#dawn of redeeming grace | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lauraneedstochill · 1 year

Text

The object of my desires

summary: You overhear Aemond making a snarky remark about the way you dress. You decide to teach him a lesson.

warnings: friends to lovers (both are idiots), a dash of angst, Aegon gets punched (but he redeems himself), a lot of teasing, things get very heated (NSFW: it is smut but not very detailed so don't get your hopes up), with a sprinkle of softness

words: ~6500 (it was supposed to be shorter but they started making out...)

author's note: the idea first popped into my head months ago when I saw this post. also, for the longest time I've been thinking that “you are the bane of my existence” monologue is a perfect fit for Aemond — and yet I haven't seen a single fic * using that quote?! so I finally decided to give it a try.

If anyone asked you to describe your relationship with Aemond, you would’ve said that the two of you were almost friendly. The almost part was the trickiest one to explain because, even though both of you acted very content with the way of things, you still couldn’t help but think that you wanted something more, no matter how much you’ve tried to deny it.

You got to know him through Helaena who you befriended when you were ten and six. A year older than you, she was the weird girl no one wanted to talk to and you approached her out of curiosity but soon learned that she had a cheerful nature and quite a nimble mind. She loved your sharp sense of humor and energetic wit and the two of you became close, your contrasting personalities complimenting each other very well.

Your introduction to her brothers was brief and for a couple of months, you didn’t interact with either of them. She’s been married to Aegon for four years back then and even though he immediately didn’t strike you as a faithful husband — always a cup away from being wasted and shamelessly gazing at every maid’s legs — he mostly looked harmless. Aemond, however, was the exact opposite — guarded and collected, he kept his distance from everyone, making it clear that it was his choice. You could only get a good look at the prince when you were passing the training yard, and a couple of times you found your gaze lingering on him — on the lean body and tense muscles, on the way he moved the sword with ease. In those moments you felt the danger radiating off him, yet it never scared you away. But you knew better than to fawn over the prince who seemingly paid you no mind.

A significant change came on the evening of Aegon’s ten and ninth birthday which Helaena begged you to come to — you weren’t fond of big events but couldn’t say no to her. For the most part, the feast was tolerable as you’ve spent it by her side, making glib remarks about the guests, much to your friend’s amusement. But when the celebration died down and all the nobles began to disperse, Aegon, drunk out of his mind, decided to make advances toward his wife whom he ignored for the duration of the evening. His approach was harsh and unexpected, and the look on Helaena’s face shuttered your heart.

“Your grace, your manners escape you,” you tried warning him, shielding your friend but Aegon was too wasted to notice your fiery gaze. In his inebriated state, he probably mistook you for a maid as he grabbed your arm in an effort to shove you aside. Next thing you know, your fist connected with his nose — and then Aegon was lying on the floor, eyes wide and blood gushing down his face as you stood next to him, fuming. Before he could think of an answer, Aemond appeared out of nowhere — just in time to drag his brother away, while the drunkard was hurling insults at you in a frenzy. Only when they left, it dawned on you what you just did.

You expected for the king’s guard to come for your head in the morrow, but instead, a few surprising things happened. First, you learned that the boys didn’t rat you out, making it look like they were the ones who got into a fight. Aegon did apologize to Helaena and from that day, his temper softened as he never dared to repeat his mistake. But, most importantly, Aemond took a sudden interest in you.

Overall, his behavior stayed the same, but you regularly caught him looking in your direction, and every time you saw each other, he made sure to acknowledge your presence. He never initiated the conversation first, only sometimes curtly voicing his opinion, yet you noticed him paying attention to your chattering with Helaena — and you could swear that a few times he suppressed a laugh at your jokes.

The mystery veil that the prince was surrounded with sparked your curiosity, and you wanted to crack down his guard, to get a chance to know him. The opportunity presented itself one day when Helaena and you came to watch Aemond train. You saw him and Criston arguing as the prince was late to his studies but Cole refused to let Aemond leave until he wins the last bout. Whether he wasn’t in the right mood or had something distracting him, Aemond kept losing, and his teacher only pushed him further, relentless in his attempts.

“Ser Criston, you’re putting yourself in harm's way,” you chimed in, making the man turn to you with a chuckle, while Aemond gave you a tired look.

“May it be that the finest swordsman of the realm is simply avoiding his responsibilities?” you suggested with a light grin.

“Mayhaps he is in need of some encouragement, lady Y/N,” Cole teased.

“Well, I would've volunteered to share the burden of learning with him,” you remark. “If only he could win this one bout,” you added, keeping eye contact with the prince.

It took Aemond about two minutes to knock his opponent to the ground which made Helaena gasp in surprise while you were trying to hide a smile. Without a word, Aemond came to you, and the two of you went to the library. On your way there, he kept silent, but you were not intimidated at all. When you walked into the room, Aemond hesitated as if giving you a chance to change your mind. But you boldly turned to him:

“If you mean to scare me with the prospect of studying, I should warn you that I've read more books than you can count,” you informed the prince.

It was the first time when you saw him smiling — widely and shamelessly, looking very smug.

“You are full of surprises, my lady,” he grinned. “Do you mean to challenge me?”

It turned out that Aemond liked challenges, and you enjoyed being one. Since that day, you got into the habit of joining him in the library and the prince would accompany you in his free time more often than not. You would dare him to read faster, to fight harder, to engage in conversations — or sometimes to simply have fun. Whenever you had a reason to disagree with him, he was always respectful and found himself entertained by your way of thinking, which made your discussions and even arguments span for hours.

As years went by, you kept playfully bantering back and forth, and Helaena told you that you were the only one allowed to act like that around her brother. You couldn’t understand what his motives were but it was hard to deny that his company was pleasant. Aemond grew up into quite an eligible bachelor and his attention did flatter you, even though he never crossed the line. Sometimes you even dared to entertain the thought that maybe — just maybe — Aemond had a soft spot for you.

Until one day things took a turn.

Helaena’s twentieth birthday was meant to be just another celebration that you would’ve skipped if it wasn’t for her. The only way for you to pass the time was dancing which you’ve actually come to love in recent years, enjoying the rhythm of the music that helped to lighten your mood. Your dear friend mostly preferred to sit back so you were often compelled to find yourself a company that would be bearable, at the very least.

That evening, you got acquainted with Jacaerys Velaryon, the boy being younger than you but a foot taller. He approached you with a small smile on the pretext of knowing Helaena, and you soon learned that he was a good dancer. But the best thing about Jace was that he spend most of his time talking about his betrothed, Baela, who he was absolutely smitten with. The girl sadly couldn’t be present as she had to stay with her dad, who recently sailed home, and the dark-haired boy couldn’t keep his mouth shut. All the time while dancing he was either gushing about her or asking your advice, which you found adorable and gladly chatted with him.

Throughout the feast, you felt Aemond looking at you, probably more than usual. You knew that he wasn't fond of dancing and even though his gaze on you felt rather good, deep down you wished that he was the one you were spending time with. After a couple of hours, however, you saw his usual spot empty, and the prince was nowhere to be found. For some reason, you got a very bad feeling and, after leaving Jace to take a break, you went to Helaena. She informed you that Aemond left not so long ago, adding that it looked like her brother was upset about something.

That's how you ended up roaming through the castle halls, giving in to the unsettling feeling churning in your stomach. Passing by one of the chambers, you suddenly hear voices and realize that it's Aemond talking to his brother. You don’t mean to eavesdrop and were about to turn around — but then Aegon mentions your name.

“You are foolish to wait for so long. You could’ve at least asked Y/N for a dance,” his remark is followed by gulping sounds. Is he ever without a cup? You hold back a giggle — which quickly disappears when you hear Aemond’s answer:

“I prefer not to waste my time on such futile activities,” and his voice is unexpectedly grim.

“You may want to reconsider when the lady has every man’s attention. Even the Velaryon boy was pretty much drooling,” he chuckles, and his words make your brows furrow as you are certain he has no ground to suggest that. You’re a moment away from drowning in doubts, but the younger prince brings you back to reality.

“I suppose it's hard not to, with the way she's been dressing lately,” Aemond deadpans.

He says it with a flat tone — yet it feels like a punch that knocks all of the air out of your lungs. There's a brief pause — and Aegon sounds almost sober when he asks, with a hint of surprise in his voice:

“And what about her dresses?”

“I found them to be... rather bawdy. Although I’m not impressed in the slightest,” Aemond forces out.

Your heart sinks at his words, cheeks heating up. You wait for him to say anything else, to give an explanation, at least one reason for his accusations but there is none. Aegon laughs — and you feel sick to your stomach, realizing that you cannot bear listening to their conversation any longer.

You walk away as quietly as possible, with cotton feet and your hands shaking. You rush past the hall and out of the castle, tears pricking in your eyes. Only once you're all alone, embraced by the silence of the night, you take a deep breath of air. Aemond’s words are ringing in your ears, loud and clear. You look down at your dress in disbelief: the neckline is basically non-existent, your arms are fully covered, and it barely shows any skin at all. And yet he thinks this is inappropriate?

Your cheeks are wet and burning yet you feel anger bubbling in your chest. You never thought Aemond could be cruel — and yet it’s him, out of all people, who let those vile words slip out of his mouth like they meant nothing. Like you meant nothing to him. For years, you heard people calling him cold-hearted and arrogant but you were naive to believe that the prince made an exception for you. Out of all the mistakes you’ve made so far, this one might’ve been the most painful one.

Your outrage spreads like a wildfire as you think back to every interaction you’ve had with Aemond, his every glance and every word that fooled you into thinking that he cared. Was he secretly criticizing you the whole time? How many other jokes did he make behind your back? Who even gave him the right to judge whether your dresses are acceptable or not? As if he is any different from all the other men whose brains turn into mush when they get a glimpse of a female body.

You stop dead in your tracks when an idea suddenly forms in your head. It’s very uncharacteristic of you — at first, you hesitantly brush it off, thinking that it’s not wise to make any emotional decisions. And yet the idea keeps nagging at you for the remainder of the night and for a few hours you ponder if you should take such a brazen approach. But then his unkind remark pops back in your memory — over and over and over.

By the time the morning comes, you make up your mind.

He says he isn’t impressed in the slightest? There is only one way to find out for sure.

On the very next day, you take Helaena for a walk in the garden, well aware that her brothers will accompany you as Aegon doesn’t have anything else to do and Aemond prefers to take a stroll after his training. Your dress is close-fitted yet modest, not an inch shorter than necessary. It is not about the dress but what’s underneath it — and the object in question clinks lightly with your every step. You show it to Helaena right away and she finds it delightful, the jingling only making her smile. Then her siblings come to join you, you curtsy but barely spare Aemond a glance. You don’t ask a single question about his day, instead taking interest in Aegon. The older prince gives you a suspicious side-eye but welcomes the chatting. It doesn’t take long before he notices the sound, too.

“Am I the only one who can hear the clinking? I am almost certain that it’s not just in my head,” he debates.

“Oh, it’s Y/N’s doing,” Helaena beams unsuspectingly.

“Apologies, my prince, it’s my aunt’s gift that caught your ear,” you slow down and take a few seconds to make sure you’ve got everyone’s attention.

And then, with one gentle motion, you pull up your dress — ever so slightly, just enough to show your ankle and the thin bracelet wrapped around it. The jewelry is made out of gold and it instantly catches the sunlight, casting warm sparkles on your skin. It’s decorated with tiny coins which make a jingling sound as you slowly turn your leg from side to side.

“I thought it was rather pretty. Don’t you think?” you only look at Aegon.

“Umm yes,” he gulps. “Rather pretty it is,” the prince mumbles, and then his gaze shifts to someone else. You don’t need to turn your head to know who he’s looking at. Instead, you continue with your walk without a care in the world.

“I should ask my aunt to bring you a similar one, my dear,” you suggest to Helaena and she eagerly agrees.

You have a few other gifts for Aemond, too.

Next time you opt for a different bracelet — with no coins and no jingling, a simple golden chain. But your dress is a tad bit shorter and the jewelry catches everyone’s eye with ease as it looks like a ray of light curled around your ankle. You deliberately walk through the training yard, arm-in-arm with Helaena. You give Ser Christon the brightest smile, and he politely nods in your direction.

“Good morrow, ladies.”

“How's your training coming along, Ser Criston?” you ask, and it feels strange to talk to him instead of Aemond. You bitterly remind yourself that you apparently overstated the value of those conversations.

“I'm afraid, we are hardly progressing. Mayhaps you will keep us company? I fear, we are in need of some cheerful words,” Cole shoots a glance at the prince who stands by, his eye fixed on you.

“Aren’t we all, Ser Criston,” you tilt your head at him. “But it seems like my pursuit of lessening your burden did nothing good,” and before he can ask anything else, you walk away, ignoring Aemond completely.

Helaena senses that something is off, giving you a worried look:

“Is there anything troubling you, Y/N?”

“Not when I'm with you, my friend,” you reassure her and force your smile to look as believable as possible.

Partially, it is true as her company always brings you joy and you don’t want to sour her mood by recalling Aemond's words that wounded your pride. You refuse to admit that he also grazed your heart.

In a week, you accept Helaena’s invitation to join them for breakfast and you decide to up your game. It's the perfect time of year for sleeveless dresses but the one you pick also has a daring addition: two thin cuts under your armpits. They are barely visible but when you put your arms up, it's easy to distinguish the contour of your ribcage and the softness of your skin peeking through.

You sit by Helaena's side, easily keeping up with the conversation and not glancing at Aemond once. After the food is taken away and everyone starts wandering around the room, you get up to fix your hair, standing not too far away from the dining table as you raise your hands and run your fingers into your hairdo.

“May I offer assistance?” Aegon leans on the wall next to you, his mouth curling into a smile.

You roll your eyes and are about to shush him when he quietly adds:

“I know what you are doing,” you turn your gaze to him, and he winks at you. “From the look on my brother’s face, I can tell you that it’s working.”

You fight the urge to look at Aemond.

“I’m afraid I can’t share your concerns,” you are fiddling with hairpins absentmindedly.

Aegon shoots a glance over your shoulder and then back at you:

“He seems pretty bothered to me. Also pissed, but that may be my doing.”

“Look at you, my little helper,” you ramble as the cool air sneaks into the cuts of your dress, and you slightly quaver.

“Well, if you are ever in need of a helping hand...”

“I will not hesitate to stick this pin into your eye,” you cut him off.

“No need!” Aegon throws up his hands, cackling. “I'd like to keep them both. So I can have a better look at my brother’s reaction when you do... whatever you plan on doing,” the shit-eating grin on his face tells you that he is enjoying this.

But when you turn around and suddenly make eye contact with Aemond, your own enjoyment fades. You notice his frown and the probability of you being the reason for it doesn’t bring any satisfaction. You let Helaena lead you away, feeling his gaze on your back as you walk out.

You do not yield to your emotions, continuing with your plan, as days turn into weeks, and then a month goes by without you as much as sharing a word with Aemond. Truth be told, you want nothing more than to stay away from him at all costs but you will not give him the satisfaction. He said he didn’t like the way you dress — and you make sure he sees every single dress you are in. You stay within the bounds of decency as you definitely have no intention to disgrace yourself, and none of your dresses are borderline scandalous, contrary to what any prince may think. You deign to let him see the curve of your neck with your hair up high, the bending of your shoulders and the sunkissed skin of your arms, the arc of your knees and mere glimpses of the upper part of your legs. You leave the rest to his imagination — granted, he has a good one considering how much time he spends reading.

During the second month, his patience starts running out.

In the years you've known Helaena, you learned all the ins and outs of the castle, so you manage to avoid Aemond at first, vanishing from his sight when needed. But, as time passes, you notice that he is tempted to talk to you, and escaping that possibility becomes harder with each day. One morning, when you walk into the yard, Aemond abruptly stops his training upon seeing you, and the two of you just stare at each other for a second, both startled and holding your breath. You are saved by Ser Criston, who calls for the prince, distracting him, giving you a chance to leave, and you all but run away.

After that day, you temporarily cease your visits to the castle, deciding to take a break and make up weak excuses to Helaena. Only now that you were apart, you realize how much you miss Aemond’s physical presence. His sudden, fleeting touches — to help you out of a carriage or to steady you after a fit of laughter, your hands brushing when you share books, his fingers sometimes lightly grazing your waist for the reason you are yet to know. You haven't talked to him for days, let alone felt him in your close proximity, and yet he's constantly on your mind. Somewhere in the midst of it all, you wake up at night realizing you yearn for him terribly. You wish you could go back to that damn evening of the feast, to confront him right away, to maybe get some clarification. But now too much time has passed and you’re too wrapped up in... whatever you plan on doing, so your ego insists that giving up isn’t an option.

When you receive the invitation for Aegon’s name day, you are ready to decline, but then begrudgingly decide to give it one last chance. You practice the look of indifference, the nonchalant tone, the proud gait, and you pull out your best dress. It’s green and the color is so bright, it dazzles the eyes, the material light and flowing — and yet, when you put it on, it feels incomplete. As you look in the mirror, the vivid tone of the fabric suddenly reminds you of something else. It’s a secret you once heard, a hushed conversation between the maids, one of which walked in on the prince when he wasn’t wearing his eyepatch. You only ponder for a minute and then reach for the jewelry piece that definitely will be hard not to notice.

The castle is crowded, and you are one of the last guests to arrive. Bracing yourself, you pause at the door for a second. Ser Harrold, who stands there, lets out a surprised hum.

“Should I take that as a sign of your disapproval?” you jest, watching his reaction.

“I wouldn’t dare to judge,'” he gives you a polite smile. “But I'm afraid all the men present are at risk of losing reason.”

His comment makes you chuckle and you step a bit closer, letting him take a better look:

“I thought it would match the occasion. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Ser Harrold, gods bless him, keeps his eyes on your face:

“As always, it is, lady Y/N.”

It gives you enough confidence to walk in, appearing in all your glory.

The dress is a perfect fit, with a slit down your right side and an open back. The front neckline isn't deep but in the middle of it there's a thin silver chain with a big, glittering sapphire — and the gem lays perfectly between your breasts. It’s only natural that everyone’s gaze is immediately drawn to the blue spark, all the men in the room gazing at it, voluntarily and not. But the effect their attention has is nothing compared to the wave of heat that warms your body when you feel a very particular gaze finally landing on you. You look right at him — and you catch him gawking, his lips slightly parted as he stares at the sapphire, too, almost in a trance. His hand is gripping a cup of wine with such force, you can see the whitening of his knuckles. When Aemond sharply glances up, your eyes lock for a second, and you look away first. So much for him not being impressed.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Jace waving at you to come sit with him, and you do not hesitate, letting the one-eyed prince out of sight.

You feel like his eye doesn't leave you for a second.

You are barely able to sit still while dining and let out a sigh of relief when it's time for dancing. You rush away from the table, thinking it will provide you with a distraction, and you will be glad for any partner if only he can move his legs and keep his mouth shut. You go to the end of the line, lost in your thoughts, and when you finally come to a stop and look to the other side — you see Aemond standing in front of you.

The tall prince with his hands clasped behind his back, wearing all black, stares at you in a way that makes the crowd around you disappear.

When the dance starts, you step toward each other, and he speaks up first.

“I couldn't help but notice your absence, lady Y/N. I find myself wondering what is the reason behind it,” his hand briefly touches yours, your bodies following the music.

“Your question is confusing, my prince. As I was merely doing you a favor,” you swap partners but Aemond only looks at you.

“Your leaving hardly favors me,” the prince says when you’re in his arms again. You feel a flicker of anger rising inside but keep your voice down.

“I was actually counting on you being relieved,” you snort, not looking at him. “Since, as it turned out, you were so displeased with my bawdy dresses,” with these words, you step away from him once more.

A minute later you come back to his side but don’t let him say a thing.

“I've always thought bawdy was just another word for a whore. So I suppose I should be glad that you at least had some decency to not stoop so low,” when your eyes meet, you think you've never seen him so hurt.

Before he can come up with an answer, you are out of his reach. Then you circle back to Aemond again, and this time your tone comes out hasher.

“I also wonder if you would be so brave to say all that to my face. But it seems that your bravery falters when confronted with the need to speak plainly.”

The rhythm of the music works in your favor, because whenever Aemond tries opening his mouth, you’re swooped away from him, and it gives you time to tighten your self-control. You think you should resent him for his silly words, for his heavy gaze, for him knowing how to dance even though he never once did that with you in all these years.

But you have no resentment for him. All of a sudden you realize what you are actually feeling.

And then the dance comes to an end.

You only curtsy out of politeness, averting your gaze:

“I will not vex you anymore, my prince.”

“Y/N, wait, I should —,” he tries to take your hand but you swerve away from him.

“I already promised the next dance to someone else,” you lie. “You are finally free of my company.”

At that very second, when you glance at him before leaving, he looks absolutely heartbroken. Or maybe you just imagined it in an attempt to ease your own pain.

Your feet carry you to the library on their own accord, and you’re too distraught to notice until you are already inside, in the dusty silence of the endless shelves. You take a hold of the nearest one, trying to catch your breath. You barely get a minute of solitude before you hear footsteps approaching. And it’s kind of pathetic how easy it is for you to guess who it is.

“Your tendency to run away from me is quite unnerving,” Aemond walks in with rapid strides, his voice laced with emotion you can’t read.

His words, however, trigger your reaction in no time.

“Maybe it is because I do not want to be in the company of someone who hurt me,” you turn to him, and he’s already only a couple of meters away. The dim lighting illuminates his silver hair, the outline of his broad shoulders, his eye is boring into you. He looks so beautiful in his frustration, your chest tightens at the sight.

“I would've apologized right away if only you let me speak,” the prince retorts.

“Did something hold you back from apologizing sooner? Or were you too preoccupied with being outraged by my clothing choices?” your heart skips a bit at the intensity of his stare but you refuse to break the eye contact.

“I never said I was outraged.”

“You weren't thrilled, either, you made that very clear.”

“You know nothing of my motives because you refuse to listen to me!” he raises his voice and it startles you. But he doesn’t sound angry.

Aemond is standing at arm’s length — and you can clearly see that his face expresses no signs of annoyance or hatred. Instead, he looks at you with longing.

The air in the room feels heavy.

You run your tongue over your lips to moisten them, and Aemond’s eye darts to your mouth.

“We can agree on one thing,” he drawls, his eye locking with yours again as he moves closer. You take a step back — and feel pressed against one of the shelves.

He speaks with his tone low:

“...You vex me to no end.”

With another step, Aemond towers over you, and when you look up, your faces are only inches apart, and his flaming gaze envelops you.

“You are the bane of my existence,” Aemond breathes out. “And the object of all my desires,” his voice breaks, and you feel him inhaling sharply.

His words are akin to a match that lights up a fire deep in you, the muscles of your stomach tightening involuntarily. With one finger he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, your breathing shuddering.

“I’m haunted by your image everywhere I go,” he rasps, his nose brushing yours. “Night and day, I dream of you,” his index finger moves under your chin, close to the pulsating point on your neck. You feel the heat spilling into the pit of your belly, and you want nothing more than for Aemond to kiss you.

“I was raised to act with honor, but that honor is hanging by a thread every minute I spend in your presence,” he whispers vehemently, his words hot against your mouth.

You are dizzy, breathless — and craving him. Everything else is forgotten, erased, nonexistent. It’s just you two.

“You are all I can think about,” you confess with a strangled voice, looking at Aemond through your lashes — and it sets him off.

His lips capture yours in an instant, claiming and burning with need. He pulls you closer, his hands on your back, and yours go up his shoulders to lock behind his neck. Aemond kisses you deeply, hungrily, sweeping his tongue over your lower lip and then sliding it in, intertwining with yours. One of his palms moves lower, outlining the curve of your hip, glides over your leg — and into the slit of your dress. He grabs your thigh, his thumb landing on the inner side of it, and he starts slowly massaging small circles on it. Him touching your bare skin elicits a moan from you and in the heat of the moment, as your mind goes blank and you can only focus on the pleasuring sensation, you spread your legs, and his finger slips higher — to the place where you want him the most.

He breaks the kiss in surprise, and you wait for it to dawn on him. To realize that you are, in fact, completely naked under the dress. You can feel arousal pooling between your legs, your body prickling with anticipation.

“I was under the impression that you owe me an apology,” you unabashedly murmur, looking him straight in the eye.

You don't know if it's a challenge or a plea — at this point, you do not care. Apparently, neither does Aemond, as he takes no time hoisting your leg up to his waist for better access, firmly holding it in place. Your respite barely lasts a few seconds before you feel his other hand cupping your sex, rubbing his fingers through your folds. You shut your eyes, gasping for air, as he unhurriedly smears your wetness — and then his finger dips into your core, the sensation making you shiver.

“Aemond,” you sign, your body trembling with desire.

Trying to inhale, you get a whiff of aroma, a mix of leather and salty ocean breeze — and all at once, you are surrounded by him. His scent, his warmth, his scorching touches, the taste that's left on your lips. He leaks into your every cell.

Aemond nuzzles into the crook of your neck, leaving wet kisses there, his finger picking up the pace.

“I've missed you,” he avows. “So fucking much,” he lightly nibbles the skin above your collarbone. “Missed hearing you say my name. Say it again.”

He doesn't need to ask twice — and the interweaving of letters rolls off your tongue with each breath:

“Aemond”

“Aemond.”

His name fills your mouth, leaving no space for air, your throat tight and breathing rapid. Aemond’s lips move down to your shoulder.

“Oh, the things I want to do to you,” he haltingly rambles, and the implication makes you clench around him, dragging a low groan from the prince.

He leaves a trail of kisses following the silver chain down to your breasts. The gem feels cold in contrast to your skin, and even though your head is clouded with lust, it triggers a memory. You move one of your shaking hands to his face, guiding it up to look at you again.

“I want to see the real thing,” you whisper, gazing at his eyepatch. “Let me. Please, let me.”

His hand between your legs doesn't stop its movement but the one on your thigh trembles. You are too caught up in the moment to think straight, and before he can answer, your fingers roughly remove the leather patch.

The sapphire glows like a beacon, the cold blue of it is dazzling and piercing through your blurred vision. The tones and shadows are interlacing, cyan melting into azure and dark blue, and it’s mesmerizing. Seeing him like this, stripped of his restrain and his disguise, is the most intimate, precious thing in the world.

“Gods, you are divine,” you moan, panting.

You catch a flash of emotion in his eye — before you can take another breath, his lips are on yours again. This kiss is steady and fervent, and while his mouth melts into yours, Aemond adds a second finger. It slides in with ease, and he builds up the speed that makes you swallow air. He’s terrifyingly good with his fingers, with his every move, precise and fast.

“Aemond,” you whimper in his mouth, but his lips keep chasing yours, and you can only follow, letting him take your breath away again and again. You lose track of time, lose yourself in his arms. His face is always close to yours, he breathes in every moan you make and keeps his gaze on you, watching you squirm, your cheeks flushed and lips quivering.

You helplessly whisper his name, and it comes out as a prayer, the coil in your stomach ready to snap. Aemond gives you a breathless smile:

“You do not need to beg me, ever,” he says in a husky voice. “I will give you anything you want,” with these words, he presses a thumb on your clit, resuming the well-known circling motion, making you choke on air.

It takes merely a few seconds for you to come undone, the wave of pleasure blinding and crushing over you. His lips are at the corner of your mouth, ready to cover it should you make any loud sound, but you drop your head back, mouth falling slack in a silent cry.

His fingers slow the pace until you let out a quiet whine, and he removes them, carefully lowering your leg. You feel fuzzy-headed, trying to catch your breath, a few beads of sweat rolling along your hairline. One of his hands gently falls on your back, rubbing soothing patterns on your skin.

“I truly am sorry, Y/N,” Aemond admits.

You chuckle lightly:

“I think you already made it up to me.”

Despite the hint of humor, there's an anxious feeling stirring in your abdomen, and you are afraid to open your eyes to meet his. You don't know what's to come and you dread the emptiness that will follow if he leaves.

Aemond tenderly cups your face with his hand:

“Mayhaps my intentions were not clear enough. I do plan to properly court you,” your eyes snap open at his words.

There's a brief pause before he adds:

“But I still need to apologize for my behavior because you deserved none of it. I was unfair with my judgment as I let jealousy get the best of me,” he sounds genuinely remorseful.

You glance at him in confusion, the gears turning in your head for a moment, and then you realize:

"You were jealous of Jace?!"

Aemond looks down at the floor, and there's something endearing in his evident embarrassment. With your thumb and index finger you caress the jut of his jaw and make him look at you again:

“Aemond, I can barely consider him a friend. And the boy can only think about Baela, he speaks of her as if she is the light of his life.”

“I know that feeling," Aemond doesn’t hide his smile anymore when he’s with you. He brings your hand to his lips, and the sincerity of his words tugs at your heart. He leaves kisses on your knuckles, and you’re overwhelmed with happiness spreading in your chest.

“Do you get that feeling every time we argue? Or when I challenge you?” you inquire with a giggle.

His laugh vibrates against your skin. When Aemond meets your gaze, there are no doubts and reservations left, no room for denial.

“My biggest challenge was not to fall in love with you. I failed miserably,” he puts both of his hands on your waist, drawing you closer. “But I will humble myself before you because I cannot stand the thought of us being apart ever again,” Aemond presses his forehead against yours.

“I don't plan on it,” you trace his scar with your finger, giving him goosebumps. “But you do know there still will be days when we vex each other to no end?” your voice is barely audible.

He moves his mouth to yours and, before bringing your lips together, he whispers:

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And neither would you.

the author doesn’t know how to shut up: — the dress is from “Atonement” (although I imagined her neckline a bit differently) — I haven’t written smut in a very long time so... I hope it was okay? any thoughts and comments will be very appreciated because I’m super nervous about this 🥺 (not gonna lie, this was kinda self-indulgent so I hope that at least some of you will enjoy it, too!)

* I know there is an amazing fic called “bane of my existence, object of my desire” by @ jasonsmirrorball — I love it to pieces and highly recommend it! 💕 💚 my masterlist English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

2K notes · View notes

likehoneyandsilk · 1 year

Text

Ease My Mind

Seldom did Joe lose his serene and composed demeanor. At least not outwardly. It periodically became easier to notice the shift, the sway in his everyday presence. As July rolled in, when the weeks passed in a haze, hot summer heat idle in the air, you observed as your lover lumbered through another day without a vocal complaint. It was the soft sighs, slouching shoulders, tender muscles, and tired eyes repeatedly finding salvage between your arms. Within your grasp, lips pressed against your chest and silky strands brushing underneath your chin, was where he felt most at peace, the voices in his head muted.

It was uncanny, you thought, sitting at the edge of the tub as Joe leaned back, body immersed in an ice bath. Uncanny that a season like Summer symbolizing warmth and positivity became such a dreadful time for him. The pressure he placed on himself tormented, gravely demeaning. It was times like this when the expectations from himself and the public, the desire to perform beyond optimal perfection, settled deep into his soul, rattling his bones, and forcing him past even his own lengthy limits. He was never unrestrained from his job. Instead, he was entirely devoted and enthroned till his very last game. Till the final call, the end of an era belonging to Cincinnati’s golden boy.

When February ended, and March peeked into your lives, it was bliss. You gave Joe grace for a few weeks to wrap his mind around another completed season and permit him time to heal and redeem his emotions. By late February he'd recomposed, football aside, and you both played house. From hometown trips, aimless drives, mid-day chatter, and the ever-so-thrilling nights in bed. The following months leading up to this moment, when the kisses and embraces became more compassionate, the moments held fragile, and the memories of another off-season taunting.

And today as you sat before him, watching dawn grace his face golden yellow, concealing those electric blue eyes, you could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. Off-season despite its bliss, signified more acknowledged time apart. It was easier during the season to work, share meals, take evenings in, lazy mornings in bed on off days, spend your weekends cheering him on, road trips, and fancy team dinners. Any moment together was treasured, the routine ironically steady. But now you pondered if a phone call to the hospital would suffice the turmoils in your stomach. A harmless sick day, an opportunity to play hooky, a chance to pull Joe away from his mind. Your feet moved before the gears in your brain, and within seconds you managed to escape the tiring but rewarding 12 hours ahead, to instead look after your lover.

Upon returning to the bathroom, you met with those captivating blue eyes. Joe smiled at you softly, eyes glancing over your frame. His voice barely audible as he muttered a “Hey you”. Some mornings were brief. He’d catch your lips in a rush, pulling the hem of an oversized shirt covering your body closer precipitously. His hands would find your waist, consuming your senses in just a few seconds, till you’d split, forced to conquer your days. He missed the feel of you against him, the hours spent keeping each other warm, and his ears sought the medley you’d spill from within, only made for him. But his muscles were sore, his legs throbbing, and when he had you alone he selfishly craved your nursing. Familiar hands massaging every aching spot, lips pressing pleasant kisses to sections of pain, and those loving eyes he prayed to call his forever laced with concern before he’d dismiss your mind, venture to revoke the fear in your voice, drive away all worry and pull you into sleep with him, holding you close as if to persuade you he was well.

And as you lay next to him, watching him drift away, observing the crease between his brows resolve and his chest rise and fall with tiresome depth, you knew he was attempting to convince himself.

This morning, however, he noted the relaxation in your stride. His gaze observed as you sat near him, pulling your long hair back before those angelic eyes inched closer, and you pressed your lips to his dearly. The water shifted, barely jumping at the contact of his cold and wet hand against the warm skin of your neck until another held you in place, securing your bare legs, thick fingers pressing into your skin. He groaned as your part, a lazy smile on your lips. The hem of your shirt was wet, water trickling down your neck. Joe's profound chest was littered with droplets, shimmering against the ray of dawn. You placed your forehead against his, closing your eyes as the feel of his hands crept closer to your bottom. He muttered incoherent remarks at the first feel of thin lace. Before he could pull you in, you spoke.

“What time is practice?” your voice was sweet, almost hushed. His head fell back, a desolate sigh leaving his lips. The room fell quiet again. You placed your lips against his neck, painting a pathway of gentle kisses to his jaw. “Around noon.” His fingers tugged the thin material covering your body, distressed hands longing to have his way. Pulling away, you nodded, your eyes wandering to the large window behind you. The sun was barely up, and Joe had finished an early morning workout already. “Well then,” You faced him again, reaching for a towel on the vanity, holding it out for him. “Better get you some breakfast.”

The house was beginning to glow as the sun inched steadily above the horizon. The white walls became yellow, the hardwood floors shining. The aroma of coffee engulfed Joe’s senses as he made his way down the stairs toward the kitchen. He found you assembling freshly toasted frozen waffles on a plate, dousing them with savory syrup. Before he could protest or retreat from anything outside of his strict diet, you spoke.

“Not today Burrow, one sugary breakfast won’t hurt you.” You motioned to the coffee cups as you lead him to the balcony, nudging the large French doors open with your foot, setting the plates before both of you on the table, as you relaxed into the patio couch. Joe took a hearty bite of a waffle, mouth overcome with sweetness and delight. But nothing matched the pacifying look in your eyes when he turned to face you. “Told you,” you whispered, a smile lurking on your lips. You both ate in silence for a moment, watching the day come alive before you. Finally, Joe spoke aloud, his arm circling your waist.

“Don’t you have work today?” He asked, confusion spreading over his face. He toyed with the hem of your shirt, tips of his fingers daring to graze skin. “No, I called in,” you declared simply, watching as the furrow between his eyebrows became apparent. “I want to spend the day with you.” You added, extending your leg over him, placing your weight on his large thighs. Your hands ran up his neck, as you bent towards him, lips barely apart. “I want to look after you today.” You whispered, exploring his eyes for a sign of solace. “Y/N you didn’t have to …”

Joe admired your drive and passion for your profession. He was in awe of your selfless nature to look after others day and night. During the season you put aside your career some weeks to help him focus, support him and be present with him. And he despised pulling you away from what you loved and did best. “I know, trust me I know, but I want to calm down whatever it is going on in here.” Your voice was an analgesic, and your fingers recovery as they ran through his hair, stroking his scalp. He fell loose before you, allowing you to take authority as you kissed him. His body settled beneath your touch. Your hands ran up his arms which had grown over the last few weeks, along his torso which was more firm. And as your chest pressed against his, your hair falling to frame his face, the taste of syrup and coffee filling his mouth, he guided you underneath him. His calloused restless hands found residence beneath your shirt, feeling the panes of your back as Joe released his weight gently onto you. Your hips pushed against his, a gasp escaping your lips when those blue eyes flashed before you, the larger man practically crawling down your body.

Despite the yearning, regardless of the butterflies in your stomach, you withdrew, mumbling a breathless “Wait”, the tips of your digits pushing into his broad shoulders. “Not yet,” you whimpered, sighing. You swiped the sole curl on his forehead aside as he fell next to you, face nestled into your neck. “Not yet.” You whispered, feeling his lashes flutter against you, the silent consolation when he found your skin underneath fabric again, legs entangling with yours. The pleasure he desired was not a remedy for easing his mind. And while you held him, grazing your fingers through his hair, you observed as his body rose and fell steadily. And as the day awoke, Joe slept within your arms, and you didn’t dare wake him till just before noon.

The sun was fully awake as you stood on the sidelines of Paycor Stadium. The sky above you a vivacious blue, not a cloud in sight. You watched Joe run drills with the team. Those long muscular legs were quick and fast. Daring blue eyes hyper-focused. And every throw was meticulous, as the football spun seamlessly into the hands of his receivers. His orange jersey brought out the tan in his skin which glistened underneath the heat.

As the whistle blew for a water break, Joe permit himself to look at you. When you followed him to the car this morning, any dread of practice seeped through him when you declared you would join. And now, as you stood a few steps away, engaged in polite conversation with the training staff, Joe pulled his ears from the banter amongst his teammates, tuning their voices out, and found serenity at the sight of you.

It was a challenge not to fixate on you during drills, knowing in the back of his mind, from the corner of his eyes that the pretty girl in the blue sundress with tiny daisies was his girl. The sun gleamed down on your rich skin, hair loose, blowing slightly with the soft breeze. White cheeky heart-shaped sunglasses rested atop your head. Your cheeks were rosy from the heat and that pretty smile on your pink lips filled him with warmth greater than the scorching heat as you listened intently to your speaker. Far too mesmerized, Joe barely heard the whistle blow near him. It wasn’t until Coach Taylor yelled his name demanding his attention, followed by the snicker of his teammates as they glanced back at their quarterback's weakness did he ultimately draw his eyes from you, but not until catching sight of a reassuring smile you sent his way.

In another two hours, you had sought shade in the tunnel watching as practice concluded. As the men made their way off the green grass, some stopping to embrace you, you watched Coach Taylor pull Joe aside. At first, his broad shoulders seemed to tighten, those fine lips pursed, but then as the words left the Coach’s mouth you watched him ease back into comfort. The pair approached you then, anticipation bubbled as a glistening Joe headed straight for you. “Joe is excused from media obligations today Y/N.” You smiled at Coach Taylor as he sent you a wink, bidding you both well.

Your chest rose and fell prominently as Joe stood before you. Your fingers intertwined with his as your backside depressed against the firm wall. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you.” The skin of his cheeks and forehead was sunkissed, the redness evident, and his baby blue eyes more luminous outside. The hair atop his head was messy, which he pushed back with his hand. With weary eyes Joe scanned near and far, before resting a hand over your head, bending down to press a grateful kiss to your lips. His right knee lightly pushed against your thigh, the edge of your little sun dress lifting dangerously higher. Your mind felt foggy, swamped with the fragrances of sweat, grass, and remnants of his cologne. Your arms wrapped around his neck, trying to reach his height as you stood on your toes, practically falling into him. And you didn’t pull back, not until a stream of whistles emerged from nearby. Joe laughed as he walked back into the locker room, turning to find your cheeks blushed, pulling the sunglasses over your eyes.

The house was silent, except for the sounds of soft breaths, the pages of your novel turning as your eyes skimmed over words, and the scratch of Joe’s pen against paper. The sun was beginning to descend below the horizon, the sky outside a canvas of cotton candy pink. The sound of Joe’s heartbeat filled your ears, as you lay your head on his chest, meshed into the couch. Much to your dismay, Joe was distracted with an article on his play. The writer critiqued his form, speed, and resilience. You listened as his heart quickened, frustration evident as he shifted uncomfortably against you. He obsessively underlined phrases and lines, reading over and over what this foreign man claimed he needed to improve. Unable to take it anymore you shifted, your weight no longer pulling into him and he forced his eyes away, a sudden panic as you stood up. Your novel fell in your spot on the couch, unfazed as you lost your page. "Put it away, please, for your sanity just put it away.” Joe watched as the familiar fear clouded your eyes.

There were only so many times he could play dumb.

Circling your hand around his, you gestured for him to join you. Trailing behind you like a lost puppy, he watched your fingers skim as you flipped light switches, the house becoming dark as did the sky, a sleek dark blue. Reaching the bathroom, you pressed your palms into Joe’s chest, pushing him back towards the vanity. He watched as you filled the tub with warm water, the steam rising. You made your way effortlessly through the bathroom depositing rose and lavender Epsom salts into the water. Finally, when the tub was full, the waft of rose and lavender swallowing him, you came closer, your dainty fingers falling to his gray cotton shorts. Your fingers danced through the strings, loosening them as your hands slid up higher, pulling the black shirt over his head. Your eyes never met his, but he kept his on you, watching as the concern laced your features, tears threatening to spill.

“I want you to get in.” your voice was hushed, sending a shiver down his spine as he nodded, forcing his hands away from your waist as you turned without a glimpse. The door shut behind you, and you lingered, holding your breath till you heard the water shift, his relieved sigh loud as you imagined him descending into the water. After a few minutes of solitude, you knocked, peaking your head into the bathroom, catching Joe in utopia, head back, eyes closed as the warmth around soothed every muscle, each nerve, and delighted his skin. Quietly you sat next to him, your hips in alignment with his head.

His eyes opened at the first feel of your touch and closed almost immediately. Loving hands massaged his shoulder, your palms outlining the pane of his collarbone, gracing his back, watching as he tensed and eased back into you. Dipping your hands into the water, you brought them back up, running your fingers through his scalp, washing away the scents reminding you of locker room shampoo. You worked quietly, shifting to press your hands into any exposed skin, bringing his arms to rest against your bare thighs as you relieved each knot, every tense form.

His eyes opened as his head fell against your stomach, his large hands closing around yours resting on his bare chest. The silence was comfort. The night had become cool, the floor beneath your feet icey. “What is it that’s on your mind?” He shifted against you, a sigh following a long pause. “What if I’m not good enough? What if I let everyone down again?” You purse your lips at these words, scouring for the right things to say as your head dipped lower in gloom. “You’re always going to think you need to do better. And whether you see it or not, you are better, every year. A trophy doesn’t prove your worth.” You hovered your hand underneath his chin, pulling his head back as you grazed your lips over his. He kissed you feverishly. “You just have to remind yourself you are getting better. It isn’t fair to not love and appreciate yourself the way you do others.” His features softened, eyes fading into realization.

As he fell back into you, your hold tighter, you whispered into his ear, pressing your lips against it as if to seal the deal. “You play the game for a living, but you can’t live to play. There will always be someone to tell you that you aren’t better, but if you choose to listen and drive yourself into suffering when instead you can use it to build yourself soundly, I can only speculate how your mind would ease.” For a few more minutes you held him, listening to the sound of his breathing as his eyes stared out into the darkness, your words shifting in his brain.

And as you started the shower, pressing a loving kiss to his lips, you left the bathroom, retreating back to settle your own mind.

When you entered the bedroom again he sat against the headboard, long legs hanging off the bed, feet planted firmly on the ground, and a sober look on his face. Wordless, he reached for you, drawing you near, your legs draping over his thick-toned thighs, skin unveiled as his shorts rose higher. “You’re right Y/N.” The two simple words lingered between you, the concern in your eyes overcome with endearment. You pressed your lips into the crook of his neck, cheek resting on his shoulder as your arms wrapped around him. You breathed in the smells of rose and lavender, your brain fuzzy and stomach filling with butterflies. His fingers danced in your hair, an arm draped across your waist holding you close. “Lean back Joe.” he groaned ever so softly as you pulled away, in search of what it is you needed.

He watched through heavy lustful eyes as you rummaged through the drawers, smiling as you pulled a pain relief oil from one. “Tell me where it hurts.” The room was dim, and as your bodies made shadows on the walls, the glow warm, your eyes glistening before him, Joe obeyed, guiding your hand to his left thigh. Sitting before him on your knees, settled between his outstretched legs, he gulped as you raised his shorts higher, heat rushing to your cheeks as the oil you rubbed between your palms met his thigh, fidgeting underneath your tedious hands. Slowly you made your way through every painful location, and as you pulled the his shirt over his head, your own eyes heavy, you beckoned to switch spots, settling behind him, drawing circles into the panes of his back, up his spine and down his biceps. And with every ease of pain, every delicate touch of love, he fell deeper in love if possible.

He listened as the water ran in the shower, waiting for you as the effects of the oil seeped into his muscles. For the first time in days he felt free. For the first time in days he didn’t dread tomorrow. And as you opened the door, eyes catching his, you made you way back to him hesitantly, afraid to inflict more pain. “There you go, that’s better.” You chuckled at his teasing remarks, cheeks crimson as your core met his thigh, his hands pulling the lace robe off your body, revealing white lace in the most intimate of spots.

“Thank you for today, and everyday,” he whispered, bringing you down with him, rolling over to face you as you fell beneath him. You nodded, knowing slowly but surely Joe understood. Your fingers traced the brim of his nose, the outline of his lips before digging your fingers into the hem of his shorts. You shuddered as his hands inched higher up your thighs, his lips trailing from your lips, down your neck, and descending below your sternum.

You sunk further in bed, engulfed by the sheets as his hands got lost in your hair, trailed down your warm arms and cupped your cheeks as his teeth grazed your bottom lip. “I wish I could make you forget it all” you whispered, words dripping with sympathy. He nodded against you, “I know ..., I know ...”. Your heart fluttered as his hips pressed against yours, skin meeting skin as your bodies entangled. Cupping his face within your hands you halted him, watching those desperate eyes hold your gaze intently. “You’re more than enough nine”. You watched the calm wash over his face, pictured the wave of relief running through his mind. And you kissed him, drawing him from his woes, pulling him into another world, reminding him just how much you loved him.

#joe burrow #joe burrow imagines #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #cincinnati bengals #begals #joe burrow one shot #cincinnati bengals imagines #joe burrow oneshot #joe burrow writes #joe burrow fanfictoon #nfl imagine

220 notes · View notes

phdmama · 3 months

Text

You're the Winner

Heard this song the other day and had this little scene spring full-fledged to my mind, so I just had to write it.

Drarry (mostly implied), ~800 words, Teen. Pain with a hopeful ending. Post-redemption Draco (undiscussed). Draco and his father. (Unbeta'd and mostly SOOC so please be kind!)

'Cause now there's no one Who ever has done better At making me feel worse Now you really are the winner

“You know,” his father says, pulling one glove off, his hands graceful in their economy of movement. “You’ve always been something of a disappointment, Draco.”

His tone is mild, almost disinterested, as if he’s simply stating a fact. The sky is blue. Water is wet. Draco Malfoy has always been something of a disappointment.

“But,” his father continues, “this really does take the biscuit.”

Draco swallows. Opens his mouth, shuts it again. There’s nothing more to be said.

His father shakes his head, pulls the other glove off, lays the pair neatly on the arm of the sofa.

“This cannot continue.”

Draco presses his lips together to keep himself from babbling. You can’t tell me to stop, this is the only thing that has ever made me feel alive. I love him. I love you. Why can’t you love me back? He loves me back.

His father claps his hands together, once. Sharp. Decisive. “You can owl him in the morning. It would be rude to simply disappear. Now please, go upstairs and get dressed for dinner.” He eyes Draco’s muggle clothes, ripped jeans and trainers, a moue of distaste on his face. “Don’t let your mother see you dressed like that.”

He turns away, utterly dismissive. Confident his directive will be obeyed.

Draco clenches his fists, squares his shoulders, and steps off the cliff.

“No.”

His father turns in surprise, lifts one eyebrow in a supercilious look of disdain identical to the one Draco knows he’s worn far too often.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said.” Draco takes a deep breath. “No. I will not get dressed for dinner. I will not stop seeing him. I will not stop loving him. You ask too much.”

“Draco.” His father’s voice is stern, reminiscent of a thousand similar scenes over the years. “I will not allow this.”

“I don’t think you can stop me,” Draco says.

His voice is shaking. His knees are shaking. But he’s still standing. It’s time to go.

“I’m leaving. I’m sorry if you cannot accept this, but I love him.”

His father lets out a bark of laughter that almost sounds unrehearsed.

“You love him,” he says, his voice dripping with scorn. “Well, by all means then. Destroy your life. Destroy this family’s reputation, the one I’ve worked so hard to redeem, the one that got you into that fancy university rather than Azkaban. Break your mother’s heart. Because you love him.” He shakes his head, makes a pfft of disapproval. “Love.”

Draco turns his back, walks away. 17 steps to the entry hall, where he’s stashed the things he cannot bear to leave behind. Another 19 steps to the doorway out.

“Draco,” his father barks and Draco pauses, his hand on the knob and turns back. “If you do this, if you walk out that door, you will not be welcome back.”

Draco nods. “That’s more or less what I expected.”

“Then why are you doing this?” His father’s voice is quiet, and perhaps its the first authentic thing he’s said today.

“Because I have to,” Draco replies. “Because having him, having a life with him is worth more than losing you.”

Something flashes across his father’s face, too brief to be identifiable, and then his father’s lips tighten and he lifts his chin.

“So be it,” he says, and flicks his fingers towards Draco.

Draco flinches at the rush of magic through him and the emerald in the crest of the ring on his hand shatters, the sound of it ringing in Draco’s ears as he and Lucius stare at each other for one last time.

Then Draco walks out the door, leaving his name behind him.

Later, in the dark hours before dawn, Draco lies in bed, curled on his side with his face to the wall. He cries, silent, forcing his body still so his sobs don’t wake the man next to him who is, Draco prays, sound asleep.

Except he stirs, rolls over, the weight of his body a comfort as he drapes himself over Draco, slides his hand down Draco’s arm to thread their fingers together.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice sleep rough, “it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“But how,” Draco pauses, tries to catch his breath. “How do you know?”

He feels Potter’s shrug, focuses on the way Potter’s thumb gently rubs the back of his hand.

“I just do, I guess. I’m not sure I know how you feel, but I do know you’ve survived worse. I know your heart is broken, baby, but at least you’re free.”

Draco scrubs a hand over his damp face.

“I don’t know who I am,” he confesses softly. “Without my name. Without my family. I just don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Potter says sleepily, and snuggles in impossibly closer. “I do. I know who you are."

#my writing #just a lil angst for a Sunday morning #drarry fic #drarry vignette

26 notes · View notes

accihoe · 8 months

Text

I'm on a two week spring break (as the seasons in my country work differently to EU and USA), and I'm also working on a business report that has to be submitted by October 13th. What better time to write than now?

I am once again truthfully sorry for my continuous disappearances.

Here's a Bucky fic because I found my tiny magnetic frame with a photo of him in it <3 (pic of photograph at the bottom).

P.S. this will be my first publicly posted Bucky fic woo-hoo!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: it's the 1940s, and Bucky comes home from a hard day at work, but his wife is there to make every moment of his hard work worth it.

Genre: fluff

Warnings: mentions of war. Probably not all canon regarding time, etc. Slightly oc Buck.

A/n: Please do not plagiarize my work, and please give me credit if you post my work elsewhere. I might make this a series, dunno. Love y'all. Pls comment or inbox me if you'd like to be on a taglist.

××××××

The walk home seemed longer than usual as Bucky trodged down the familiar path, every item of clothing feeling heavier with each step. He juggled his keys, slightly frustrated when they didn't go into the lock in the first few attempts. Finally, he managed, stumbling forwards from having his weight on the door. Bucky kicked off his boots in an instant, hung up his coat and hat, and looked around for his sweet love, his sugarbunch.

A smile bloomed across his handsome face as he saw her sauntering towards him, pretty dress flowing in the cool spring breeze. "Well, hello there, handsome chap. To what do I owe you the honours?" She smiled playfully, arms stretching open. Bucky gracefully accepted her invitation, wrapping himself around her and laying his cheek on her shoulder. "There, there, my love. Come on in. Go have a warm bath whilst I finish setting up the dinner table." His wife soothed, kissing above his cheekbone.

Once he'd freshened up, Bucky came downstairs to their four-person dining table, grinning at the meal his wife had prepared. She slid down in the seat across from him and reached out her hand, taking his. "Would you be as kind as to say grace for us?" She smiled, stroking her thumb over his bruised knuckles. They bowed their heads and closed their eyes as Bucky prayed for the food, "Lord God, Heavenly Father, bless our food and our drink, since you redeemed us so dearly and delivered us from evil, as you gave us a share in food and so may you give us eternal life. Amen.". They said amen in unison, and James kissed her hand as he let go of it.

"Jamie, my dear, I do not mean to alarm you, but I read about the war in the papers earlier today. It only seems to be intensifying. And I'm afraid young American men are no longer permitted a say as to whether or not they're getting drafted." His wife announced as she was washing the dishes, and he was drying and packing them away. The mug that he was busy drying slipped from his hands, but thankfully, his wife caught it just before it tumbled down the floor. "James," she breathed, taking his hands and gently tugging him away from the sink.

"Be..g my pardon, m-my love. The reality of the situations and times that we are living in has only dawned upon me now." James breathed, exhaling once again in disbelief. "Why don't you go and get ready for bed whilst I finish up here, hm?" She hummed, trailing her hand up to his neck and laying it there against his warm skin. "Alright, my darling, I bid on seeing you soon." He smiled, squeezing her hand that he held. "In the blink of an eye, sugar. Now go." She grinned, patting his cheek.

She joined him shortly after bathing and getting ready for bed, her chest tightening as she saw his frame in the bed, curled up in fear and staring off at the wood of his closet doors. Despite being fully aware of her presence, Bucky jumped when he felt her hand snake over his side and onto his stomach and chest. "Pardon me, my love." She giggled, spooning up against his back. James held his hand over hers as he continued to stare at the door. She felt sudden guilt. Should I not have told him that? She wondered.

"I'm sorry if I alarmed you, my darling." She said, pressing a loving kiss to the back of his neck. "You did not alarm me, dollface. 'M just tired from work 's all." He said, turning to face her. "Jamie, what'd your mama teach you about lying?" She warned. "Alright, alright." He smiled, eyes trailing across her bonny face, ruminating his luck. "Whatsoever may happen with this war, James, know that I love you." Y/N smiled, holding his hand to her chest and kissing his palm. "And I you." He smiled.

She skipped her reading that night, and so did he, just basking in each other's presence. The pair had fallen in love just after high school. James had seen her at church after praying for a pretty woman to cross his path, and she had prayed for a stable rock in her life to start a family with later on. It was instant love. After a period of wooing the pretty girl, they started dating, which then flourished into marriage. Bucky, age 24, Y/N, age 22, decided that they were content with the life they had built. Small but decent apartment, church community, flourishing matrimony, James had a stable job, and Y/N was applying for several.

Not to mention, their parents were incredulously proud. They were the spoken couple of Brooklyn, and Y/N treated Steve with the respect he deserved from day one, which was probably one of the central reasons for Becky's undying love for her. The life they had built together was sublime. Until the war hit.

xxxxxxx

Fin. Hope you liked it. Lots of love x

#bucky barnes drabble #bucky x y/n #40s!bucky #bucky angst #bucky barns x reader #husband bucky #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst

31 notes · View notes

feuerkindjana · 9 months

Text

Aziraphale's Guilt Complex

I can't get over how guilty Aziraphale must feel at all times.

The first time he met Crowley at the dawn of creation. He witnessed its beauty and was instantly drawn to this joyful, glowing, stunning angel and then he opened his mouth and told said angel that his hard work won't matter much in the long run. For all Aziraphale knows, he caused Crowley's Fall and the loss of his home and safety, and depending on his name and rank, maybe even started the whole rebellion.

That alone would break a person but then he gets put on Appletree Duty, fails to prevent The Fall from Grace of Adam and Eve and has to oversee them losing their home and safety. So, he tries to give them at least some sort of protection, something he couldn't do with Crowley, and hands over his sword. Which, in time, created War and caused millions of people to lose their home and safety, Falling left and right (either from Grace due to the things they did or quite literally by dying).

Aziraphale can't un-create War but he was offered the chance to right his Original Sin, to bring back the glorious creature that he hurt. He has protected Crowley whenever he could and this would protect him because they'd be together, untouchable (he doesn't know about Gabriel's trial and how very much not untouchable the higher ups are and maybe he never really understood the Fall ) and they could watch over the beautiful creation together. Of course, he'd be delighted to take that chance, not only a chance to "restore " the joy that he witnessed and destroyed but also to redeem himself, to be able to hate himself a little less.

To let go of that part of his guilt, to correct his biggest regret... that is hard to say no to.

Sadly, I don't think Crowley knows any of that. He might suspect a bit of a bad conscience about War but I don't think he understands that Aziraphale blames himself for The Fall.

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #gos2 #gos2 spoilers #Aziraphale's guilt complex #good omens thoughts #Aziraphale #angel crowley #Crowley #i do think many of his insecurities stem from this #but he was anxious before so who knows what he experienced before he met Crowley #i so want to see a strong and self-assured Aziraphale #he makes my heart ache

31 notes · View notes

sunnydaleherald · 5 months

Text

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Monday, December 4

BUFFYBOT: 'If we want her to be exactly she'll never be exactly I know the only really real Buffy is really Buffy and she's gone' who?

~~Bargaining pt1~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Oh, Captain! (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by scratchmeout

Oh Pacey you blind idiot (Buffy/Spike, PG) by Julikobold

The Spark (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by JSBirsa

Ring-a-Ling (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by scratchmeout

The Merry Month of Magnus Presents... Heaven Is A Place On Earth (Buffy/Spike, G) by temporarytitle

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Cocktails (Buffy/Spike, G) by honeygirl51885

Spuffy Dates (of the calendar variety) (Buffy/Spike, G) by Gwenie

The Reunion (Buffy/Faith, T) by CelestialStorm

Angelus's Mercy: Part Three (Buffy/Angel, E) by MCorey1317

Ordinary Magic (Tara/Willow, G) by DialedIn

[Chaptered Fiction]

The Mayor Dates Chapter 4 (Buffy/Spike, PG) by desicat

Slay Bells Ringing Chapter 4 (Buffy/Spike, PG) by all_choseny

The Promise Chapter 8 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by Harmony99

Cherry On Top Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Maxineeden

Spuffy's Little Helper Chapter 4 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by Alyot

A Very Summers Winter Chapter 4 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by VeroNyxK84

High Tide Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by ClowniestLivEver

The Nature of the Beast Chapter 3 (Gen, FR21) by JoshuAB

Healing After Heaven Chapter 14 (Buffy/Highlander the Series, FR13) by Kate

Belle South Chapter 21 (Buffy/Spike, E) by sunalso

The Night We Met Chapter 1 (Spike/OC, M) by TheSadPoet

Twith the dawn of redeeming grace Chapter 1 (Spike/Buffy, T) by winterlovesong

Disease Chapter 1 (Giles/Buffy, E) by guin_ramble

[Images, Audio & Video]

PODCAST: Goodbye Iowa by Buffy the Vampire Straya

[Fandom Discussions]

Angel 30 Day Challenge continued by multiple posters

Giles best girlfriend by joseph

Did Buffy get Jesse killed? by Joan the Vampire Slayer

Discussion of 7.08 "Sleeper" - Aired 11/19/02 (UPN-US) continued by multiple posters

Angel's backstory by Angelfirenze

Angel and Jenny at the end of The Dark Age by lesserwitch

Warren v Willow by pengchod

How much does S5 'Team Angel' remember from S4 by sw1200

Looking for comic omnibus hard cover by Silentplanet

Wesley and Cordelia in “Untouched” by JellyfishDry9464

First time watcher: currently S3 by wisteria_grey

Any other Gen X Buffy fans feel like they could use a bite of Ethan Rain's candy bars? by PotentialLanguage685

REDDEST FLAG by pengchod

What was Willow about to suggest in Helpless? What possibilities? by sadhungryandvirgin

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

#buffy #btvs #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #angel #ats #angel the series

10 notes · View notes

gertrudepetronella-blog · 2 years

Text

Two Does

[A/N: My personal hc of how/why Lily and Severus had the same patronus. Taken from my fic Artemisia Absinthium (link below). Platonic Snily. SFW]

The only redeeming feature of Cokeworth was that it was not far from the southern edge of the Peak District National Park. Severus had never been an outdoorsy type – not in the way that the Evans were at least. They loved hiking and camping, as any good middle class family should, and Lily insisted that it would be great fun for the two of them to go off for a night into the wilderness. Severus complained that his home was barely habitable as it was, so why would he want to spend the night in an even smaller, colder, and damper abode? But of course he would go almost anywhere to get away from his dad for a night. He’d even slept under the canal bridge on one particularly desperate occasion. And he could never say no to Lily. So they packed up a tent and some very basic provisions and went off on their “adventure”.

They took a bus as far as Blackshaw, then hiked up into the hills. Lily reckoned the Ministry didn’t bother checking for underage magic way out in the middle of nowhere. Severus was dubious about that claim, but had been practising a ward that he thought would block their signatures, and they were both desperate to learn the patronus charm that was in next year’s DADA curriculum. Lily was unbearably cheerful about the whole thing, while Severus grumbled the entire way, but once they were out on the moors even he couldn’t complain too much. There was something about being away from everything and everyone. He could almost pretend that they were the only people left on the earth. No war, no sides, no good and bad, no Gryffindor or Slytherin, no Tobias, no Potter.

Despite it being the middle of summer, it got cold at night out on the moors, and they ended up both snuggled in the same sleeping bag, wearing every single item of clothing they had brought. Severus woke up shivering in the pale early light to find Lily gone, and poked his head out of the tent.

‘Shh!’ Lily whispered, then pointed across the long, dew covered scrubland. A herd of red deer were grazing in the dawn light, their graceful forms almost like ghosts in the early morning mist. They watched the animals for half an hour, wrapped in blankets and drinking black tea from tin mugs.

Lily was the first to cast. She took out her wand while still staring at the herd, and cast the spell with seemingly little thought. Severus had never felt more at peace, or at home out there away from the world, and he too took out his wand and spoke the words. “Expecto Patronum.” A moment later the two silver does went skipping off across the moor as if to join their herd.

This is an extract from part three of Artemisia Absinthium

#harry potter patronus #patronus #harry potter fandom #severus snape #lily evans #platonic snily #snape fandom #pro snape #snape community #harry potter fanfic

79 notes · View notes

winterlovesong1 · 5 months

Text

with the dawn of redeeming grace

Summary: A holiday/winter collection of stories for Spike/Buffy (spuffy). Collection title from lyrics from "Silent Night" composed by Franz Xaver Gruber to lyrics by Joseph Mohr.

Chapter Six: keeping every lock broken in case I ever come home

Chapter Summary: Based on the prompt from this list "I got you a present" - set in some time last season five. Title from Amen by Ritual

-/-

No knock was tradition. No greeting was typical. But the absence of a quip startled him, the void left where a barb or fine jolted insult would normally be whirled in his direction left him unnerved. For what he received instead was of the upmost alarm.

“I got you a present.”

Read the rest here

#spuffy #spuffy fanfiction #spuffy winter fanfic #spuffy fanfic #tv: buffy the vampire slayer

5 notes · View notes

pantoneyoongi · 2 years

Text

07 || mourning a story

series ; in love with love (with you) description ; you’re a romantic. jungkook? jungkook is not.

chapter 07 ; mourning a story prev || next

word count ; 2.1k

tags ; i love writing friendships, jisoo knows what’s up, a little shorter this week but jungkook is so cute in this one pls forgive me, pls go to main masterlist for more / general tags

you will always say that jisoo being a morning person is her fatal flaw. she will happily go on a hike at the crack of dawn, would probably even wake up before dawn just to catch the rising sun. and she loves brunch.

the food, granted, is a bit of a redeeming factor in all this as you sip your tea, seated across from jisoo. if you didn’t love her so much, you absolutely wouldn’t be here, preferring instead to wallow in yet another lost cause in the romantic partners department. maybe a pint of ice cream to yourself, sans jungkook. there is a distinct difference in hosting a pity party of one vs having the comfort of someone’s shoulder to lean on.

but you are trying your best not to think of said shoulder, so you digress. it’s embarrassing enough that you called jungkook while drunk off your ass, choosing instead to chalk it up to habit after years of only having jungkook in town to take care of you. which he did. always.

but anyways.

“spill it.”

you look up from your drink, both hands wrapped around the mug. jisoo tilts her head, eyebrows raising.

it’s a curse that you’re so readable. heart on your sleeve and all that, especially to the people who have known you as long as jisoo has. but you’re not interested in having this conversation, because you’d rather not unearth what you’ve actively been hiding from.

so you lie straight through your teeth. “i mean, it’s obvious,” you know it’s a lost cause judging by the entirely unamused look jisoo is giving you, but you follow through anyway. may as well commit to the act. “everyone knows i had a crush on yoongi for so long now.”

a part of you does genuinely feel the loss somewhere in your chest, a mild pang at the thought of it. yoongi is handsome, kind, and ever the gentleman, after all. picture perfect.

jisoo scoffs. like actually scoffs, disbelief coloring her voice when she says, “that’s bullshit, y/n.”

you can’t say you’re surprised by the way she calls you on your bluff. jisoo is playful and cheery most times but she has no problems telling it like she sees it - and she sees right through you.

“be honest with me,” she stretches a hand across the table, fingers tapping against the wood. “did you actually like yoongi? all these years, ‘cause i’ve never seen you actually upset about any of his exes. so did you like him, or just the idea of him?”

you gnaw on your lower lip. the conversation is veering into dangerous territory. your food isn’t even here yet; the caffeine hasn’t sunk in either. but jisoo would never let you off the hook easy, and that’s why you’re such good friends.

“y/n,” she leans forward. “are you mourning a crush, or are you mourning a story?”

jisoo has a point. jisoo always has a point, so you probably should’ve known better than to get brunch with her so soon after yoongi’s announcement. but you weren’t exactly expecting jungkook to tell you that night “he does care about you, y/n. but not like you do. not the way you want him to.”

it’d hit every sore spot you thought you’d healed over.

you know he didn’t mean it to hurt you. jungkook is particularly clumsy with his words when faced with catastrophe (read: emotions); he never quite figured out how to say the right things when you needed them. when it comes to words of comfort, jungkook fumbles every time, his only saving grace being the helpless expression he wears, all his good intentions reflecting in his eyes.

but still, it did hurt.

you cave. you tell jisoo what jungkook said that night. she hears the echoes of all your failed relationships when you relay the story, and reaches forward to wrap her hand gently around yours.

“it’s easier to be in love with an idea, you know?” you murmur. “it hurts less. yoongi’s so easy to pretend to be in love with because i know it’s never gonna happen. it’s - none of it is real. but…”

when you trail off, your mind drifts for a minute. but jisoo knows exactly which ex you’re thinking of. the one who last left you, the one that had you standing pathetically at jungkook’s door after weeks of locking him outside of yours.

you’d tried so hard not to need him. to need anyone, all your friends’ calls and messages left ignored during that time. you were too clingy. too childish. expected too much. you couldn’t keep running to them every time someone decided they didn’t love you.

but it hurt so badly. you held for as long as you could before showing up at jungkook’s door, and he’d welcomed you into his arms so quickly, worry so evident in his eyes, and relief - like he’d really been hoping you’d show up sooner rather than later.

and for once, he said the right things, even if he thought you were asleep when he said them.

you’re enough.

but still, the damage never quite healed over as much as you pretend it has. it’s an insecurity that lingers, hovers in the background and emerges every so often to remind you that people leave you because you want what isn’t real. you want the fairytale. you want too much.

your head is lowered when you ask, quietly, “do i ask for too much?”

why can’t anyone ever love me the way i want them to?

jisoo softens at the question. but then her grip tightens on your hand, a silent request for you to look up at her. “hey,” she frowns, shaking her head slightly. “you have every right to be loved the way you want to, y/n. you don’t ask for too much. least of all when you’re the one who has always given twice as much back. if you want the romance, if you want the person who will put the effort in the way you always do - you deserve all of that. and you’ll have it someday,” she quirks her lips. “you know i’ll never let you settle.”

you huff a laugh out. “the whole squad would pull up with a runway of options like i’m in the bachelorette.”

jisoo snorts. “worst comes to worst, we’ll just marry you off to seokjin.”

you grin crookedly. “hobi will kill you.”

jisoo shrugs. “jungkook’s still an option.”

you deadpan. “over my dead body.”

you don’t know how, but you wind up back at jungkook’s place after brunch with jisoo is over. even after everything he said to you, even after your drunk escapade that ended with you crying on his shoulder to old movies, even after jisoo’s comfort settling your heart back to its (albeit shaky) place, you still find yourself on jungkook’s doorstep. like always.

he feels safe. you won’t ever say it out loud but he does. no matter how many stupid things he says when you’re upset, jungkook has always been the safest place for you to rest your heart after its been bruised.

he opens the door with messy bedhead and squinty eyes, decked out in iron man pajamas that you have to actively swallow down your laughter for. snickers still slip out though, and jungkook flushes. “can i help you?” he tries to scowl, but it’s not very menacing and you can’t contain your laughter much after that.

he doesn’t bother to wait for a real answer from you, turning heel and leaving the door open for you to follow him in. you shut and lock the door behind you, peals of laughter bouncing around the room.

“did you buy those yourself or do i have to stop laughing because your mom loves you a lot?” you cackle, trailing after him as he all but runs to his room.

“shut up,” he throws back, prompting louder laughter because he did buy those himself, adorable little iron man figures patterned across the fabric. he closes the door to his bedroom before you can follow him in, only to reemerge in sweatpants and a plain white tee.

“you didn’t have to change on account of me, mr stark,” you bat your lashes at him and he sucks a warning breath through his teeth, glaring at you. you bite your lip to muffle your giggles, but he can still see the amusement glittering in your eyes.

he decides changing the topic is easier than fighting back this time. “coffee?” he offers, as you slide onto a bar stool at his kitchen counter. he’s already grabbing a second cup before you’ve even answered.

you hum. “juice. i had brunch with jisoo earlier.”

jungkook tugs open his fridge, passing you the carton as well as the glass. he doesn’t ask why you’re here - he chalks it up to your usual heartbreak habits. you always show up at his apartment to burn through as many sappy shows or movies as you can physically handle in a day.

true to his assumption, you’re taking your juice and wandering into his living room. his apartment has an open floor plan, so he can see you turning on his tv, throwing ‘always be my maybe’ on.

“don’t you have netflix at home?” he asks, even though he knows you’ll stay anyway - it’s what he’s counting on.

“why?” you grin cheekily. jungkook suddenly regrets opening his mouth. “got a planet or something to save, iron man?”

“you know what-”

jungkook’s almost dozed off five times now. you’re both leaning up against his couch, jungkook’s legs sprawled out on the floor while you sit cross legged, knee pressed against his thigh. ‘always be my maybe’ is admittedly a very good movie but he’s seen it twice before and that’s plenty enough times for him.

sasha and marcus have their big kiss scene and not long after the end credits are getting cut off, netflix already recommending the next movie to watch. before you can turn on ‘love hard’, jungkook is turning to look at you, nudging your shoulder and severely misgauging the distance between you and him.

you turn your head, blinking in surprise by how close he is to you, instinctively leaning back. jungkook’s embarrassed by how fast he decides he hates that you moved away, even if it’s a natural response to being inches apart, so he pretends not to notice and simply asks, “why don’t we play video games instead?”

you wrinkle your nose. knowing jungkook he only has bloody gory games and you don’t really want to play those. but jungkook already knows what you’re thinking, and he’s clambering off the ground to grab the nintendo switch he has charging on the console table, booting up animal crossing.

he hasn’t played in awhile. with the switch, you’re only allowed one island, but he figures you’d build a prettier island than him anyway as he passes it to you, hiding his smile at the way your curious eyes land on the game, hands wrapping around the switch.

‘love hard’ is already playing in the background, but you’re sufficiently distracted, squealing at all the cute villagers and the things you can build and do. jungkook should throw on his other games on the tv while you play on his switch but his heart feels fuzzy and warm in his chest watching you, so he can’t be bothered to do anything else.

he lets you tug on his sleeve every time you get excited to show him something, or you need his help figuring out how to use the controls. the day passes like this, the two of you huddled together, jungkook not leaving your side even to make the call to the pizza parlor down the street for delivery.

by the time you leave, it’s dark. jungkook insists on walking you home, the pair of you squabbling about it the whole way back to your place, and even when you get to your apartment you haven’t let up, face doing that thing where your nose scrunches up and your lips are downturned so far it looks like a sideways c. it makes jungkook grin, because in spite of it all you still huffily turn around in your building lobby, grumpily waving goodbye before disappearing around the corner. his heart is buzzing with affection and even though he knows, he knows you like yoongi and you only ever come over like this when you want his comfort or his distraction but he’s the one who got to put a smile on your face today, who made you laugh and your eyes shine; he’s the one who felt the familiar warmth of you pressed to his side, and he’s the one who got to spend the whole day by your side. so like an idiot, his heart feels like it’ll burst with all his excitement in the newfound territory that is having a crush on you.

(unfortunately, he’s also the one who misses you as soon as you’re gone - but when he gets home, there’s a text from you, and the giddiness comes back tenfold.)

prev || next || series masterlist

taglist ; @ahundredtimesover @nadzzzblog @apollukee @codeinebelle @yoongimentita7

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook x yn #jungkook x y/n #jungkook #fluff #series: ilwl

91 notes · View notes

chicleeblair · 6 months

Text

Dawn of Redeeming Grace [4/23]

Title: Chapter Four: December 23, 2005 || FFN

Rating: NC-17/Explicit

Pairings: Meredith Grey/Derek Shepherd

Six weeks after Derek left to take the NIH job, Meredith is ready to use the holidays to prove she has this working mom thing on lock. Sure, he neglected to tell her he'd be bringing a guest, but whatever, 'Tis the season for truces. Even Ellis Grey took the day off. But with every moment of family togetherness, a return to the trenches seems more impossible. Can a few days of peace put their relationship back on track, or has she fallen for the illusion of a snow-globe, destined to either settle or shatter?

Dawn of Redeeming Grace|| FFN

New York Derek. Genetically-engineered for Manhattan, maybe, but it’s not all about genetics. The show never goes into it explicitly, but I think it’s very important that Derek went to Bowdoin for college. At eighteen, he wanted out. I think he came back because of Amelia, and between Mark and Addison, found his life shaped into this Upper East Side, house in the Hamptons lifestyle that he didn’t actually like. The guy with that life isn’t even the one Addison fell for, judging by things like the Chinese food on Thanksgiving. She might’ve felt as out-of-place in the world they would’ve been in if he’d had the self-awareness, or felt allowed to make the choices that would’ve taken them toward a life more like the one her and Meredith get—but it wouldn’t have been as extreme as the trailer.

I go back and forth as to Derek’s desire to have kids, and knowing what happened with Amelia makes a lot of sense in that regard. I know people who were really responsible for their siblings and feel like they had their kids. That said, his dad is his hero, and nothing in his life looks at all like his dad’s life. Kids would change that—but he’s best friends with a guy who had well-off parents who likely had their kid for the wrong reason. He wouldn’t want to do that.

At the beginning, I think a lot of the appeal of his relationship with Meredith is the fresh start. That’s a huge part of their s3/s4 issues. This guy, who clearly adores his family, wants to leave all the past in the past. He can’t do that. After he has to necessitate Meredith, he’s sitting there with Addison and Mark at his sides—exactly like he would’ve been when Amelia OD’d. It’s not a coincidence to me that his mom showing up is part of the arc before his s5 breakdown. But his assertions about his family, about “normal” families, are also pretty rose-colored. Amelia’s arrival on the show is after he’s been offered the D.C. job, but their interactions; that he reminds her of the person he used to want to be—I think that has a lot to do with why he can’t let it go. Also, we’re not two full years out from Mark dying. It’s still one of the longest periods he’s gone through without him.

If anything feels like foreshadowing or a dark joke in this chapter, it is. This whole fic is about how the past affects you, particularly on holidays where tradition rules, this is the chapter with the most allusions to A Christmas Carol. Derek throughout the end of his time in New York is a very Scroogian figure if you ask me—I really should’ve Amed one of my Shepherd kids Fred.

For reference, here is my Shepherd family headcanon.

Kathleen + Reid (2nd husband)

Allegra (’87 stepdaughter)

McKenzie (’89 stepdaughter)

Stephanie (’93)

Oliver (’99) or Lucas (’96)

Nancy + Peter

Carly (’90)

Elena (’92)

Shepherd (’94, nicknamed Squared)

Hunter (’95)

Tyson (or Lucas, ’96)

Liz + Ian

Briana (’93)

Frances, Maria, Patrick (or Lucas)* (’96)

Hannah (’00)

*I’d have to reconfigure for Lucas to be Liz’s, I think, because I don’t see him as a triplet. I think he’s Kathleen’s, since he’s Derek’s favorite and Meredith liked her kids, but if he’s not I like having the gap between her youngest wider because of how I’ve written Stevie.

3 notes · View notes

rodeoxqueen · 2 years

Text

AWAS-Awakening (Teaser)

“When hundreds and hundreds of years had passed, so had the crown to the demon king. Destruction and subjugation ensued, temples were destroyed and texts set aflame.

For centuries, the proclamations of God had never been uttered or remembered.

In front of the Death’s Valley where no man dared walk through, stood a cave. No way had it been made by nature’s ignorance.

The valley bore no vegetation, bone-dry and hostile to all delicate life forms.

The inside of the cave had never been seen by anyone, cobwebs and dust all along the exterior. Not even the day the great mountain had fallen all those years before had anything witnessed its creation. Any person would be confounded by the large boulder that stood in the front of the cave entrance. It would be impossible to budge and no number of humans or explosives could ever open it. Old vines and rocks decorated the entrance of the cave.

While humanity existed miles away, steering clear of the taboo landform and living their own short mundane lives, a single mouse scuttled about the ground before the cave. A few pebbles fell from the top and scattered, startling the mouse. The rodent stood on its hind legs, nose twitching at the curious change in the atmosphere. Something was moving nearby, not a snake nor a hawk.

A golden luminescence was seen from the crevices of the cave, the light alerting the mouse that something was truly present. More rocks shifted off the top of the cave, grinding noises echoing through the valley. The steady noise of the once considered immovable boulder continued, the darkness of the interior finally exposed to the world.

The creature had long escaped the event, soon to be plucked away by some predator.

In the shadows, a hand gripped the side of the cave, embracing the sun’s warmth in what seemed like forever. The Nephil had awakened. Stumbling from the darkness, they entered the light of the new millennia.

In tears, the last thing the Nephil felt was their father falling from the sky, followed by the horde of fallen angels. Their brothers, twisted by demonic immorality, had twisted their own wings off and broken their halos into carved horns. They pierced God and gored his flesh, pushing him down into the mountains they once called home. Their father had not fought to his end and fell into the afterlife. His flesh torn apart like carrion, his unseeing eyes stared blankly at the rocky land he once deemed his own collapsing into jagged canyons. All anyone could hear was the demonic laughter and sickening crunches as the ones holy and full of light beings allowed themselves to feast on the flesh of the once worshiped.

In the broad daylight, God’s dream of redeeming his heritage had shriveled like a raisin in the sun. The Nephil screamed and cried as they felt their brothers and father’s grace leave them, like ripping their heartstrings into shreds and shrouding them in darkness. Light flashed through the crevices of their stone tomb, shaking rocks as alien symbols carved themselves onto the stones the light touched. The valley went silent.

“The one born to the crown of the rising sun shall awaken to the new horizon and bring the light upon darkness once more.” God thought as he fell through the earth. His words carved themselves onto the great stones that surrounded the fallen Nephil.

The humans watched the scene with fright. It was once believed that the great winds would never make a mountain bow. They were wrong. And as the united monstrosities flew out of the jagged valley, the mortals found there was no one to pray to. Death and suffering dried the land of the fruit it once bore.

- “Emerge with the new dawn. I will always be with you.” -

THE NEPHILIM WILL RETURN.......AWAS WILL BE UPDATED SOON.

#awas #dante x reader #vergil x reader #devil may cry

37 notes · View notes

milune-vox · 10 months

Text

The Dawn of Redeeming Grace

previous chapter <=> next chapter (coming soon) You can also read here : https://archiveofourown.org/works/43003029/chapters/123137017#workskin Chapter 7:

Dream falls into step once more beside Hob, his gaze fixated on his friend. Hob's cheeks still bear the faint trails of tears, but an exuberant smile adorns his face—a radiant, boisterous expression that suits him perfectly. There is a nervous but joyous cadence to his stride, as though he might burst into an impromptu dance at any given moment.

It shouldn't come as a surprise to Dream, then, that this is precisely where Hob intends to lead him—a place in which to dance.

It is a known truth that Morpheus does not partake in the art of dancing. Yet, amidst the ambiance of this particular venue, he finds he perhaps doesn’t mind staying. The establishment is unassuming, neither excessively crowded nor deafeningly loud. It is infused with the spirit of jazz, from the music to the decor—mahogany and brass. Skilled individuals adorn the dancefloor, their movements a testament to their mastery. Some of them form a circle, engaging in spirited dance duels, while others catch sight of Hob and hail him with unbridled enthusiasm, calling out his current alias. Dream lingers, observing them with a mix of intrigue and curiosity. He senses his friend's urge to join them, but Hob seems to remember himself and instead waves them off, beckoning Dream toward the bar. With the confident air of a regular, Hob places orders for their libations.

"Do you frequent this place often?" Dream inquires, holding a brightly coloured cocktail that Hob announces cheekily is called a "Golden Dream."

Hob stifles a laugh in a cough as if he had found something humorous in Dream’s words, which leaves the latter briefly perplexed.

"Yeah, it's a delightful spot to be. There's nothing quite like dancing to truly feel alive, is there? Well, a good old-fashioned brawl can also do the trick, but I've become a respectable man these days, you see? Dancing carries fewer legal entanglements. You can pour your heart out on the dancefloor without fear of being judged. You can look silly or sexy or both. I've always relished the versatility," Hob replies, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he shuffles his feet and rubs his earlobe, seemingly readying himself for what he is about to ask.

"Do you dance?"

Dream hesitates, taken aback by the question. For the longest time, he has maintained a steadfast refusal to partake in dancing Yet, as he looks into Hob's eyes, an uncharacteristic uncertainty seeps into his being. He falters, unable to immediately provide his customary response. Why he feels this way, he cannot decipher. With a furrowed brow, Dream offers a noncommittal explanation, "In truth, I do not dance, although I suppose this form would comply with any requirements asked of this particular endeavour."

A smile dances upon Hob's lips, playful. "Ah, but wouldn't you care to give it a try?"

Dream feels the pull in his chest, a magnetic force drawing him toward Hob's outstretched hand. He yearns to take it, to succumb to its lure. But he resists, his hesitation winning over his yearning.

"I believe I would rather watch you," Dream finally replies, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. Hob's cheeks flush a shade redder, and Dream wonders if it is the warmer temperature compared to that of the outside that caused the change.

Hob nods, a mix of disappointment and understanding flickering in his eyes. "Well, you can sit there, if you wish. If you grow tired of it, just let me know, and we'll go. Alright?"

Dream nods in agreement, his eyes never leaving Hob's figure as he walks away, joining the other dancers. He sees one of them ask him something, pointing in his direction. Their eyes meet again briefly, and he sees as Hob laughs and punches the man lightly in the biceps. Easy, friendly banter. A mixture of emotions surge within Dream—pride, longing, and an unspoken ache for something he can't quite name. He sits at the edge of his seat, his jaw clenched, unable to tear his gaze away.

As the dancers engage in their spirited rounds, an opportunity presents itself, and Hob joins their ranks. He moves with a carefree elegance, exuding a charisma that captivates all who watch. Like a star in the night sky, he shimmers, even more so under the warm embrace of the yellow-hued lights.

Dream catches glimpses of lustful daydreams emanating from some of the onlookers, but he does his best to ignore them, his focus unwaveringly fixed on Hob.

Irresistibly drawn, he steals fleeting glances at Hob's own reveries—visions he shouldn't intrude upon. They are vibrant and alluring, and he feels echoes of himself within them, as his friend imagines him in the stead of his dancing partners.

A palpable tug in Dream's chest urges him forward, compelling him to seize this astonishing man and accept his request. It whispers of making this dream come true, pulling at his very essence. Dream remains frozen, incapable of movement.

Somewhere in the Dreaming, a strike of lightning marks his realisation.

He is certain of his emotions now, there can be no doubt. Just a few hours earlier, Hob had recounted some of his darkest memories, recalling the most abhorrent acts committed by humanity. Tears had streamed down his face, unfiltered and unashamed, as he had allowed himself to fully experience the weight of his sorrow. And now, amidst this jubilant gathering, he surrenders himself to the sheer joy that saturates the air, dancing among fleeting mortals with an unencumbered spirit, embracing the present moment with unwavering abandon.

Dream gazes at him and sees unyielding resilience. A remarkable capacity for hope. Hob lives deeply and authentically, without reservation or hesitation, unafraid of the pain that life may bring.

Dream gazes at him and comprehends all that he lacks, all that he yearns to become. He longs to nestle within Hob's ribcage and listen to the symphony of his heart, singing its love for existence. He yearns to kiss him, to consume his blissful joy, and to return it a thousandfold.

He... loves. It is a realisation that strikes him with terror.

He rises from his seat. As if attuned to his intentions, Hob turns in his direction, even amidst the throbbing music. Their eyes meet, lingering for a moment suspended in time. In that beat, Dream contemplates remaining, defying the pull to flee. He considers the ghosts of his past lovers, the remnants of hurt, destruction, and chaos always left in his wake. As if deciphering his resolve from the depths of his gaze, Hob's smile dims and his shoulders sag, a gesture of resignation. A look of worry- of despair-

And Dream turns away.

***

The Dreaming encompasses him. He is the Dreaming. The skies hang heavy, thunderous, and the rain pours down violently, an unstoppable force that splatters, ripples, and forms rivulets upon his kingdom. The tears running down his face are born anew with every drop, in a cycle of perpetual sorrow.

He aches.

He yearns.

He wants.

But he cannot have.

Crouched on his knees, he curls inward, a hand clenching his chest where his heart would reside, were he human.

Oh, if only he were- then he could- A blinding flash of light and an apocalyptic roar rends through his realm.

Above the cacophony of his despair, a voice struggles to be heard. "Boss! BOSS! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"

Matthew, his loyal raven, makes a difficult landing, knocked off course by the raging downpour and the howling wind. He hops swiftly to his side, a dark pebble ricocheting on the rain-drenched puddles. He croaks.

"Boss... Boss, are you alright?"

Dream offers no response. He cannot. Grief for what could have been, for what should have been, strangles him. There are no words left to say. Only pain remains, tearing at his eternal mind, stretching into infinity. His sister Despair has ensnared him, he knows her all too well—she is never too far away. Now, he feels her presence so strongly that he feels as if his realm might merge with hers.

The raven perches on his shoulder, nudging at his face, attempting to shake him from his prostration. Movement eludes him. It is but a distant, forsaken concept. He lacks the strength, even with his endless power. He finds that this fact does not matter. He has no use for movement. Perhaps he will cease to move entirely from now on. Perhaps he shall lie here until his dearest sister draws back the curtains on the universe.

He is reminded once again why he refrains from caring for others. He cannot be himself, cannot wield the torch that illuminates the deepest caverns of the collective mind, when he is saturated in such flooding sorrow. What is there left to do, truly? But to remain here, immobile, waiting for an end—any end, as long as it comes soon.

He thinks of his past lovers. He thinks of his son. He thinks of how he has failed them all, and how it seems to be his destined role. Dream of the Endless simply cannot afford to tether himself to any being, at any point, lest he bring them ruin. The Fates are cruel. He shall not tempt them further. Nor shall he tempt his sibling Desire by giving in, and intruding upon their realm. Oh, how Desire would revel in this. Perhaps they already do. Perhaps this is yet another machination from them- perhaps-

He would have believed before that this entire situation was nothing more than this. A manipulation from Desire. But now, he must admit that his emotions extend beyond his sibling's reach. They surpass even his own comprehension. They consume him.

Matthew's words are indistinguishable, lost amidst the tumultuous storm. Yet, Dream feels the touch of wet feathers against his cheek. The presence, the contact, soothes him. His pride attempts to push Matthew away, but he quashes it. He needs this solace, and he lacks the strength to deny himself the comfort he craves. He is mortified. He is grateful. More tears silently stream down his face, mingling with the tears of the skies.

Time passes, indistinct and fleeting.

Gradually, Matthew's words regain clarity, no longer muffled by the murky waters of his mind, and Dream starts processing them:

“Is there something else happening? Something like the Vortex? Does it have anything to do with your visits to London? Did something happen with the guy you meet ther-”

The vague allusion to Hob drives a stake through his metaphorical heart: his face hardens, and he orders:

“Peace, Matthew.”

“I…Yeah, okay.”, comes the chastised answer.

He remains a silent presence for a bit- the only sound between them is that of the rain. After a time, however, as Matthew is never able to hold his beak for long, he speaks again:

"Boss. Don’t bite my head off, but, last time you got, eh, like that, you, uh, talked to your sister and uh, I don't know, she seems nice? Maybe you should talk to her about this? I'm sure she would be happy to see you, right?"

"My sister..."

He contemplates the suggestion. The rain still falls, sparser now, a constant drizzle. He inhales and exhales, in a manner humans do, seeking solace in the meditative rhythm of breath. The way Hob had, he thinks, and shudders.

"Thank you, Matthew."

"You're welcome, boss. Didn't do much, to be fair—and, like I said, if you want to talk, I can't promise I'll provide solutions. I'm a bit rubbish at that. But, well, I have good ears. Ravens, you know? Excellent hearing. Wait, of course you know, you’re the raven guy. The guy with a raven. I simply meant—"

"Thank you."

A beat of disbelief fills the air. Dream realises then that he may not have expressed his gratitude to his raven as much as he should have, if twice such words startle him so.

"Oh, uh, right. Well... Don't worry about it, anytime, boss. Anytime. I hope you're going to—no, not that I would dare say what you should or shouldn't do, mind you”, he does not sound quite honest on this part, “—but..."

"I will meet with her.", Dream cuts him off, voice a whisper.

"Good. That's good.”, he says, relieved and a bit out of breath. “Well... See you around, boss! Say hi to her for me! And—"

"Farewell, my raven."

It is a clear dismissal- yet the words are said softly. He does not have it in him to be harsh anymore.

"Right, sure, boss.”, and there is still worry in his voice. “…I’ll… see you around, then."

Matthew hops off and takes flight, disappearing into the distance. Dream watches him depart, and from the watery depths of despair, something begins to bubble within his chest. Something lighter, something brighter. He feels an infinitesimally small smile grace his face.

He rises, and takes his leave. In the spot where his tears fell, sprouts timidly emerge from the soil.

He has a meeting to get to.

***

The shore of the Dreaming recedes, fading into the ethereal distance. Dream finds his way to the gallery in which his sibling’s sigils hang. Slowly, more hesitant with every step, he approaches the ankh— he hesitates, then takes it cautiously in hand.

“My sister.”, he addresses the silent chamber “I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil. Can we talk?”

A few beats pass, and he wonders if he will receive a response. After all, his sister is forever occupied—perhaps the busiest of them all. He would understand if she hesitates to entertain him, especially so soon after their last encounter. Reaching out to her now, without any urgent matters at hand, may be an imposition.

He waits, motionless as a statue amidst the tomb-like silence of the gallery. The fragile, glimmering hope that had stirred within him, fueled by his raven's optimistic counsel, begins to crumble and fade. After a few more beats of dread, he puts the ankh back in place and turns back, his coat billowing dramatically behind him. Then, a warm, familiar voice slices through his spiralling thoughts. “Oh hi Dream !”, his sister's disembodied voice resonates, and he freezes in his steps. “I’ll come through, if you don’t mind? My place is a little bit overcrowded.”

He recalls the disarray of her realm and a faint knowing smile tugs at his lips. "Of course," he respectfully nods, stepping back a few paces to allow her entry.

The sound of a tear and a whirling of light, and she materialises before him. “Hey, little brother.”, she greets him with a soft smile. Under her gentle scrutiny, unbearably caring, he wonders if it was a good idea to invite her after all. She always saw through him with a most uncanny ability, far surpassing his own- it is unpleasant, to be seen as vulnerable, and in spite of his maintaining composure, he knows she can tell at a glance the way he feels : like a newborn fawn, frozen under headlights. He has no idea how he is supposed to seek her advice on the matter troubling him. How is he meant to admit to her what he only just admitted to himself? Lines of concern crease her face, and he realises he may have lingered in silence for too long.

“I thank you, my sister, for agreeing to meet on such short notice. I understand your time is precious, and I would not wish to burden you.”

"Well," Death begins, a half smile playing upon her lips, “Maybe this could be one of those dreams that feel very long but are indeed very short? What do you think?”

He feels stupid having not thought of it himself. He is too used, perhaps, to the ways of his realm- the obvious is oftentime overlooked. Or perhaps this simple solution has eluded him in his worry. Worry of being a nuisance to her. Worry of being an existential threat to the man he loves. Perhaps.

“It shall be done.”, he acquiesces solemnly. “Please follow me.”

They step out of the gallery, and in that instant, time and space twist and contort around them. When the distortion settles, they find themselves in a covered courtyard, a sanctuary of gothic architecture adorned with ancient azalea beds and arcs of pink roses. The wind continues its melancholic howl, a mournful symphony that blends with the soft patter of raindrops.

“I would show you to the Fiddler’s Green, I know you are fond of him. I must apologise—the weather scarcely allows for such a stroll.”

As they round a bend in the courtyard, a sight catches their attention. Behind an artfully topiary bush sculpted in the form of a lion, a round table with two chairs emerges into view. The table is adorned with gleaming silverware, a china teapot that bears a striking resemblance to the one in Hob's apartment, and a magnificent fruit basket brimming with a dazzling array of exotic fruits. Resting atop the fruit basket are two beautiful apples, their shiny skins enticing and vibrant.

Without hesitation, Death gracefully takes her seat at the table, her eyes fixed on the tempting display before her. She wastes no time in plucking one of the luscious red apples from the basket, sinking her teeth into its crisp flesh.

Dream, however, regards the feast with a mixture of disdain and weariness. His lips curl in a subtle expression of disgust, for his appetite has waned to the depths of his melancholy.

“So. Dream.”, she says after swallowing her bite. He looks back upon her smiling face, warmth radiating from her as it always does, and he absentmindedly wonders how anyone could be scared and upset with such a kind being at their side. Thoughts of Hob, and his refusal to die, cross his mind, and he hopes that his friend will never choose the path to the Sunless Lands, no matter how caring his sister may be. If Hob were to give up on life, Dream would rather have him stay here, in the Dreaming, with him. No amount of gentleness from his sister would soothe him if she were to take his friend away. As he contemplates the depths of his emotions, a sense of dread begins to rise within him, much like it did in the dancing hall. Once again, he contemplates how he does not know what he is supposed to say. How he is supposed to act. He cannot simply state what he feels, can he? He must speak, however. He starts off with something neutral.

“Greetings, my sister.” Then, recalling their last meeting and her advice, he asks : “How have you been faring?”

“My,”, she sounds fairly impressed, “quite well, thank you.” Taking another bite of her partially eaten apple, she continues. "It's a nice start. You could even sit with me, like a true gentleman." Their eyes meet stubbornly for a few moments, and then Dream, remembering his role as host, swallows his pride and takes a seat opposite her. She extends an apple towards him, but he chooses not to react. She shrugs and remarks, "Never too late to learn new tricks. Like this, making social calls? Unusual. I love it, I'm not complaining. I usually have to track you down to wherever you go hide to brood."

Indeed, it is uncharacteristic of him. He feels obligated to provide an explanation and reluctantly responds, his eyes straining to look beyond the rainy backdrop, "I... received advice that I should perhaps reach out to you."

"And you followed it," she says, leaving the core on her plate as she reaches for another apple. "Who was it?"

"My raven."

"Oh, I love him. I'm glad I took him in his sleep. He's so good for you."

Even by Dream's standards, this is a peculiar statement. Yet, her sincerity and self-satisfied smile make him hesitant to question it. He offers a neutral reply, "I suppose so."

"Well... I would ask how you've been, but honestly, you look terrible, and by that I mean worse than usual. You needed me here. What for, little brother?"

Cutting right to the chase. She has always been rather efficient. She certainly needs to be, in her line of work. He slowly unclenches his jaw to answer:

"I find myself in a situation I do not know how to navigate. I thought perhaps I could ask for your advice, as it concerns someone you also know."

"Is it one of our siblings?"

"The matter concerns Hob Gadling." He is resolutely not looking at her anymore.

"That old codger? Is he well?"

"He is..." Dream grimaces at the memory of Hob's heartbroken face as he left, "...well enough."

"Hmmm, there's something you're not telling me. Come on, spill the beans."

He reluctantly continues, "I met him. As you had foreseen, he was indeed happy to see me."

She observes him with a knowing smile- he does not have to look at her to feel it. He compels himself to carry on with his retelling, one step at a time:

"It went well.”, a beat. “We agreed to meet again."

"Ah, so what did you decide? Another hundred years or going back to once every 89?"

Dream recalls one of the most common dreams of humanity—falling. The brief feel of weightlessness followed by the inevitable crushing impact at the end. Usually, the dreamer wakes up at once, as they crash to the ground. Dream doesn’t sleep, however, so he cannot wake up from this. It is most unfortunate. He takes a slow, deep breath, and admits :

"We have been meeting once a week for a month now."

“That’s brilliant! Oh my, my little brother is finally making friends! I’m so proud of you.”

She reaches out from across the table, putting her hand over his, and he freezes, eyes downcast.

"That, my dear sister, is the crux of the matter."

“What is?”, she asks softly.

“I am not certain the nature of my feelings are exclusively friendly.”

“Oh. I see.”

There is a moment of silence. Then, the crunching sound of her biting in another apple. His frown deepens. He reclaims his hands, crossing his arms.

"You fail to grasp the weight of my predicament."

She leans back, a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Ah, Dream, ever the romantic. But this time, you've truly gone further. This time you actually learned to know the person before falling heads over heels. It might even last!"

“I have feared that perhaps Desire’s decided to meddle in my affairs. Again.”

“Well, they would not dare interfere with my affairs, and I am definitely involved.”

Her tone turns colder, and in that moment, she looks every bit as old and powerful as she is.

“I ruled the possibility out. I… I have not felt this way before. I’m afraid it goes beyond what Desire might succeed in influencing. I’m afraid the problem doesn’t lie with them, for once. I….”

Thunder rumbles and crashes in the distance.

“I have been thinking of Nada. She did not deserve her fate. Nor would he, if-”

“Aw, Dream.”

She lets out a sigh, extending her hand toward him. A precaution, after his earlier reaction, but he bristles at the notion of being coddled. He tenses. This conversation is going nowhere either way. Nothing helpful has been said yet, he is still as lost as ever.

As he rises, so does she, and before he can truly walk away, she wraps her arm around him in a half-hug, and, against his will, he immediately melts into her embrace, his defences crumbling.

“Several things.”, she begins to say against his shoulder, “First, he doesn’t count as a mortal anymore, so, that rules out any unpleasant business connected to stupid laws of old. Secondly: I’m proud of you.”, she squeezes him tighter, “I know you, you are probably freaking out right now, which, considering your history, is a natural thing to do, but I think this, this is a good thing. I think you’re learning from your mistakes. ”

“I… believe I may have made yet another mistake, last I saw him”, he says, quietly as the softest wind.

“Oh no. What did you do, you foolhardy idiot.”, she punches him in the arm. He would question why she always resorts to hitting him with something- a baguette, her fist- but at this moment, he feels like he deserves it.

“I left.”

She takes hold of his arm, and drags him to walk around the garden. They remain in silence for a bit. Dream feels like a stone being pulled through the current by a rope.

“Do you believe he reciprocates?”, she asks, gentle again.

Dream thinks back on Hob, his eagerness to impress him, to accommodate him, to give him what he wants, not only what he needs- he thinks of the way they held each other, he thinks of the daydreams of them dancing, he tries to condense six hundred years of memories into one forward sum: he finds that he cannot. The wind screams louder. His words can barely be heard over its howl.

“I do not know for certain. I would not impose my feelings upon him either way. I would not doom him so. I can remain as I was- as we were. I do not need such things.”

The potentiality of rejection makes him want to go lying back down under the rain and take root there.

"Come now, brother," she insists, tugging him gently beneath the gallery once more. "Everyone needs company," she remarks, gesturing toward the vibrant roses. Her fingers graze the petals, and they seem to shift hues under her touch- white, red, purple, yellow, and many more. "To be held. To be loved. It's not bearable to be absolutely alone for all of eternity, is it?"

"We are Endless. And I am not alone," Dream responds, gesturing vaguely at his realm beyond the pointed arches.

She looks into his eyes, her gaze filled with understanding. "You may not be alone, but loneliness is whole other subject. You want more. I get it. We all need kinship. Love."

He hesitates, then counters, "And yet, you don't seem to need this, sister."

Her smile is enigmatic as she answers, "We all seek different kinds of companionship. I may not be up to your bleeding heart's standards, but I do cherish my friendships.”, she plucks a single yellow rose, and breathes it in. “You'd know if you asked."

He considers her words and replies thoughtfully, "Maybe I shall, someday."

“Maybe you will.”, she smiles, and, taking his hand, opens it to lay down the rose in his palm, now white as a snowflake. “And what about Hob Gadling?" she inquires.

"Perhaps I shall reach out to him too," he says, closing his fingers on the rose gently and letting down his hand.

She nods approvingly. "Ah, to see the romantic in you emerging once more.”, she has a short, sunny laugh. “It's remarkable you haven’t decided to court him at least a century earlier. But perhaps it was necessary. Your past self might have mucked it up. I have higher hopes for your present and future selves."

"Then, my sister, let us hope that your hopes are not misplaced,” he offers her the smallest smile, to which she answers with a wide smile of her own.

"We shall find out either way,” she says, squeezing his arm in a comforting gesture. He acquiesces solemnly.

Before parting, she kisses his forehead, and he closes his eyes, savouring the rare touch. She then pats his head with affection, and he arches an eyebrow at her, more amused than offended.

With a wink and the sweep of her wings, she vanishes. Left in contemplation, he gazes at his kingdom, restored, powerful, the sun starting to pierce timidly through the clouds, and hope takes root within him.

He gazes back at the rose clutched in his hand, finding that its colour has deepened to a rich crimson. He looks at it for a while longer, then sighs and opens his coat, hiding the bloom within its starry depths.

Having informed Lucienne of his imminent departure for Hell, he prepares to leave. And he does.

Things do not go as planned.

Calliope's plea reaches his ears, and without hesitation, he answers her call. Lucifer leaves him the keys to Hell. Events keep piling up.

When, finally, he has freed Nada and sent her on the path to reincarnation, having found someone worthy to guard the keys to Hell, he feels an infinite weariness consuming him. Yet, he cannot bear to remain in his realm and rest, yearning for the one his heart longs for.

Gathering his strength, he casts his sand into the air, and in a moment, he stands before a magnificent building, a temple of knowledge, golden in the dawning light of the evening. Recalling his last conversation with Hob, he remembers the interest the man had shown in having him attend one of his classes. Perhaps, this could be an opportune way to approach him after their time apart.

Though the separation hasn't been long compared to the vast expanse that used to lie between their meetings, the months have an unfamiliar weight this time, burdening him with trepidation.

It is with uncertainty in his stride that he finds himself in the midst of a bustling hall. Echoes of dreams collide all around him, disorienting his senses. Feeling lost, he stands amid a sea of young human beings, unsure of his next move.

A woman with tortoise glasses and a colourful name tag appears before him. He needs not read it. Hedwige Thomas, the head secretary, whose dreams are filled with kittens and monstrous cupboards throwing up papers and messing with the classification.

"I am looking for Robert... Gadling?" he inquires, hoping he is using the correct name for this lifetime.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear. Professor Gadling isn't here. I hope he'll return soon, though. The paperwork," Hedwige responds, her voice carrying a hint of exasperation on the latter word.

Confused by her words, he probes further, "What do you mean?"

Things, yet again, do not go as planned.

"Well, he hasn't been in for a week," she answers with a nonchalant shrug. "I must be off now, and if you see him, do remind him that he's got some papers to forward to us? Thank you, dear."

Dream does not acknowledge her departure. Instead, a glacial sense of worry overtakes him. For the smallest instant, he feels frozen with dread, as if encased once again in glass- around him, students start dreaming anxiously over their exams, their relationships, their life goals. Realising this, he rushes out of the building. He must find Hob, to ensure he is safe and well. Without hesitation, he disappears in a swirl of sand, leaving behind a trail of fleeting nightmares in his wake.

#dreamling #dreamling fanfic #dreamling fic #fanfic #fanfiction #the sandman #morpheus x hob

6 notes · View notes