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fangirl-dot-com · 5 months

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Chapter 8 - May the Odds be Ever in Your Favor

Guys, Max was never going to be her dad (that’s gonna be reserved for Christian lol). Everyone on the grid will be a brother figure, unless stated otherwise – like Fernando is leaning towards the wise grandpa rule and Lewis will be the cool dad (I have a funny story line to go with this idea). All that to say, Max and Kelly will look after her when she needs it most. I also switched the titles. On with the show, and don’t forget to comment if you want to be added to the tag list and or if it’s somehow not tagging you! Much love <3

Well, to Max’s dismay and according to google, you cannot adopt your 20 year old teammate that he had met hours earlier.. He had called Kelly early Thursday morning to whine. The more sensible part of his brain also knew that Christian wouldn’t let that happen either. And Kelly had to quickly remind him that he could still watch out for her.

Max seemed to finally agree at the thought of being one of the protective adults in her life. He knew that you had your manager, who you seemed to trust. But, that didn’t help much when you spoke of how lonely you were. He was going to make it his mission to get you to move to Monaco, where he could keep an eye on you.

“Maybe Christian could adopt her,” he muttered, staring angrily at his coffee. What that cup did to offend him, he didn’t know. But what he did know, was that he’d see you again later that night. Another festival for him to attend to. He only wished that Formula 1 went back to racing, and not putting on shows that had a strict attendance policy.

At least you would be there. There was a change in the schedule so that you could be with him, Checo, Daniel, and Yuki on whatever thing they were being put on for the night. The buzzing of his phone ended his staring contest with his cup.

It was a text from you.

Little Racer :

max, i need your help

what are you wearing tonight???

i have an idea, and I think it’s stupid but i want to do it

Big Racer :

If it’s you, I don’t think it’ll be stupid.

Probably what I always wear. Jeans and whatever Red Bull top they give me.

Little Racer :

that’s so grandpa core of you maxie

and what is this all proper grammar for texting lollll

you are not beating the allegations you millennial

Max’s brows furrowed. He was not a grandpa or a millennial. He just liked to use the normal setting on his phone with proper capitalization and end marks. He would just have to ask Charles or Lando to see if they agreed with you. They wouldn’t though…would they? Your next message had him actually dying.

Little Racer :

do you think that Christian will be mad if i come dressed like elvis?

he said i could but i don’t know…

Big Racer :

You wouldn’t dare.

Little Racer :

oh boy ladies and gents, he doesn’t know

*looks into the camera like an episode on the office*

Big Racer :

Did you seriously type all of that?

Don’t answer.

20 bucks says you won’t.

The three little dots danced on his screen as he waited for you to respond.

Little Racer :

just you wait maxie, just you wait

You didn’t text him anything after that. Max could only call Christian to understand what just happened. He picked up after three rings.

“Hello, Max.”

“Hi Christian. First off, happy birthday.”

“Thank you son. But I know you didn’t just call me to wish me a happy birthday. You could have told me that later tonight.” In the background, it sounded like a coffee machine was running. Max hoped he didn’t wake him up.

“Well, Y/n just texted me about wearing, uh.” Max didn’t want to say it out loud, because now it sounded stupid.

“An Elvis costume? Max, the kid called me last night to ask. Said she didn’t want to ruin an image for us if she showed up like that. But I told her that it would be fantastic idea. Poor kid sounded scared.”

Max let out a low hum. He didn’t like the sound of that. You were in no position to worry about such a thing. If anyone was to ruin Red Bull’s image, it would be him. He had no filter and Christian often had to tell him to reign in his thoughts.

Max spoke, “I think I’m going to see about her moving to Monaco. She mentioned she has a flat in Nice, but that’s far away from Milton Keynes, and not close enough to anyone. Christian, she has no one.”

It took a while for Christian to reply. Max could just imagine the older man running his hand along his forehead. It was hard to think of someone so young to be so alone.

“Yeah, I think that would be best for her. I’ll make sure she can afford it. Hell, it could even be a property that we buy just for her to stay in when we have breaks.”

Max listened and nodded his head along. Now it would only be to convince you to move. But suddenly, he remembered his previous conversation with you. He smacked his hand on his head.

“Is everything alright Max?” the Brit on the phone questioned.

“I just lost 20 bucks.”

You however, had no idea that this conversation was happening. All you knew was that you had the go ahead from Christian to wear your beloved Elvis costume. Would you make a fool of yourself? Maybe.

But who cares. It’s Vegas. To your chagrin, Vito had told you that there would be no walk out, but there would be dramatic paddock entrances. He still promised that you would get your song. That’s all that mattered to you.

While you waited for the night to begin, you roamed the hotel. Because you were bored, you actually did a lot.

You started off with breakfast. You were sad that they didn’t have the machines that made Texas-shaped waffles, because that was only in Texas, but the pancakes would do. And because you’re trainer would kill you for not eating well, you took it upon yourself to have a yogurt with some fruit as a side.

After letting the food settle, you went to the gym for that daily grind. It had been a while since you had been able to work out, but you needed to get back on track. You would be racing tomorrow and you needed to be at your best. You lifted some weights first, starting with the smaller ones as warm ups before you got to the bigger ones. The stretch bands were very useful as you squatted the weights.

After you were done, you hopped on the treadmill. By using the lower speeds, you were able to practice your runway walk, as if you would ever be a model. But the speeds increased and you found yourself in a full sprint by the end of the run. Five miles wasn’t bad, and you knew you could have gone farther, but you wanted to take a quick dip in the pool before getting ready.

The water was a nice cool down for your overheated skin. Running was not your first choice of exercise. You’d rather run out of money, than run in real life. It didn’t make sense, but it did. The chlorine in the water was making your hair gross, so you decided to get out so that you could take a shower.

Like the kid you were, you had your outfit laid out the night before, as if you were going on a fieldtrip.

You allowed to take your time in the shower. It wasn’t every day that you made your F1 debut. That had your bones chilled. Your Formula 1 debut. You. Putting your head under the stream, you rinsed out the hair mask that you put on. There would be no nervousness. You were born for this.

The thought of Max’s texts earlier made you giggle. You were glad that he was so welcoming. You would be much more nervous if you had met the infamous Mad Max. But this was more cat-dad Max. Kind Max.

You only hope that you won’t screw things up.

You turned on your playlist as you started to actually get ready. You ordered room service so that you didn’t have to go somewhere to eat. The food was amazing, well, as amazing as hotel food could get. You curled your hair as the remnants of your skin care routine dried. You mumbled the words to a song as you stuck a French fry in your mouth.

Once your moisturizer and various oils and toners dried, you started on your more pronounced makeup look. You knew you were going to be photographed throughout the night, and you needed to look good. Looking at the window, you noticed that the sun was setting. That meant that it was time for you to get dressed, and Vito would be there to pick you up shortly.

Your outfit consisted of a sparkly white crop top and some white pants. A red scarf topped the outfit off.

You would be arriving right behind Max and in front of Checo. You were excited to see the two men again. Moreso, you were excited to earn 20 bucks. With sunglasses on your nose, you were ready to hit the Sin City.

Vito could hardly contain his laughter when you got in the car.

You raised an eyebrow, “What?”

He shook his head as to somehow rid himself of his laughter. “Nothing kid.”

“Well Christian said I could wear it. I’ll blend right in. And besides, I’m almost immediately changing into my race suit.”

He nodded his head at your reasoning. You had pulled off crazier things before, so he didn’t know why he was surprised. Maybe it was because he thought that you might not want to in F1. But, on the inside he was happy that you weren’t losing your child-like nature. He never wanted to see that seeming innocence to leave. He knew that you weren’t totally innocent, but he never wanted to see you hurt to an extent that you quit being happy. That was his favorite thing about you. You seemed to care about what others thought of you, but you knew how to make yourself happy. And if wearing an Elvis costume to the paddock would make you happy, then he would protect your decision.

You could see the flashing lights even before you got out of the car. American paparazzi were on another level. You knew that Red Bull were one of the last ones to show up, and that freaked you out. Almost every single driver was already on the other side of gate. Your nerves settled when you saw Max get out, and you wanted to follow him. But, you realized that this was what you were waiting for.

The familiar sounds of 33 Max Verstappen (the original one) could be heard through the car doors. Max’s face morphed into one of almost disgust. You let out a giant laugh and rolled down your window before you knew what you were doing.

“Max, I love the music. Very Mad Max-esque.”

He quickly flipped you a loving middle finger as he scanned his card to be let into the paddock. Multiple Elvis impersonators gathered around him for a picture. You hadn’t noticed, however, that the moment you rolled your window down, all of the cameras and photographers were now pointed at you.

You buzzed with energy when you heard Life is a Highway start to fill the air.

On the other side of the paddock, Max had stopped to talk to Lando, Oscar, Carlos, and Charles. He also was waiting for you so that you could walk with him to the Red Bull hospitality. He glanced over to see if you were out of the car at least.

“Nice entrance mate,” Lando clapped him on the shoulder. He rolled his eyes. He’s sure that you roped Christian in to play the song.

“Well what did they play for you?”

Lando deflated and muttered, “Let’s go Lando.” Carlos and Charles, along with Max, laughed at his demise.

Charles suddenly looked over Max’s shoulder. At that moment, Carlos spoke up.

“I didn’t know Checo was a Cars fan.” The drums and guitar seemed to be turned up to the highest setting. What. An. Entrance.

Max had a glimmer in his eyes, “He’s not.”

And suddenly, there you were. In your Elvis costume. And you were loving it. You waved at all the people around you, quickly becoming a crowd favorite.

From his right, Charles hums and Lando’s jaw is dropped.

“That’s the new rookie, correct?” Suddenly, George was with them, along with Alex.

Max only chuckled. “Yep.” He popped the “p.”

Charles spoke up, “She’s nice. I met her at Arthur’s birthday party, but didn’t speak to her much.”

“You all will love her. Trust me,” Max said, eyes widened as you got crowded with the other Elvises. You smile could outshine a thousand suns.

Your eyes quickly met his and you gave him a giant wave. He beckoned you to come over. You flashed a nervous look before it melted away, replaced with bravery. If there was a time to meet some of the grid, you really hadn’t wanted to be dressed as Elvis.

Your steps were quick and you made it over in no time. Now, most drivers are tall, but look short next to George, being the giraffe that he is. However, you were another thing.

You’d definitely be taller than Yuki by a couple of inches. But you stood closer to five-foot-six (167.64 cm.), almost 5 inches shorter than Max, and four inches shorter than the rest.

You gave a shy wave as you spoke, “Hi, I’m Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.” You suddenly remembered something. You turned to Max and held out your hand.

The boys’ eyes widened as Max fished out his wallet and placed a bill in your outstretched hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you sir.” You mocked a salute.

Lando tsk-ed, “What did our Max loose a bet on?”

“He said I wouldn’t come dressed like this. Little did he know, I’ve had this in my closet for years.” Lando couldn’t help but laugh at your revelation, and neither could Carlos and Charles.

“Yeah, kid, you should have told me that Christian already gave you the go ahead.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” You had a shit-eating smirk on your face. Lando was the first one to speak up.

“How old are you? Max over here keeps calling you kid.”

“I’m twenty.”

It was an amazing recreation of that one tik-tok trend. I’m twenty, insert looks of disgust, uhg. Your heart dropped at their reactions.

It was Carlos who surprised you. He quickly patted your head, “Aw, just a baby.”

You looked at him in awestruck. You leaned over to Max and all but whispered, “Max?”

“Yes kid?” he said in full voice.

“He’s older than you right?”

“Yes.”

“Can I do the thing?” Max looked Carlos up and down before smiling.

“Go right ahead.” The smile that you had was wiped off your face. You squared your shoulders and held out your hand. Carlos took it with a confused look. You gave him a firm handshake.

“Thank you Mr. Sainz.” You swear he did a full body cringe. He was about to say something, but Christian had waved the two of you over, yelling something about time to get ready.

You flashed a smile at the small group, “It was nice meeting you!” You all but bounced away as Max calmly walked by your side.

“Did she just?” Lando looked to Carlos, who was frozen in his spot. He looked like someone had just told him that his car had blown up on the way here.

He looked at his hands. “Mr.,” he gulped, “Sainz?”

Oscar finally piped up. “Well, you are old.” Carlos looked close to a breakdown.

Charles put a hand on his shoulder as he watched you and Max walk on the ramp. Max’s face was now stone-cold, yet yours still radiated so much warmth. “Come on mate. We got to go.”

As they walked away, Carlos questioned, “I’m not old, am I?’ Charles could not, would not, should not, give him an answer.

Lando and Oscar just looked at each other and then back at the disappearing duos. Laughter filled the air as they also began to walk to their respective hospitalities.

As you and Max got closer to the garage, you got a little quieter.

“I don’t think they liked me very much. I knew the costume would be a bad idea.” The look of dejection was all over your face. Max looked over at you and huffed.

“Kid, they just don’t know you yet. They’re also stressed about this race. No driver liked to drive on a track that was built in a month.”

“You’re right.”

“Kid, I’m always right.” You hit his shoulder.

Christian was quick to get you, Checo, and Max all together for a couple of pictures. Since it was Christian’s birthday, there was cake and everything for a small celebration. After, the three of you were told to get into the racing suits for the opening celebration.

You were with Mitch while you did so.

“You’re telling me. That Kurt Cobain is going to perform. And I’m going to miss it! With John Legend!” Your eyes were wide as you zipped the suit up.

“For the last time kid, you can meet them after.” You pouted as you tied your shoes.

“Fine. But let me say, this is very Hunger Games of them. So Americanesque.” Mitch just let you talk.

After you were ready, minus the helmet and all that, Mitch led you to the glass box. You turned to look at her.

“Promise me that you’re not going to be dragged away to your death. This is so Katniss Everdeen coded and I cannot lose you like she lost Cinna.” Mitch was going to tell you off for worrying too much, but she could see through your eyes that you were trying to actually tell her that you were scared of the whole thing. No wonder you were rambling, you were just nervous.

Mitch brought you into a hug and squeezed. You practically melted as you squeezed her back. Over your shoulder, Max was looking at the whole ordeal. He’ll give you a hug right before they went up. He knew how scary this world was.

Mitch was given the signal that everything was about to start. You climbed into the box and some official closed the door.

Mitch looked up at you, “May the odds be ever in your favor.” Your jaw dropped in appall as you were slowly being lifted. So she did know the movie!

Max put a comforting hand on your shoulder as your face was suddenly hit with a breeze. All around you, people were cheering and lights were flashing. You suddenly wished you had brought your sunglasses with you.

Max scoffed as he raised his hand to wave.

“What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t racing. We’re standing here, being observed, like a bunch of clowns.”

“At least this won’t last long. We’ll be in the car soon Max.” You were right. If it meant anything, he would be back in the car soon, in his element.

A beep let you three know that the machine would be going down in the next few moments. When the machine jolted down, you quickly stood up straight, hand behind your back, and put three fingers to your mouth. Your lips kissed your fingertips before you held the three fingers up.

It was still loud as you did it, but the crowd died down as they watched you and mirrored your display. You watched in awe at the raised hands.

The three of you lost sight of the crowds as the box was now back where it started. Max looked at you in bewilderment.

“What was that?”

You let out a large gasp. “You’ve never seen the Hunger Games?” You must have been loud because someone else gasped as well. Looking over, you were met with the sight of blond hair and striking blue eyes.

“Max, you’ve never seen the Hunger Games?” Logan stomped over.

“Dude I know. So not girl boss of him.” Max looked at the two of you in confusion. Girl? Boss?

You and Logan were quickly swept into a conversation about American tendencies while Max just stood in between the both of you, looking like he’s in the middle of a midlife crisis. You and Logan were only pulled away when you needed to get into the car for free practice.

As you left, you turned around and faced Logan, giving him a look of faux sympathy. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

“At least you didn’t volunteer,” Logan laughed as he turned away.

Max was still in the middle of his midlife crisis when Christian came to tell everyone that it was time to head to the garage.

You felt your heart rate picking up as you got closer to the garage. You took a deep breath and exhaled.

It was show time.

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#charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x driver!reader #max verstappen x reader #platonic grid x reader #arthur leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #formula 1 x you #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #ollie bearman x reader #alex albon x reader #logan sargeant x reader #george russell x reader #lewis hamilton x reader

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 11 days

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All Things End

Pairing: Osferth (The Last Kingdom) x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~2.7k

Summary: Based on this request. Life has been blissful for Osferth since finding love with a Christian woman from Alton. However, he cannot shake the thought that she deserves better; if he loves her, he should want her to be happy, even if that happiness is not found with him... Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @blvckmvgicwoman. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Her breaths come in ragged pants that fan hotly against the sweat soaked skin of Osferth’s neck. She is pliant beneath him, thighs wrapped tightly around his waist, mirroring the spasming grip of her warm, wet walls, pulling him towards his end as she reaches her own. The pressure that has steadily been building at the base of his spine explodes in white hot intensity, and he screws his eyes shut as he pushes back into her with a final, deep thrust, spilling himself inside of her.

Inside of her.

He freezes as the sensation fades away, eyes snapping back open in stark realisation. He pulls back, breathing heavily, panic not allowing his heart rate to slow.

“I–I did not mean to…I’m sorry. That was careless of me, please forgive me, I–”

She places a palm against his cheek, caressing his face gently, halting his rambled apologies. Her expression is calm, though her eyes are glossy, lips parted as the afterglow of their tryst suffuses through her flesh.

“It is fine, my love, we will take care of it.”

He knows all too well what she means when she says that. She will take care of it. It would not be the first time that she has had to.

It has been a year since they shared their first night together, and they have enjoyed many more since then, under the cover of stars, or on the straw stuffed mattresses of the various ale reeking inns that they find themselves in when they have enough coin to seek proper shelter on their travels. Osferth is usually always careful, pulling out and coating her thighs, lower back or belly with his spend. However, there have been two occasions when he has gotten lost in her warmth, the intoxicating scent of her, and forgotten himself, finishing inside of her as he ascends to the height of bliss, before the gravity of his carelessness plummets him back to earth with horrifying cognizance. Tonight is the third time that this has happened.

His expression is sullen as he sits by the campfire the following morning, watching her brew the pungent roots and herbs in a steaming pot of water. The acrid stench makes his nostrils twitch in disgust, but he refuses to move or look away. She is the one that has to drink the noxious liquid, suffering the smell of it pales in comparison, and does little to assuage the guilt that weighs heavily upon his chest.

She grimaces as she gulps it down, brow furrowed as she struggles not to retch at the taste, and he swears silently to himself that this is a torment that he will never allow her to suffer again. She deserves better, he must be better for her.

The frightened young woman he had met in Alton has come a long way since he had rescued her. She is no longer shy and fearful and, though still steadfast in her faith, she shares herself with him freely and without shame. She drinks ale, laughs heartily at Finan’s dirty jokes and no longer displays any apprehension at interacting with Uhtred and the others. His heart swells with warmth and affection for the woman he has fallen in love with, she is truly the light of his life. Though in moments such as these he is left to ponder on how exactly he has changed hers, and if it is for the better.

He has basked in her warmth on chilly evenings, enjoyed the sinful pleasures of her flesh, found comfort and joy in the unconditional love that she showers him with, but what can he possibly offer her in return?

Osferth is her protector, but would she need that protection at all if she were not travelling with Uhtred and his men? He is the blade against the harm that he directly places her in the way of every time they prepare for battle. They have no home, no money, nothing but what they carry upon their horses. He loves her more than he ever thought himself capable of loving another person, but love alone will not provide for her.

The thoughts consume him as they ride south, towards the next village, and he clings tightly to her as she leans back against him in the saddle, as though he can feel the very essence of her slipping through his fingers. A man less selfish would simply let her go, but he cannot fathom a life without her. Deep down, despite trying his best, he knows he will never get it right.

Beocca and Æthelwold are awaiting them when they arrive, and she leaves him with a cheerful smile and a soft kiss on the lips, explaining that she wishes to explore, a polite means to excuse herself from the discussion that she knows does not concern her. He is ever grateful for her intuitive nature, but once more left disheartened that she is placed in that position to begin with.

He is barely able to focus as Beocca relays Alfred’s demands to Uhtred. There is a dawning sense of finality settling in the pit of his stomach, causing cold tendrils of dread to spread throughout his body, and it does not come from the news of the King’s order of one hundred pieces of wergild and an oath sworn to his son, Edward. There is a price he knows he will have to pay sooner rather than later, and it will come at a greater cost to him than any fealty sworn to a future ruler.

Osferth watches as she laughs breathlessly, the sound carrying softly on the breeze. The children scurry around her skirts, rosy faced and grinning, eager to play. She had obliged and agreed to join in on their game of chase when they had invited her, excited at having new people arrive in the village. Her playing with them feels effortless, natural even, and he thinks about how easily she would adapt to motherhood, to have a babe of her own to hold in her arms. It causes a lump in his throat, his gaze growing misty as his mouth tugs downward, knowing that’s something he will never be able to give her.

He is a bastard. He will not pass that curse on by marriage or parentage, that will die with him.

But what of her wants and needs? He is depriving her of the opportunity to be a wife, a mother. He can no longer subject her to a life of vagrancy and uncertainty, simply because of his heedless desire to have her at his side. She did not ask for this, it has been thrust upon her without her say so. Her life cannot truly begin until the one she leads with him comes to an end. With a heavy heart, he decides that when they reach the next town he will travel on without her.

The village they currently occupy seems too small, too dirty, not vibrant enough for her to call home, he reasons, she deserves to live somewhere bigger and as filled with exuberant life as she is. He knows he is lying to himself, he is simply unprepared to let her go, he is not ready. He is not sure he ever will be, but he will have to be for both of their sakes.

Over the coming days, he keeps her close, committing to memory the softness of her hair between his fingers and the way the sunlight dapples upon it like fresh spun silk. He inhales the fragrant scent of her skin every time he holds her close, as though trying to permanently imprint the faint floral smell upon his mind.

The way her eyes light up whenever she smiles is the sight he will miss most of all. He wishes for that to be the only expression he ever sees upon her beautiful face. He cannot bear the thought of parting ways and seeing the heartbreak in her eyes, or the tears that might fill them. It is craven, but he knows the only way he will ever be able to leave her is if he slips away without telling her.

His heart sits like a stone within his chest when they eventually arrive at the next town. He knows that when he departs it will no longer be in tact, torn asunder as he leaves half of it behind. He can see his future darkening as he looks into her eyes, knowing it may be the final time he ever gets the opportunity to do so.

Osferth makes love to her that night, his pace unhurried, every thrust drawn out slowly, memorising the subtle movements of her hips and each soft sigh that passes her lips. His hands stroke through her hair, caressing her face, before dragging over her curves. If this is to be his final time with her then he wants it to last, wants her to feel just how much she means to him, and to be left with the memory of how utterly divine she had felt pressed against him.

“I love you,” he whispers to her, as she cuddles against his chest afterwards.

“And I love you.”

Those simple words cause his throat to tighten, knowing he will never hear her utter them again.

It is for the best, he thinks sadly as he watches her sleep peacefully next to him. She deserves the opportunity to settle down, to get married, to have a family. She deserves everything he will never be able to give her.

He slips out of the bed as dawn breaks, casting a dusky orange glow through the gap in the threadbare curtains. The loss of her warmth is intensified by the knowledge that this is his final time experiencing it, the sensation of parting from her akin to being plunged into icy water. He has to force himself to look away from her in order to gather up his clothes and get dressed, careful not to disturb her.

Hovering by the door, he hesitates a moment, staring at her as she slumbers. If this is the right thing to do, then why does it feel so painful? His love for her is unconditional, however, and he longs for her to find happiness, even if that means he is not a part of it.

He hates the thought of her waking up alone, the inevitable betrayal she will feel when she realises what he has done, and it tempts him to stay, to continue to pretend that he could ever be enough for her. But he knows those feelings will pass for her, and when they do she will meet the man who will marry her and father children with her, a man who does not carry the curse of bastardry.

“There is a woman in the room upstairs,” he tells the innkeeper on his way out, handing him a coin purse containing all of the money that Osferth has to his name. “Please ensure she is well taken care of.”

His hands shake as he saddles up his horse, the void she has left behind seeming as though it will swallow him whole. He is incomplete without her, destined to go through life feeling like half of a person.

Finan raises an eyebrow at Osferth, as he tends to his own mount, eyeing him with suspicion. “She not coming with us?”

Osferth swallows thickly, an attempt to keep the emotion from his voice, as he keeps his eyes focused on the straps he buckles. “No.”

“Yes, I am!” She cries out, hurrying towards them, a bewildered look upon her face. Her hair is still tousled from sleep, suggesting she had dressed in a hurry to catch them up. “Osferth, why did you not wake me?”

His heart sinks, tears prickling his eyes as he turns to look at her, knowing he will now have to have the conversation he had been wanting to avoid all along. Finan clears his throat, looking between the two of them, before moving away towards where Uhtred and Sihtric are readying to leave.

“You are to stay here,” he says in a trembling voice, “I have left coin with the innkeeper to take care of you.”

“For how long?” She asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

He lowers his gaze, guilt pooling in his gut, unsure of how to word his response. There is no kind way to say “forever” in this instance.

“For how long, Osferth?!” She asks again, her voice wavering as it raises an octave.

His eyes are sad and filled with remorse as he looks back up at her, nausea swirling in his stomach as he watches a tear slip down her cheek. His fingers twitch uselessly by his sides with the urge to wipe it away.

“Do you not want me anymore?”

Her voice is barely above a whisper as she asks this, and it feels as though a dagger has been twisted into Osferth’s heart. How could she possibly ever believe he didn’t want her? She means everything to him.

He shakes his head, the words feeling as though they will choke him as his vision blurs. “I will never stop wanting you,” he confesses, “but that is precisely the problem. You deserve better than the life I can provide for you. I will never be able to give you children, or marry you. I am trying to do what is best for you. I want you to be happy.”

“You make me happy, you bloody fool!” She cries, the slightest hint of anger creeping into her tone. “And it is not for you to decide what is best for me. Why did you not tell me that this was how you were feeling?”

“I could not bear to have a conversation that I knew would break both of our hearts. I know that is cowardice, but I knew you would never agree to leave, and I cannot continue to hold you back from the life you deserve.”

He stares miserably at her, feeling the wetness of his tears upon his face as she swipes angrily at her own. This is not how this was supposed to go. He does not want this to be how they remember each other.

“You are right,” she says defiantly, “I would not have agreed to go. If a husband and children were what I wanted then I would have parted ways with you long ago. I am not the scared little girl you found a year ago. I make my own choices.”

His lips part involuntarily, eyes widening slightly. “How can this possibly be the life that you would choose for yourself? How could I ever be enough?”

She sighs, reaching for his hand, clasping his fingers tightly in his. The gesture spreads warmth from the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head.

“I love you, Osferth. You are enough for me. The life we have is enough for me. I do not wish to risk my life in childbirth, or spend my days tending to the needs of a husband who views me as something to be possessed. I want a life that is filled with adventure, I want to fall asleep under the stars, and I want to do it all with you at my side.”

A small, yet hopeful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he steps closer, tenderly wiping away the wetness beneath her eyes with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “God brought us together for a reason. All things must end, I know this, but not what we have, just the foolish way in which you perceive it.”

He rests his forehead against hers, relief and embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I have been so stupid, can you ever forgive me? I do not know how to even begin to apologise.”

She leans in, pressing her lips to his, allowing them to linger for a moment before pulling away with a slight grin. “Save your apologies. You will need them for the innkeeper when you ask for your money back.”

He smiles. There is comfort in knowing that everything ends, because within it they have been given the opportunity to begin again.

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sophswritingthings · 5 months

Note

PLEASEE something with reader being super protective of mizu after her duel with chiaki and constantly bashing heads with taigen because he keeps talking about his death duel with mizu like no one cares dude!! (the way she tore her stitches like less than a day after waking up i'm gonna hit her so hard)

love ur writing sm. i jeep checking your page like every other hour el em ay oh

pairing: mizu x fem!protective!reader

warning(s): swearing, can I take taigen as a warning

a/n: reader yelling at taigen and mizu just staring, heart-eyed

summary: after your partners fight with the four fangs, you can’t help but be protective over her. even despite taigen’s constant shit with this “death duel” or whatever, you are determined to make sure she heals properly.

word count: 408 words / 2,211 characters

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“sit still,” you hiss, gazing up at mizu. she was twitchy, unwilling to stay still and allow you to check her stitches—fixing what you had to.

“let her fix you up so you can be in proper shape for our duel,” taigen hissed, standing over you two with narrowed eyes and crossed arms.

“oh for fucks sake,” you roll your eyes. “can you please shut the hell up about this duel, or whatever? he is not in any shape to be even thinking about that!”

taigen pauses. he recoils a little at your strong and firm words; backing up and turning around to sit by the fire with ringo.

“hmph,” you pout, finishing fixing up mizu’s stitches.

all the while, she’s staring at you, completely heart-eyed and starstruck.

“how do they feel?” you whisper, “I hope it doesn’t hurt too bad.”

she brushes a hand across your cheek, “they feel fine,” she gently tugs you closer—wanting to feel your body against hers so badly. “I’ve seen worse.”

you sigh, curling up on the opposite side of her stitches, “that’s the problem,” you murmur. “you’ve seen worse.”

she scoffs, running a hand through your hair, “I can take of myself, (y/n).”

“hm? I need said you couldn’t,” you take in a sharp breath. “I just want you to be safe, mizu, I need you to be safe.”

“I cannot guarantee you that, you know this,” mizu furrowed her eyebrows.

“I know,” you started to draw circles across her chest with your fingertips. “yet here I am, choosing you anyway.. maybe my hope is somehow I can keep you safe. even if I have to d—“

she placed a finger to your lips, her eyes narrowed to slits.

“don’t you finish that sentence,” she grumbled. “that isn’t happening.”

you narrow your eyes right back, “if I die, mizu, it will be because I choose to die for you,” you gently pressed your fingers into her chest, sitting upward.

she gazed at you, seeing the passion and fire in your dark eyes.

she nodded, “I can’t stop you,” she tugged your head back onto her chest, “but know I won’t be happy if you choose to throw your life away for me.”

you chuckled, pressing your head firmly against her chest—listening to her heart beating steadily. knowing her heart was beating in her chest, steadily breathing, feeling her chest rise and fall—

—that was all you needed to keep you going.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: constantly wanting to tag taigen as a warning tbh (guys I don’t hate taigen by the way he just lightly pisses me off. otherwise he’s quite silly and pathetic <3)

#mizu x you #mizu x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu #blue eyed samurai #x reader #ask #asked and answered #request #fic request #fanfic #fic #fanfiction

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kimakento · 3 months

Text

so this is how it feels

synopsis: nicholas has been in love with you for quite some time now, but he struggles to reconcile with that love when it goes even far enough for him to develop hanahaki. but you’ll never know that he yearns your love back. ⌙ 2.6k

pairing(s): wang yixiang x fem!reader x koga yudai

genre(s): angst

warning(s): swearing, blood, passing out, low self-esteem, bit of toxicity

tags: hanahaki!au, unrequited love and more. (too lazy to write it out sorry 😞)

author’s note: this was requested by my fav @loserlvrss i actually read a hanahaki fic the other day and HAD to write one myself, this is a bit self indulgent but as always hope you enjoy !!! i js wanted to get this out quicker, might make a part 2 idk i hope this is gut-wrenching enough for you bae 🤞

a few years ago, when nicholas was asked by one of his friends what his type was, he blanked out. while staring at his friend, dumbfounded, he scoffed, claiming that he didn’t care enough to have one.

love wasn’t something that he needed at the time, much less cared about. he pondered about how romantic love was supposed to feel like or what love even was, it wasn’t one of his priorities, though.

but now, if anyone ever asked nicholas what love was, he’d reply with you. the girl who occupied his every thought, his every dream, his every waking moment — maybe that was an exaggeration, but you were love to him. love was the person who made you feel feelings, nicholas couldn’t quite put it coherently but he just knew it was you.

and if you were love to him, why were you with him and talking about another man right now? nicholas despised him, he loathed that he wasn’t the reason for the goofy smile on your face, that he wasn’t the reason for your random fits of giggles, that he wasn’t—

“nicholas! are you even listening?” the train of thoughts cut off when a pout crept up on your face, emphasising your discontent. however, as time passed torturously slow, an unsual sensation in his chest began to settle, but he dismissed it. nicholas set his hazy gaze on you, watching intently while you parted your lips to speak, the same ones he so badly wanted to claim as his.

“just look at what he posted, k is definitely doing this on purpose.” you said while shoving your bright phone screen in his face, nicholas squinted his eyes to focus on the photo of yudai while the subtle tickle buried deep in his chest intensified. balling his fist, he watched as your enthusiasm became more evident as you slightly bounced on your bed, humming along to a melody, only stopping when he spoke.

“why don’t you just tell him about your feelings then?” more like ‘why couldn’t he tell you about his.’ it was rich coming from him.

“it’s not that easy, nicho,” and he thought he understood that more than anyone. “yudai—“

“can this wait? i need to use the bathroom right now.” nicholas was only a mere two seconds from just leaving, he couldn’t bear hearing that stupid name anymore. ‘yudai’ this, ‘kei’ that, he just wanted your attention on him and only him.

his steps felt heavy as he dragged his feet towards the bathroom; nicholas felt so shameful. distance from you felt like the proper solution. as he entered the bathroom and locked the door, his head fell against it in a dramatic thump. so much thoughts ran through his mind, it felt unbearable.

involuntarily, he let out a small cough into the palm of his hand.

fuck, am i sick right now? he thought.

but then—he saw it, a delicate and dainty pink petal; one that looked like one from a cherry blossom. that’s when his heart dropped. staring nervously at the out-of-place petal, it crumbled away painstakingly slowly, disappearing into flecks of dust whisked away by the air.

“what the fu—“

the vulgar sentence was cut off by another cough wracking his body, bringing a second, pale petal with it. nicholas’s eyes darted around anxiously as his breath hitched. this cannot be happening. not now. not like this, when you’re in the other room. with trembling hands, he slapped his hand over his mouth hastily. yet his ragged breaths only seemed to intensify the creeping pain in his chest, the ache refusing to dissipate.

completely oblivious, you noticed nicholas’s prolonged absence and decided to walk towards the bathroom, calling out his name while concerned.

“nicho, are you okay?”

in between half-stifled coughs he let out a meek mumble, “i…i’m fine.”

bringing your hand up to cover your face, you shook your head while tutting at his response.

“okay then..? just shout my name if you need anything!”

once he heard your retreating footsteps becoming fainter, nicholas retracted his hand from his mouth and noticed a small petal was placed fitly in his hand; he grimaced.

it was hanahaki. he was suffering because of his unrequited love for his best friend. why was it always him? bad things always had to happen to him.

a sharp pain struck him in the chest and he clenched his shirt to find relief. nearly doubling over in pain, nicholas ran over to the sink, putting one of his hands on each side while coughing violently. his grip on it was so hard that his knuckles turned white. after a few more minutes, it seemed to have subsided, but that was only the calm before a storm—a big one at that.

sheepishly, he turned the bathroom door handle and stepped outside, hearing the sound, you hurried over to him.

your hand came up to cover his forehead, feeling his body temperature before stating, “you look pale, and you’re hot. i really think you should go home.”

nicholas’ face flushed from your gentle touch, he didn’t even pay attention to the growing ache tightening.

a smile crept up on his face. ‘i know i’m hot, you don’t have to tell me.’ he wanted to say, but before the first word came out, he coughed into the palm of his hand.

another petal.

this time, a streak of blood painted the innocent, pink petal.

concern washed over you and you placed your hand over his shoulder, the petal just out of your line of sight. quickly, nicholas nodded his head before clenching his hand; just to hide it.

“what about you? you’re going to be lonely here.” he gazed down at you with drab eyes. mesmerising were your eyes, the eye contact you held with him enchanting him more with every fleeting moment—no, he wasn’t allowed to think that.

you responded with a small smile, “it’s okay, me and yudai are going out. you know, i think he likes me back. i might take my chance sooner or later—“ that name again; why is it always him? nicholas thought. that familiar pang pained him again and he clutched his other hand, gritting his teeth through the pain. it only seemed to worsen whenever you mentioned that guy—nicholas didn’t even want to think about his name.

after recognising the complicit frown on his face, you interrupted yourself and dismissed it as him being ill. “—but enough about that! you should go home.”

in defeat, he weakly nodded before grabbing his jacket and making his way out of your home. the outside world felt cold and the chilling wind whisked everything away as he kicked a nearby pebble.

opening his fist, he threw away the blood-painted petal in a rage.

nicholas hated—no, he loathed koga yudai. he hated how he had to fight for your attention, he hated that he even developed hanahaki because of his stupid, unwarranted love for his friend. most of all, he hated you for being so oblivious. but who was he kidding? wang yixiang could never hate you. even if he tried his utmost hardest.

the subtle tickle in his throat began again, almost like a never-ending story.

then he looked up, trying to distract himself by watching the clouds. it all became useless when your face appeared again in his thoughts, and he’s reminded of the strong gaze you held just minutes ago.

nicholas picked up his pace, walking through the park that you both do every week. shoving his freezing hands into his pockets, he notices a familiar face in the distance walking in the opposite direction.

koga yudai.

great, his day seemed to be getting worse. a bitter expression adorned his face as the taller man continued to walk towards him, almost passing nicholas in the process before finally recognising him and visibly brightening up.

“hey, nicholas! funny seeing you here.” his tone was light and airy, usually the type that friends would have towards each other. but they weren’t friends, they would never be friends; or at least that’s what nicholas thought.

the latter’s voice was flat and disinterested as he replied dryly, wanting to end the conversation. “yeah, nice.”

before he could walk away, yudai placed a hand on his shoulder to stop his sudden rush.

“do you know if she’s at home? i don’t know if you were told, but we’re going out right now. i really want to make a good impression.” on yudai’s face, he held an almost lovesick expression, which made nicholas feel sick.

the mention of you brought back the long forgotten pain. with a weak shake of his head, nicholas excused himself and walked away hastily.

kei was perplexed but thought nothing of it as he continued to your house, making note to ask you about it later.

the wooden bench nicholas chose to sat own was cold. his fingertips brushed against the splinted wood as his other hand covered his mouth, to attempt to silence his defeaning coughs that wracked his already-vulnerable state.

for months in a row, this continued—you’d call to talk about the ‘oh so romantic’ moments with kei or to talk about how kind he was, or to even just update nicholas about your situation with yudai. then that same pain would start again, and pink petals, sometimes painted with a streak of red, would fall out of his mouth. it only worsened when you announced that you and yudai were a thing.

he was genuinely sick of it.

his pain seemed to have become palpable in every way.

but today, was a day like no other. nicholas was hunched over, eyes widened at what lay there, tainting the white, marble sink in his bathroom.

a whole cherry blossom.

he turned the tap, indulging the clear water to run; all to tune out his thoughts. the petals of the blossom crumbled, and some were taken away by the water. with trembling hands, he threw the running water at his face, with this continued on for a couple of minutes with a few sighs of fatigue in between.

when leaving the bathroom and sitting onto his bed, he began to sink deep into thought. nicholas didn’t know how to get rid of this, the disease that plagued his soul, the one that he was terrified of bringing up out loud, much less to you. this unknownness was unfamiliar; therefore horrifying. help couldn’t be an option for him, yet he couldn’t just hope it all went away. but—

before nicholas could finish his thought, his phone vibrated from a text.

my life </3 wanted 2 ask if u wanted to go to a get-together with our class with me n k at one of their houses (u don’t have to come, i know how much u hate these.) sent 1:38pm

the last part of your text, though not important, made his heart flutter. as he reread the message he noticed the phrase ‘me and k’. armed with frustration, he was reminded of the blossom again. and with a bitter taste in his mouth, he replied back.

nicho!! ok. txt me the address. sent 1:43pm

as you squinted to read his message, your mind wandered. the crude reply sounded unlike him and so you responded. nicholas stared at the three dots that flowed on his screen, anticipating your reply.

my life </3 u good? u sound out of it ): if u’re sick u should stay home. sent 1:45pm

nicholas hated seeing you sad, he never wanted to be the cause of your unhappiness but he also didn’t want to see you with yudai. he took a deep breath to calm himself, choking himself up when he coughed.

it was another whole flower. however, there was no blood this time. his stomach churned as he doubled over and the feeling of wanting to throw up intensified. nicholas wanted nothing but to get the hanahaki disease out of him.

tapping your foot impatiently, you texted him again.

my life </3 nicho? where r u? wang yixiang. i’m concerned now. read 1:54pm

every passing minute made you more anxious, resulting in you picking at your fingers.

with trembling fingers, nicholas responded with a simple ‘i’m okay’. and you let out a sigh of relief knowing he was fine.

‘please come to the get-together’ you said, ‘it’ll be fun’ you said. yet what was fun about watching you all over kei? what was so fun about leaving your friend hanging and barely even speaking to him? what was fun about being so oblivious about his painfully obvious feelings?

while everyone cooed at the ‘cute’ couple that was you and yudai, nicholas stayed slumped in the corner with an empty glass in his hand; subtly glaring at you both with watchful eyes.

as you interlocked your fingers with kei’s, you bridged the gap between you, meeting his lips with yours.

thoughts distorted and eyes narrowed, nicholas swore he could hear his porcelain heart shatter into minuscule pieces.

there it was again, the ache in his chest, now rising up his throat.

placing his glass on the table, he sped up the steps to find the nearest bathroom. finally, one door he opened turned out to be it. and wasting no time, he hurried in and locked the door; running to the sink, he couldn’t stop the strings of coughs from his mouth. flower after flower appeared, each with more streaks of blood than the one before.

so, this was how it felt? to fall in love with you? nicholas wondered if it would’ve been different if he had confessed before everything. everyone warned him to not develop feelings, it was always going to be a bad idea. he never listened.

and these were the consequences.

the flowers were nonstop and like infinity, they continued on and on and on. each blossom pained him more, making him wince. his vision slightly darkened and his breath hitched.

then it quickened and it felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen. the room started spinning and the temperature dropped. or it didn’t, he didn’t know. nicholas’s senses were all distorted and that made his brain unable to recognise or process anything. everything felt foreign and weird. while staggering, he fell to the floor in one swift motion.

“nicholas?” he heard a voice echo.

another cough. another pretty pink cherry blossom. one as pretty as you.

“nicho?!” again, the same familiar voice. his eyes stayed open long enough to watch the door creak and you come out behind it. your face showed worry as you scrambled down, clutching his shirt.

voice cracking, you whisper-shouted, “nicholas! listen to me, come on.”

your shaking hands reached into your pocket, dialling for an ambulance.

and then you see it, a flower on the floor, laid prettily next to his motionless head. your hands tremble trying to reach out to touch it, but you’re distracted when nicholas mumbled softly.

“what’s wrong?” you asked quietly, tears threatening to fall.

a small smile appeared on his face, “i love you.”

“i know, i love you too. but this isn’t it for you, please.”

“y..you don’t get it… not in that..way.”

the last thing he remembered was seeing your eyes blinking cluelessly. it took you a couple of seconds before your eyes widened. you turned away from him, concealing your hurt expression and you heard nicholas sigh.

“nicholas, i..i’m sorry.” you managed to say while turning to face him, only to see his eyes shut peacefully.

even though he knew there was no chance of you liking him back, nicholas would still always love you and choose a life with you in it in a heartbeat.

#&team nicholas #&team k #koga yudai #wang yixiang #&team x reader #nicholas x reader #k x reader #nicholas imagines #k imagines #&team imagines #&team drabbles #&team angst #✍🏾 — kimakento writes

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softshrimpy · 7 months

Text

How To Woo A Hot Principal

Step 14: Meet The Parents

Summary: Working at the Weathervane was exactly what you needed. The routine, the people, your co-workers. It certainly helped that a certain tall, blonde, fucking gorgeous woman happened to frequent the cafe. Now some may call hopelessly flirting with your customers inappropriate behavior.

But truly, when it came to Larissa Weems, who could blame you?

I'm simply a slut for comforting insecure Larissa, sue me. 🦐✨

Tags: @variant-2402 @the-bagel24 @eveymay @kimiinou @muffintopxs @h-doodles @bbykens @lilfartbox1 @bigolgay @winterfireblond @gela123 @i-like-reading @hopelessly-sapphic @alder-saan @im-a-carnivorous-plant

(pls let me know if you want to be tagged/ I missed you!)

Chapter 13

Cross Posted on AO3 Here

HWTAHP Masterlist

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You had awoken the next morning to a rather lovely little vase of flowers and a handwritten note. The note smelled like Larissa (yes you sniffed it). The small bouquet contained white tulips, white orchids and some lilies of the valley. If you had been versed in the language of the flowers you would’ve known that they symbolized rebirth, sincere apology and forgiveness. However, since you knew absolutely fucking nothing about the language of flowers you simply thought they reminded you of her hair and general elegance.

Darling, I truly can’t thank you enough for your forgiveness and kindness. I will do everything I can to do right by you. I cannot express how much you mean to me

Yours LW

The heartfelt note had made you rather embarrassingly, giggle and kick your feet. You had all but skipped your way to your appointment with Vlad. He had taken one look at you all smiles and sunshine before rolling his eyes and snorting.

You had spent the morning being what Vlad called an ‘insufferable lovestruck puppy’ which you took as a compliment. You had been sitting in the quad reading a book Dr. Kinbott had recommended for you when Yoko appeared in front of you.

“So you live here now huh?” She remarks.

“I guess so, which means you’re stuck with me,” you joke, closing your book to give her your full attention.

“So… it’s parents weekend this weekend.” She says.

“Oh, that’s cool. Will your parents be attending?”

“My dad will be here yeah, and you’ll definitely meet him. That’s not what this is about.” She explains, “It’s Enid, her parents are weird about her not wolfing out and she’s going to need some like adult support.”

“I’m not certain I count as a proper adult-“

“And she looks up to you and Weems, probably because you’re the only adult queers she knows. And since you two have made up and are together again-“

“Hold on we’re not- I mean we did make up but it’s-it’s a bit more complicated tha-“

“So when her parents inevitably fuck up and make her upset I would really appreciate it if you two would just offer her some support.”

“I-well I mean I-I can see what I can d-“

“Perfect! Thanks queen,” she grinned before getting up and leaving you sitting there rather confused.

Of course, you would give Enid your full support, it was the least she deserved. But you weren’t sure what you and Larissa even were at the moment and didn’t really want to rush into anything. But you resolved that you would at least mention it to her when you saw her. Knowing her motherly care for the young werewolf she’d probably be down to help her out in any way she could.

The mention of parents had made you think of yours, despite your deep inner desire to ignore that rather large problem that needed to be sorted. You had so many questions. And frankly weren’t sure if you even wanted the answers. You knew at some point you’d have to talk to them, maybe even see them. You really would be much happier if you could simply…not do any of that. You already had your issues with them, never mind the fact that they definitely knew you were and vampire and almost definitely did something to make you appear more human.

You’re broken from that particularly fun little spiral of sadness when Larissa appears next to you, sitting down and handing you a cute lil sandwich. You quickly forget all about your crappy parental relationship and instead focus on having a nice time with Larissa.

——

Parents' weekend arrived faster than you expected.

You had shared lunch with Larissa almost every day, which was making you far more giddy than it should. You cherished every moment you got with her. She had been rather stressed out with the planning and organizing. But she met you every day for lunch, and you would chat about everything and nothing and you felt your heart healing bit by bit each day.

You were currently standing in the quad, watching as parents arrived and went to see their kids. It was really rather heartwarming, seeing so many kids (most of whom you knew on some level) chatting with their parents and actually being listened to. There were those who seemed rather pissed their parents were there or those who were sitting with friends and their families. You were keeping an eye on Enid, glancing over at her every now and again to make sure she was doing okay after Yoko’s ominous warning. She seemed alright for now but you could tell having her parents around was stressing her out a bit.

“Are you a part of the staff here?” A voice asked from your side.

You just about fell the fuck over out of fright, turning to see who had snuck up on you. It was a woman dressed in a figure-hugging black dress with long dark hair. The dark look was completed with almost plum-colored lipstick. Honestly, she pulled it off in a way you weren’t sure many could.

“Oh uh…no I’m not a teacher here.” You answered.

“Then I suppose you’re a parent…?”

“Oh uhm no, no I’m not a parent. It’s uh- well the story of my being here is rather complicated…”

Honestly, you had no idea how to explain to this woman why you were staying at Nevermore. You weren’t sure simply saying ‘I was attacked in the woods and brought back here to recover’ would make much sense or not be met with a thousand other questions. And honestly, you weren’t sure Larissa wanted you advertising why you were there either.

You’re saved from having to explain further when Larissa stepped up to the podium to make her welcoming speech. She’s truly mesmerizing when she speaks. And she looks fucking gorgeous as always. You’re almost certain you’re staring at her like a love-sick puppy, again. She finishes her speech (you didn’t take in one word from it) and glances at you, sending you a small smile. You send a small wave back, beaming and feeling your heart skip a beat.

“Ah…I see.” You hear from the woman next to you.

“Oh no I mean it’s-it’s not like that! I mean it. Well, it is but it’s- you know it’s complicated and-“ you try to explain, not wanting to start rumours or fuck up Larissa’s image.

“It’s alright dear,” she chuckles, reaching out and squeezing your arm, “I’m gla-“

She’s cut off as her head snaps back, her grip on your arm tightening slightly. She stays like that for a few seconds before she relaxes, her gaze coming back to you. You notice she’s now grinning at you and you can’t help but feel slightly uneasy.

“I-are you alright?” You ask.

“Absolutely fine dear,” she smiles, “and you and I have a lot to talk about, particularly regarding a certain white-haired principal.”

——

Larissa was stressed.

Parents' weekend was usually a tense affair, with the insane amounts of organizing needed to make sure it ran smoothly. Not to mention the countless meetings she ended up having with parents of families, varying from simple check-ins to rather difficult talks regarding the students' behaviour.

However, none of this caused half as much stress as seeing you standing with Morticia Addams. She was sure she was overreacting, Morticia had no way of knowing the two of you were…well whatever you two were. And even if she did it wasn’t like she would say anything that would intentionally harm your recovering relationship.

Unintentionally though…

Larissa had been swept into parent meetings since her opening speech. She had a meeting with the Addams next and was quite frankly dreading it. She slumped forward in her seat resting her head in her hands as she sighed. Wednesday on her own was a headache to deal with (she would never admit how deeply the girl had wormed her way into her heart). Now she would have to suggest not only to her but to her parents that they go for family counseling. God her work was cut out for her.

As her office doors opened she straightened up in her chair, squaring her shoulders and putting on her warmest smile. Her carefully crafted expression falters when she notices you being dragged in by Morticia who seems to be halfway through telling you something she prays isn’t about her.

When you glance up at her and shoot her a shy smile her heart flutters and her anxiety calms a little. She gestures for the family to sit, eye twitching when Morticia squeezes your shoulder and whispers something in your ear.

She’s further confused when Morticia asks you to stay, earning a rather loud sigh from Wednesday. You turn to Larissa, silently asking if you should go, looking just as confused as she feels. She nods, gesturing to an open chair against the wall.

The meeting goes about as smoothly as Larissa could’ve expected. Wednesday at least keeps her sarcastic, cutting remarks to a minimum. Morticia makes her usual teasing remarks, even going so far as to call her a ‘stately sequoia tree’. She swears she heard you muttering something about climbing her like a tree and nearly choked on her own breath, barely managing to keep her face from blushing bright red.

Eventually, the Addams leave. Not before Morticia comments over her shoulder something along the lines of ‘you two love birds enjoy yourselves.’ When her office doors finally shut she groans, covering her face with her hands.

You stand, quietly making your way behind her and resting your hands on her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her head. You gently massage her shoulders, face flushing at the bordering-on obscene moan she lets out.

“Long day?” You ask softly.

“Mmmm…” she hums, melting into your touch.

The two of you stay in silence for a while, with Larissa relaxing a bit more with each press of your thumbs into her shoulders. Eventually, she straightens up again, dropping her hands into her lap. You press one last kiss to the back of her neck, relishing in the way she shudders at the feeling. You then squeeze her shoulders one last time before moving to sit on the edge of her desk, smiling softly down at her. She fidgets with her bracelet, staring very intently down at her desk.

“Did you uhm…have an interesting chat with Morticia?” She asks gingerly.

“Mmm,” you hum, “she was regaling me with stories of your shared time at Nevermore.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah! She was quite nostalgic about it all. She was telling me about how you two shared a room and got up to ‘many daring activities’ as she put it.”

She groans, once again opting to cover her face with her hands.

“She did uhm…she did tell me you’re a shapeshifter.” You murmur.

Your heart breaks at the way she stiffens at that, still not looking anywhere near you. She clears her throat, going to say something before clenching her hands into fists on her lap.

“Is…is there someone you wish for me to change into?” She asks, in a voice that’s so small and hurt.

“I what? Why would I-” You stutter.

“I…most people when they find out about…about my abilities…they. Most people want me to turn into someone else…someone…better.”

She whispers the last part.

You blink at her. And then you blink again.

“…who….who in the fuck said that to you?” You ask, anger seeping into your voice.

She doesn’t say anything, simply shrugging and refusing to meet your eye. You have to take a moment to calm yourself down so you don’t take out your anger on Larissa. You take a deep breath and she starts to apologize in a watery voice when you stop her.

“Larissa I don’t know your middle name Weems,” you start, moving to sit on her lap and cradle her face in your hands, “there is absolutely no one on the face of this planet- no one in this goddamn universe who could ever be better than you. I-I can’t even begin to explain. You’re like…some fucking celestial being brought to earth to make it a better place. You’re-you’re brilliant Larissa. You’re - words can’t describe how utterly impeccable you are. I don’t understand- I could never want anyone but you, just as you are.”

You brush your thumbs over her cheeks, eyes lovingly tracing over her features. You notice her eyes welling up with tears, giving her a gentle, loving smile.

“I-I don’t understand…” she whispers.

“I know my one little speech won’t change your mind. Now when it sounds like so many fucking assholes-“ you cut yourself off, taking a breath to calm yourself. “And I know that-I know you and I are in a strange place right now but that doesn’t change the fact that you are far more than just enough, just as you are. And I will spend every moment I have by your side helping you see that. I-if you’ll let me.”

She stares up at you, tears staining her cheeks as she gapes up at you with wide eyes. You gently wipe her tears away. She wraps her arms around your waist, hands clutching at your back. You can feel the way she’s trembling, the subtle shake of her hands as they press into your back and pull you towards her. You press a kiss to her forehead, and then another to her nose before you lean down to hover with your lips practically touching hers.

You stay there, staring into her eyes and glancing down at her lips every so often. Your heart is pounding in your chest and you’re almost certain Larissa can feel it. It almost feels like the first time the two of you kissed all over again. You’re about to finally close the distance, finally kiss her-

And then Larissa’s office doors are being opened and none other than Morticia is walking through them. The two of you barely have enough time to lean apart from each other when Morticia smirks so fucking smugly at the sight of you two.

“Oh, how glad I am to see the two lovebirds back together.” She smiles, before promptly leaving the room just as quickly as she entered.

Silence permeates the room after the door clicks shut. You turn back to look at Larissa, a smile tugging at your lips upon seeing her flushed cheeks. When the two of you lock eyes you can’t help the giggle that rises in your throat. Larissa soon follows suit, the sound of your combined laughter filling the room. Eventually, you both calm down leaving you both smiling at each other.

“C'mon pretty lady,” you hum standing up from her lap and holding out your hands for her, “we should go make sure the school didn’t burn down while we were talking.”

“Don’t even joke about that. Anything is possible with this year's students.” She snorts, wiping her eyes one last time as she stands.

You take her hand in yours leading her to the door with a smile on your face. And so the two of you leave her office, hand in hand, ready to face whatever comes your way.

—-

Turns out what came your way was far more manageable than you had thought.

There was the entire debacle of Wednesday's father being arrested for a decades-old murder case. And then Wednesday and Morticia joined him in the town's jail for grave robbing. Larissa hadn’t found the whole thing half as funny as you had but had, reluctantly, agreed to badger Sheriff Galpin into letting Wednesday and Morticia go. Which in turn led to Gomez having his name cleared. So all in all a manageable affair.

Other than that the weekend had gone smoothly. Enid had come to you and Larissa on Sunday while you were having lunch in her office, a little teary-eyed and apologetic for interrupting you two. You both rushed to assure her she was never a bother and listened as she told you about how her mother kept pressuring her to ‘wolf out’ and suggested a werewolf-conversion therapy camp (you had honestly wanted to go fight the poor girl's mother, mayhaps even bite her for good measure.) But Enid had explained how she stood up for herself, earning much praise from both of you. She spent the rest of the lunch with you both, sharing the hot gossip that had been happening.

So really, all in all, the weekend had been quite a success. This was why you and Larissa were in town today, grabbing some celebratory hot cocoa from the Weathervane. You had just finished catching up with James (Tyler was strangely nowhere in sight when you arrived). You picked up both of your hot cocoas as you had decided to take them to go so that you could take a stroll around town.

You were walking arm in arm with Larissa, telling her about something James had told you when you heard your name being called from behind you. You stop dead in your tracks, your heart dropping into your stomach. Larissa turns to look over her shoulder, glancing at you as she does, concern marring her features.

You know that voice. You had fucking hoped you’d never hear that voice again in your life if you were particularly lucky. You take a deep shuddering breath, taking a moment to center yourself before turning around. And there he stands. The man you’d hoped to fuck would just leave you the fuck alone.

“Hi dad.”

#htwahp #larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #larissa x reader #principal weems

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quellawrites · 1 year

Text

lover of leaving (chooser of staying)

Square and prompt: A5, Comforting Insecurity

Title: lover of leaving (chooser of staying)

Rating: Teen and up

Word Count: 1860

Ship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings: No archive warnings apply

Additional tags: Emotional hurt/comfort, Fluff, Feelings, Getting Together, First Kiss

Summary: After learning of Hob’s fears, Dream vows to himself he is going to try his best to reassure Hob of Dream’s permanence in his life.

Link to AO3

Written for @dreamlingbingo

The first time Dream notices it, they are arguing about Hob’s nightmares, and Dream has just manifested his wish to unleash his fury upon the nightmares who have dared to plague Hob’s sleep during midterms.

“You can’t do that,” Hob vehemently says and if Dream was to take a guess, he would say Hob sounds positively outraged on the nightmare’s behalf.

“You dare to presume you can interfere with the way I rule my subjects,” Dream says and his annoyance and the worry for Hob’s well-being sharpen his tone more than he intended.

Hob stills and instinctively reaches out, as if he wishes to grasp Dream’s sleeve, but seems to think better of it and lets his hand fall back at his side. “No,” he hastily says. “Of course not. I’m sorry, I just–” he pauses and runs his hand through his hair, in the way Dream recognises he does when he is especially nervous. “I just don’t want some poor dream to be unmade because they’re doing their job.”

Dream takes a moment to study Hob’s reaction. What he reads in Hob’s eyes, in his demeanour can with no doubt be catalogued as fear. Does Hob, unlikely as it may be, fear retribution from the nightmares? Dream discards the notion even as it starts forming, for his friend has never been one to shy away from discomfort, to be afraid of facing his fears.

When Hob’s hand twitches at his side as if Hob is making an effort to keep it still, Dream understands. His mind goes back to their previous interactions since his return and he starts to recognise a pattern he is not certain he likes.

Hob is afraid of Dream. He is afraid of Dream’s reaction, of Dream leaving him again because of a perceived offence.

Taking a deep breath he does not need, Dream unclenches the fists at his own sides and tries to assume a calmer demeanour. “I assure you,” he murmurs. “No nightmare shall be unmade for this.”

“All right,” Hob says and exhales a slow breath. It is clear he is still afraid to provoke Dream’s ire but, always a compassionate man, he cannot help himself from almost hesitantly adding, “Will you consider not being too harsh to them?”

“I will take into account your wishes,” Dream allows.

“Thank you,” Hob says, relief clear on his face.

Dream makes a point of remaining for tea, something that seems to comfort Hob further and to bring him back to his previous cheerful self.

Such a small thing Dream’s presence and yet, it seems to bring Hob joy and comfort. Dream cannot remember the last time someone has been so genuinely delighted to spend time in his company and marvels at the novelty of it.

Once back in his realm, Dream vows to himself he is going to try his best to reassure Hob of Dream’s permanence in his life, to give him the security he deserves.

The second time it happens, they are arguing about Hob’s lack of proper sleep and self-care. It is almost time for final exams and in addition to his own workload, Hob has been temporarily covering a staff vacancy.

“You cannot keep doing this to yourself,” Dream says and lets the annoyance he feels slip into his voice.

“What is it going to do?” Hob asks and laughs. For the first time since Dream has known him, it is not a pleasant sound.“Kill me?”

“It will not,” Dream allows but he is not willing to compromise on this, not when it is taking such a toll on Hob and–perhaps a selfish gripe on Dream’s part–taking Hob so long away from the Dreaming. “But it is weakening you.”

“Listen, Dream,” Hob says and he sounds tired. He is tired, so much so that it makes him sound angry, almost snide. “I just bloody well want to catch up with some grading and you arguing with me isn’t going to make me go any faster.” By the way Hob’s eyes widen and fill with horror, Dream can tell Hob regrets the words as soon as they slip past his lips. “Christ, I didn't mean that. I’m sor–”

“Very well,” Dream interrupts the apology and his voice is tight with restrained anger. “I shall let you go back to your grading and take my leave.”

“No!” Hob reaches out for him as he speaks and Dream can see the shine of tears in his eyes. There is something about the way he holds himself that makes Dream’s chest tighten. “Please. I shouldn’t have said that. Just– stay?”

Dream is still upset but the sight of Hob’s distress unravels all of his anger, leaving behind a fond exasperation. Furthermore, he has not forgotten the vow he made to himself about providing Hob with the reassurance he sorely needs.

It is not a hard choice, after all.

Dream stays.

The third time it happens, they are not arguing at all.

They are watching one of the shows Hob seems to like so much and that Dream endures–and perhaps secretly enjoys–for his friend’s sake.

The episode comes to an end but instead of putting on the next one, Hob pauses and turns toward Dream.

After a slow stretch that lifts his shirt up and leaves part of his abdomen exposed–not that Dream is looking–he says. “I don’t know about you but I’m bloody starving. What do you say about some takeout, love?”

“Love,” Dream repeats and marvels at the way the world feels in his mouth, foreign and almost forgotten but also warm and soothing and right. The fact that is directed at him, leaves a faint ache below his ribcage.

“Sorry,” Hob hastily says, probably misinterpreting the marvel in Dream's voice for something far more ominous. “I didn't mean– it was just a pet name, that’s all. I won’t call you that again if it bothers you. I’m–”

“It does not bother me,” Dream says before Hob can apologise for something that brings Dream such joy.

“It doesn’t?” Hob asks and there is a matching surprise in his voice, like he cannot quite believe one such a Dream would be okay to be called so.

“I have noticed you are very careful not to offend or upset me, of late,” Dream says, ignoring Hob’s question for the time being in favour of addressing the issue that has been between them ever since Dream’s return. “You need not.”

“Of course I do,” Hob says. “You’re my friend.”

“And you mine,” Dream agrees. “But I have taken notice of the fact that you fear my temper.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle,” Hob says and smiles a small, self-deprecating smile. “It’s not like I fear it. I just don’t want to give you reason to disappear again.”

The notion that Hob may find him so important to hold his–otherwise quick–tongue in fear of losing him would be enough to leave him breathless, if one such a him needed to breathe. It is enough to tug at his chest and settle below his ribs, warm and comforting.

“I am a creature of pride,” Dream says and tries to conceal his amusement as Hob’s eyebrows tick upward as if to say, really? “But I have learned much during my…absence. I may still be prone to the occasional burst of anger but I will not disappear again. You have my word.”

The seriousness of Dream’s promise must register with Hob, if his sharp intake of breath is anything to go by. He tries to speak but seems to be at a loss for words and he looks at Dream like Dream is the reason the sun rises at dawn, like Dream is something precious. Like he loves Dream.

It is the devotion on his face that brings Dream to add, “I would not wish you to think me so fickle to leave my loved ones without a word.”

“Loved ones?” Hob breathes and there is an entire array of emotions hidden behind the two mere words.

“Indeed,” Dream says and it surprises him how easy it is to admit his feelings so openly. “Haven’t I already told you it did not bother me you calling me so?”

“You did,” Hob says and bites his lower lip and Dream finds himself fighting the sudden urge to soothe it with the sweep of his tongue. “But…”

“Have I ever spoken anything but the truth?”

“No,” Hob murmurs and hope shines in his eyes. “Never. You may have withdrawn some things but you’ve never lied to me.”

Dream hums in agreement and smiles, something that he finds himself doing often in Hob’s presence. “Then trust me when I say your terms of endearment do not bother me. Quite the opposite, in fact. It would greatly please me to be called your loved one.”

“Dream,” Hob whispers and Dream is quite certain nobody has ever put such emotion in the pronunciation of his name. “If you don’t stop me, I’m going to kiss you now.”

Dream takes a moment to consider if perhaps he is rushing into something that would better be savoured slowly. If perhaps he is rushing into something dangerous, something that has the potential to end in tragedy and grief. One hundred and six years in a cage, however, with cold and humiliation as his sole companions have changed him deeply. They have taught him to seize every shard of happiness he can carve for himself.

“You may.”

Hob is hesitant at first, the faintest brush of a hand on Dream’s shoulder, his lips a mere flutter against Dream’s, perhaps afraid Dream will vanish if he dares to take more than he is permitted.

Dream cups the back of Hob’s head and draws him closer, presses his lips firmly against Hob’s soft, stunned mouth and then Hob is making a small, almost wounded noise and kissing dream back and the entire world is turning a somersault around them.

When they pull apart, Hob leans after him for more and something flares in Dream’s chest, something that makes him wish to smooth his jagged edges so he will not make Hob bleed, like he has done to countless others.

Then as they lie together breathlessly, draped over one another on Hob’s sofa, the feeling mutes into something softer, into the solemn and silent vow that he will not be the cause of Hob’s wounds.

“Stay the night?” Hob whispers and his face is so open and raw, so vulnerable.

“I am not going anywhere,” Dream says and the significance of the words runs deeper than the assurance that he is going to stay a mere night.

Hob smiles and it is bright like the sun, and perhaps he does not yet quite believe Dream is determined to permanently stay but he is grateful to have him for the night, Dream can tell.

Perhaps, it is going to take Dream time and more than meagre words to assuage Hob’s insecurities but Dream smiles back.

He has all the time in the universe to prove to Hob he will remain.

#dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #fanfiction #dreamling bingo

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louvaem · 1 year

Text

flickers of light — one ; kindling (reuploaded)

☆ aemond targaryen x gn!reader, house targaryen x gn!reader (platonic)

☆ summary: when the Light of the Realm – beloved in all of Westeros – begins to succumb to an illness that even the most skilled and wizened Maesters cannot treat, the royal inhabitants of the Red Keep must hold onto the flickers of light through memories of moments, before the Stranger snuffs them out. — 5k words

☆ warnings/tags: angst, terminal illness, mutual pining, friends to sort-of-lovers to strangers, dance of the dragons never happened and we'll see why, set 10 years after the dance should have happened, this is a fix-it fic basically, rhaenicent is very important to me, no use of y/n and no descriptions of reader, massive time jump, everyone gets along. enjoy!

News of the Light of the Realm's terminal state arrives at the Red Keep at the hour of the owl, on the 15th day of the twelfth moon of the year 139 AC, as a storm lashes above the Crownlands.

The halls of the Keep are empty, save for one Maester whose slipper-clad feet patter against the stone floors in earnest. A thin length of parchment threatens to crumple in his fist, and tears collect in his eyes as the words on the tiny scroll turn over and over in his mind.

A particularly loud howl of wind blows through the corridor, sweeps the cap off his head and blows out a few torch lights as it passes. The Maester continues on without pause, however, purpose and pain fueling his strides as he reaches the Queen’s quarters.

The Dowager Queen Alicent faces the window of her solar, unable to sleep due to the relentless wails of the storm.

“It rages as if we are in Storm's End,” she mutters, her eyes tracking the rivulets of rain that slide down the glass. Worry creases her forehead over thoughts of the city folk who’ve no proper lodging, and she makes a mental note to speak to the small council about building more shelters for the needy.

A hum from behind her ripples through the quiet.

“Perhaps Lord Baratheon has convinced the gods to spare his lands for a night,” The Queen Rhaenyra jests, voice soft as she stares at the crackling flames warming the room.

She sips her tea after, eyes meeting Alicent’s as their heads both turn to look at the other. Rhaenyra’s lips curl around the edge of the teacup, a smile hidden by the ceramic. But Alicent knows it’s there, and she smiles back.

“Thank you for lending your company, my Queen,” she starts, legs carrying her at a steady pace towards Rhaenyra. “Sleep does not come easily to me when the sky seems like it is falling.”

Alicent takes Rhaenyra’s hand not holding a teacup in both of her own. She looks down at her companion, noting the way the slope of her nose is more prominent in the orange shadows of the fire.

Rhaenyra returns her gaze through eyelashes, and her hand flips to tightly hold onto Alicent’s.

“You need not thank me, lo–”

A knock cuts the endearment off. Rhaenyra sighs, but does not pull away as Alicent grants entrance to the person at the door.

Ser Harrold steps in, bowing before the two queens. If he notices the tender aura that envelops the women, he does not mention it. Though, a conscious simper forms on his lips.

“Apologies, my lady, your grace,” he starts, and steps to fully push the doors open, “Maester Corren bears urgent news from Oldtown.”

Alicent’s brows knit together once again. Oldtown?

“Oldtown?” Rhaenyra echoes the other queen’s thoughts. “What news from Oldtown cannot wait to be heard ‘til the morning?”

The Kingsguard side-steps to let the Maester inside, the chained man swift in his movements to plant himself in the middle of the room.

“My sincerest apologies, your grace,” Maester Corren’s usually seasoned and stoic tone trembles as he speaks, and he holds his down-turned fist out to offer the parchment to Alicent.

“I would not come at this late an hour if it was not distressing,” he continues.

“Corren, what has shaken you?” Alicent questions him. After a beat, it dawns on her what news from Oldtown might mean.

“Has something happened at the High Tower? To Daeron, or my father?” She cannot help but ask aloud, not wanting to accept the parchment yet.

She receives only shakes from the head of the Maester, and his chains clank against each other from the movement. The two queens watch as the trained scholar reaches up with his other palm to wipe at his face.

“Please,” he pleads, as if a young child. “I know this is most uncouth, but I cannot bear to read it again, your graces.”

Alicent looks down at her queen, their hands still grasping one another’s. With a nod from Rhaenyra, Alicent releases her hold and turns her palm face up to accept the scroll. The Maester releases it, as if it’s burned him, and takes a step back.

She unfurls the paper with surprisingly steady fingers, unwilling to let her nerves get the better of her. Once she reads the writing on the scroll, however, she understands why the Maester trembles all over.

The red-haired queen barely registers Rhaenyra urging the shaken Maester to sit as she herself takes a deep inhale to steady her breathing. Alicent’s eyes rake over the tiny parchment multiple times, not believing the words before her.

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra sees her turn towards the window again, head ducked and both hands clutching the scroll. “What is it? What has happened?”

Rhaenyra catches her utterance of the word light, and one look at Ser Harrold is enough to have the older knight take over with assisting Maester Corren. She tries again to capture Alicent’s mutterings, coming up right beside her to grasp her elbow in a gentle hold.

“My dear,” Rhaenyra whispers, soft enough that only she and her doe-eyed companion can hear. “Look at me, please.”

The sorrow in the Dowager Queen's gaze washes over Rhaenyra's entire being. The corners of Alicent's mouth struggle to keep from quivering as she tries to relay the news, but sounds refuse to form in her throat.

"It's alright, you do not have to speak," Rhaenyra reassures. She gestures with her palm for the scroll. "May I?"

Rhaenyra takes the miniscule parchment from Alicent, who offers no resistance. The paper curls again as Rhaenyra pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, her other hand reaching up to brush away a tear that has found its way out of Alicent's wide eyes. Her heart aches at the sight, and she wonders what news the little parchment holds to have had cast such a large wave of emotion over everyone around her.

Alicent’s eyes flutter to a close, and she ducks her head again as Rhaenyra finally looks upon the writing. She hears a gasp, and when Alicent glances up, Rhaenyra holds the same grief on her face that she’s sure she mirrors.

After a beat of silence, Maester Corren is the first to speak.

"The Prince Aemond should know."

"No," Alicent answers all too quickly. "It can wait until the morn–"

"I beg your pardon, your grace, but you know it cannot," he interrupts. He stands from where Ser Harrold has sat him down on a chaise, voice reverting back to the neutral yet firm tone of a chained Maester.

Rhaenyra watches as Alicent's posture straightens at the man's tone, watches Alicent steel and ready herself to retort at the Maester's apparent lack of respect. Before she can, however, he continues.

"You've read the scroll," he says. "By the end of the moon, the illness will take hold no later than when the first rays of light hit the sphere of the Citadel."

Rhaenyra hears a shaky exhale come from Alicent, whose hand maneuvers to clutch at Rhaenyra's forearm for support. She surrenders it, lets the Dowager Queen lean against her.

"Corren, you must understand," Rhaenyra is gentle in her address. "This news... it will break him."

"Please, your grace," the Maester pleads. "My dear cousin has suffered far too much; this illness has taken far too much."

No one talks but the Maester, as everyone in the chamber knows the truth in his sayings.

"If you could read the letters I have received... the hurt I have deciphered, embedded in my cousin's handwriting. Please, my queens, do not sequester away things that you can so easily give."

"And what are those, Maester?" Rhaenyra poses.

"Relief," his scholarly façade ripples away for but a moment. "Healing... Love."

Rhaenyra feels her jaw clench, feels Alicent's grip on her arm tighten, feels Ser Harrold's stare on her face, waiting for a command. She glances at her friend, her closest companion– with her head bowed and shoulders heaving, a finger picking at the cuticles of the same hand. She glances back at the Maester, notes the way his voice wavers slightly at the mention of his cousin, notes the fact that he has never faltered in his duties as first and foremost a Maester of the Red Keep, until now.

When she looks at Ser Harrold, Rhaenyra notes the hesitation on his face. He knows what is right, what must be done, what must be said aloud, but cannot acknowledge what is so until she commands it so.

For the sake of the queen beside her, however, she does not say the words. As Ser Harrold's gaze meets hers, she simply nods. He knows.

Only the sound of the crackling fire can be heard, along with the clinking of the knight’s armour, as he moves to grasp Maester Corren firm on the shoulder.

Before his gloved hand can make contact, Alicent speaks.

"There is no need, Ser Harrold."

Her hold on Rhaenyra's arm loosens, and ultimately falls away. Alicent steps towards the Maester, and for a moment Rhaenyra sees fear flash in his eyes. But as Alicent reaches forward to hold Corren's upper arm in comfort, the fear is replaced with something akin to gratitude.

"You are right, Corren," Alicent says, understanding. "It will break him, yes, but perhaps... perhaps it can also heal him. As reconciliation often does."

She continues, "Your cousin had once granted me these things you speak of."

Her gaze comes back to meet Rhaenyra's, tone reminiscent.

"So, what am I if not ungrateful, if I were to deny such things from the Light of the Realm?"

The two queens' illuminated smiles hold a twinge of melancholy to them. If the men in the room know of the reasons, of the events, of the love behind such smiles, they do not say.

Prince Aemond's light dims, to a darker dullness he thought was not possible, at the beginning of the hour of the wolf.

He’s sat atop the bed, sapphire eye uncovered, knees bent to accommodate the tome he cradles in his lap. There’s a familiar heft to it, having been in the prince's possession for nearly a decade. Its spine cracked beyond care, its pages dog-eared, margins riddled with writing.

Though, the ink on the paper remains as fresh as can be. The book rarely leaves the four walls of the prince's quarters, sunlight never having the chance to fade its text.

It has become a comfort to the prince, despite its heavy weight and heavier content. Though, it is not solely the scholarly content that draws the prince to reach for the tome every night, tucked away in his bedside drawer, before he surrenders to sleep.

Tis more so what lies in between the lines: illustrations scribbled over with black coal, highlighted passages, notes, reminders to pursue treatments that he once believed would be successful.

"Once I have a dragon, we will fly to the Citadel and have the Archmaesters conduct this," he had said, underlining the title of a procedure he thought had the most chance of curing an illness that threatened his companion.

"They would not dare deny a prince of the realm, I swear it."

Aemond’s forefinger traces the curve in a diagram of the human backbone as he recalls the promise he had made and failed to keep, though to no fault of his own. Still, the ache in his chest makes itself known once again, as recognizable as the tome he clutches.

Pages fly wildly about when a gust of wind manages to slip through a crack in a window. Aemond can only watch as the candles in his room dance and writhe until most of them flicker out, the scent of melted wax left to fester in the air.

A sigh escapes him. His sole eye strains to make out a passage with whatever light remains in the room, but the darkness swallows his bed area too much. As he contemplates whether to take this as a sign from the gods to rest, or to relight the candles and continue on, a knock sounds at his door.

Brow and marred skin crease together in confusion.

"Ser Arryk?" he calls out, unsure of which knight of the Kingsguard had taken station outside his chambers for the night.

The sudden arrival of the storm had scrambled the usual routine of the Red Keep, adding to that three of the Kingsguard having left to trail after members of the royal family who had ventured out into the Kingswood for a day or two of hunting.

Of the nephews, cousins, and siblings, only Aemond chose to remain– knowing in himself that he was lately not one for prolonged interactions, even if it was solely his family he'd be around.

"I would only dampen the mood, sister," he said to Helaena, tone playful. She carried Baela's youngest in her arms, the mother having stepped away for a few moments. "Bring me back one of those rare crawling creatures you are so fond of, won’t you?"

Helaena beamed at the request. She bounced the toddler excitedly on her hip, lilted voice asking the not-yet verbal babe what insects they might find in the forests. The child giggled in response, just as Jace and Luke walked into the room, hunting gear in their arms. Aemond noted the way Jace's eyes lit up at the sound of his child's laughter.

"Nephews," Aemond greeted them. Had he been the man that he was 10 years ago, malice and disdain would've seeped into his voice. Instead, he continued, genuine concern for his family coating his following advice.

"Be wary of your surroundings," he had said, grasping Luke's shoulder, "look out for one another."

When he asks again, it is not Ser Arryk who answers.

"It is me," his mother's voice calls out instead. "And Rhaenyra."

Aemond's puzzlement only grows, though not at the presence of his half-sister. He had long ago grown accustomed to the sight of the two women near each other after his father's death and the family's reconstitution– a process which had not settled so easily in him as it did in the matriarchs of their house.

No, his uncertainty at this moment comes from their joint company at such time of night. Nothing good nor godly has ever greeted Aemond during the wolf's hour.

"May we come in?" Rhaenyra says, muffled by the wood of the chamber door.

Aemond realizes that he's only clad in his breeches and a loose white poet shirt, hardly appropriate attire to wear in front of both Queens of the realm. He scrambles to where his dressing robe hangs by his bed and wastes no time in tying it closed before he whips the door open.

"Mother," he nods to Alicent before addressing his half-sister. "Your grace."

He takes in the sheen on his mother's face, and Rhaenyra's right arm outstretched behind her, no doubt on the small of her back in a steadying effort. Their solemn expressions pierce a needle of anxiety through him, the once stoic and confident one-eyed prince now overtaken with clammy hands and shaky breaths. He remembers his family stranded by the storm in the Kingswood, protected by sworn knights yet still vulnerable to the wrath of nature.

"What is the matter?” Aemond cannot help the worrying rambles that leave his mouth. “Has something happened to the hunting party? I can take Vhagar to retrieve them from the Kingsw–"

Rhaenyra's hand raising makes him pause. "They are alright, dear brother, you needn't worry."

"Apologies, sister," he says, sheepish. Aemond steps aside to allow them entrance. "Please, come in."

Alicent is first to cross into the threshold with Rhaenyra close behind. It is only when she passes Aemond that he realizes his mother has yet to look him in the eye.

He observes as Alicent settles herself down onto a seat around the center table of his quarters. Her gaze remains downcast, not meeting his.

"A Record of Incurable Illnesses in the Known Realm," Rhaenyra says aloud, tone questioning, eyes on the cover of the tome that he had haphazardly thrown upon the table in his haste. "Do not tell me you plan on forging a maester's chain, lēkia."

"I was doing some nightly reading," Aemond admits, though he's familiar enough with Rhaenyra's joking tone that he knows she is not fully using it. She knows why he reads what he reads, and he is thankful that she does not speak it plainly.

He hears his mother breathe in at the mention of the book, as though to brace herself. Aemond thinks she might plainly speak on it.

The prince decides he shall be forthright, not pleased with the feeling of his body physically manifesting his anxiety. His jaw clenches, and sweat begins to pool in the dip of his back despite the chilly air of the night.

"As much as I enjoy your company, my queens, I must ask, why have you graced me with it at such an hour?"

"Aemond," his mother at last looks up at him. Her eyes brim with tears. "A raven from Oldtown arrived earlier, at the hour of the owl."

His mouth runs dry. "Is it Daeron? Or grandsire?"

Aemond’s mind forbids itself from wondering about the only other person residing in Oldtown worth mentioning.

He does not miss the quaking exhale from Rhaenyra, who speaks when Alicent seems at a loss for words. "It came from the Citadel."

He goes still, as if turned to stone.

A cold rush starts from the tips of his fingers, and it spreads to his arms, to his torso, and grips his spine. The last word his sister had uttered melts into a continuous ringing in his ears which grows and grows until even the storm outside ceases to exist.

Numbness has rendered him immobile, he thinks, he is rooted to his spot.

And then he mutters a name his lips had not formed in years A name that he has not heard anyone say in his vicinity, in fear of what his reaction might be.

Your name comes out in a whisper. Posed as a question that he prays they leave unanswered.

He's undeserving to speak it with full volume. He fears that merely allowing his throat to form the sounds of it will make it so, manifest it into reality.

And Aemond thinks, when Rhaenyra nods in confirmation, what a twisted reality this has become.

She continues speaking, though the pealing in his ears has grown louder ten-fold and permits him to decipher only bits and pieces.

Raven... Maester Corren... take hold...

He sees Rhaenyra pull out a strip of paper and begin to read from it.

Aemond needs to sit down. Instead, he stumbles back, shoulder bumping against the wall. He vaguely hears the scraping of a chair–vaguely registers the arms that find purchase under his to keep him upright. He hears his mother call out his name, though it sounds distant and dampened. He sees his sister halt mid-statement, arms out in a ready stance to assist Alicent if need be.

But when Aemond's eye stares into hers, when he briefly glances at the parchment curled around her fingers, she knows what he is asking for and carries on reading.

"... most likely succumb to the illness not long after the first rays of light hit the sphere of the Citadel on the last day of this moon. We urge you – visit while you can, before the Stranger comes, while there is still time left."

"Aemond," his mother repeats. "Come, let us take a seat."

Alicent pulls her arms away from under his. She opts to clutch at his forearm instead and attempts to tug him towards a chair.

But Aemond is stock-still against the wall. The last sentence echoes in his mind.

Visit while you can.

While you are still alive.

Before the Stranger comes.

Death had not taken you yet.

While there is still time left.

He still had time.

The prince is shaken out of his stupor when another gust of wind flitters about his room, the howl of it catching his mother off-guard.

"Mother," he turns to her, places his hand atop hers that holds onto him. "I must go."

Alicent peers at her son for a moment to search his face. What she expects to find, he doesn't know. He half-expects her to argue, to protest against his admittedly rash and unspoken plan of action, and he fails to conceal his surprise when his mother does neither.

Alicent’s hands move to either side of his face, and he feels the press of a kiss to his forehead, where his scar topmost starts. A sad smile graces her face as she gazes into her son’s eyes.

“I know.”

He can see his mother's internal qualms with his leaving at such an hour, in such weather, but she does not voice them.

The Queen does, however.

"The storm is unrelenting," Rhaenyra states. "Too dangerous to face alone.”

“You’d have me wait?”

You’d have me wait, have me prolong my suffering even longer? Aemond wants to say, though he bites his tongue.

“That is not what I meant, lekia,” Rhaenyra says, soft, against his own firm voice. “You need not face it alone; I shall accompany you on Syrax."

“No,” Aemond blanches, the memories of what had almost occurred the last time dragons flew amidst a storm flashing through his mind.

“You… you are needed here, my queen,” he tries to reason.

"Aemond,” Rhaenyra tuts, worry in her voice. “You may ride the largest dragon, but even Vhagar might not be a match for the gales of wind that plague the skies tonight."

“Perhaps,” he starts. “But our family stays stranded, with no dragons, in the Kingswood. One of us should keep near, should they need assistance."

I will not be able to protect you, he wants to say. Not when my thoughts are elsewhere.

Aemond squeezes his mother's hand once, twice, smiles at her and lets her go to step towards Rhaenyra. She contemplates his statement, though part of her knows he is right.

But they are siblings, and Aemond's stubbornness is her own.

"Then perhaps wait and see if the storm breaks by sunrise," Rhaenyra suggests. "If it does not, then at the very least you will have light in the rain. But do not venture out during the night's darkest hour– not with this downpour added to it."

Aemond turns her counsel over in his mind. "Do you say this to me as queen?"

"I say this to you as your sister,” she stares at him fondly. “Though, you might consider, your older sister."

He glances at Alicent, who now stands once more beside Rhaenyra, and merely shrugs. "It is your choice, my son. I leave it to you."

There is not a trace of hesitation in his being. “Then I shall forge ahead to the Citadel.”

At that, he moves to turn to his wardrobe. He's eager to change into his riding leathers as quick as he can – when Aemond catches Rhaenyra's loving glance at his mother. And as Alicent returns the queen's gaze with equal, if not more, affection – an epiphany he had years ago, when he first lost your companionship over his foolishness and shortcomings, comes back to him.

You did this, he echoes in gratitude what he had once said to you in anger. You are the one I have to thank for this happiness.

(He still remembers the word he used then – this farce.)

“Mandia,” Aemond calls out to his sister, steps faltering. Rhaenyra meets his gaze— one that once held indifference and disdain towards her, now only full of gratitude and kinship.

“Thank you,” is all he breathes out.

Rhaenyra nods in understanding. “I shall follow after you with the others once they’ve returned from the Kingswood.”

The two queens watch as Aemond moves about with a fervor they’d not seen in the one-eyed prince for nearly a decade.

“Here you are,” Alma lifts a cup to your lips, its contents steaming. “Steady, dear.”

The fragrant tea is warm as you sip it, and you sigh in relief at the wonders it does to soothe your aches and pains. You sink deeper into the soft bed, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment, still slightly heavy with sleep.

“Thank you, Alma,” you say, voice shaky, as you gaze up at her. “Your tea is magical, and tasty, as always.”

She beams at your compliment and brings the cup up for another sip.

“Thank you, though I wish I could take credit for the beneficial parts of the concoction, dear light,” Alma says. “You know it is your cousin who has developed its base, I merely added the herbs to make it more bearable for consumption.”

Her use of your epithet does not go unnoticed by you.

“Hm, still, thank you for making it so,” you hum. “And you know I’m not particularly fond of that name, Alma.”

“Tis an apt title, in my opinion,” she retorts. Alma sets the cup down on the table by your bedside, afterwards reaching over to lovingly caress your hair.

“And one most deserved,” she adds, in a quiet voice. You can only grace her with a small smile, knowing that an argument with her will only end up with you frustrated and her ever more triumphant.

Alma leaves your side to flit about the room, tidying up the blankets at the foot of your bed and using the rag on her shoulder to wipe down the dust on the many shelves of books. She chats while she moves about, though her attempts at asking you questions about what literature you crave to read next are mostly ignored.

Your attention favours the arched window on the far-right wall of your chamber— large and low enough on the wall for you to be able to look at the world beyond from where you lay, bedridden. One of its stained-glass panels had been cracked open, and a light breeze jostles the short green drapes that frame the window. Not so distantly, the High Tower gleams solid white against the blue morning sky, an ever constant and looming presence, a permanent fixture within the limited view your chamber window offers.

The sight of the tall structure, clean and angular, never fails to remind you of the man half-descended from the family charged with its care.

A small crick forms in your neck from the prolonged turn of your head, and you slowly face forward again to avoid the discomfort turning into an ache. In your periphery, the High Tower remains, and so do thoughts of the man.

You cannot help the question that leaves your mouth.

“Have any ravens arrived from the Crownlands?” From the Red Keep, you mean to say, though Alma knows you well enough to know what hides behind the generalization, but kind enough to not point it out. You’ve asked the question many times to many others in the past few days, since the Citadel raven left with the Maesters’ scroll secured to its leg.

“I’ve not heard anything from the rookery,” she turns to you with a rehearsed answer. “There’s apparently quite atrocious weather over the capital, I don’t expect creatures of any kind would want to venture out into it.”

“I see,” you say, deflated. She turns at the change of pitch in your tone.

“Soon, dear light,” Alma reassures you from her spot in front of the bookshelves, kind gaze taking in your solemn expression.

You look up at her, grace her with a small smile and a nod in understanding. “Right, soon.”

“Now,” she says, determined to distract you from your anxiety. “I do think it’s about time to break fast.”

“Oh, I’m alright,” you start. “I’m not that hungry—”

Your stomach grumbles in discontent, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of your chambers.

Alma raises her eyebrows, as if to say What were you saying?

“Fine,” you sigh. “But something small, please. I don’t have much of an appetite, truly.”

“I’ll ask the cook for a warm meal,” Alma counters. “A large, warm meal.”

“Alma—” your groan is cut off by another, stronger growl, though this time not accompanied by the familiar vibrations of hunger in your stomach. Alma lets out a laugh at the noise.

“My!” she exclaims, hands on her hips as she looks at you. “Maybe some pastries as well, then? I’ll have Blythe fetch some from the bakery.”

“That wasn’t me,” you whisper, brows furrowing. Alma’s amused expression morphs into one of confusion, likely mirroring your own.

“What—”

A roar, loud as a crack of thunder and close enough that you feel it shake your bones, rattles the chamber. Dust falls from the ceiling, and your frail trembling fingers clutch at the sheets either side of you.

“Seven Hells!” Alma yelps. She drops the rag in her hand and strides to your bed. She sits down beside you and takes your hand. “What in the gods’ name was that?”

You don’t answer her, though an inkling feeling develops in your mind as you painfully whip your head to peer out the window. The quaking had caused the pane to open even more ajar, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight you see.

The High Tower remains grand in the distance, though its domineering presence is now diminished by the shade of a winged shadow, which grows and grows until the being attached to it comes into view. It circles the tower twice around before it flies to land on an empty hill, stretching its wings and letting out another quaking roar.

Alma lets out a shaky breath beside you. “Is that…”

You nod, silently, to answer her trailed off question. The crick in your neck reappears, though you pay it no mind.

“Vhagar.”

☆ translations: lēkia= brother, mandia = sister

☆ this is a REUPLOAD bcs i didn't like the ending of the first version. also i chose the most hectic time of my life to start writing a multi-chapter fic so only the gods know when i'll be able to update this lol.

is this bad, is this good? let me know what you think!

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #hotd fic #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #rhaenyra targaryen x alicent hightower #rhaenicent #hotd angst #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon fanfiction

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rebouks · 6 months

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Happy Friday the 13th! If your OCs were in a piece of horror media (video game/book/movie), what roles would they play? Who would die first? Who would make it to the end? What kind of horror media would they be in? (slasher film, psychological horror, zombie apocalypse, etc.)

oooooOHOOOOooO this is SO fun morri!! omg let's be semi lazy and thrust everyone into a zombie apocalypse situation n' see what happens ig..

Noah, Aspen & Juni aren't getting out of the house.. 🙈 SORRY! Aspen and Juni get caught out in the summerhouse before Noah even knows what's going on, then he'd quickly get overpowered 'cause he's weak n' kinda useless physically lmao OOPS

similarly, Alton ain't getting far.. he's SO outta shape and easily flustered and Sid's gonna do her best to get em out but he ultimately falls behind n' "heroically" just tells her to GO!

Wyatt probably does alright for himself in the beginning.. and let's be self-indulgent and say he finds Brynn HEUEHU, i can see him wriggling his way to the top of some survivor group only to be killed by his own "people" for being a dickhead in the end LOL 😂 no doubt Brynn would be part of an outcast group who'd leave once he was dead but i doubt they'd get far...

Sid ends up with Oscar n' co who all managed to get out okay in the beginning (let's pretend the twins don't exist yet because i CANNOT) they're all doing good for a while until Cookie gets bit.. Oscar can't finish her off so Tilda has to do it for him 😩

Oscar's next to get got.. he probably would'a been fine if Cookie made it but he's wracked with guilt n shit so probably does smth idiotic and reckless, only making up for his stupidity at the very end by at least saving Robin before being eaten alive.

Robin, Sid n' Tilda tag along with Brivan who're doing pretty great but Ivan disappears on a scavenging mission and never returns 😭

Tilda gets sick and there's not much Sid can do without any proper medication, Robin (like 12 or smth by now) goes on a mission with Bruno to find some supplies.. they get overrun and Robin escapes at the last minute but they return empty handed and Tilda kicks the bucket 💀

Robin, Bruno and Sid are the last one's standing.. Bruno's got the brawn (not without intelligence tho) Sid's got the brains and the medical knowledge and Robin's the lithe/quick one, sick with a crossbow and with extra powers to boot 🤭

i was gonna dress everyone up n' do fun shit but then i got bored so all you get is a lazy zombie apocalypse Robin instead lmao...

#ts4 #sims 4 #ranswers #heheeeeeee #so fun!!#ty for this one <3333

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powdermelonkeg · 10 months

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I've seen some Reddit refugee PSAs going around, so I thought I'd contribute a few tips of my own that I haven't seen covered:

If you go to the original iteration of your post (not any subsequent reblogs, your ORIGINAL post) you can delete any comments you don't like. This does not apply to text added by reblog, only to the message bubble section.

Ublock Origin has trouble figuring out which parts of desktop to get rid of. If you want to delete a certain element (for example, the store widget), and your usual method isn't working, what you want to do is: - Right-click - Inspect Element/Inspect (Q) - Look at the thing that's highlighted, then go all the way up until you hit the nearest "div = class" marker - Right-click - Hover over "Copy," then pick "CSS Selector" - Click your Ublock extension icon - Click the gears - Find a blank space on the list that pops up and type "www.tumblr.com##" without the quotes - Paste whatever you copied with CSS Selector after that, with no space between it and the ## - Click "Apply changes"

You can hide your follower lists and liked lists. This is actively encouraged. Desktop solution: - Account (the person icon in the corner) - Scroll down until you find your blog name and click "Blog Settings" - Scroll through the page that pops up until you find "Share posts you like" and "Share the Tumblrs you're following" and toggle them off. This is the 3rd and 4th section of that page for me, respectively Mobile solution: - Your blog (the person icon in the bottom right corner) - Settings (gear in the top right corner) - Scroll down to "Pages" - Toggle "Likes" and "Following"

Desktop only: Left your Tumblr logged in on someone else's phone/computer? Worried about account security? No problem! - Account (the person icon in the corner) - Settings (NOT Blog Settings. Just Settings. It has a gear icon) - Scroll all the way to the bottom - You have a list of any logins that have happened on your account. They come with the IP addresses used to access it. It tells you where it happened, and from what operating system. Deleting those with the X next to the listing logs that iteration out. If you have any on that list that you DON'T recognize, I recommend logging them out and changing your password. Note: It says the list is only for the past 30 days. This is a lie. I have some that date back over a year.

Desktop only: You can make gradient text in your posts by following these instructions.

If your post has been blowing up and you're sick of the notifications, deleting the original post will delete its notes from your activity. THIS CANNOT BE UNDONE. If you would still like to check on the post, just not have it in your activity, reblog it before deleting it. You can continue to check the notes tab from the reblog while the original is gone.

It is common etiquette to tag spoilers for new games/shows/etc (ie, released in the last two months) as #[insert fandom here] spoilers, sensitive subjects as #[insert sensitive topic] tw, and long posts as #long post. Yes, even if you have a readmore (which you can add by clicking the weird squiggly line when you start a new block).

There is a bug on desktop involving readmore lines. Whenever you go back to edit a post that has a readmore in it, it moves the readmore down by one block. Make sure you move it back into its proper place each time by clicking and dragging.

You can click and drag different blocks of text to reorder them. Only regular blocks, though; not lists like this one. You can also do this with images you've inserted.

Desktop only: You can delete/remove tags/add tags en masse to posts using the Mass Post Editor. - Account (person icon in the corner) - Scroll down to your blog - Mass Post Editor - Select any posts in the grid you want. "Edit tags" is only for removing tags, you need "Add tags" to add more

Desktop only: You can see any blog's history of posts by typing in [blogname].tumblr.com/archive. The page that pops up looks very similar to the Mass Post Editor. You can filter posts on that blog by any of their most used tags, by month, or by post type. This is especially useful for locating pornbots. Some pornbots will try to legitimize their place by picking a random popular tag (for example, #horror) and reblogging the top 10-100 posts in that tag without commentary. See if they've been active for more than week with the archive month filter. Granted, the person may also be a new user, like yourself. It takes some deduction. But it's much easier to use the archive than it is to scroll through all of their posts until you hit the bottom.

Desktop only shortcuts: J = move down one post. Useful for scrolling fast or getting past a notoriously long post (as in "Do you like the color of the sky" and all its cousins) K = move up one post Shift + R = reblog a post. Does not add tags L = like a post C = create a new post (brings up options on what kind of post) . (period) = return to the top of the page Shift + Q = add a post to your queue. Does not add tags Shift + P = cycle through the color palette

#psa #reddit refugees #tumblr tips and tricks #long post

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bipp-bopp-time-to-stop · 1 month

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Little Update

Hello to everyone reading this, I thought I'd post a little update on how things are going. At the current moment, I am struggling to produce fics at a steady rate as multiple things are happening on my end (from work to writer's block to me also just being very easily distracted). This does not mean I'll no longer be posting fics for a while, rather, they'll just be coming out slower than how I planned them to (which was once a week). This also does not mean I won't be posting content in general. Rather, I thought I'd be sharing some headcannons as well as potential AUs. Some of these AUs are niche as they approach specific crossovers or expand on ideas not exactly explored by other authors (that I'm aware of, that is). I'll make sure to posts these headcannons and potential mini fics under their own tags so it'll be easy to find and read them or block them in case it's not your cup of tea. Now, I never like to have a post without a little idea of what's to come, so I'll give a brief run down of a few things knocking around in my brain.

AUs:

Dragon Rider! AU- Because How To Train Your Dragon nostalgia has been hitting me hard this past week, and because I've had LU on the brain, the two naturally started to combine. There are many versions of this I could go for such as the Chain being dragon riders or (Name) being a dragon rider or even actually mixing the stories/ worlds of HTTYD and LU together. The ideas I have for this AU will require its own post and/ or posts.

Fragments! AU- I cannot think of a proper name for this AU, but it's one I've had for nearly as long as I've been reading LU x reader stuff. There's multiple Links due to the Hero's Spirit and the curse, but what about multiple (Name)s? After all, the player/(Name) have likely played other games outside of the Zelda franchise, but I'm focusing in on the self insert games. The ones where you create your own character or "yourself". Think of the Sims or, for a darker flavor, Skyrim and Bloodborne. These are just examples of games where you create a character(s). In a way, these other "you"s would carry a fragment of your essence since you created them. I don't know how else to describe this so I may also create a post for a more in depth explanation. I could also potentially just drop the idea all together as I don't have much for it even though it's been in my head the longest.

Headcannons:

What/ Who the Guide is and if they are the same person as the Player- The title is pretty self-explanatory. I've only seen tid-bits done on Guide/ Player lore and I'm a lore fanatic so I've been wanting to do my own expansion on this. Personally, I do believe the Guide and the Player do have ties to each other but are (technically) not the same person. The leading theory I have on the Guide is that they were a lesser god in comparison to Hylia and Demise and, to save themselves from being killed by Demise, entered a contract with Hylia that made them watch over Hylia's chosen heroes. It'll also explain how the Guide and Player are connected and why the Guide "leaves" the boys after their adventures are done. I do plan on there being a lot of angst in this, so be warned.

Feel free to send in questions about these as I'm always open to interaction! Plus, interacting with you guys or hearing your opinions/ thoughts on these ideas could help get the brain juices flowing as well as further flesh out these ideas!

#bippboppupdate #lu x reader #linked universe x reader #linked universe headcannon #linked universe au

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inchidentally · 4 months

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https://www.tumblr.com/zokinus/735072052697006080/i-dont-know-how-to-make-proper-gifs-so-a-video?source=share I don't know why, but I could stare at this few-second video for hours :)

have got to include @zokinus caption and tags bc <3

I genuinely do not know what to do with Lando in moments like this?? probably because it looks like Lando also has no idea what to when he's like this??

I am such a gd broken record but like. I've said before how Lando needs to know where he stands with the men in his life. and with honestly every man in his life (that he's not related to) that I've seen has practically fallen over themselves to get that VIP pass into his fan club. there are no "typical" male friendships in Lando's life because Lando isn't remotely typical. the relationships men have with him range from protective and intensely fond (ex. George, Alex, Max F, Carlos) to baffled but adoring (ex. Daniel, every popular male DJ) to straight up horny (too many to list).

but then there's Oscar who has worn his "crush" on Lando on his face and in his eyes without any hestiation and we've all ??? kinda just had to go yeah there it is. the history of likes and replies to and about Lando got found out later and they're adorable but like. no one has to do any special edits for Oscar's eyes tracking Lando's face it just happens every time. and we've seen him comfortable around the Prema boys so we know he can be chummy and physical with guys no problem (he even gave Arthur a COVID protocol kiss on the lips). and plenty of guys hug him and show him affection. but he just won't casually touch Lando like that. they'll even sit extremely close but genuinely we watch every video of them together wondering is he going to initiate touch with Lando? the Silvo video of him pushing his arm around Lando was so incredibly rare that even Lando looked surprised and threw himself into it.

and ofc Oscar is such a Just a Guy that he doesn't do anything special using his words either. give the boy a handy soundbite and he'll repeat it for as long as he can. even someone like Dax Shepard can't get Oscar to dish out strong feelings or opinions.

and Lando is genetically incapable of lying so if behind the scenes Oscar was being withholding or distant then hot-blooded Lando wouldn't be able to hide how cold their relationship was. but no! he knows Oscar is fond of him and admires and respects him! so why won't he use grabby hands with Lando's body?? why won't he go for the easy fanservice of innuendo? why won't he pick up the soft ball prompts for bromance moments and roll with them? why hasn't Oscar stopped doing the staring thing when a)he'll definitely have seen comments on McLaren content about it and b)it can't have just been Oscar being nervous about media duties bc he did just as much content for Prema and also he got comfortable with McLaren socials after just a few months. why does Oscar always stick around for every part of Lando's celebrations without fail no matter what's happened for himself? why isn't Oscar falling neatly into one of the three categories that Lando is already comfortable with? is it really just that Oscar really really likes everything about Lando and doesn't expect a single bit of return from Lando?? who DOES that????

(I feel like that last part is sort of what's going on in Lando's poor addled end of season brain as he looks at the rookie teammate he still cannot quite understand)

#inchreplies #landoscar

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neutron-stars-collision · 10 months

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Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Chapter 20 - In the glow of the moon

Chapter 19; Masterlist Summary: Some conversations cannot be avoided. Especially when it is Bruce, who becomes impatient... Warnings: Swearing; angst. Too much talking. Author's Notes: Alas, we've made it. This is where the story ends *sniffles*. While I've got a short epilogue in mind, it's going to be more of a post scriptum, so I'm treating this as the conclusion to the journey. And what a journey it had been! 🥺 It only took me a year and a half to finish the series, but I'm so glad I did. Those idiots did not make it easy, but I'll sure miss them. This chapter is a long overdue punchline some of you had been waiting for. I hope it meets your expectations. Thank you for reading, waiting and supporting me in the very rocky process. You all made it much easier to convince my brain it was worth continuing 💕 And thank you, Shet, for dealing with my whining, doubts and endless drama - always grateful for you! Hope you all enjoy and let me know what you think? Tag list: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy, @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki, @shimmeringgrim, @ttae-yong, @freyadruid, @siriuslydestiny, @ms-dont-care, @raphaelaisabella, @itsmytimetoodream, @brightjimini, @castellandiangelo, @grunge-n-roses5 (let me know if you wanted to be removed/added).

(gif credit: @1038276637)

In the morning, you dared believe the universe must have a soft spot for you within its core. As soon as your eyes opened, your gaze noted two things. One, Bruce was gone. Two, there was a note with his handwriting on your bedside table.

Without letting your mind run away with the first fact, undoubtedly working itself into a spiral like no other you rolled over to pick up the page. The contents were simple: “Sorry I’m gone. The hospital called to say Alfred had been signed out, so I went to pick him up. See you soon.”

The spark of relief drowned out everything else as you dropped the paper onto the covers and smiled at the ceiling. Everything was still fucked. But this was something. Something that could take your mind off the reality. It was easy to admit that one thought. You missed Alfred. Missed his clever blue-grey eyes that saw through your bullshit. Maybe it was what you needed… Maybe.

The thought was a motivator to drag you out of bed and into the closet, absentmindedly searching for anything you could wear. The first proper wake-up of the morning came when you entered the ensuite and found yourself facing the mirror. Finding mussed hair and a red bruise on your neck. A few more below, scattered like flares across your body. Drawing attention to what happened. Making it impossible for you to deny it, even before yourself. A wave of shame rolled in your stomach, erasing the budding hunger. You turned your head the other way and never looked back until you were ready to leave the bathroom.

It was cold enough for a turtleneck, anyway.

The distraction kicked in as soon as you made your way downstairs. A chorus of voices could be heard coming from the kitchen. A sound you had not heard in the tower since the explosion. A quiet sigh of relief was all the noise you made as you headed into the room. Eager to see what was going on. Having reached the doorway, you peered inside. Bruce was the first one you saw, leaning against the kitchen counter with a timid yet bright smile. He seemed happy. Lighter than when you had first met him.

Another dangerous thought you did not want to entertain. Your gaze slipped over Bruce to settle on Alfred. He was leaning heavily on his cane, but no bandages were in sight anymore. Only a fading yellowish bruise and darker circles underneath his eyes. Dory was talking with him animatedly, her hands gesticulating broadly. A grin broke out on your face as you stepped through the threshold, immediately drawing attention to your arrival. All three pairs of eyes landed on you. Without meaning to, you met Bruce’s gaze first. The look in his eyes shifted, but his face was still open. As if he was happy to see you. Even after the previous night. You never had the time to pull that revelation apart.

“Glad to see you join us, darling” Alfred crossed the remaining space towards you with a bright smile.

Affection filled the caverns of your heart, making it impossible to get rid of that one feeling. The one that reminded you that you had not felt this welcomed anywhere in a very long time. That this, the three of them, almost felt like the home you had lost twenty years ago. You swallowed past the lump in your throat to reply, a cheeky smile masking the emotions tearing through your chest:

“Pardon me, I didn’t know we’ll be having a kitchen party” an answering scoff from Bruce was enough of a validation for the weak joke, “It’s good to see you back, Alfred” you met the butler’s gaze with a fond look of your own, not hiding just how much you had meant it.

You knew he understood, instantly adjusting his stance to open his arms and invite you in for a hug with a quiet croon:

“Oh, c’mere,” you did not need to be asked twice, returning the embrace with care, mindful of his lingering frailty.

But Alfred’s hug was everything but frail, instantly making you sink into the comforting touch you did not know you had missed. After a beat, aware of the company and the prolonged silence, you pulled back, squeezing his arms one last time. Over Pennyworth’s shoulder, you caught Bruce’s gaze again. The softness in his eyes was replaced with something more tender. Almost as if seeing you close to Alfred meant much more to him than he could say. You sent him a small smile as the butler spoke again:

“I see my boy at least had the decency to invite you to stay for longer” the older man threw a pointed look over his shoulder at Bruce before setting his piercing gaze back on you.

You did wonder whether the blush on your cheeks was as telling as you worried it might be. Because there was no escape from it.

“Of course, I-” Bruce’s offended rebuttal was never meant to be heard.

Only because you feared what he might say and whether you could mitigate the effects without the scene dissolving into chaos. You threw Bruce an apologetic smile and interrupted him with faux chirpiness:

“He did. At least until everything settles down in the city,” the apologetic note was not easily eradicated from your voice.

Because no matter what, you still felt like perhaps you were a nuisance to them. Like maybe you should have disappeared a long time ago and never bothered them again. But then Bruce was the one to ask… And the previous night, he seemed happy with you staying… You barely resisted shaking your head against the barrage of thoughts as Alfred remarked:

“Well, we’re certainly not short on space” he glanced at Dory as if awaiting her approval.

You followed his gaze only to see the older woman smile at you warmly. Giving her blessing with your favourite question of the morning:

“Coffee?” she raised the mug to accentuate the gesture.

“From you? Always” there was no need to think as you flashed her your brightest grin and joined the woman by the counter.

Perhaps it was alright for you to stay. Just a little longer.

***

The illusion of peace lasted approximately 32 hours and 27 minutes. It shattered in the afternoon of the second day of Alfred’s return as Dory left the dining room table, leaving you alone with the older man. As if he had been waiting for the occasion to arise, Pennyworth instantly settled his heavy gaze on your face. You got as far as awkwardly clearing your throat before he launched the first question:

“How are you doing?” you knew the nonchalance in his tone was only a means of keeping you calm.

And making you stay at the table, despite the alarm bells in your head urging you to run away. Because hell knew Alfred was damn good at seeing through your bullshit. Unfortunately.

“I’m good,” you pasted what you hoped was a convincing smile.

Hoping it would be enough to deter him. Foolishly.

Alfred leaned forward, putting more weight onto his forearms as he levelled you with another long look:

“Are you?” your heart stumbled in your chest as if begging to say: No, I’m not; he paused, seemingly to find the right words before driving another striking blow, “Because it took me a little over a day to see that things are not exactly easy between you” you could see the tactful turn.

The exact moment when Alfred noticed he needed to be gentle with you. When he saw your fragility and discovered the cause without you needing to say it aloud. That need to run and hide only grew stronger.

“Well… we get on just fine” you shrugged, aware that it was a futile attempt on your side.

It wasn’t a lie. Even after that night, things were fine. As in, Bruce talked to you, still shared his work updates, and checked in on you throughout the day. But he kept his distance. And you tried your best not to dwell on the fact fearing the heartbreak that would follow if you did.

“I know that you do,” compassion in Alfred’s eyes told you he noticed it too, “But I also know Bruce. And I can see that he’s desperately trying to fix something, but he doesn’t know where to start” the hint of hurt in his face was enough to crack your heart.

It was one thing to know you had been hurting Bruce. Another to hear it from someone else. Someone who knew him more than you. A wave of shame threatened to drown you as you gasped quietly and trained your gaze on the table. A lone tear slipped from the corner of your eye and dropped onto the cloth. There would be no more pretending.

“What do you want me to say?” the hysterical note crept into your voice as you heard yourself spill confessions you never dared put into words, “I’m scared, Alfred. Always had been. Because there are feelings that I can’t get rid of no matter what I do” more tears rolled down your cheeks as the desperation you had tried stifling reared its head “I don’t want to hurt him, but…” you trailed off, your voice breaking under the weight of emotions.

But that was it. The truth was spoken for the first time and somehow more terrifying. You knew how it sounded. How utterly pathetic it was to be afraid of the thing many were willing to die for. But you could not help it.

“You’re also hurting yourself, though” Alfred’s gentle statement was enough to make you look up.

You fixed your red-rimmed eyes on his face, resisting the sudden urge to scoff. He was right, but that did not change anything. After twenty years of hurting, what was some more? An eternity? Easy. Much easier than whatever was going on right now.

“That’s inevitable” you could only shrug, staring at him blankly.

Because that’s just the thing. It’s inevitable. There is no outcome where you could have this and walk away unscathed. No such variant of the reality.

From the disbelief on Alfred’s face, you knew he disagreed.

“What if it doesn’t have to be like that?” you opened your mouth to protest, but he did not let you speak just yet, “What if you could have everything you wanted and be happy?” the conviction in his eyes was something you wished you could share.

But you couldn’t. It sounded like a fable, a tale too good to be true. It sounded like your childhood before.

“I don’t think that’s possible” you levelled him with a resigned look and brushed the drying tears from your cheeks.

Suddenly you wanted nothing more than to burrow underneath the covers and disappear from the world until the morning. Only Alfred had one more thing to say…

“I beg to differ” with his tone urging you to listen, you fell quiet as he continued, “I can’t tell you what to do or think, but… You make him happy” his gaze softened as your heart panged, barely able to sit idly for much longer, “And I know that’s mutual” though there was no need, you nodded weakly, confirming the correct assumption “Love is terrifying, but it’s also worth the pain” unable to withstand the vulnerable moment, you closed your eyes, hiding the pain he could find there; he hit the metaphorical bullseye “Don’t let the fear take it away from you” as Alfred finished the speech you let out a long exhale.

As if sensing you were barely holding on, he stood up from the table and left the dining room. But not without reaching out to squeeze your shoulder first. Only once you were alone did you let the tears flow freely.

You desperately wanted him to be right.

***

Only two days later, things came to a head with the most unexpected beginning. Although it was late, you were still busy with work, reading up on different witness accounts of the aftermath of the flooding. While you were still officially off work for another week, you wanted to make sure you had something to write about as soon as you could. And as much as you wanted to, Riddler’s case was off-limits. The decision was difficult to accept, but it was a no-brainer. You could not write about events that hit so close to home and expect it to be unbiased. And any good at all.

So, with a heavy heart, you began a quest to find something new. To your utmost surprise – Bruce offered to help. And help he did, sharing various stories he has heard during his patrols, dropping hints towards the whispers passed around in the dark. You were more grateful than you knew how to express.

Glancing at the clock in the upper corner of the laptop screen, you groaned at the late hour. Perhaps it was time to finish for the night… Perhaps you could- You never got to end the thought as sudden feedback sound rang out in the study. Its whine made you startle, head snapping up in rapt attention at whatever would follow. That was familiar. A memory from what felt like ages ago. It took you another moment to catch up and recognise the song. The subtle strumming was almost indistinguishable. And then…

You got up before you knew what you were doing. Like a siren call leading sailors to their demise, the increasing volume of the music dragged you down the stairs. Once you got closer, you could hear him sing. Quietly, as if he never wanted anyone to have heard him, but still. His low, gravelly voice was enough to increase the cadence of your heartbeat and make you pick up the pace.

‘You're just like an angel

Your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather

In a beautiful world’

You knew the lyrics well enough to feel the familiar tension fill your chest when you reached the study and held your breath upon the sight.

‘I wish I was special

You're so fuckin' special’

Bruce had his back to you, the broad plane of his shoulders covered with a washed-out black t-shirt. Body hunched over the guitar. Without seeing his face, you knew that his eyes were closed. As the volume grew, his strumming got angrier. Dexterous fingers hit each note as they were supposed to. The pain in his voice perfected the picture and made you tighten your grip on the railing. It was terrifying to think about the song choice and what it meant. Whether it meant anything at all.

The longer you stayed, frozen by the sight, the more you knew you should have never given in to the pull. Because now you could not walk away. Not without talking to Bruce. Even if only just about the music. The longing got almost unbearable.

The guitar’s tone slowed; the riff returned to its gentle opening. Bringing the number to a close. Bruce’s voice turned smooth, rolling over your torn heart like a soothing balm. But only just so. Before you realised it, a solitary tear had rolled down your cheek. You whispered the closing lyrics alongside him:

‘What the hell am I doin' here?

I don't belong here

I don't belong here’

Bruce finished the song with a long exhale. For a moment, you contemplated running back up the stairs like you had never been there. But you could not move. Your mouth opened on its own accord:

“You’ve got a beautiful voice” you winced as Bruce flinched, his body tensing as he turned to face you with a shock evident on his face; still, you trudged on and added, “But that was a rather gloomy choice, don’t you think?” an unconvincing smile graced your face.

Because you knew Bruce would see beneath the mask. He would notice the drying tear on your cheek and the pain in your eyes. That one look would be enough for him to tear you apart.

“It felt accurate” Bruce shrugged, his façade drawn up and ready to hide all hints of emotion.

But you could see him look at you, gaze searching and assessing. Noticing everything there was to see. Like he always did. Unable to withstand eye contact much longer, you let your gaze roam as well. Slipping over his forearms and hands, still carefully holding the instrument. As if he expected you to leave so he could continue. But it was not that easy.

“If you’re a creep, then I’m a weirdo” you gathered enough courage to look back up at him, finding Bruce still gazing back; it was enough of an encouragement to make you drop the nonchalance, a veiled confession ready on your tongue “Kindred freaks and all,”

For the first time since he looked at you, you saw Bruce’s mask slip. A flash of surprise passed through his blue eyes and, then, something more tender. The aching chasm in your chest grew wider as you stepped down from the landing and took a step closer to him. The movement woke him up. Bruce took off the guitar strap from around his neck and placed the instrument back on the stand. Silence echoed in the vast room.

“I didn’t think you’d hear me play” when he raised his head again, part of that wall hiding him from you was gone.

In its place, you could see wary curiosity. As if Bruce did not expect to see you tonight or have this conversation. As if you caught him by surprise. For some reason, the idea settled with heavy guilt in your stomach. Because maybe you were trespassing, bothering him with your presence when he would rather be alone. You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat and whispered:

“I’m sorry” your body had half made up its mind to turn around on your hell and march up the stairs.

Like you should have done when he finished the song. A goodbye was ready on your lips before Bruce spoke, making you freeze:

“Did you mean it?” the cautious tone arrested your attention.

As did the fleeting hope in his eyes. Gone so fast you assumed you had imagined it. Your heart skipped a beat as you understood what Bruce was asking. There was only one thing it could be. As if eager to spite you, your mind readily offered the memory. A sentence blurted out in a moment of passion. Your undoing, as it seemed. Heat filled your cheeks as you felt yourself shake. Panic took over; its job was simple – you couldn’t admit it. Not yet. Ideally never. So, you did what you do best.

“Mean what?” a confused smile was ready on your lips, masking the descending terror with a weak attempt at deflection, “The line just now? I-”

You should have known better. Bruce interrupted your pathetic one-woman play with a simple injection:

“You know what I mean” frustration rolled off him in waves, making him clench his hands into tight fists as Bruce stared at you with growing desperation.

Urging you to drop the act. But it was too late. The cold panic had settled, freezing you on the hardwood floors. Freezing your mind on that one thought – you couldn’t tell him. He can’t know.

“Bruce, I’ve no-” you tried again, without the foreign smile and bullshit nonchalance.

In your head, a pleading chorus was rising in volume. Drop it. Please drop it. But Bruce did not want to listen. He took a step closer, briefly reaching out his hand before letting fall back down. As if he wanted to touch you but soon realised that would not do.

“Please, just- Don’t lie to me” his voice broke on the last word, pain squeezing your heart like a vice; it only got worse when Bruce added, “I don’t think I can do this anymore” he glanced at you almost passively.

Almost as if he had not just crushed your heart in the palm of his hand with that one sentence. Cold fear rose in your throat as you took a step forward, voice wavering as you asked the only question you could:

“Do what?” even though you knew.

You could feel it in your bones. Bruce was done with this. With you. You could even guess why. And if that was it, the end, then you could not blame him, only yourself. A new wave of tears rose in your eyes as you waited for Bruce to cut the cord and end your suffering.

“This,” he vaguely waved his hand at the space between you before turning to pace the room, restless energy permeating every cell of his body, “It hurts too much to pretend. And- I mean, it’s pretty obvious. You must know by now” what? The question painted itself in the crease between your eyebrows as Bruce glanced at you with passion in his gaze, begging you to understand, “It’s not like I’m good at hiding it anyway” the following scoff was self-directed, as if Bruce was angry with his actions, or lack of them, as well.

But none of that explained what he meant. The bewilderment was evident on your face. You could tell Bruce saw it because he let out a long frustrated sigh. He stopped pacing, eyes trained on the floor as if taking part in a heated debate you were no part of. You reminded yourself to breathe, still frozen in your spot with no pointers towards where it was going. What was going to happen next. You opened and closed your mouth in a question that never quite came and went back to staring helplessly at Bruce. Fully aware of the pained look in your eyes and the shaking in your hands.

Later, you could pinpoint the moment he snapped. When the silence became too much to bear, and Bruce rushed in to fill it with words. More words than you had ever heard him say, unprompted. He walked back towards you, eyes wide and awake despite the late hour. But nothing you could see in his face warned you of what was coming:

“I know I’m new to this whole thing, but… I think I’m in love with you” oh. Oh. The breath hitched in your chest. The sincerity of his confession was the reason why you swayed on your feet, only just managing to grasp the railing before you fell at his feet – literary and figuratively; before you could process what Bruce had said and what it meant, he trudged on, seemingly unable to stop now that he began talking “Hell, I know I am, because nothing has ever torn me apart and put me back together all at once. No one else, but you” remembering to breathe, Bruce took a greedy inhale as his eyes met yours; the blue of his irises was set ablaze with that emotion you could never quite decipher. Until now, “I’m tired of pretending this is fine when it’s anything but. Nights like that last one are the worst because, for a moment, I get to feel what we could have, but then you- You leave, and it hurts twice as much because I know what I’m missing. What I’ll probably never have unless it’s with you” tears rolled down your cheeks as you stared, feeling the fear and love wage war in your heart. It was almost impossible to understand what was going on. And why the pain in his eyes only seemed to grow with each confession, the words dropping heavily onto the space between you, staining the floorboards with blood and despair. Yet still, Bruce’s next words slashed your heart anew, “And sometimes, I think… I think that maybe you’re the same” he looked at you again, the unasked question evident on his face.

A question you could not answer. The fear had won, claiming reign over your head and heart as you stared back. Still too frozen to move. Still unable to understand what had just happened. Bruce loved you. He was in love with you. He reciprocated, even though he did not know it. Fuck. All at once, you wanted to howl - be it from joy or pain, you could not decide. What now?

Your thoughts rushed a hundred miles per hour, spiralling and panicking. Worrying about every single what-if you could think of. All your mouth could form was a plea:

“Bruce, please- Don’t-” you did not even know what you were begging for.

Mercy, mostly. But with every second passing, you began to understand there was no way out of this. For better or for worse.

As if reading your feverish thoughts, Bruce closed the gap between you and reached out a careful hand, letting his fingers skim down the length of your forearm. Immediately, he had drawn attention to the chill you could feel settling in your bones as goosebumps followed his tentative touch. The sole-minded focus was still in his eyes:

“I swear I’ll leave you alone, detach myself from whatever is going on between us, if you’ll tell me I’m wrong” softening his voice a notch, Bruce searched your face, looking for the answers himself, “Tell me you don’t think of me like that and I’ll let it go. I promise” his hand clasped around yours, squeezing your palm as a reassurance that he meant it “Just tell me- Tell me you don’t love me” there, simple.

Or not so simple at all. A shudder went through your body as Bruce repeated the cursed word. Now it was entirely in your hands. The weight was resting on your shoulders, waiting for you to choose. For a second, you considered taking the way out that was still there. Faint and going against every promise you had made to yourself, but it still existed. You could deny everything, tell him he had it all wrong, lie and flee the scene with only the price of Bruce’s wounded heart on your conscience. But you couldn’t. Could not make yourself consider it beyond the basic set of assumptions and potentials.

Instead, you could only offer him an incomprehensible stutter, a collection of sounds paired with the colour draining from your face:

“I can’t- I-” the desire to run was still there, growing stronger with each second Bruce had spent staring at you.

He must have read it in your eyes for the moment you turned on your heel, body poised to run up the stairs, his arms were around you in a second. Caging you with your back pressed to his chest. Your shocked gasp was the only sound you could make.

“Don’t run away from me now,” Bruce’s plea was whispered right into your ear, making you shiver, “Please” only once you had the time to breathe, you noticed how lose his hold was; it would not take much to free yourself, should you want to “I’ve got you” the reassurance got through the white noise in your ears, making you relax.

Even if just by a fraction. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath at your back, the wisps of air across the back of your neck and cheek. One of his hands traced small circles on your arm, slowing your heart rate to a manageable pace. That was it. You couldn’t run from it anymore. You took a deep breath before you spoke:

“I’m so scared,” the admission was easy enough to utter.

A fragment of truth you owed Bruce. The reason for everything, as he would come to understand very soon. His embrace tightened slightly as he pressed a fleeting kiss to the crown of your head. It was almost enough to quieten the panic.

“I know, my love. Trust me. I know” the gratitude at his understanding was quickly overshadowed by the nickname he used.

The heart stuttered in your chest, unable to process it. My love. Two words that had never been aimed at you; have never related to you. A term of endearment you had come to envy in the quiet of your heart, yearning for something you never expected to have. But here it was, within your reach. If only you were brave enough to take it.

You closed your eyes, willing the courage to fill your veins as you pressed your back to Bruce’s chest. He wouldn’t hurt you. The statement filled your head like a mantra as you slowly forced more words out:

“You see me. The real me and it’s scary because what if you come to hate me? I don’t think I could survive that” it all came out in a rush of breath, leaving you gasping.

But it was out there. The truth for Bruce to hear and take in. The bravery was draining the energy from your body as you waited for a reply, a comment – anything at all. Anything to show you he understood.

He did not disappoint, offering you another gentle squeeze before speaking:

“I could never hate you” the certainty in Bruce’s voice was what you later considered as the thing that tipped the scales.

Because, for once, you pushed against the denial and believed him. After all, Bruce was the one with more to lose. The first to reach out. To come clean before you. Goddamn it, if he was brave enough, maybe you could be too… Maybe.

Cold shivers ran through your body as you tried to give voice to the words that had been choking you for days. If not weeks. You never thought to keep track and were too busy keeping them in. Despite everything. Perhaps there was no better time than now.

You squeezed Bruce’s hand to assure him you were not running away and turned in the embrace. It was better that way. Proper. You met his boundless gaze, now filled only with hope and the feeling you had recognised as the love he spoke of. It was enough. With a shaking voice, you released the confession from the prison you had made for it:

“Christ, I- I- I love you” the words came out wavered, and your breath stuttered with each syllable, but the light in his eyes was a reason to go on, “So fucking much it kills me” now that you started, the admissions did not seem to stop, slipping through your lips in a steady stream, slowly gaining speed “I’ve no idea when it happened, only that now you’re all I can think about. Every day, I go crazy because of you. Because I want you so much, I don’t know what to do with all those feelings. Sometimes it feels as though they’re going to tear my heart apart” running out of steam, you swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in your throat; it felt like a fraction of the weight had been lifted, now drowning in the blue gaze that did not stray away from your face. There was one last thing to add, a conclusion stating the obvious “But I’m still afraid,” the cursed punchline you did not seem able to shake off.

Only now, once the words were out, you allowed yourself to look back at Bruce. His shy smile acted like a magnet, drawing out your helpless twist of mouth. Your eyes followed the line of his nose (slightly crooked to the right) up to his eyes. Instantly drowning within the depths of blue irises filled with affection. Almost as if what you revealed did not change anything for him. As if, somehow, it would be alright. He would try rather than run away from you and your complex feelings no one seemed to fully comprehend. Not even you yourself. Too lost in his eyes, you only noticed he had reached up to touch you when you felt the gentle thumb brushing over the apple of your cheek. Caressing your skin and quelling the worries.

“Of what?” Bruce’s simple question acted like the needed push in the right direction.

A reason to put into words and label what you never dwelled on. But now, you had no choice but to piece it apart. Even if only because Bruce deserved it from you. He earned an attempt at trying from you. Because, when faced with the reality that he felt the same, you knew you could not deny it anymore. It was terrifying. And oh, so hopeful. You let the feelings in his eyes anchor you in the moment as you spoke:

“That you’re going to leave. Or something takes you away from me” you could see the recognition pass through his face, making the addition nearly redundant “I don’t have a great track record with love” still, the sad scoff could not be kept in.

There was something freeing in seeing the knowing look on Bruce’s face. In knowing that he understood the feeling, perhaps better than anyone else ever could. That, no matter what happened next, you were placing your heart in the palm of someone who gets it. That you had fallen for that same boy you felt a kinship with days after your childhood ended. It was almost poetic.

“I don’t plan on leaving” when Bruce gave voice to the affirmation, you wanted to believe him.

Because he said it before. Every time you let your insecurities win. You clenched your teeth against the denial bubbling beneath the surface and asked a question:

“Why?” hoping he would know what you meant.

It was the only way you knew of asking him why you were the one to make him care. Why you? Bruce only smiled in response, leaning in to kiss your forehead before effortlessly meeting your gaze and baring his heart. Again.

“Because you’re incredible, beautiful, smart, and you see me. You see Bruce Wayne where everybody else sees a symbol, an idea of who I am” the sincerity of his words made your heart seem too big for your chest, each beat threatening to be the one that would make it implode, “Only you see me as I am” as did the gratitude and love in his gaze.

Showing you that the feeling was mutual. You saw Bruce just as he saw you. Like no one else did. The discovery was enough to make you sure – it was worth it.

Aware of the likely sparks in your eyes and the foolishly lovesick look on your face, you cleared your throat and whispered a question:

“Can I kiss you?” you did not know why it felt necessary to ask when you never did before.

When it was probably a given, considering everything he just said. The only thing you were sure of was that you had to let him know. Had to show how much it meant to hear him say it.

Bruce’s fond smile was an answer enough, but he still brushed away your concerns.

“You don’t have to ask�� leaning in, he nudged your nose with his and waited for your decisive move.

After all, it was you who had asked. Getting onto your tiptoes, you returned the playful nudge and placed your hands on his shoulders. From then on, everything was a reflex and acting on well-practised instincts. Your eyes closed as you leaned in, slotting your lips over his in a tender kiss. Bruce responded immediately, tightening his hold over your waist and opening his mouth underneath your tentative tongue. The kiss quickly turned heated, drawing out a muffled gasp from your throat and a half-stifled whine from his. Your fingers tangled in the hair on the nape of his neck as you gently sank your teeth into his bottom lip. Enough so to make Bruce groan and pull you closer.

That long-buried, sentimental part of your brain could tell this kiss tasted different. More carefree, unrestrained. Nothing stopped you from tracing the confessions on his skin as your tongue whispered words only Bruce could hear. You did not think anyone ever kissed you quite like that. Like it was the only thing he wanted to do until the end of time. Like the time spent caressing your lips and body was his holy ritual and never a waste of time. Like it mattered enough to be something Bruce devoted his attention to. Until you broke the contact to catch a breath, you were only his, and he was yours. Then, as your eyes met again, wearing matching infatuated looks, the kiss became a promise of more to come. You noted his blushing cheeks and offered a remark:

“I like what you called me, by the way” from the way Bruce’s eyes lit up instantly, you knew it was no slip of the tongue.

Even more so, it was a reason for your heart to beat faster. He meant it.

“My love?” his gaze traced the movement of your tongue, licking your drying lips.

And collecting the remains of the taste of his kiss. A pleasant shiver ran through your body as Bruce repeated the endearment. You could get used to it.

“Yeah, that’s new” you nodded, not even trying to school your features and erase the hope blooming there.

Bruce smiled, drawing out a gasp from your lips as his fingers crept beneath your shirt, lightly touching the skin on your waist. It almost distracted you from his next words.

“It can stay if you want,” without needing Bruce to elaborate, you knew what it meant; the feeling only grew stronger as he added, “If you’ll stay,” a meaningful pause signing off the conditional.

If. You still had a choice. At least, Bruce seemed to think so. What he did not know was that you had already decided. Or that your heart has chosen for you. There was no alternative there. But the slightest bit of uncertainty in his eyes told you he needed an answer:

“I’ll try to” the honest reply was a perfect opening for another question, one that you had been holding back for a while, “Are you mine?”

It was the final assurance you needed from Bruce if only to convince your head it was safe to give him your heart, body, and soul. For as long as he was willing to have them. For as long as he would have you.

Bruce used his unoccupied hand to squeeze your palm as he lowered his head to catch your eye. You had no doubt he caught the nerves lurking there; impossible to be exiled entirely. Unknowingly, you held your breath, waiting for his answer as if the world depended on it.

“If you’re mine,” Bruce’s reply was simple, bringing out your chuckle at the banter you had fallen into.

The joy was reciprocated, too, if the creases at the corners of his eyes were anything to go by. Not for the first time since you had met, you had been struck by a thought, a recognition that he was beautiful. The sharp features and striking eyes always pulled you in and made it impossible to look away. To stray your eyes from his. To find anyone else worth looking at. At this moment, in the dark gothic study, lit up only by the fireplace and the lamp, you knew it was always a lost cause. You had lost a long time ago.

Instead of replying, you kissed him quickly, relishing in the sharp gasp you got in return. When you parted, an answer was easy to conjure:

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one willing to put up with this” upon Bruce’s questioning look, you motioned at the meagre space between you, highlighting the truth he might have missed.

That there was no competition there. Only Bruce was willing to endure you for this long and in this way. He was the only one wanting your love and loving you back. You were not quite ready to piece apart why (or how) that could be.

“I’ve always been told I’m relentless” the cheeky uptick of Bruce’s mouth was a hypnotizing sight.

You did not miss the telling glimmer in his eye or the smooth move which resulted in your body being pulled closer to his. Almost flush against his chest. It was impossible to deny your brain’s desire to offer you a recap of every moment you had shared which had begun in that way. And to stifle the shiver and the knowledge that, if the universe were gracious, you would have many more coming. The reminder was enough to make you smile and return the playful smirk:

“Good for me” struck with sudden weariness and feeling the rapidly dropping adrenaline, you tugged Bruce’s hand and wordlessly led him towards the sofa; only once you had fallen onto the cushions with a sigh and curled up next to him, you asked the question “What happens now?”

You knew Bruce would get what you meant. He always did.

You felt him shift, one arm coming up to rest around your shoulders, drawing you closer. The other hand was placed on your knee, providing gentle warmth and helping you stay present with him. It was almost too easy to let go and fall back on his constant support to keep you grounded. The doubts were still there, rising and falling like the natural ebb and flow of the tide, lapping at the edges of your conscience. You suspected they would probably always be there, somewhere. Ready to take over at the tiniest chance of something going wrong. The best you could do was hope that would never happen.

As if sensing your mental chatter getting louder, Bruce leaned in to leave a trail of kisses on the shell of your ear and nuzzled your temple. The resulting sigh was effortless on your part. As always.

“We try not to fuck it up” he had his answer ready, eyes trained on you and waiting for whatever might come up.

You had to admit it sounded simple. Almost doable. But…

“And if we do?” you turned to catch his eyes with what you knew to be a wild gaze.

You needed Bruce to say it. To promise he would fight for whatever you were to become. It had to work. Please. You already knew you would be willing to sacrifice a lot for this fragile thing between you. It was already a fact.

A fact Bruce could undoubtedly see in your gaze, for the confidence bled into his voice as he replied:

“Then we’ll try harder” he grabbed your hand, which restlessly picked at the loose thread on the hem of your shirt and squeezed it.

On a reflex, you threaded your fingers through his and pressed your palms together. You had no choice but to trust him. To do the unimaginable and place your heart in his hands, surrendering control in the process. You swallowed past the fear in your throat and pressed your mouth to the corner of his lips. It felt like an apt conclusion to the conversation long overdue.

A little later, once another kiss had ended, and a new one had not yet begun, you raised your head from its comfortable placement on Bruce’s shoulder and fixed your gaze on the black and white guitar resting on its stand. An in-direct reason you had the conversation in the first place. You briefly contemplated sending a thank-you letter to the manufacturer but were struck with a better idea.

“Bruce?” taking pleasure in how his name rolled off your tongue, you marvelled at the rare peacefulness of the moment.

There was nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. Nothing, but feeling the low rumble of his voice as Bruce hummed.

“Mm?” he kept tracing letters onto the skin of your arm, leaving you to guess their meaning on your own.

Sometimes you were willing to bet he was repeating the confessions he just spoke of. The thought drew an involuntary smile onto your face.

“Play me something” you met his gaze with that same affectionate look in your eyes.

There was no need to specify the request - you knew Bruce would choose well. He only grinned at you in response and disentangled from your embrace to stand up and pick up the instrument. You watched his forearms flex, tendons dancing beneath the pale skin as Bruce placed the strap around his neck and bowed over the guitar. His eyes closed in concentration, but he was not tense. It was a far cry from how you found him over an hour before.

With a breath trapped in your chest, you awaited the first notes. When he began the rhythmic strumming, a fond chuckle escaped your lips. You had to admit Bruce was nothing, if not predictable. Humming the chorus alongside him, you met his questioning gaze. You smiled, mouthing the words that were no longer forbidden. Love you. Sweetheart.

“Something in the way, huh?” the laugh spilling through the gaps between the vowels.

“What? You did not specify” teasing edge you would have never even imagined becoming so accustomed to.

“I knew I didn’t have to,” and then, just to see him roll his eyes with that enamoured exasperation “Babe,”

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idrellegames · 1 year

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Wayfarer Dev Log 2023.03.06

Hi friends!

It’s been a while since my last proper update in January. I am recovered from illness and mostly back to normal; with the days getting longer and actually having sunlight now, it’s easier to stay focused than it was in the winter. A lot of developments have happened in the interim, so I’m hoping this dev log will serve to get you caught up on things I’ve been keeping under wraps until now.

✦ New Blog Reveal

My blog’s desktop theme has been redesigned and updated! Huge thank you to @ethereal-themes for taking this on, I am in love with the new look.

Desktop theme

About

Navigation (with updated tags!)

FAQ

Character Roster (updated with Episode 2 characters + sortable, including by romance type)

These pages cannot be viewed in the tumblr mobile app, but they can be viewed by inputting the link into your mobile browser. Mobile versions of the updated FAQ information and tag list are forthcoming.

Many thanks to @memaidraws for my new blog portrait of Alexia. 💕

Additionally, I am no longer tracking the tag "wayfarer" for community content. The tag has become overrun with bots that makes it very difficult to filter. If you've created something you'd like me to see, please use the "wayfarer if" tag or tag my blog!

✦ The Public Build

A new patch should be coming sometime in March to fix lingering bugs and issues in Episode 2. This patch will require a full restart of the game. Once it releases, you should not use old saves otherwise you may encounter continuity errors and bugs in later episodes.

✦ The Alpha Build

Work on the next alpha update is progressing. I am still writing slower than I usually do, but I am coming up on the end of a major branch. There should be a new alpha release later in March that will cover one half of Episode 3 Part 1.

Even though not all possible routes will be included, the update will add over 300,000 words of new playable content to the game.

✦ Development Changes

Until recently, Wayfarer was planned to be a free game. This is no longer the case. Though I am not ready to announce the full details yet, the game will be eventually be moving to a free demo + paid full game model later in its development cycle.

Act 1 (which includes the Prologue and Episodes 1-3) will remain free to play. Future pricing for non-Patreon early access to later episodes while the game is in development is TBD.

Because this change impacts some behind-the-scenes things, I am need to gauge how much of Wayfarer’s playerbase plays the game on their phone versus a computer.

If you would like to help me out, check out this poll here and let me know what device you regularly play on!

✦ Wayfarer 2023 Pin-Up Calendar

The Wayfarer Calendar is now closed! A huge thank you to our contributing artists and everyone who donated. Altogether, we raised $1094.54 USD. These proceeds were donated today to the Astraea Lesbian Foundation for Justice.

I am so honoured that the calendar was a huge hit. On behalf of our organizers, I would like to thank everyone for their passion and excitement for this project. It’s too soon to announce whether we will do something like this again for next year, but there may be another calendar on the horizon…

If you’ve enjoyed Wayfarer, used my tutorials, or would like to support my work, please consider supporting me on Patreon. Patrons receive access to the alpha build, a private Discord server, exclusive previews, bonus content, side stories, and other benefits.

(Please note that if you are pledging solely for access to the alpha build, the alpha and the public build currently contain the same content.)

Wayfarer is a passion project and creating it is a full-time commitment. Any little bit goes a long way to help me bring it to fruition.

If you aren’t in a position to support financially, reblogs, shares, ratings and comments, and spreading the word about the game are much appreciated and do a lot to help me out! 💕

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #dev log #interactive fiction #interactive novel #twine #twine game #indie game #cyoa #announcements

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misscongeniality18 · 11 months

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Hey girl! I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are taking requests for Peter Sutherland. I feel like I’ve already read everything on the Peter Sutherland x reader tag 😭 I am yearning for some fluff. Could you write a fic where Peter and the reader are neighbors and although Peter is really into her he’s super nervous to ask her out. Then a package for the reader is accidentally delivered to Peter and when he knocks on her door to return it he finally works up the courage to ask her out? Or you can absolutely change it up, I just want some sweet and shy Peter. Thank you, you’re doing god’s work ❤️

This is adorable and so in-character for Peter, I love it!

Nervous - Peter Sutherland

Synopsis ! (In request above) Peter is hesitant to ask you out but is forced to take action by his annoying best friend and a package delivered to the wrong door. Pairing ! Peter Sutherland x fem!reader Genre ! Fluff Warnings ! Some language maybe, Peter being an absolute fluffball of adorable-ness, Cisco being Cisco Word Count - 1481

" I get a little bit nervous around you Get a little bit stressed out when I think about you Get a little excited Baby, when I think about you " - Nervous, Shawn Mendes

Masterlist Request Guide

Peter wouldn’t call himself a stalker, but Cisco definitely would.

You had moved into the apartment across the hall from him nearly four months ago. The first meeting between you and Peter was while you were carrying one too many boxes, and the top one fell over. Peter just so happened to be in the hallway and came to your rescue. He offered to help you with bringing up the rest of your stuff, which you gladly accepted.

Cisco happened to be there as well, and he knew just by the look on Peter’s face that the boy had completely fallen for you, and you’d only exchanged a few sentences.

Since you’d moved in, Cisco knew whenever you were in the hallway because of how Peter would suddenly perk up and glance at the door; he knew the sound and rhythm of your footsteps whenever you were walking down the hall.

Peter also knew your schedule. He knew that you would always start making dinner right after you got off of work, because he could smell whatever you were cooking while he was just waking up for his shift. You liked to take walks in the evening, just before sunset, because that was when he left for work. And he knew that you had a yoga or pilates class early in the morning (your pink mat gave that one away), because he would walk past you in the hallway when he got back from work.

Well, whenever he got home. He would stop and get food and actually go the speed limit after leaving the White House. Sometimes he would even take the stairs in order to waste time so he could walk past you in the hallway. He always looked forward to see you smile at him in greeting, even if you were only being polite.

Okay, maybe he was a bit stalker-ish.

But Peter always respected your boundaries and privacy, though. If he had an extra muffin from the coffee shop, he wouldn’t ask you if you wanted it, because what if you were allergic walnuts or couldn’t eat gluten? When he saw you struggling with your groceries, he offered to help you carry them up (which you accepted gratefully) but he never followed you inside your apartment without an invitation, because that was having proper manners. And he never ran to the peephole in his door whenever he heard you walking by, because that was just plain creepy.

He did want to talk to you more though.

Yes, there would be the occasional small talk, and he would say hello whenever you passed by him, and you would reply, bright and sweet, “Hi, Peter,” which gave him a serious case of butterflies.

Peter wanted to ask you out, but he was a coward. He could manage to stop a train and evacuate everyone before a bomb went off, but he couldn’t ask you out to coffee or lunch?

God, he was pathetic.

Cisco liked to give him shit about it every time he came over, and tonight was one of those nights. It was Peter’s night off, and Cisco came over to watch an MLB game and drink a couple of beers.

“Come on, man, you’ve gotta rip the band aid off sometime. I know it’s only been six months since Zoe left, but—“

Peter, from his spot on the couch, held out a hand to stop his friend from saying any more. “This has nothing to do with Zoe. I just…haven’t found the right time yet.”

“If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that one, I’d be a rich man,” Cisco replied, taking a sip from his beer.

Peter furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“People always come to me for relationship advice—“

“What people would do that?”

“Shut up and let me finish,” Cisco scolded. “Most of the excuses about why someone doesn’t follow through with anything is that they ‘haven’t found the right time,’ and it’s complete bullshit. You have to take charge with what you want, man. If you want this girl, you have to ask her out. You can’t keep watching her from afar, it’s sketchy.”

A knock sounded at the door, and Peter got up a little too quickly, desperate for the conversation to be over.

Waiting on the ground in front of the door was a package. Peter picked it up and went back inside, and as he read the label, his heart began to pound. It wasn’t his name on the box.

It was yours.

Cisco could easily see the panic in Peter’s expression. “What is it?”

“It—it was delivered to the wrong door. It’s hers.”

When Peter began to stutter, Cisco knew who he was talking about. “Where’s the package from?”

Peter glanced down at the from address. “None of your business.”

“It’s from Victoria’s Secret, isn’t it?”

That was met with a smack to the side of the head.

“Okay, okay, sorry. But you have to talk to her anyway, so why not ask her out now?”

When Peter said nothing, Cisco began to realize how nervous he was.

“You really like her, don’t you?”

“I do. Well, so far, I do. I’d like to get to know her more.”

Cisco clapped him on the shoulder. “Then go get her. I’ve got faith in you, brother.”

With a deep breath, Peter opened his door and took the two steps to reach the other side of the hallway. He lifted his fist, package in the other hand, and knocked.

“Just a second!” He heard you shout from inside.

A few scampering footsteps later, you opened your door, and Peter felt his breath catch. Damn, you were beautiful. You had your hair piled up on top of your head, a few strands having escaped. Your cheeks were flushed, and an apron was laying over an old t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. The smell of something baking came from the kitchen, cookies maybe.

Just the sight of you made Peter forget why he was there, until the weight of the package in his hand reminded him. “Hi, I think this is supposed to be yours.”

You glanced down at the package. “Oh! Thank you so much!”

Peter handed it to you, your fingertips brushing. His skin began to tingle from where you touched.

“No problem,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What are you baking?”

“Brownies. They’re for a co-worker’s baby shower. We’re having a party tomorrow. They’re turning out a bit more fudge-y than they’re supposed to.”

Peter grinned. “Those are the best kind, aren’t they?”

“I guess you’re right,” you smiled back. “Would you like some?”

“As long as you have enough, sure. Thank you.”

“Wait just a second, I’ll be back,” you said before dashing into the kitchen.

Peter began to wait patiently, something he could do only for you. He’d wait forever if needed. He’d—

“Dude!”

Peter spun around to see Cisco poking his head out from his apartment.

“What are you doing? Ask her out already!”

“Would you—get out of here!” Peter sputtered, anxious to get his dumbass best friend away before you came back.

“Hurry it up, then!”

Cisco disappeared behind the door just as you came back with a paper plate full of brownies cut neatly into squares. “Here you go,” you said, slightly out of breath from rushing.

“Thank you,” Peter replied.

“Let me know how they are; I don’t trust my judgement of my own cooking,” you laughed, and it was one of the most beautiful sounds Peter had ever heard. “Well, thank you for the package. Have a good night.”

Stunned, Peter started to turn away, but then he turned back, calling your name. Your door was just starting to close, but you opened it back up, eyes wide and curious. “Yes?”

Peter began to worry that his words would come out in stutters if he tried to talk, so he hesitated, pressing his lips together. “Um, would you want to get coffee sometime? Or maybe dinner?”

Your eyes warmed then. “Yeah, sure. How about dinner on Saturday? Six o’clock?”

“Yeah,” Peter blinked, slightly in shock that you accepted so quickly. “Yeah, that works for me.”

“It’s a date, then,” you said, grinning at him before closing your door.

Peter pumped his fist, his lips widening into the biggest smile possible as he turned back to his apartment.

You leaned against your door, sighing in relief and trying to contain your giddiness. You’d always hoped that Peter would ask you out, but you weren’t sure if he liked you.

When you heard his door open, followed by two pairs of excited whoops, you couldn’t hold it in any longer. You laughed, happy to know that Peter was every bit thrilled as you were for this date.

#peter sutherland #peter sutherland fanfic #the night agent #peter sutherland x reader #peter sutherland x you #gabriel basso #fanfic

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