little voice floats through the air and wraps itself around his heart, clenching over how much he’s missed her.

“Uncle Dude is actually taking you to school today, so you’ll have plenty of time before school to hang out. And we can do donuts a different time, eat your eggs then go get yourself dressed.”

“Are you gonna be here when I get home too?!” Looking at Dieter with pleading eyes.

“Heck yeah! I’ll be here for a while!” Dieter leans in close enough so only Wren can hear. “If you hurry up, we can get donuts before school, our secret!”

“YAY!!!”

Diem looks over her shoulder at the two of them, an eyebrow cocked at Wren’s abrupt excitement, then looking at Dieter and only getting an innocent shoulder shrug from him.

“I’m going to head out then if you’ve got this under control.” Dieter nods in agreement, finishing off the remainder of his coffee. “Perfect! I already left a message with the school you’d be dropping her off. No need to worry about picking her up, she has a wellness check with her doctor, so I’ll take her to that before we head home.” Diem scurrying around, grabbing items from different areas of the room and tossing into her oversized tote, before giving a kiss to Wren and quick hug to Dieter. “I’ll see you both later. Love you, bye!!” The door shutting quickly behind her.

There’s a beat of silence as Wren and Dieter exchange looks, as if they know what each other is thinking.

“DONUTS!!” Both announce in unison, high fives and uncoordinated movements as they both flail about.

“Alright Birdie, let’s get dressed and go!”

“Let’s go!!”

As promised, donuts were a designated stop on the way to school. Wren’s excitement was written all over her face as she peered through the bakery case deliberating on her choice. Dieter missed this, moments spent with her as she explored the world around her. Thinking back to his conversation with Diem, this instance is proof second chances exist.

“Thanks Uncle Dude for the donut!” He glances back at Wren in the rear view mirror, buckled securely into her booster seat, flakes of pink donut frosting smeared around her mouth, curls slightly bouncing as she bobs her head to the music she requested as Dieter buckled her in.

“No problem Birdie. Here, why don’t you wipe your face— hide the evidence.” He hands her a napkin, hoping she can manage on her own— she seems to do a good enough job of it.

“Donuts make me happy.”

“They do, do they?”

“Yeah! They make me smile. Mama says being a movie star makes you happy.”

“She did?”

“Yep! Does it?”

He thinks it does, or it used to at least. There was a time when the love he had for acting was limitless— he would eat, sleep and breathe acting. Getting sought after roles, memorizing pages worth of lines, stepping into character the instant the director said action. Acting filled a void in him that had been vacant for years.

“It used to make me really happy.”

“But it doesn’t anymore?”

“I don’t know, still trying to figure that out.”

“Mama says your heart knows when it’s happy, so just listen to your heart Uncle Dude!”

“I’ll do that, thanks Birdie.”

Most of your school mornings ran the same way. You tend to wake before your alarm ever has a chance to alert you, you’ve made such a habit of it you’re not sure why you bother setting one. You read somewhere about how cold showers at the start of the day help wake your mind, could be total bullshit but for some reason you believe it works— they’re the longest 2 minutes of your day. Being a private school teacher, the attire on school grounds tends to lean more conservative than your ‘normal life uniform’ of sundresses, distressed jeans and comfy band tees, but it makes for a quick selection of dark slacks and a comfortable top.

The coffee machine has already run through its cycle by the time shoes are on and your school tote is securely placed on your shoulder. Grabbing your favorite coffee mug that reads “Let It Gogh”, a gift from a student last year, you fill it with an adequate amount of coffee and a splash of cream before you're out the door.

The local bakery is your only stop before work, offering a good selection of breakfast sandwiches, bagels, and an enticing selection of donuts— you may or may not add one to your order of an egg and cheese sandwich some mornings.

You tend to breeze through your class preparation before the bells ring for the start of school.

The day's lesson plan already looked over, worksheets separated and ready for the students, and the whiteboard cleaned and daily tasks written out— you find it helps deter your students from having to ask “what are we doing today?” more than necessary.

There’s usually a good 30 minutes of quiet before the first student arrives, and if there’s no need for you elsewhere on campus, you take the time to read your latest book you picked up from Bart’s Books and hope you can get through a good amount of it the short time you have.

Like clockwork, your students trickle in with their ‘good mornings’ and vibrant stories about their world.

Some parents opt for a quick ‘drop and go’, while others linger a bit in the back of the class until you’re ushering them out when the bell rings. You enjoy the parent interaction. It’s usually spent answering homework questions or sharing upcoming events happening in the class, with the occasional non-school related discussions when Diem swings by with Wren— you both getting caught up in some story that is not really relevant to anything school related.

There’s a quick flash of a familiar little face, Wren placing her purple backpack on its assigned hook, then running back to where you’re standing at your desk.

“My Uncle Dude brought me today!”

“Your Uncle Dude?” Diem hadn’t mentioned not being able to bring Wren this morning, and you’ve never heard of this “Dude” person before.

“Yeah! He’s a movie star!!” Her little frame is buzzing with excitement, not able to stand still as she bounces on the balls of her feet. Before you’re able to question her further, she zips off towards her table, waving to someone over your shoulder. “Byyyyye Uncle Dude!!! See you later!!”

You’d been so wrapped up in your brief conversation with Wren, you hadn’t noticed the man standing at the door to your classroom.

He doesn’t seem to notice you staring as he leans against the door, watching Wren getting herself situated with her fellow classmates.

Dieter Bravo. Or at least you think it is. No it definitely is.

The images of your first encounter with him flood your mind. You’re not really sure what you expected when Diem said he was clean and sober now, but you definitely didn’t expect to find him attractive on any level.

He looks healthy and like he might actually sleep regularly, his eyes seemingly less sunken in from what you can see with his glasses perched perfectly on his face. His hair slightly shorter and still a little bit of a mess but purposefully, it seems to suit him though.

Your eyes roam a bit further down, noticing he seemed to have traded his disheveled clothes for a more put together yet laid back style. A white t-shirt under a black blazer that seems far too formal for school drop off and a snug pair of dark wash jeans.

You shouldn’t be ogling him like this, but your brain is having a hard time controlling itself.

“Hello?”

You must have zoned out pretty hard because you didn’t realize he was standing so close now, and attempting to get your attention.

“Oh— H-hi! Sorry, I was lost in thought there for a second.” You can feel your face heating up, trying to get your thoughts together.

“Hi, I’m Wren’s teacher—“

“I’m Dieter, Wren’s Uncle—“

You both attempt to introduce yourselves, speaking at the same time, hands knocking into each other awkwardly before properly situating for a shake.

Heat begins to rise in your body, you’re completely flustered by his subdued energy and the way he’s looking at you with his soft brown eyes.

“Sorry— you first, please.”

“I’m Dieter, Wren’s Uncle. Diem asked if I could drop her off, said she already had it called into the front office.”

“Yes— yes! Sorry, I must have not looked over my notes thoroughly this morning and missed that message.”

“I like your mug.” Pointing to your Van Gogh mug you forgot you were holding, he laughs as he reads the message on the front.

As if you didn’t know what was already on it, you instinctively lift the mug to view it, like it was your first time seeing it.

“T-thanks, a student gave it to me last year and it’s kind of become my favorite one to use for school, I’ll be sad if something ever happens to it.” You internally cringe at your tendency to over share, words just aimlessly falling from your mouth, trying to mask your nervousness.

“Keep it safe then. Anyways— I’m an actor, as Wren so kindly informed you. I normally live down in LA when I’m not shooting movies, but I’m—I’m taking some time off, no movies or anything at the moment, going to spend a few months with my sister and Wren, help out however I can.”

Ah! There it is, the “I’m an actor” spiel making the attraction you felt towards him flee instantly. While he may be a new cleaned up version of the Dieter Bravo you met a year ago, he’s still just a typical Hollywood actor who likes to talk about himself at any chance he can get. Having had your fair share of run-ins with actors before, they’re all the same as far as you’re concerned— his career holds zero significance to you in any way.

Releasing a heavy sigh as you remember Diem’s plea to be on your best behavior, you school your annoyance at his mentioning of it.

But unbeknownst to you, he can sense your lack of interest in what he’s saying and decides his introduction is over.

Thankfully, you’re literally and figuratively saved by the bell.

“Well, I better let you get to your class then.”

“Yeah— I’m sure I’ll see you around Mr. Bravo. Have a great day.”

You turn towards your desk hastily placing your mug down in exchange for a stack of worksheets, then making your way to the front of the class to get your lesson started.

“1-2-3, eyes on me! Good morning everyone! Please get a pencil while I pass these papers out.”

Dieter stands in the doorway, observing your interactions with your students, a stark contrast to the coldness you’d given him at the end of your conversation.

The rest of the day flew by once it started, the short interaction with Dieter unfortunately flitted through your mind more than you'd have liked it to. But you didn’t let your aversion towards him have any effect on your day.

After closing up your class and dropping off attendance sheets in the front office, you made your way home, looking forward to an evening of drinks and gossip.

A quick change out of your school clothes into some jeans, T-shirt and flip-flops, you filled your canvas tote with a chilled bottle of white wine and the cheeses you’d told Diem you’d bring over.

Being that it’s roughly a 5 minute walk from your house to Diem’s. The neighborhood is quiet most days, giving you a chance to really enjoy the ambiance of everyone’s front gardens and a few neighborly ‘Hello’s’ as you stroll down the sidewalk.

Nearing Diem’s house, noticing her car in the driveway, a sense of relief washes over you at the thought of Dieter being out and the chance of running into him would be slim. You were ready to unwind for the evening.

Front door unlocked, you let yourself in— both of you exchanging keys early on in your friendship in the off chance there was an emergency or one of you showed up to a locked door.

Hearing Diem rustling around in her pantry, not hearing your arrival, you decide to start unpacking your tote and announce your presence.

“You have no idea how much I need this tonight Diem!”

Not hearing a response from her, you continue placing things on her counter and continue to spill to her.

“Also! Would have been nice to have a heads up that your brother would be dropping Wren off— was not prepared for that. But what a difference a year makes, he looks good, definitely was attracted to him for a split second— sorry I know you don’t want to hear that, but honestly such a difference from my first interaction with him being when I was yelling at him for being strung out in your bathroom.”

Still no word from her as you open the bottle of wine and unwrap the cheeses in preparation for the evening.

“You’d be so proud of me too! I was on my best behavior despite how much I was annoyed with listening to him talk about himself— Hey, did you happen to get those crackers with the figs and olives?? I grabbed that honey goat cheese that we like to eat with them.”

The silence carries on from the pantry. No more movement. No sign of Diem.

“Diem? You okay? Hey, I’m sorry— I shouldn’t have mentioned your brother being attractive— and I honestly was really nice to him. I mean, at least I think I was.”

You can hear Diem finally making her way to join you in the kitchen.

Only when you look up, prepared to give her a big welcoming smile, your face immediately fades into a look of surprise when you realize it’s not Diem at all— it’s her brother, Dieter.

“Diem’s not home.”

“Oh fuck—”

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x fem!reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #pedro pascal #sweet creature series #wildemaven writes #pedrostories

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shesjustanothergeek · 1 year

Text

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Five

Master List of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I appreciate your support as this story progresses. Make sure to check every two weeks for an update! Honestly, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have continued this story because it's just so messed up, but even so, thank you once again.

Chapter Warnings: Larys Strong jump scare

"Let me out of here!" You screamed, pounding on the guest chamber doors. "What is wrong with you, people? You have no reason to keep me here!"

Ma must have been worried to death by now, scowering across Kings Landing and pulling any strings she could. How had you been so stupid? So immature to follow a strange man that could put you in chains if he so wished. Ma was right. She had always been right about everything, and you were too caught up in your selfish desires to see it.

Aegon was a sick and twisted man. A vile, wretched, disgusting creature to ever be blessed by The Mother. You slammed your fists into the solid wooden doors as you felt pain radiate up your arms, willing them to burst open. You refused to sit ideally and become Aegon's plaything. You slept in a room next to the women who were, seeing what men like him do.

You were unashamed by the tears that streaked your cheeks, the snot that ran down your lip, and the back of your throat. Anyone being kept as a High-Born prisoner would feel the same way.

You couldn't wrap your mind around it-- around everything that had happened in the past days. Your absent father coming to pay you a visit, the heated argument with Ma, Aegon whisking you away for a night of fun and debauchery.

Nothing made sense. You were the daughter of a dead whore and a loafer, raised by a brothel madam on the streets of Flea Bottom. The Targaryen madness people gossiped about must be true; Aegon was proof of it.

The fight refused to die out, kicking at the doors as your sore arms shook. Your leathered foot nearly collided with a man as the doors opened, his cane stopping you. You were stunned, not expecting to have your freedom given to you so soon, but that hope did not last long as they locked behind your guest.

"Who are you," you questioned the limp man heatedly, ready to throw hands at any moment.

"Forgive me, my lady," he bowed, his body leaning onto his intricate stick. "I am Lord Larys of House Strong," he answered politely as if he were speaking to royalty.

"You say that as if it means something to me," you quipped. Lord Strong walked further into your prison chambers, tired from standing so long and resting on a plush armchair. He smiled as he sat, inviting you to the one opposite him, but your feet stood planted, arms crossed.

"I do not expect it to, my lady. Being the younger, unimportant brother of House Strong is not a trait many people consider to be remarkable." He spoke in riddles as if he knew something you didn't and was proud of it, disdain hidden within his messages.

"You are Ser Harwin 'Breakbones' brother," you said more for yourself than anything.

"Yes, my late brother," he answered, bowing his head in respect. He showed all the proper body language of someone in mourning, but you could not hear a whisper of sadness. You tilted your head, stepping closer to him but leaving enough room away from his cane if need be.

"Ah yes," you smiled mirthfully, squinting your eyes as you studied him. "Your sudden inheritance of Harrenhal must have come as quite a shock. Your poor family finally meeting the Stranger. But how fortunate for you, I suppose."

If it were any other circumstance, speaking to a Lord as this would end with a flogging, perhaps a missing tongue, to ensure you never made the same mistake again. But this was nothing of the ordinary.

He chuckled sarcastically, shifting his cane as he shook his head. Lord Larys was not a man to be trusted. He embodied everything your fellow common folk poked fun at during the drinking hour. He had a pompous attitude, like he knew more than everyone around him, with elegant dark clothing and short, well-trimmed hair. The only difference was that he did not seem one for gossip and parties. You assumed it was because of his deformity, nobles not wanting to be around such a "cripple."

Lord Larys didn't need a sword or army to conquer his enemies. He only need a few moments within the conversation background, a few slips of secrets into one's ear to cause chaos. That was what made him dangerous.

"I enjoy your sense of humor," he laughed, looking underneath his lashes at you, "it reminds me greatly of someone I know. Perhaps you will meet him soon." He laughed again, a joke you were not in on.

"Speak plainly, Lord Strong; I tire of your games."

Oh, you so greatly reminded him of that certain someone.

He hummed, slouching back into the chair and lifting his lousy leg to cross over the other. "I know your stay here in the Red Keep is not voluntary," he began, and you rolled your eyes. "I wanted to be the first to speak with you. Become a sort of confidant, my lady."

"I have no need to align myself with you. You have nothing of value," you quipped, pacing to sit in the chair across from him. The man was intelligent. He could read body language like a traditional Westerosi book, writing notes in the margin of his mind for later,

"Then, let me be the first to water our newly planted friendship," Lord Larys grinned, looking away for a moment as he thought of his next word carefully. "You wish to know why you are being kept here, yes?" You refused to answer, only scowling at his smug figure.

"They believe you are the bastard child of Prince Daemon Targaryen," said plainly. You threw your head back in a laugh as your hands went to your beating chest.

"You wish to start our friendship with a lie? Men are truly unbelievable." You shook your head as your mind returned to the King's eldest son. "Did Aegon put you up to this?" You asked suddenly, not finding the humor in this anymore.

"Of course not, my lady. Do you genuinely believe I would lie to you? I, a man at a significant disadvantage, am begging for the allyship of a Princess. As a young girl being thrown into a den of vipers, surely you would want a knife to cut off the heads?"

"Not when the very hand who gave it to me was one of them. The hilt laced with poison." Lord Larys stood, using his cane for support as he slowly made his way over to you, his lips in a tight purse.

"I do hope you consider my offer. It would be advantageous for us both to become allies, not enemies."

His words hung in the thick air, an ominous feeling sinking into your stomach as he left the room, the door latching behind him. He only left you more confused, your heart nearly beating out of your chest as you tried the door one more time.

You were the daughter of Daemon Targaryen, his firstborn, his bastard with black hair and brown eyes, the child of a dead whore, a member of House Targaryen.

You were a dragon born of fire and blood.

You should have been running around the marketplace this time of day, stealing until your pockets bulged with fruits as the City Watchmen struggled to keep up with you, but instead, you sat in the great armchair inside a gilded cage, staring out of the pane-glass windows.

You never imagined yourself as someone who would miss the foul stench of small folk in high summer, but here you sat, your chin resting on your hand as your nose was filled with the sick smells of amber and ash. To those who were not trapped in the palace, they would welcome the scents, but you, it only made your head hurt.

You needed to return home and find some way to escape these impenetrable stone walls, chisel teeth, and nails if necessary, but what would happen once you returned home? You were still in Kings Landing, where they could easily find you. Perhaps Essos or the North, where you could find your mother's family? They still had jurisdiction over the areas, but if you were far enough away...

The doors burst open without warning, a guard in armor you had not seen before marching into your elegant cell. He bowed his head, raising an arm across his breastplate as he announced your small gaggle of handmaids' arrival, leaving without another word.

You stared at them blankly, partially because you were still upset about being confined to this room and partly because you had no idea what to say. They saw you as royalty and not some common girl, treating you with respect someone of your raised status was not accustomed to.

"My name is Sara, your grace," she curtsied. Her voice matched her appearance. Seemingly around your age, with fair skin and pale blue eyes that starkly contrasted against her brown hair, a slight tremble in her hands. Their arms were full of extravagant dresses.

You still sat, blinking at them with no expression as Sara shifted the heavy gowns from one limb to the other. You were still determining what she wanted as the lack of conversation became awkward.

"May I sit your dresses on the bed, my lady," she asked quietly. You felt pity. What had this girl experienced to become so... small?

"Will they fit?" You decided to say, finally leaving your seat.

"I pray so," Sara said, seeming to be the pack's leader. A red-haired girl smiled slightly and looked at the thick pile they had carried through the many floors of the Red Keep.

High fashion was gaudy. You ran your fingertips over the fabrics, feeling an array of cotton, wool, and silk of every color imaginable. You sorted through the piles out of curiosity and not because you wanted to see the fruits of the Targaryen's coin. It must have been Aegon's doing, getting you so many dresses.

Indeed they would not look through the wardrobes of the royal family for just a bastard. You could feel Sara's eyes on your back, taking note of the white streak in your hair as you grimaced at a hideous red dress.

One dress, thank the Seven, was not entirely terrible. You made no move to indicate you liked the creamy bronzed gown, its enchanting tan designs glimmering in the candlelight, its sleeves cut halfway down the arm, and wrists flowing with an accent of fabric.

It was alright, you thought, moving the other heavy materials away.

"Beautiful choice, your grace," a girl who had yet to speak complimented, grabbing it and quickly taking you behind a decorated partition as the others hurried out of the room. She grabbed the laces of your dress, untieing them without a second thought. You gasped, raising onto the tips of your toes as you attempted to gather purchase.

"My Gods what in the Hell do you eat? You are stronger than half the Kings army!" You nearly fell backward as she yanked the threads out of their holes.

"My apologies, your grace. I did not mean to hurt you," she said in a rushed tone, dragging your dirty clothes to the floor. "We have a bath drawn for you, and I do not want the water to get chill."

You heard the several other maids return, their footfalls sounding shuffled as a loud 'thump' vibrated the floor. You peeked around the partition as the redhead attempted to comb through your knotted hair, the brass teeth catching on one.

Once nearly half of your dark hair was pulled from your scalp and you naked as a babe, she ushered you to a round wooden tub, vapors rising above the water. With your mouth agape, she removed your dirty smock, and two other women helped you in. You could have laid there for hours, inhaling the relaxing smell of Clarey Sage and Lavender as they scrubbed the sweat and oil from your skin.

Unbeknownst to you, another person also enjoyed your bath, observing how the woman rinsed your hair. Aegon wished it was him kneeling beside the tub, watching the water drip down your neck and into the pool, rubbing oils over your delicate breasts. He watched from the crack in a secret passageway as they helped you, wrapping a thick cotton towel around your damp body. He sipped at a goblet he brought with him, the cool Arbor Red sliding down his throat. Not even his favorite drink could quench his thirst as he watched you ready.

Your handmaid ushered you to a vanity, rich mahogany with intricate designs carved into the wood. One brushed your damp hair, as the others laid out some cosmetics. A fine white powder dusted onto your face with a puff to get rid of any shine, crushed rose petals mixed with animal fat to create a balm, and a subtle rouge on your cheeks.

You had not realized how much effort went into becoming presentable with nobility. The most you had ever done was do a washing once a week with the other ladies of the house. Your face felt heavy as if they had rubbed soot onto your skin, but what you saw in the mirror looked as if nothing had changed. Though you had a light flesh-toned powder, redder cheeks, and stained lips, you still looked like you. Your natural features enhanced, and you felt like a... royal. Like you truly were born of Targaryen descent.

"Why am I dressing like this, Sara?" You asked, eyes downcast as a blonde servant braided your hair, staring at your white streak of hair.

"You will meet Prince Daemon soon, and he will escort you to dinner." You turned to face Sara as she compared different pieces of jewelry. The blonde yanked your head back in place as she continued.

You hadn't realized how hungry you were until Sara mentioned the prospect of food, your stomach suddenly feeling its emptiness. But once you processed you were going to see your father, the man Madam had kept you from all your life, nausea replaced it. You were glad you had not eaten today.

"It is nothing to worry about, my lady," the blonde said. You looked at her through the mirror, unconvinced. "My name is Caldia. I have served the Targaryens for many years now, and if I have learned one thing, it's that if Her Highness Princess Rhaenyra tells the Prince to do something, he will listen."

You weren't sure what that meant but didn't question her, nervously biting your red lip as she pinned the braids to your head.

Aegon wanted a better view of you, but he could only if he made himself known. His imagination was crazy with thoughts of what you looked like. What dress did you choose? Was it the color green? What hairstyle did you wear? Was your jewelry the pointed star of the Seven?

It was odd for him to be wondering such things. He never much cared for religion, let alone women's fashion; he was more focused on what lay underneath. He took another sip from his cup, a few dribbles spilling down his chin.

Caldia put her hands on your shoulders and gave you an encouraging smile as Sare put a silver bracelet on your wrist. "I am frightened," you confessed as you stood, wrapping your arms around your torso.

The four women, now yours to command, exchanged nervous glances. They knew about as much as you and could offer no words of comfort. Not one to let people suffer, Sara grabbed your hand and leaned close to your ear.

"Madam has eyes everywhere. Just give her time," she whispered. You wanted to gasp but held it back, not wanting to make any other girls suspicious.

Eyes were everywhere in the Red Keep.

Two Kingsguard stood stiff at their post outside Prince Daemon's chambers, watching you with expectant eyes, breathing deeply. The bodice of your borrowed dress constricted your chest, frying your nerves. You pulled a piece of loose skin with your teeth, feeling the soft trickle of blood into your mouth as you gave the men a curt nod.

The doors opened with a loud clang of metal and a groan of wood, revealing what seemed to be a dark empty room lit only by a fire out of view. They did not announce your arrival. There was no need. The Rogue Prince was expecting you as his chamber doors shut.

You walked further in, your leather shoes tapping on the hard floor, as you saw a lithe man standing at the hearth. It was Prince Daemon; there was no one else it could be as you heard him sigh and lean against the fireplace. You were moments away from meeting your father, to a man you only knew by name. Neither of you spoke, you observing the stranger and him watching the flames.

"They say I am your daughter," you spoke with a small amount of courage. "That you are my father. But how can they claim a man who I have never met be called my father?" Though they were calm, there was a hint of malice behind your words.

You heard him snicker as he turned to you, a smirk on his face, still leaning on the hearth.

"Come," he said, inviting you to watch the dancing orange flames contained by metal. "Who is your mother?"

"My mother is dead." Daemon pursed his lips, shifting. "But her name was Elaina Black." The hole that she left still bleeds, even years later.

"How did she die," he asked, eyes never leaving their spot.

"In childbirth. A few weeks after I was born."

You couldn't read his emotions, his face blank but contemplative. A man this quiet did not fit the title of Rogue Prince.

"Come," Daemon said again, leaving his spot and going to a small table with a metal box. He flipped the latch, revealing a deep blue velvet lining, a necklace, and a matching pair of earrings. The onyx-colored jewels reflected like a lake, a midnight pool encased in steel.

You were speechless. This was the first time you had received a gift such as this. Your mouth hung open as word failed. Daemon motioned you to turn so he could clasp the necklace, the black crystals contrasting your soft, creamy dress.

"What is it," you questioned, gently stroking the fine accessories, still trying to remember your manners.

You could form no thoughts, no words other than what was expected of you. "It is zīrtys perzys, Dragon Glass, gathered from the mines of your home, Dragonstone. And Valyrian steel, some lasts of its kind."

Your home

"Thank you, Prince Daemon. This gift..." you struggled to form a sentence. "Is the greatest gift I have ever received." You spun, doing an awkward mix of a bow and curtsy. The jewelry was extravagant like all royal fashion was, yet tasteful, even if it didn't match your attire.

"No need for that. You are a Targaryen; we bow to no man except the King," he proclaimed, briskly walking to the exit.

You stood there confused. That was it? No questions or apologies for abandoning you?

"That is it, then," you exclaimed before you could catch it. "No apologies for the years of believing my father did not love me enough to visit? To raise me as any good man should?" Prince Daemon turned around, standing in a defensive but relaxed stance as you stormed over to him. "No condolences for the loss of a mother? For the loss of a family?"

"You have been brought to me now. That is all that matters."

Your face scrunched up in confusion, gesturing your hands in a stop motion and shaking your head. High-Borns were really that emotionally stunted.

"That is not all that matters, Prince Daemon. Do you have no concerns about how your child was raised? If I am even your child," you added, done with the treatment you have received from these Targaryen men. If this was how they all acted, you wanted no part.

"I am your father, and you are my bastard. This discussion is finished," he declared, finally letting some anger slip through his facade.

"Why," you yelled, going closer to him, "how do you know? How do you know?"

"Because I have always known! I have always known that there were bastards of mine running around Flea Bottom!" He charged towards you, grabbing you by your biceps with the strength of ten men, shaking you as a vein popped from his forehead. "You are the only one who has lived long enough to claim the title publicly!"

You settled, fear replacing anger at the implication.

"You... You murdered your own children?" Daemon said nothing, his face red as he stared.

It all made sense now. Why Ma did what she did, why she hid you from everyone, why your entire life was spent smothered into her bosom, it wasn't simply her being overprotective. She was saving you from death, from the man who gave you an extravagant present, from the man who went from being aloof to screaming, from the man who stood right in front of you.

Your father could not be as vile as him. You wanted the hands of this filicidal maniac gone.

You grimaced, mustering all the saliva you could and spitting it on the Rogue Prince's cheek. Why would he hesitate with you if he already called so many of his kin?

He let go, and you scrambled out of the way, not wanting to face his wrath.

Instead of being met with the sharp blade of Dark Sister, you heard a laugh. A genuine and honest laugh.

Daemon had a pleased look on his pale face, the same look Lord Strong gave you hours earlier but smug. He knew what to say to boil your dragon blood because you were the same as all of the true Targaryens.

"You're a mad man!" You shouted, looking frightened.

"You are my child," he declared, sauntering over to clap a hand on your shoulder. "Enough with this fun. Let us eat. I have gown rather hungry."

You had a sense of Deja Vu before the wide entrance of the dining hall, only this time, you were not alone. Next to you was your supposed father. You chewed on your lip nervously, pulling the thin scab that covered your marks from earlier.

So many things were left unanswered you had no idea where to begin.

Your mother was a prostitute; how could he be sure? How did he not know she was pregnant? That is not an easy thing to hide. How many brothers and sisters did you potentially have, was Daemon the monster Ma believed him to be, and who was watching you now, ready to report back to her?

"This is unnerving," you decided to say, not brave enough to voice your questions yet. He snorted, his eyebrows raising for a moment before he shifted his weight and took your arm in his.

"It is unnecessary, but is that not all customs to those unaware?" You mimicked his expressions but turned your gaze down, retaking your lip between your teeth. "Stop that," he chided as a father would, and you obeyed. You couldn't help it; the feeling came as an instinct.

Two guards opened the doors, and another from inside the dining room announced your presence to the family that sat upon the great table. As you walked arm-in-arm with Daemon, you became even more ridged than the crown's sworn protectors.

Master List of Series

Sorry for the no smut in this chapter. Quite dull, actually, but we have to lay the ground before the real action can happen, baby. Also, this is the dress the MC is wearing, and the necklace and earrings Daemon gave her. :)

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Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @buckysmainhxe, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @minttea07, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @brezzybfan, @dd12004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfilit, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress , @bellameshipper, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @buckylahey, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme

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