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katreneebug · 6 months

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I'm Okay (Trust Me) (Part 1/3)

Summary: Defeating Rapheal, and subsequently obtaining the Orphic Hammer, had gone exceptionally well. At least in comparison to how things usually go. However, as the companions move forward with their plans of parasitic liberation, Astarion can’t help but notice that their leader, and his lover, isn’t quite herself. Despite Tav’s assurances, the vampire spawn can tell that the events befalling The House of Hope still haunt her in more ways than one.

Parings: Tav x Astarion, Minor Shadowheart x Lae'zel

Warnings: Explicit content, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Sexual Coercion, Slight Victim Balming, Sexual Trauma, Eventual Smut

A/N: I decided to write this after I got through the House of Hope on my first playthrough. At first I was really excited at the prospect of getting to bed an incubus in the game but after everything was done I kind of felt off about the whole thing. Especially given that the player, after deciding not to fight, is given the choice to either let Haarlep use their image to have sex with a bunch of strangers or straight up die. It hit a little too close to home in regard to my own sexual trauma and how that has affected my self-esteem, relationships, and mental health.

I want to stress that there are some aspects of the story that don't match with the gameplay. An example of this would be going beyond the party size. You can pretend that this story is based on that no-limit companion mod lol.

Link to AO3: Here

No last-minute begging had left Rapheal’s lips when Karlach raised her axe above him. The fact that it had been the final stroke came as a surprise to Astarion and, based upon the silence that drenched the room, the others. Not too far behind her could hear Tav panting, her magic practically drained to its limits. In the peripheral of his eyes, he could see Shadowheart’s armor move up and down as she too sought to catch her breath.

Hope, who appeared the most worn out of the bunch, stood frozen to her spot by the door. Karlach noticed her immediately and moved to check on her, weapon still sunk deep within Rapheal’s chest. Astarion took the opportunity to walk over to him, caution obvious in the way he gripped his dagger.

There was no final spook to be had, though. Rapheal was dead, eyes wide and mouth slightly a gape with no more theatrics left on his tongue. Good Riddance, he thought. A smirk danced onto his lips as he decided it was okay to turn back towards his companions. Hope was no longer a statue, the erratic motions from before returned vigorously as she took in their victory.

The memory of Cazador lying vanquished on the ground materialized in his mind. He brushed it away quickly as Tav’s eyes landed on himself. A half-smile was the most she could muster before Lae’zel garnered her attention, talks of the next step towards freeing Orpheus’ flew from the githyanki’s mouth in rapid, yet precise, order. The lines in Tav’s forehead creased as she let her friend speak. Deciding to take pity on his lover, Astarion moved to stand beside her.

“—The Emperor will know of what we have done, we must act fast upon our return.”

“I—”

“Surely you can’t expect us to go straight into the undercity of Baldur’s Gate after quite literally killing a devil.” Lae’zel sharp glare snapped up to meet his eyes. “I for one am not doing anything till I’ve had time to clean up, all of this.” His hand, the one not resting centimeters away Tav’s lower back, motioned to the state of his armor. Rapheal and his friends had left the floors of the foyer dripping in all sorts of blood and guts and, while Astarion’s body was happily intact, his outfit begged to differ.

“He’s right, we should get some rest before meeting with Voss.” Lae’zel’s head snapped to see Shadowheart approaching. “It would be foolish to confront a mind flayer and a devil on the same day.” Lae’zel didn’t reply immediately, though the answer for what they should do was clear, she was not any happier to admit it.

“All right,” she spat. “Prepare for an early departure by dawn, I will not wait for anyone.”

“Of course,” he hummed with a dismissive wave.

. . .

“I’m just saying we should take some more time to discuss our next course of action.” Gale instinctively backed up as Lae’zel stalked his receding form. “It would be unwise to go in all wands blazing without considering the effect this might have.”

“I am not leaving my Prince at the hands of a ghaik any longer.” Astarion had no interest in interfering on the wizard’s behalf. Watching the man sweat was more than amusing. “The only thing unwise would be for you to continue talking.”

“What if freeing Orpheus leads to us losing our only protection from the absolute.” It was Wyll who stepped in between the two. No surprises there, the vampire thought. Lae’zel had burst through the doors of their room at the inn with an attitude ready to fight the next person who dared to go against her plans.

“It will, I’ve already told you that freeing Orpheus will only result in him—”

“Will someone please get the squid to shut up.” Astarion winced, feeling the pain of The Emperors telepathy within his mind. How lucky Halsin and Jaheira were to not feel such an annoying headache.

“Gladly,” Lae’zel sneered.

“There are still other issues that we need to address.” Halsin’s voice passed by Astarion from behind, he could feel the bear of a man coming closer to the group before passing the vampire all together to aid Wyll and Gale from the Lae’zel’s wrath. “Orin and Gortash are still alive, it would be best to get rid of them before going to the astral plane.

“Agreed, we cannot allow the absolute to draw more power from the city. It’s time we faced them.” Halsin nodded an acknowledgement at Jaheira, her argument adding to the growing resistance.

Quickly the room devolved into a mass of bickering, Lae’zel mostly fighting alone on her side. It took Astarion a few moments to realize that there was something off about the whole scene. It stumped him briefly but the soft steps of someone else moving about in the background was the answer.

“Not going to step in, dearest?” Tav jumped a bit as Astarion walked towards her, his back now to the group. “It’s very unlike you.”

“It’s been a long day,” the bed bounced slightly as she dropped her pack onto it. “And I don’t feel like picking a fight with Lae’zel.” If only the rest were that smart, he thought. “She’ll see reason soon enough, anyways. We really do need to usurp Orin and Gortash while we can.”

“I’m sure she will,” his lips curled. “Right after she breaks a couple of Gale and Wyll’s ribs, of course.”

“Shadowheart will fix them up,” her body joined the bag as she sat down onto the covers. “Or Halsin, either way they’ll be fine.”

“I love this newfound ‘compassion’ of yours,” he briefly glanced away, catching sight of a smaller person far from the argument occurring. Either Yenna was blissfully unaware or was doing a great job at pretending everything was okay. “I just wish you had acquired it earlier.” Then maybe they wouldn’t be stuck worrying about every little orphan who manipulated Tav’s kindness.

“They’re adults, they can take care of themselves.” He raised an eyebrow at this. Was she really letting things go for once. “I’m tired and I want to sleep.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore, choosing to instead dig around into her bag that she never organized, even at his insistence.

“Fair enough,” a level of trepidation lined his voice. Before he could ask if she was alright, a loud clang hit the floor behind him, silencing the bickering voices. He turned away instinctively, catching sight of Lae’zel stomping away towards the door. A dagger, no doubt previously aimed towards the other men, laid forgotten at Halsin’s feet.

“Fine,” she spat, casting one last glance towards them before nearly kicking the door off its hinges. “Cowards, all of you.” With that, she was gone. Shadowheart moved a few steps, considering the possibility of going after her, before ultimately stopping. Even from her his spot, Astarion could see the way her jaw clenched, hands balled at her sides.

The rest of them dispersed to their own spots in the room, silence hung in the air uncomfortably. Karlach’s, he noticed, took a moment to collect Lae’zel’s dagger. She rarely used such a small weapon in combat, opting for her painfully heavy sword and bow. The little thing glinted in the light briefly before the Tiefling went to place it neatly on Lae’zel’s bunk.

Such a mess they were, he thought with a shake of his head.

. . .

He tried not to stare too much at Tav. His own bed had been placed directly next to hers and it was becoming harder to ignore the way she shifted and squirmed under the covers. Sleep came easily to the girl, at least most of the time. Her experience with combat and adventuring was limited before the parasite, her body unuse to such strenuous work. She rarely complained, though. The only indicator that this was tough for her especially being how quickly she tuckered out at the end of the day.

There was a chance that some of the chatter was keeping her up. The silence hadn’t lasted too long before Karlach, Shadowheart, and Jaheira set up some type of card game. They weren’t particularly loud, save for whenever Karlach gained the upper hand in the game. Gale had tried shushing her a couple of times before ultimately giving up. The book in his hands had eventually engrossed him enough to tune it all out.

When moonlight began to seep through their windows, Tav snores still not filling the air, Astarion decided to forsake his own spot. Standing over her crumbled form brought back the memory of the first time he had attempted to drink her blood. The few nights before that had been increasingly painful as he watched her lie so sweetly under the stars. Over time she felt less like a person and more like a beautiful feast, all set out for him alone. It was a shock, looking back, how long he held out on partaking.

Her reaction to noticing him looming over her this time around was much less frantic. A little bit of surprise played on her parted lips as she slowly sat up to speak. There was still a hint of innocence in her eyes whilst meeting his gaze. Scores of monsters and cultists had perished under her spells and blades and yet it didn’t jade her the way it would for other humans.

So precious, he thought.

“Is something wrong?” It came out as a whisper, her eyes glancing left to confirm that Wyll remained unmoving in his bunk.

“I was actually just about to ask you that, darling.” He wasn’t as quiet as her, unafraid that the Blade of Frontiers would wake up easily. “You’ve been acting peculiarly since we got back, care to enlighten me?”

“I told you I was tired,” she looked away. “It’s been a very long day.”

“And yet you’ve been tossing and turning for nearly an hour.” He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a little too much like a scolding parent than a partner.

“I . . .” She trailed off, knees moving up to support her chest as she leaned forward. “There’s just a lot on my mind right now. Between the netherstones and Orpheus, it’s just overwhelming.”

“Anything I can do to help,” the bed dipped as he took a seat. There was little space between the two of them now and a part of him buzzed pleasantly at the thought of pulling her into an embrace. They hadn’t been all that touchy as of late. His confession at Moonrise had practically halted most forms of intimacy between them. An outsider looking in wouldn’t have guessed how close the two of them were in comparison to the others. Feather light touches and the occasional hug made up most of the relationship now. Sometimes he would steal a kiss, a usually quick action that ended before Tav had much time to register the affection.

They had on occasion shared a bedroll back when they were out in the wild. She’d curl up against his side, a hand resting on the part of his chest where his heart once beat. He’d count the constellations whilst listening to the change in her breathing, the obvious indicator that she had plunged into a deep sleep. There, hidden from Cazador and the absolute, a flutter would come and go underneath his ribs. Perhaps he wasn’t all that dead.

“No, I’ll be okay.” She shook her head, hair rustling against the sides of her face. “Don’t worry about me, please.”

“Easier said than done, my dear.” The little pout that appeared on her lips decided his next move for him. “Now, scout over.” Tav’s eyes widened, gaze snapping back up to his face. She was still for a few moments, studying his features with an intensity one might have for a major test.

Little voices scrapped against the back of his mind as he exalted all his control in keeping a calm demeanor. Any doubt or uncertainty would have Tav pushing him away. She was always so concerned about his comfort. It was welcomed graciously most of the time but, as much as the sentiment warmed his icy body, it could also sting. He was not nearly as fragile as she seemed to think he was.

She only puts up with you because she pities you.

“O-Okay,” Astarion almost breathed out a sigh of relief when she complied with the request. He wasted no time in joining her under the covers, lest she change her mind at his reluctance.

She was rigid against him, even after he comfortably adjusted against the mattress. Instead of holding him, like she used to, Tav rolled over so that her back was facing him instead. Both of her hands clenched the sheets rather than his clothes. It unnerved him even more than the silence that passed between him.

“You know,” he whispered. “I was afraid that your droopy mood had something to do with vanquishing our old ‘friend’, Rapheal.” Acidity coated his pronunciation of the devil’s name. Tav’s body twitched when she heard it, somehow tensing even more than before.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” disdain leaked from her mouth as she sought to relax her body. “I wish I had cut out his tongue earlier, though. I can still hear his stupid, dramatic voice in my head.”

“Perhaps I can take your mind off of it?” The sly words fell out of Astarion’s mouth without him even having a chance to think it over. Flirtatiousness was an instinct after two centuries and getting rid of it wasn’t something easily undone. A heaviness set within his chest, an all too familiar panic that he may have gone too far. She shook in his grasp and that heaviness gave way to bitter bile. Swallowing it down with a cough, Astarion placed a hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.” Her statement, spoken quicker than before, felt like a cut. “I’m not in the mood, anyways.”

Not in the mood for you, at least.

She thinks you’d break under her touch.

Besides, why would she want you when she just had him.

He inhaled sharply at the memory conjured up by the swirling voices. He would have kicked himself for carelessness had she not been lying next to him. Amid their quest within the House of Hope, Astarion had been able to push down their interaction with Rapheal’s favorite toy. Now, with her distant yet so close, he could no longer.

. . .

“I beg your pardon,” the snap of Astarion’s voice rang within the chamber. The marble floor beneath his feet nearly crumbled under the stomp of his boots. A hand kept him from getting closer to the bed before them. “Would you like to repeat that little request?”

“I said,” the incubus’ eyes looked only at Tav. “Take off your clothes.”

“Uh, why?” Her voice bordered on cracking. It was her fingers that kept him from throwing a dagger between Haarlep’s eyes.

“Do you or do you not want my help,” playfulness dripped from the incubus as he rolled softly against the covers of the mattress. “I at least deserve something from you, seeing as you’re asking for so much.”

“And you’re asking for an arrow through the throat.” Astarion grumbled, fingers flexing and ready for Tav to give the orders to fight.

“Hypothetically, what were to happen if I did take off my clothes.” His jaw clenched as the human woman spoke slowly.

“Well,” he drawled, lips curling in a cat like smirk. “Let’s just say it’s a surprise.”

“A surprise from an incubus? I wonder what that could possibly be,” Astarion’s mocking voice did little to faze the other man.

“No need to be so jealous, little spawn.” The grip on Astarion’s shoulder tightened, Tav accurately guessing how restraint was practically peeling away from him. “I have only the best of intentions in mind.”

“Oh really—”

“Gives a moment, if that’s okay.” Tav began to pull against him, trying to bring him back towards the group. Haarlep nodded his head which was answer enough for Tav to motion for the companions to form a huddle of sorts.

“We’re killing him, right?” An unsureness plagued Tav’s face as she shied away from his intense gaze.

“Honestly, taking up his offer might be the best option.” He made a point to glare at Shadowheart. She looked only at Tav though, not bothering with the pissy vampire. “As much as I want to avoid it, a fight with Rapheal is practically inevitable at this point. Especially if we go through with freeing Hope. I’d rather we save up our resources for that fight instead of wasting it on him.” She motioned towards the incubus with a jerk of her chin.

“If it were me, I’d rather gut him.” Lae’zel chimed in before Astarion could retort. “But I am not the one he is asking for.” Her gaze fell to Tav.

“I’m completely fine with ripping his annoying face off,” Karlach glanced back at the Rapheal look-a-like. “But yeah, it’s up to you soldier.”

“I mean,” the human’s face contorted as pros and cons weighed back and forth within her mind. “If we go against him, who knows what other cronies he’d bring into the fight. Plus, it can make it that much harder to get back to the hammer in time.”

She wants to say yes to him, the offer is rather tempting.

“Exactly, I say we get the hammer first with as little complications as possible.” Very few times had Shadowheart’s neck looked so perfectly ready to be ripped out in Astarion’s eyes.

“Why don’t you take her place, if the choice is so easy.” She rolled her eyes at him.

“I don’t see why not,” her lips curled up in a bitter smirk. “I’m sure he’s all sorts of fun.”

“Such a tempting offer,” Haarlep’s voice broke into the group. Apparently, the huddle was pointless if he could hear everything from his side of the room. “But I have my sights set on your little leader. She’s stirred up Rapheal quite a bit with how passionately she denied his deal.”

“Pity,” the former Sharran mumbled.

“Now if you lot are somehow able to survive this little trip, I’d be more than happy to pencil you in for a play date, half-elf.” A silent chuckle left Shadowheart’s lips as she shook her head. Astarion couldn’t tell if she’d be against such an offer in the future.

“Fight or Fornicate, make up your mind before we’re out of choices.” Lae’zel turned back to Tav as the human seemed even more indecisive than before.

“I . . .” Her eyes met his then, as the rest of the group waited in bated breath for an answer. They stared at each other as each passing second felt even slower than the last.

She wants your permission.

You’ve left her longing for too long.

The answer to her needs is practically begging to relieve her.

He could do so, so much more for her.

She’s tired of waiting for you to get a grip. So tired of holding your pathetic hand.

I’d be cruel to deny her such an experience.

“. . . It’s up to you, my love.” Throwing the façade of acceptance on his face wasn’t too hard to do. He had done it so many times before, he had practically become a master of it at this point. “I won’t hold it against you, whatever you decide.”

She was quiet, facing smoothing at as her decision was made within her mind. She turned back to Haarlep first, prompting the others to do the same. Astarion, though, kept most of his attention on her and not the creature he wanted to eviscerate.

Something inside him shattered as her lithe fingers went to the hem of her shirt. The realization that she was about to disrobe in front of Haarlep and their friends hit him like a pommel strike. The voices in his head were twisting wildly within his mind and somehow, throughout the horror of it all, he found himself bitterly thankful for Tav’s choice in today’s team.

It was no secret that all their companions had, at one point, made a pass at Tav. Her rejection of them always had a sliver of satisfaction rolling up his spine. In Karlach, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel’s case, they had taken her no rather well. It was easy enough for the later two who had begun ‘sparring’ away from the eyes of the camp sometime after their interaction with the creche. Their excuse was that they needed more space to fight and that they didn’t want to ‘accidentally’ hurt someone during the intense training.

Hate sex is the best sex, Tav had muttered one night as she and Astarion caught the two women glaring at each other whilst walking off into the woods. He had curled his lips at the scandalous statement, deciding silently to remember the tidbit for a possible future tryst.

Karlach, Astarion realized, was just happy to have the embrace of a friend. Romance had been easily forgotten by the Tiefling. The same couldn’t be said for Gale and Wyll. They had assured her that it was alright before and Tav had taken it at face value. Astarion knew better though, could see it in the way their eyes followed her. When she spoke, they would glance at her lips and look away as if caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar. The vampire spawn sometimes basked in the longing he could see within them every time he displayed even the smallest of Tav’s reciprocated affections.

“Could you all go guard the door,” snapping out his trance, Astarion watched as Tav put a pause on removing her clothes. “The last thing we need is Rapheal waltzing in.”

“Of course,” Shadowheart was the first to comply. Lae’zel quirked an eyebrow for a moment before leaving as well. He could feel Karlach looking back and forth between him and Tav. Reluctantly she placed a hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to walk away with her. Though her engine had been fixed, her palm was practically scalding against the thin fabric of his disguise.

“We’re just across the room,” he murmured. “In case you need us.”

With a nod of Tav’s head, Astarion finally complied with Karlach’s touch. The two turned around to trail after the other members of their party. He focused on the echo of the grand faucets flowing hot water into the pool between them. Anything to keep from catching the sound of whatever surprise the incubus had in mind.

“You okay?” Astarion growled lowly at the question. He knew that Karlach’s concern was genuine, deep down, yet he couldn’t help but feel only irritation.

“Of course I am.” He sneered; he wasn’t the one stuck staring at Rapheal’s stupid face. He considered telling them to not talk to him, as he was in no mood. Yet the little chatter that passed between the other three was something to hold onto. Very little went by the doorway of the boudoir, just a couple of miserable waifs limping about. A wonderful reminder of what might happen to them sooner rather than later.

“—Must we waste time freeing her.”

“Are you suggesting we leave Hope chained to this asshole.” He didn’t want to look behind him to watch their argument.

“The longer we stay here, the more likely we are to join her.” Shadowheart’s voice was farthest away. A little too far for his liking, more likely to see what was happening past the pool.

It must be quite a show, maybe she’ll tell you all the gory details later.

Or maybe Tav will, how long will it be before his name passes those luscious lips.

She won’t want you after this.

What’s the point of a pretty face when that’s all it is. She’ll get sick of looking at it when she realizes she could have more.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when Shadowheart’s voice cut through the mess in his head.

“It looks like they’ve stopped,” gods he was going to throw up. “Come on.”

Luckily the half-elf was correct. By the time the four of them had come to the other end of the room, Haarlep was already off the bed and looking starkly different from before. Instead of the near perfect imitation of Rapheal, he had shifted into a woman. An improvement, yes, but still too like the devil in looks. Tav was shimmying her shirt back on, something black and tight coverd the rest of her body. She hadn’t worn it before.

Haarlep, noticing their return, locked eyes with him particularly. The ends of his lips twisted higher than they had before. In the blink of an eye the new feminine form shifted into something all too familiar. Instead of the Rapheal look alike, a copy of Tav now smirked at him.

To his utter displeasure, the incubus was gone before the shock could lift. Tav didn’t waste time in collecting the contents of the safe. The portrait of Rapheal broke in half under her hands as she pried it off the wall. It was tossed unceremoniously across the floor. If only they had time to destroy more of the devil’s tacky décor.

“Let’s go,” Tav was striding past them. Determination set within the crease of her forehead. There were questions on the tongue of each one of them. Ultimately their curiosity was left unspoken.

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tickle-bugs · 10 months

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But You Were Mine

Summary: Still hung up on the fit of Bruce’s body against his, Clark attempts the oldest possible ritual: getting to know his pseudo-sweetheart. Too bad Bruce Wayne is the most unknowable man on Earth. Sequel to Chase the Memory of it Still.

Yet again, blame @fickle-tiction for this. Doing a midnight post and run so I don’t have to look at this in the morning lol. Also warning for mild barely even lukewarm makeouts. Probably tamer than Part 1 lol.

Also also: the beginning scene with Clark and Lois works best if you imagine that Lois doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman but suspects him, all while thinking Clark doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman. So she’s trying to protect him from being lied to and Clark is like ‘but Lois I love him’

“Clark Joseph Kent, you’re a grade-A idiot.” Lois thwaps the back of his head with a rolled-up newspaper.

“I know,” Clark groans into the surface of Lois’s desk. She thwaps him again.

“So, let me get this straight.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You somehow conned your way into a fake relationship with Bruce Wayne of all people, and now you have feelings for him?”

“I’ve always had feelings for him,” He mumbles, suddenly feeling very small in his seat. When he looks up at her, she’s glaring at him. Ah, he’s in trouble.

“You don’t know him.” She spreads her hands on the surface of her desk, knocking aside a few Daily Planet pens. He picks them up and puts them back.

“Yes I do.” Clark frowns.

“He’s an airhead playboy with zero priorities. You deserve someone who’ll be honest—“

“Oh? Like Selina?”

Lois gets very quiet. Her stare pierces like a fine needle through his throat. A few battered emotions flicker over her face, leaving in their wake a rare and unguarded Lois. Then, quicker than the cat that stole her heart, her face resigns into something sharp and deadly.

“I’m sorry.” He circles the desk and pulls her into a hug. After a begrudging glare, she tips her head into his chest. They inhale and exhale together—a routine they’ve shared for years. She relaxes into him.

“No, you’re right.” She chuckles. “I fell for a thief. That’s on me.”

“And I spent the night with the one guy I shouldn’t have. We can’t all be perfect.” Clark elbows her, looking for a smile. Lois’s eyes blow wide and she starts spluttering.

“You hooked up with him?” She thankfully keeps to a hissing whisper, but he can tell she wants to shout. He contemplates flying around the Earth fast enough to undo the moment, but she’s gripping his shirt tight enough to stop him.

“Well, okay, we kissed a bunch but it didn’t go further—“

“Oh god, we’re both hopeless.” She groans into her hands.

“No, not hopeless. We can both have what we want. I’ll call Bruce if, and only if, you call Selina.” He pulls her hands away from her face. She huffs and smiles.

“This optimism thing is going to bite you in the ass. How do you think you’re gonna maintain a relationship with someone who doesn’t know that you, uh, work two jobs?” She casts a weary glance towards the office door and drops her voice even lower.

“He gets me, Lois.” It’s all he can say. It’s the truth.

“Alright.” She brushes a thumb over his cheek. “Then get to know him at least. Find out if he’s the kind of guy worth being around.”

“I know he's worth it. That’s not ever in question.” Clark can’t help but smile a little as he thinks of Bruce. “It’s an internal thing. He sees me. I see him. We don’t have to pretend with each other. It’s…just us.”

Her keen eyes scan every inch of his face, even as he trails off.

“You should tell him.” She squeezes his arm.

“What? No. Absolutely not. I only said that because I know you won’t call her. C’mon, you’re supposed to be the voice of reason here.” He squints at her. She flicks him in the forehead.

“Okay, well the ‘voice of reason’ thinks you should say something before you lose this…somehow healthy-sounding relationship you have. With Bruce Wayne, of all people,” She mutters that last part, but Clark both hears and ignores it.

“We’re friends and it’s good. Really good. He trusts me at least a little. I don’t want him to think I have ulterior motives. If I could read him at all, figure out what he wants…but I can’t. I can’t lose him.”

“This isn’t the healthiest advice, but…start a list. Treat him like a case. What are some things that draw you to him? Things he hides? Things he shows only to you? If it makes you do that dopey giggle thing you do, he’s probably worth it.” She leans against the edge of her desk and crosses her arm.

“I don’t do a giggle…thing,” he mumbles, but his face is already heating up an incriminating amount.

“It’s cute. He’ll probably like it.” She tweaks his nose. He swats her hand away, but his spirits are far lighter.

His phone buzzes and he checks it as discreetly as possible.

B: Free this afternoon?

Clark smiles.

C: On my way. :)

“I’ve gotta go.” He stands and shrugs on his suit jacket.

“Boyfriend awaits?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“Bye, Lois.” He rolls his eyes.

“Tell him I’d love to do an exclusive with him.” She snickers.

“I’ll tell him that when you call Selina.” He smirks. She gasps her way into laughter, her face blooming pink. Her hand comes up to play with a diamond necklace sitting on her collarbone--a cat-shaped pendant he’s never seen her wear before--and shakes her head fondly.

“I will after you kiss your playboy. Again.” She raises her eyebrow. Checkmate.

“Bye, Lois,” He says a little louder. She playfully shoos him from her office. He kisses her cheek.

Clark can only smile when he hears her phone ringing and the faint “Hey, kitty” through the glass.

….

It’s apt that Gotham is as dark and segmented as its protector, Clark thinks, because he’s never in his life met anyone as fragmented as Bruce Wayne. Everyone in the League is broken in some way, battered by traumas that still threaten to crush them, but Bruce is markedly...different. He covers the cracks in his soul with masks. For every unveiling, six more facades lay below it.

The reporter in him finds a dark fascination with it. The lost Kryptonian in him finds it…depressing. The human in him is currently bouncing on his heels in the lobby of Wayne Tower until Bruce finally meets him downstairs.

Bruce glides off of one of the elevators and nods at a few hushed executives who scurry in behind him. He must come off so effortless to them—not a hair out of place, a new suit and coat every day, but Clark can see the exhaustion clouding his eyes. Bruce Wayne is put together. Bruce is tired.

“You seem eager.” Bruce gives him a practiced small smile as they fall into step.

“I’m having the slowest of slow days. This was a much needed adventure.” Clark stretches his spine. It gives a loud, much needed crack. He’s just a little too big for his chair at the Planet and it’s starting to take its toll.

“We’re just walking down the street,” Bruce chuckles. He bumps the doors to the building open and Clark darts out. A light flurry of snow twirls through the air as they start their walk. He catches a snowflake on his tongue before he can think better of it. Bruce’s smile grows a little wider.

“So? Every trip away from my desk is an adventure. C’mon, I know a spot.” Clark nods to the side and they hang a left, passing under a train overpass.

“You know a spot in Gotham?” Bruce raises a brow.

“I get around.” Clark grins.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

They end up at a patisserie on the East side, a small family-run shop that deserves far more business than it gets. Clark can smell the wonders within from a good mile away.

Months ago, when he was helping Lois write a scathing exposé on Wayne Enterprises, this spot had served him well. Nothing better than a building full of sweets and a decent wifi connection to get you through betraying a good friend. Shredding that article was easily the best decision of Clark’s life, especially since Lois’s pivot towards flaying Lexcorp alive won her an award.

He buys them both coffee—black for Bruce, vanilla for himself—and sets about the intricate ritual of sweetening his coffee to perfection. This is normalcy. Normalcy is good.

“This is the only part of Gotham I like.” Clark steals little peeks at Bruce, waiting for him to inevitably make fun of him, but his eyes are elsewhere.

A refrigerated display tower of macarons stands proudly next to the register, boasting all sorts of delicious surprises. The splash of color is welcome among the somewhat dreary day outside.

“Hm?” Bruce’s gaze struggles to find its way back to Clark.

“You seem distracted.” Clark pops the stirring straw into his mouth and pulls the remaining coffee out with a little slurp. He pops the lid onto his cup much slower than necessary. The first time you crush a cup of boiling liquid in public tends to change you, after all. He’s grown since then.

“Heavy work day.” For a man so difficult to read, Bruce has never clearly been more full of shit. He doesn’t even try to look away from the cookie display.

“Do you…want a macaron?” Clark doesn’t bother trying to stifle his amusement.

“What? No.” Bruce withdraws slightly.

“What’s your favorite? My treat.” Clark jerks a thumb towards the display.

“Money isn’t the problem.” Bruce scoffs, but not unkindly. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Clark tries to ignore the still-fading lovebite on Bruce’s neck that he left.

“Then what is?” Clark leans forward on his elbows. Surprise flickers across Bruce’s face for the slightest of moments.

“…I’ve never had one,” Bruce mumbles, shuffling a bit in his seat. Clark beams.

“First time for everything. C’mon.” Clark vigorously beckons him over to the line. Bruce trails behind with an endearing awkwardness that he’s learned to identify: slow steps, shifty eyes, and silence.

Clark takes his time to point out his favorite flavors and make a few recommendations, but he feels like he’s stumbling around in the dark. His sweet tooth is only rivaled by Diana’s—even then, their tastes match so closely that he’s a little lost with someone like Bruce.

Bruce stares deeply at him. Clark’s rambling stutters to a halt. He pulls on his collar a bit. Adjusts his glasses.

Bruce’s eyes seem so warm. Must be the light.

“If today was my last day to live and you had to give me a macaron, what would you choose?” Bruce leans close. His eyes are on the display, thank god, because Clark doesn’t know that he can handle more of that eye contact right about now.

“It amazes me that you’re so committed to the dark and brooding thing.” Clark rolls his eyes, and after some thought: “Raspberry.”

“Hm. Okay.” And that’s that. Bruce orders quickly and walks away with his prize, leaving Clark to scramble after him. They sit back down in their quiet little corner, the naturally-frosted window fogging slightly at their presence.

Bruce opens his box of macarons clinically, like he’s stripping it for parts. He takes one out and admires the color, gives it a little test squish, sniffs it. Clark watches the process with vested interest until Bruce pulls out another box and slides it towards him.

“What’s this?” Clark pulls the box close.

“Strawberry Cheesecake macarons. I saw you eyeing them when we came in.” Bruce pokes the box again, sliding them just a little more forward.

“I’m not subtle, am I?” Clark pushes his glasses up again. He cracks the box open and pops a cookie in his mouth. His eyelids flutter shut and he does a little dance in his chair.

“It’s one of your more endearing qualities.” Bruce quirks a small, smug smile.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clark fake sniffles. The resulting eyeroll is incredibly satisfying.

Bruce takes a mouse-like nibble of the macaron, catching maybe an atom of cookie and filling between his teeth. He chews thoughtfully.

“So? Do we have a winner?” Clark rests his chin on his hand.

“I think so. You have good taste,” Bruce hums, taking another tentative bite of the macaron. A gentle, genuine smile peaks on his lips like a glimpse of the sun through storm clouds.

“That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clark swipes a macaron from Bruce’s box fast enough to send a small breeze fluttering between them.

“And it will never happen again.” Bruce peeks open one eye as he finishes his macaron.

Okay, bumping shredding that Wayne Enterprises article down to number two. This, Clark thinks, watching Bruce smile to himself, this is easily top of the list.

1 ) He likes raspberries.

It takes later in the week until they have a moment to truly spend a bit of time together. Criminal roundups never leave much personal time, and Clark’s hearing has him near-constantly running to save lives. But, on a quiet Wednesday night, he has a moment.

He loves visiting Wayne Manor. It’s been a while since he last swung by, but he adores the place. He could spend hours swooning over the architecture alone. It’s a beautiful place to disappear for a while, and he’s been doing that more and more lately.

He gets buzzed into the gates easy enough with a lie about taking the bus, and then he’s standing in the massive foyer and hanging up his coat by the door. The manor smells of old wood and citrus. Clark draws in a big breath of it.

He turns and jumps a bit when a flock of people are suddenly staring at him atop the stairs. Bruce’s kids, right. He knows Dick, Tim, and Jason. The others are still a bit fuzzy to him. They all leer from the landing like royalty watching a gladiator in the pit.

“Hey there.” He waves at the smallest and angriest of the bunch. This is Damien, he’s pretty sure.

“So you’re the new guy.” A blonde—Steph, he remembers her from the Christmas card—leans on the railing with her forearms.

“I wouldn’t mess with him, Steph. He’s tougher than he looks,” Dick murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, trying his best to be subtle. Clark gives him a friendly wave. He returns it.

“He looks like he wears a pocket protector. I could take him,” Steph whispers to Dick. Clark tries to rein in his expression so he doesn’t give himself away.

“I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m Clark. You’re all Bruce’s kids, right? It’s nice to meet you.” He tries to make himself look as friendly as possible. He gets a few waves, but mostly owlish stares. He sees where they get it from.

“Is your father home?” Clark sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to kill the silence.

“Bruce! Your boyfriend’s here!” Jason bellows. Clark bites his lip to hide his smile.

“Clark?” Bruce peeks around the corner, then shuffles quickly down the stairs.

“Hey. I, uh, had a few minutes. Just came by to see you before I went home.” Clark rubs the back of his neck with a smile, trying to kill the flutter in his chest.

“Bruce, say something,” Tim hisses, crouching behind the banister as if Clark can’t see him. Bruce startles, glares at him, and then gestures for Clark to follow him. As they pass, all of the kids watch him go, whispering in a building flurry that he doesn’t bother dissecting. He tells himself it’s because they deserve their privacy, but really…he’s nervous. Severely.

“I hope they didn’t make you uncomfortable. They can be a bit…eager.” Bruce’s smile is warm beneath the lights of the old manor.

“They’re wonderful. Terrifying, but wonderful.” Clark chuckles and bumps their shoulders together while they walk.

It’s these precious minutes that define their friendship more than anything. Clark tells Bruce all about his day, about his Lex Luthor exposé making the front page, about everything and nothing at all. He talks and Bruce listens, egging him on with gentle tilts of the head when he shyly falls into silence.

By the time they reach the gardens, it’s Clark’s turn to listen. Bruce tells him about the kids, occasionally stopping whenever he notices one lurking. He asks for his opinion on random scenarios. Clark can’t tell if they’re hypotheticals but he answers as truthfully as he can, chasing the little noises of appreciation that Bruce makes as he talks.

Not only are Bruce’s masks interchangeable, taking him from Bruce to Batman to Bruce Wayne, they’re also removable. Clark doesn’t know when he was bestowed with the honor of being with Just Bruce, but he’s immensely grateful for it.

“Good evening, Mr. Kent.” Alfred nods respectfully in his direction. “Master Bruce, you have a call from Mr. Fox. Line three, sir.”

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce squeezes Clark’s shoulder. “You can wait here, if you’d like.”

“Am I allowed to touch anything?” Clark teases.

“Anything you want.” Bruce winks at him, completely straight-faced, and disappears into the corridors of the manor. Clark’s face grows embarrassingly hot and he reclines against the lip of the fountain.

He birdwatches as he waits, counting which of Bruce’s kids make normal, completely non-suspicious trips through his personal space. Dick’s the least sneaky of the bunch, but it lends him a genuine quality. He sits and chats with Clark for a few minutes, asking him about work and the like. He asks about his relationship with Bruce and Clark mumbles something non-committal, cheeks warm.

Bruce, uh, never put out that statement about them breaking up. Clark thinks he might be alright if it never gets published.

As the hours draw on, he catalogs where the other Robins like to hide. Tim and Damien have an affinity for hiding in the massive hedges surrounding the gardens, while Steph takes to watching from the windows. Cass is the hardest to spot but he catches her on the roof a few times, perched and enjoying the warm dusk breeze. He sees Jason with her once too.

If he’s learned anything from their father, it’s that staring is caring. Probably.

When Alfred fetches him hours later, he arrives at a scene he wants to burn permanently into his memory.

Bruce is seated at the beautiful. obnoxiously long table in the dining room. He’s got a knee hiked up on the chair, picking idly at the fabric of his pants. On the table, a black kitten rolls around and bats at a toy. It’s sweet and oddly domestic.

“Hey.” Bruce doesn’t turn.

“Hi. Who’s this?” Clark holds a hand out to the kitten and it drops its paw on top of his palm, mewing softly. The squeaky, deflating noise that leaves him is not one he’s proud of. It’s so sweet and small.

“Nyx. She’s a stray. I give her food when I can.” Bruce scratches her head gently. Nyx purrs and lays down on the table, tucking her head into the attention. She’s a precious baby, is what she is. Clark has half a mind to take her home.

That is, until Bruce sneezes loud enough to send poor Nyx running. She flings herself off the table and into one of the manor’s seemingly endless corridors.

“Bless you.” Clark chuckles. Bruce pulls a face.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred hands him a box of tissues.

“I can hear you laughing, Alfred,” he sniffles, hair a bit ruffled from the sneeze. Clark purposefully averts his eyes.

“I would never, sir. Goodnight, Mr. Kent.” Alfred bows his head, sharing that mischievous glint in his eye.

“Goodnight, Alfred.” Clark grins, settling into the oversized chair beside Bruce.

2 ) He’s got a cat allergy, but he feeds the strays anyway. Bruce = cat person?

“Stop it.” Hearing the Batman voice and knowing it’s mostly because Bruce is annoyed is truly golden.

“Stop what?” Clark floats leisurely alongside Bruce, arms behind his head. Keeping pace with him isn’t hard--he’s fast for human standards, but not by Clark’s. He’s made it a habit anyways not to zip too far ahead as they’ve grown closer. It kills the banter.

“Look, all I’m saying is that if Batman started flying, criminals would absolutely take the week off. If I was a criminal and I thought Batman had suddenly gotten superpowers, I’d simply leave Gotham.” Clark flips upside down and hangs in front of Bruce, still drifting backwards in pace with him.

He can sense Bruce trying not to smile, but when he opens his mouth to tease, karma speaks instead. Clark smacks his head into the side of a building just as Bruce slips through a narrow space between it and its neighbor. Clark flies up over the building and catches up with Bruce again, scowling.

“I know you’re laughing.” Clark crosses his arms.

“Me? Never. Just thinking about how great it is to be grounded.” Bruce allows himself the tiniest of smirks, just enough to be infuriating, and it’s Clark’s turn to roll his eyes.

3 ) He restrains his emotions. Even the good ones.

Roaming the Hall of Justice late at night is a cultivated hobby of Clark’s. The best snacks hide in the dark, after all, and he knows that no one’s gonna come bother him about a missing bag of chips at this hour. He needs time to think and food to think with.

Clark’s feelings for Bruce could both span and fill an ocean. He doesn’t know when this happened. As far as he can remember, there’s always been this beacon of warmth in his chest guiding him to Bruce. Through every late night and early morning, through hopelessness and joy, Bruce is a constant. It’s too much to put on one person. Too risky.

The ‘l word’ pops into his head like a dark omen, and he skids to a halt. He glances around, listening for any league members skulking around. All he hears is his own thundering heartbeat.

Fuck. Fuck.

He makes his way into the kitchen past a snoring Arthur, pausing to snatch the jumbo bag of cheese puffs from his limp grasp. He slips quietly out into the hall, passing by the lounge, where Bruce and Diana are laughing—

Clark backpedals, nearly tripping over his own feet, but god it’s worth it. Bruce is clutching Diana’s shoulder and giggling, stuck in the loop of overwhelming laughter that follows an unyielding barrage of jokes.

They’re still suited up, probably fresh off a patrol, and Clark wonders how long they’ve been sitting here. A mountain of chocolates, the fancy ones, cover the surface of the table. Diana delicately sorts through and plucks the ones she wants from the pile as Bruce watches.

“Diana’s the new team comedian. None of you are funny.” Bruce recovers from his laughter, but the smile stays, and Clark makes an active effort to be normal about it. The delirium of another late night in a row must have gotten to him. That’s the only explanation.

“Barry will be devastated.” Clark chuckles. He leans in the doorframe and catches a cheese puff in his mouth.

“He will survive.” The sparkle in Diana’s eye has him wishing he had tuned into their conversation.

“If I had known y’all were partying in here, I would’ve come to hang out.” Clark crunches on another cheese puff, mostly to distract himself from the way Bruce’s eyes are sparkling. He didn’t know they could do that.

“There’s no reason you can’t party with us now.” Diana gestures to the seat next to Bruce.

Aw, what the hell? Eating junk food together couldn’t be much worse than doing it alone.

4 ) Bruce can laugh--he just has to be caught off-guard. He likes to laugh (?) (who doesn’t?)

“When you said you needed help, I thought you meant with translating.” Clark wanders into the room. The concrete is irritatingly cold on his feet.

Bruce types away wildly at a computer station with too many monitors. A pair of giant goggles on his head pull his hair out of his face. Clark leans over his shoulder to see what he’s doing, but the code flying across the screen is a nightmare.

At the opposite end of the room, a mechanical rig sits primed on a set of rails. In the center, a gnarly looking gun barrel stares out into an empty expanse.

“I’m trying to test new ammunition for the Batmobile, but my target system is down. Can’t reboot it.” Bruce clicks something else and the gun starts calibrating. A pathetic clicking sound picks up as targets struggle to ascend from the floor, twitching lifelessly in their compartments.

“Do you want help?”

“With coding?” Bruce turns with an expression just shy of condescending.

“God no. I am bulletproof, if you remember.” Clark sticks his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants.

“Doesn’t help. I need to study the impacts afterwards.” Bruce gestures to a massive chunk of concrete on a stand nearby. Clark hefts it into his arms with a quiet grunt.

“Just...keep up with the gun. I prefer my walls without bullet holes.” Bruce quickly turns away from him. Clark can hear his heartbeat pounding. He starts to ask, but the gun rig starts warming up and he sacrifices his curiosity.

“Alright. Whenever you’re ready.” Clark adjusts his stance to prep for the recoil. The machine whirrs and clicks as it loads itself with rounds. Bruce types in a few things on a nearby control panel and pulls the goggles down over his eyes.

The gun barrel spins and whines as it gains force. Clark hovers a few inches off the ground and tenses. He lines the concrete up with his chest, his eyes just clearing over top of it.

The machine fires quicker and lower than he anticipates.

A sharp zing zips up Clark’s side, then another, then another, and he drops the concrete, instead covering his smile while forcing himself to stay still. That’s certainly not his best idea--no block means no cover, which subsequently means getting pelted with another wave of bullets.

Clark crumples into a flurry of giggles before he can stop himself. He curls up as much as he can—partly to stop any new onslaughts, mostly to hide his reddening face. He’s been shot more than anything and it’s never bothered him. He didn’t know he could be ticklish to touch, let alone to goddamn bullets.

“Clark! Are you okay?” Bruce leaps over the gun rig and pulls the safety goggles up onto his head.

“Y-Yes. I’m fine. Your machine…thing packs a punch.” Clark clears his throat to stop the rogue snickers forming a conga line in his throat.

“I thought you were supposed to be bulletproof.” Bruce huffs, kicking the pieces of shattered brick out of the way. He swipes at Clark’s torso, probably trying to brush away the dust on him. Clark flinches under the touch and coughs over a laugh.

“I am. It just…felt…weird.” Clark snatches Bruce’s wrist a little too quickly. Bruce’s brow furrows and he leans close, eyes glued to Clark’s stomach with sheer worry. His face resolves into tense understanding. Clark lets his hand go.

“What? What?” He tries to catch Bruce’s gaze. There shouldn’t be anything wrong. He feels fine. Nothing pierced. Definitely not bleeding—he learned what that feels like and he hates it. But Bruce has an eye for things that Clark could never dream of noticing, and right now he’s staring like Clark already has a foot in the grave.

“Can’t believe you fell for that.” Bruce smirks. He pulls Clark close—hello—and kneads unhurried fingers into his stomach.

No one will ever believe him. Bruce Wayne is tickling him and no one will ever believe him.

“B-Bruce!” Clark strains out of Bruce’s grip as best as he can, trying not to break any useful bones, but his joints keep turning to jelly. His forehead collides with Bruce’s shoulder and he shimmies rather uselessly.

“This is very entertaining, in case you were wondering.” Bruce hums and starts pinching up Clark’s sides. His warm breath sends goosebumps flaring over his throat.

“I wasn’t!” It’s more of a squeak than words. Evil fingers manage to squeeze beneath his arms and Clark jumps directly into the air.

“Did you just fly away?” A genuine laugh floats out of Bruce, warm and a bit scratchy. Clark wishes he could hear more of that instead of his own dorky laughter ringing in his ears.

“Not on purpose—shut up!” Clark aims a half-hearted kick at Bruce’s shoulder. His face burns hotter than the sun and he hides in his hands.

Bruce grabs his ankle and tries to reel him in like a lost balloon. Clark almost falls for it until suddenly calloused hands are scritching along the bottom of his foot. He giggle-snorts. Kryptonite through the chest would be a mercy, at this point.

A hush falls over the room. Clark dares to peek through his fingers.

“Oh.” Bruce blinks, then the most wicked grin overtakes his face. “Do that again.”

“You’re the worst!” Clark pulls his leg towards his body and accidentally takes Bruce with it--who doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, by the way. Every time he lowers his leg, Bruce doesn’t let go.

“I don’t want to drop you!” Clark shrieks as if a bug is crawling on him, rather than a person.

“Then don’t.” Bruce squeezes his calf and Clark whines his way into a fit of cackles. His body trembles with the effort to not fly directly through the ceiling. The illusion of escape makes it so much worse, especially with Bruce’s fingers worming behind his knee.

“You coming down or am I gonna have to call the fire department?” Jesus, Bruce has a real talent for smirking out loud. Clark tries to shake him off without throwing him across the room. Bruce digs his fingers into Clark’s thigh like he’s climbing a tree and the resulting yelp has Clark resolving to flee the country.

“Y-You’re not building a great case as to why I should!” He flinches after a flurry of giggles and slams his head into the ceiling. Plaster and dust rain down on the two of them. Clark tries to cover the crater he left behind with his hands and a bashful smile.

“Alright, I’m done. I’d like to keep my ceiling in one piece.” Bruce pulls him down to Earth, only letting go when he’s sure that Clark won’t float away again.

“Ticklish Superman. Who knew?” Bruce scritches beneath Clark’s chin, just like at the gala all those weeks ago, and Clark shoves his chin down with a snort.

“No one, and I prefer it that way. Keep it quiet.” He can’t muster any severity in his voice and he’s not sure it would help if he could. The thought of Lois finding out--or worse, Diana--starts an inescapable loop of nervous smiles and a light fluttering in his chest.

“No promises.” Bruce smirks. “I hear Lois wants an exclusive. Maybe I’ll give her a call.”

“Don’t you dare. Bruce—“

He dials her office line, jogging towards the stairs. Clark shrieks and chases after him.

5 ) He’s mischievous. Deathly so.

…

After a long while of staring at his pitiful little list, Clark still finds himself restless. He has naught more than a skeleton, clinging scraps of Bruce’s infinite depths. The paper isn’t suited to contain him. He might actually know less than before.

Even as Bruce beats the shit out of him, he can’t think of anything else.

“Why don’t you let anyone get to know you?” Clark frowns at Bruce across the sparring mats. Bruce runs and leaps onto his shoulders, executing a flawless scissor grip. Clark raises his hand to support his back and Bruce swats him away.

“What?” Bruce grunts, bringing his elbows down onto Clark’s head. He barely notices.

“You’re always so stoic. You never let anyone see you happy.” Clark flips Bruce off his shoulders and down onto his back. He puts his hands on his hips and stares down at him.

“No, I never let anyone see me vulnerable. There’s a difference.” Bruce wraps his legs around Clark’s and takes him down, quickly rolling atop him. Within a second, Bruce unleashes a flurry of blows that, if Clark could feel more than dull impacts, he probably would fear.

“You’re allowed to be vulnerable in front of your friends, Bruce. That’s what makes them friends, not coworkers.” Clark catches his fists and holds them.

“I’ll pass along your suggestion. Are you going to fight back or should I go get Diana?” Bruce raises an eyebrow, breathing hard. Clark flips them both and pins Bruce down.

“I just think—stop wiggling—we should bond more, y’know? Know thy enemy, and all that.” Clark keeps pressing down until Bruce sighs and goes still in his grip. He knows he’s defeated. Smart man.

“That tends to apply to actual enemies, not coworkers.” Bruce sighs.

“Well, we’re more than that, aren’t we?” Clark presses, searching Bruce’s eyes. Bruce nods, looking all for the world like he might bolt from the room.

“Sooo, what’s your favorite color?” When Bruce is silent, Clark rolls his eyes and sits back. “Mine is yellow. Your turn.”

“…lavender.” Bruce eyes him warily. Clark helps him to his feet and they start the cycle again. The minute they stop fighting each other’s rhythm, they find a flawless sync.

“Nice! Okay, uh…favorite food?” Clark ducks under Bruce’s left hook and shoves him back.

“Alfred’s chicken noodle.” Bruce kicks Clark across the face and he lets himself go down. He brushes some of the dust off.

“That sounds nice.” He grins up at Bruce from the mat. The light haloes behind his head so beautifully.

“Yeah.” Bruce clears his throat. “And you…?” He pulls Clark to his feet and resets his stance.

“Can’t go wrong with a slice of fresh apple pie.” Clark sweeps forward with a wink.

Bruce shakes his head and snickers, then punches Clark hard enough in the ribs to crack his own knuckles.

…

Two sharp knocks on the doorframe announce Bruce before his voice does. Clark looks up from the dull light of his laptop.

“Got a second?” Bruce leans in the doorframe, cloaked in slight shadow. He’s dressed comfortably, surprisingly, in a soft t-shirt and sweatpants that hug him well. It makes Clark wanna pull him close.

“Always, yeah.” Clark sets his computer aside and sits up. Bruce leans against the edge of his desk and fishes something out of his pocket.

“Found some intel. I could use a fresh set of eyes on it.” The moon casts loving light across his eyes and jaw.

“Of course.” Clark sits up more.

“Found this nearby. I was hoping you could decipher it.” Bruce hands over a scrap of folded paper. Clark furrows his brow as he takes it, gingerly opening it up. He casts a curious glance at Bruce before he starts to read.

It’s his notes. His notes on Bruce. Shit.

He looks up slowly, horrified. Bruce smirks in full force, oozing mischief that Clark now knows is very much in character.

“Normally, I’m not a fan of being watched. Try to avoid it as much as I can.”

“You’re a hard man to read.” Clark clears his throat and folds the paper down to hide its contents further.

“Yet it seems you’ve cracked the code,” Bruce hums. Clark catches the faint glimmer of that old playboy spark. Bruce’s lips tilt into a devilish smirk.

“So, I’m right then? It’s important…for the record.” Clark scoots up against the headboard in an attempt to look casual. Bruce sits at the foot of the bed. Voluntarily. Clark stops breathing.

“I would say that parts are accurate.”

“Parts?” He clears his throat. Bruce snatches the paper from his grip. He starts murmuring as he skims the list.

“Let’s see…I like raspberries but I’m allergic.”

“You’re what?” The color drains from Clark’s face. Bruce shrugs.

“What else? Oh—I’m a dog person. I have a soft spot for cats.”

“Huh.”

“I am physically capable of laughter.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Proved that one already.” Clark smiles. Bruce scowls, then turns back to the paper. Clark remembers, in a terrible flash, the looping doodles of ‘Clark Kent-Wayne’ at the bottom of the page and chokes out a strangled scream.

He disintegrates the paper with a precise blast of heat vision. He feels a little bad for scorching the wall, but not that bad. The evidence is gone. Plausible deniability.

“Seriously?” He brushes the ash off his hands.

“I gotta keep my secrets.” Clark shrugs, but his face is incandescent with heat.

“What about that paper was so bad that it made Superman blush?” Bruce smirks.

“There is nothing on God’s green earth that you could do to make me tell you.” Clark grins from atop the high ground.

Bruce plucks his glasses off of his nose and sets them aside, careful not to touch the lenses. It’s a tender gesture for what is essentially a costume, but something in his heart flutters at the delicate care.

“Are you sure?” He leans close—close enough for Clark to catch a whiff of cologne and the intoxicating sparkle in his eye, close enough for Clark to lean in on instinct, and close enough for Bruce to wrap his hands around Clark’s waist like he’d been wishing he would since that stupid gala. Clark’s lips part.

“Okay, there might be a couple thi—“ Clark cuts himself off with a squeal, slamming his head into the headboard—the resulting crack speaks to a later promise of duct tape. As Bruce shoves his hands under his arms, Clark’s laughter bowls him over quicker than he can apologize.

“You are such a kid!” He throws his head back and cackles, curling into the tightest possible ball that his hulking form could take. Bruce leans over him.

“You have no grounds to call me that. You’re giggling.” Bruce raises an eyebrow,

“Because you’re t-tickling—” Clark regretfully finishes his sentence with a snort. Bruce lights up and chases the sound, relentlessly working his fingers into the grooves of his ribs. Clark hits his head again--there goes the rest of the headboard. And part of the wall.

Between the buzz of being touched by Bruce and being unused to this kind of touch, Clark melts into a haphazard pile of Superman with embarrassing speed. Bruce manages to work his fingers up further, right into his top rib, and he punches a hole directly into the nightstand, sending the lamp toppling over. Bruce relents then, passively assessing the damage while Clark drags in a deep breath.

“You really think it’s a good idea to tickle someone who could throw you into the sun?” Clark huffs, wobbling on a smile. Bruce smirks.

“Never said it was a good idea. Just an alluring one.”

“You find me alluring? Scandalous, Mr. Wayne.” Clark offers a teasing grin. Bruce’s brow crinkles with concern. He goes from fiddling with Clark’s waist to fiddling with his hands.

Bruce gets tactile when he’s stressed. Or when something’s on his mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Clark asks softly. He scoots just a bit closer.

“The day after the gala, I had Vicki write up a piece about you and I splitting. Like I promised. It was never published.”

“I noticed,” Clark says carefully, tracking every detail of Bruce’s face.

“I asked her not to.”

“Why?”

“I knew if the article went live, you would stop with the affection and the dates. I know it was only for appearances, but…I really enjoyed it. I wasn’t ready to let it go. I…care about you.” Bruce looks up at him, worry entrenched in the dips of his face. It slips to something resigned and neutral, a blank mask.

Clark smiles like a lunatic, covering his mouth to hide it. He contains the desperate urge to take a lap around the manor. Months, years, of pining bloom into sweet possibility within him. The weight of guilt sloughs off his shoulders. Bruce likes him.

“Y’know, for the smartest man in Gotham, you miss quite a lot.” Clark leans in and waits. Bruce’s eyes flick to Clark’s lips, and in a Batman-esque flash of motion, he swoops down and kisses him. Their bodies slot together almost magnetically. Clark flips them over and bears back down, swallowing Bruce’s gasp of surprise in his mouth.

In an insane way, kissing Bruce is like coming home.

He flings his arms around Clark’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer. Clark immediately, greedily, lets his lips travel along Bruce’s pulse point. He chases the memory of the gala, littering desperate bruises along the cologne-tinged skin. His hand lingers at the base of his throat, brushing reverent fingers as he marks every inch available to him.

Bruce yelps into a giggle, breaking them apart. Clark blinks, processing, then grins with unbridled power.

“This feels…counter-productive.” Bruce swallows, bobbing Clark’s hand. His skin is hot and red to the touch.

“Nice try. You already enabled me—that was your first mistake.” Clark tickles him everywhere he can reach, dodging elbows and headbutts. Bruce cackles from his core, stumbling through a few high-pitched syllables of protest as he twists. He works so hard to force his voice back into its usual octave that it cracks. Clark snickers.

“I am going to kill you,” Bruce growls, reaching back to return the favor. Clark slams his arm down on the mattress, caressing the back of his hand with immovable fingertips.

“Then this is a wonderful last night on Earth.” Clark nibbles on his earlobe. Bruce’s giggly scream and the ensuing threats on his life are music to Clark’s ears.

#my fics #ticklish!bruce wayne #ticklish!clark kent #bruce wayne #clark kent #superbat #dc #ALRIGHT the lois/selina thing came from somewhere ok bc i know its a teeny ship #tbh im not sure it even exists #but my lois is inspired by lena luthor from the cw supergirl series bc lesbianism + superman makes me happy #but i felt like if lois was into kara (which originally she was) clark would be working around the clock to get them together #which derailed the scene. so i put lois and selina together #wlw mlm solidarity clark and lois both being head over heels for their respective creatures of the night speaks to me #they're besties your honor #sorry this is not what i said i would post next but its what i finished off my pile so #also titles from better love by hozier bc that song is superbat to me

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amalgamationink · 13 days

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NAPOWRIMO24 #17: another brick in the wall (part 2)

#prompt: write a piece inspired by a piece of music and have them share a title.#ooh i am not happy at all with this one but i am once again skirting up against the edge of the day's deadline.#i wanted to write about an entirely different song originally (probably a hozier song) but uh. shit happens i guess. here's this #it is ofc inspired by another brick in the wall pt 2 by pink floyd. can you tell i'm feeling rly good about school recently #whatever spring break starts friday and i'll have time to write poetry i'm happy with again. for now there's this #napowrimo 2024 #napowrimo #spilled ink #poetry on tumblr #poets on tumblr #poems on tumblr #writeblr #damien.txt #image description in alt

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violetthecreator · 9 months

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To Be Alone With You

Astarion x GN!Reader

Warnings: Reference to smut if you squint, fluff fluff fluff

WC: 300+

A/N: Just a short snippet of one of the millions of Astarion ideas in my head rn because I'm desperate to share them with you all lmao, longer fics with this absolute babygirl of a vampire to come soon 👀 Title inspired by this Hozier song I was listening to whilst writing ✨

The campfire crackles softly, casting dancing shadows across the makeshift camp. Astarion's gaze never strays far from you, his usually sharp eyes softened with concern. The battle had been fierce, leaving you battered and fatigued but your racing mind unable to let you sleep.

"You should rest," his voice low and gentle as he approaches you. His fingers brush against your arm, a touch that still sends a shiver down your spine despite how many close nights you have already shared together over many months of travelling. "I'll keep watch tonight."

You offer him a tired smile, grateful for his presence. "I appreciate that," you reply, your voice carrying a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude. "But I can't just lie down while you do all the work."

Astarion's lips quirk into his signature smirk, his eyes holding a playful glint. "Oh you never do, darling." he muses with a teasing tone, his fingers lingering against your arm. "Very well, have it your way. But don't push yourself too hard."

Together, the two of you sit by the campfire, the warmth of the flames chasing away the chill of the night. Astarion's watchful gaze never wavers, his sharp senses attuned to every sound and movement around you. Despite the weariness that clings to you, there's a strange comfort in his presence, a sense of safety that allows you to relax your mind.

Your head rests against his shoulder, and you relish in the cool smoothness of his bare shoulder against your cheek. You close your eyes, surrendering to the exhaustion that has been gnawing at you all evening.

The warmth and steady crackle of the fire eventually lulls you into a peaceful slumber as Astarion's gaze shifts from the flames to you, his fingers continuing their gentle caress. He watches over you, his heart swelling with a feeling he will not allow himself to name, and a soft smile graces his lips. "Sleep well, my dear."

A/N: Thank you for reading 🥺 Super excited to write a lot more for my snarky vampire husband and appreciate any feedback as always!

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x gn!reader #astarion #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate iii #baldur's gate 3

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mythosphere · 8 months

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"Fanfic titles from hozier songs" this "tattoos inspired by hozier songs" that. you know what. I'm going to title my undergrad thesis on Cree code-talkers and Canadian language laws in the Second World War after a hozier song. If Hozier didn't want me to do that he wouldn't have written Butchered Tongue

#hozier #im really normal about this topic #history

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moonlitdesertdreams · 25 days

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Too Sweet

A/N: Hi friends. I haven't written anything in a while, as I've been tussling with my mental health and raging SAD from the weather near me. Please accept this Mandalorian drabble? Rambling? Takes place between the end of season two and Din's appearance in the Book of Boba Fett. Tags: The Mandalorian, Mandalorian x Reader, Din Djarin x Reader, Mandalorian x F!Reader, Apostate!Din WARNINGS: None Summary: You've been a safe place for Din Djarin for years. He comes to you at his most vulnerable, but always has to leave before you're ready. Title inspired by the Hozier song of the same name.

Word count: 1.6k+

Hours later, you’re still in shock.

Din Djarin is in bed next to you, sans helmet.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be in your home- hell, it would be more unusual for him not to be there between jobs. Your Mandalorian had spent years visiting, hovering somewhere in between a lover and a partner. He shows up in the afternoon one day, and is gone early in the morning before you wake. When he returns, beaten and bruised, you chastise him for leaving without saying goodbye. The routine was comfortable. Familiar.

Except every other time he had been there, you had never seen his face.

It feels like a dance each time he comes. You tend to his wounds quickly but gently, lathering cuts and bruises in bacta before wrapping bandages or slings where necessary to let the medication heal. Once you’ve played nurse, Din secludes himself to your study to eat dinner. And each time, without fail, he leads you to the bedroom to extinguish the fireplace and blow out your candles. His hands find your body, and he ravishes you in the darkness.

Key word being darkness.

Today was the same song and dance. He’d limped into your cabin without greeting, shaking snow from his armored body and settling himself into a kitchen chair while you fussed. A tube of bacta and half a roll of bandages later, he silently trudged away to eat in the study. There was a distinct lack of little green child with him today, which was a major concern after the past year. You suspected it had something to do with the oppressive sense of sorrow following him through the house. So you carried on with your usual routine, asking little to no questions. It wasn’t until he’d crowded you up against the sink, bowl still in your grip as you rinsed it, that he spoke.

“Mesh’la.”

Strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, and you leaned back into an unarmored chest. In hindsight, you chastised yourself for not noticing the words lacked the electrical buzz of a vocoder.

“Din.” You returned.

He only grunts, right hand gliding up your side. It grips your shoulder, and presses until you turn to face him, bowl still gripped in your damp fingers.

“You know, words are- Din!”

The porcelain bowl shattered as it collided with the kitchen floor. You’d dropped it out of pure instinct, hands flying up to cover your eyes. As much as you’d tried to forget what you saw, it was burned into your brain. Wavy hair, long nose with a scar crossing the bridge of it. Big, brown eyes that couldn’t possibly belong to someone so stern and ruthless. It flashes across your mind, and you almost tear up at the thought of Din breaking his Creed after all these years.

But he’d pulled your hands away and explained - while your eyes are still pinched closed- that he was an apostate. The Child was returned to his own people, but at the cost of Din’s Creed. It had taken minutes of coaxing and reassurance, but you’d opened your eyes and cursed the universe for being so cruel as to hide such a face. From the set of his brow to the nervous biting of his lip, you basked in seeing so much bare skin. It took less time for him to attach his lips to yours and lead you out of the kitchen.

He’d taken you to bed, and now here you sit.

Your room isn’t anything special. Quaint and cozy if nothing else, with two small windows that face out over the mountain’s edge. A fireplace flickers opposite the bed, its warmth trickling out to the sheets and heating your toes. Two bookshelves border either side of your headboard, with a nightstand tucked on Din’s side of the bed. On it, the usually extinguished candles burn bright.

The firelight flickers against Din’s tan skin, highlighting each bead of sweat and curled tendril of hair where it sticks to his forehead. He’s naked, back propped against the headboard and covered in a maroon sheet from the waist down. You’ve donned a short silk robe, black and bordered with laces where it plunges between your breasts. You lay between his legs above the sheets, head on his chest. One of his large hands caresses your scalp and trails to the ends of your hair. The other hand is occupied by a half-full glass of old Corellian whiskey.

You trace a line of yellow bruises on his hip where they extend below the sheet on his lap.

“What happened to you?”

His chest rumbles. “I fought an Imperial Moff. And Imperial battle droids.”

Your eyes widen, and you sit up. Din’s hand leaves your hair to grasp at your waist, pulling you to face him.

“Stars, Din.” You reach out to touch a patch of black and blue skin over his collarbone. “No wonder you’re so beat up. I’ll get you some more bacta before we go to sleep.”

He lifts your fingers from his collarbone to his mouth, kissing each fingertip. “You’re too good to me, cyar’ika.”

“You deserve it.” Is your instant reply.

If there was anything you knew about Din, it was that he never quite comprehended the good he brought to the world.

The Mandalorian brings the whiskey to his lips and takes a swig. You opt to push an errant curl behind his ear.

“I’m not a good man,” Your name falls off his tongue like honey. “Spent my whole life as kyramud.”

You tilt your head at the Mando’a. He’d called you some pet names for years- mesh’la, cyar’ika. But this… kyramud was new. Without his helmet, hearing anything out of his mouth was like a drug. But Mando’a warmed you to the core, building off Din’s comfort and fondness when he spoke the ancient tongue. You yearned to know more.

“Teach me Mando’a.” You kiss him gently, tasting the whiskey where it lingers on his lips. “So I can tell you why you deserve every bit of kindness.”

Din adjusts your legs so you’re sitting square between his, rear end on the bed and legs straddling his waist. He props you up with the ridiculous amount of pillows lying around.

“I’ll teach you anything you want.” Din strokes your knee. “Where do I start?”

You chew on your bottom lip. “What am I to you?”

“Ner cyare.” He pauses, debating. The whiskey makes another appearance, and you’re distracted by his Adam's apple bobbing deliciously in the column of his throat. “Naysol uj par ni. Each day I see you is aay’han.”

“What does that mean?”

Din tilts your chin up. “My beloved. Too sweet for me.”

You blush. “What about the end? Ay-hen?”

“Aay’han. Mourning and joy. At the same time.” He finishes the whiskey. “I mourn when I leave you here.”

Much to your annoyance, tears prick your eyes at the reminder that when you closed them, he would be gone before you woke. “Don’t remind me. Please.”

Din leans forward to capture your lips with his. The sensation only serves to make the stinging behind your eyes worse, and a single tear drips down your cheek. He’s quick to kiss it away, large hand curling into your hair. You climb all the way into his lap, suddenly desperate for closeness. His skin is hot and damp, and you’ve never felt anything better.

“Ni ceta. I never meant to hurt you.”

You sniffle against his neck. “Just promise me you’ll say goodbye from now on.”

He wets two fingers with his tongue and extinguishes the candles before cradling you in strong arms. Two words are murmured into your hair, quiet but sound.

“I promise.”

You grip him tighter than ever, warmth sadly fading as the dread of morning envelopes you.

The reflection of daylight off snow-covered ground wakes you.

It bounces in your windows, bathing the room in cool white light. You blink slowly, a heaviness settled on all of your limbs. It’s a familiar soreness that aches from your shoulders to between your legs, dredging up memories of the night before. Din’s bare face, and all the sweet words in Mando’a that he tried to teach you before you remembered he can never stay as long as you’d like. You sigh, letting one of your arms dangle off the edge of the bed. The thought of turning over and seeing the candles, thinking about him blowing them out on each visit was too fresh. It’s easier to lay and stew in your sadness, watching fluffy flakes of snow fall. The clock on your wall reads ‘1457’, another unintentional reminder of your late-night escapades.

You hate to admit that the feeling makes you tear up again. So you lay in bed, curled beneath a thick comforter while the fireplace crackles its last few breaths towards your feet. It’s easier to stare at the snow than it is to close your eyes and think about Din.

“Damn it.” You breathe.

“What are you damning?”

You swear that you stop breathing for a moment. Despite the fact that he had already spoken, you ask aloud, “Din?”

The sounds of bare feet padding across the floor nears, and the Mandalorian appears in your vision. Barefoot and clad only in a pair of loose gray lounge pants that tighten at his ankles. His abdomen is without cover, displaying an array of healing bruises and deep scars. You sit up, letting your feet hang off the bed.

“You’re still here?” You look at the clock again. “At 1500?”

Din smiles, kneeling in front of you. He presses a mug of steaming Caf into your hands and a kiss to your forehead.

“If it’s alright with you… I might be for a while.”

It’s your turn to smile as he smoothes away your bedhead.

“No arguments.” You sip at the warm mug. “I’ll keep taking my Caf in bed, though.”

___________________________________________________

As always, if you enjoy please like/reblog and check out my links for more :)

Masterlist | Send me ideas

#The Mandalorian #Mandalorian x Reader #Din Djarin x Reader #Mandalorian x F!Reader #Apostate!Din #grogu #baby yoda #mando'a #mando x reader #mando x you #din djarin x you #din djarin #too sweet #hozier #din likes his whiskey neat #and his coffee black

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noyaspeach · 8 months

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first light

Summary: Could this be how every day begins?

After a long and restless night with no sleep, you go looking for something to while away the hours. As it turns out, Astarion is just as much of an insomniac as you are, and the two of you spend the early morning together.

Pairing: Astarion x Gender Neutral! Reader

Word Count: 4,334

Tags: Fluff and Light Angst, Pining, Feelings Realization (Kinda?), Second Person POV, Soft Astarion, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Insomnia, Watching the Sunrise

Author's Note:

not me returning to fic-writing over 3 years later with an astarion fic of all things. i can't even guarantee i'll write another one considering i'm about to start college again, but i would sure like to!

i was heavily inspired to write this because of the release of hozier's album. it perfectly aligned with me becoming obsessed with baldur's gate 3, and astarion is just so hozier-coded, how could i not? as the title suggests, i was inspired by the song "first light" which is the last song on the album, based on dante's ascent out of hell and his first taste of light and freedom. i imagine it's how astarion must have felt when he was no longer forced to do cazador's bidding and when he could finally experience sunlight again.

obligatory disclaimers: i haven't actually played the game yet, so this fic is informed by clips i've seen online, gif sets, the baldur's gate wiki, and other fics. if any details in this aren't chronologically sound or if anything seems a little non-compliant with the canon of the game... now you know why lol.

still, i hope you enjoy it! this is also posted to ao3! read here!

///

You stare up at the ceiling of your tent, frustration rolling in your chest as you struggle to rest. Your eyes are beginning to sting with the lack of sleep, but simply closing them does nothing to help. You’ve gone through all of your belongings twice already, looking for something to ease you into slumber, but no amount of reading or alcohol seems to do the trick. It certainly doesn’t help that the weather has been oppressively humid all night, leaving you coated in a thin, sticky layer of sweat that doesn’t seem to leave you no matter how many layers you shed.

You can’t bear to lay around in the thick air of your tent, so you decide to sit out by the extinguished campfire in the hopes that it will do more to relax you.

You quietly open your tent flap and emerge into the mild morning air. It’s much cooler outside, and a light breeze tickles your arm, already doing wonders to dry your sweat. It’s still too early for daylight, so the camp is only dimly illuminated by the moonlight. With the lack of light, you listen out for the sounds of the forest around you: the chirps of insects beneath you, hooting owls in the distance, and a trickling stream not too far away. Focusing on these scarce sounds, you already feel much calmer.

After a moment of peace, you hear a rustle to your right. You whip your head toward the sound, hands ready at your weapon, when you see a familiar face emerge from the trees. You let your hands drop to your side again. It’s just Astarion. He appears to be returning to his tent, noticeably empty-handed. You wonder what he’s up to this early in the morning, and he seems to be wondering the same thing, eyeing you with an inquisitive raise of the eyebrow.

“Restless sleeper, are we?” He remarks.

“Something like that,” you reply. “Just needed some fresh air.”

You notice that Astarion is still in his sleepwear, the sleeves of his white undershirt pushed up above his elbows. “And what are you doing out?”

“Oh, you know. Searching for a midnight snack, so to speak.” He gestures to the woods behind him. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a very fine selection tonight.”

You grimace at the thought of Astarion catching an innocent woodland creature between his teeth. It’s a less-than-flattering image, one that’s informed by the memory of the boar he drained a while back, and one that you’re eager to dismiss.

“Is that all you’ve been up to?” You ask.

“Why? Were you getting lonely without me?” He teases. You can only roll your eyes in response. When he doesn’t receive a retort, Astarion sighs and continues. “Right, if you want an honest answer, I was going for a stroll to pass the time.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Wandering about on your own while everyone’s asleep isn’t a very good idea. If something happens out there, none of us will be able to save you”

“Trust me, darling, I can hold my own just fine. But I appreciate you worrying about my safety. It’s almost touching.” He smirks. “I would appreciate it even more if you would refrain from telling the others about my… routine here. I don’t exactly want the company.”

“Routine? How long have you been taking these walks?”

“Since the day I joined you all, I would say.” Astarion’s eyes move to the entrance of his own tent. “I haven’t been able to get much sleep myself, and I figure there isn’t much use laying on my bedroll if I’m not resting or satisfying… other needs. So, I walk. And occasionally feed.”

You search Astarion’s face for any sign of deception, but he’s being surprisingly truthful, if a little bashful. You resonate with his sleeplessness, being something of an insomniac yourself. Despite the immense toll your travels have taken on your body, you can’t seem to rest very easily at all, especially when you need it the most. Whether it’s the vivid memories of past battles replaying in your dreams, the smothering climate of whatever campsite you’ve picked out that night, or the relentless wriggling of the tadpole in your head, there’s always something keeping you up.

“I’m surprised I haven’t caught you earlier, then,” you say. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you,” says Astarion. He smiles, and it seems he means it too. “Well, seeing as neither one of us will be getting to bed anytime soon, would you care to join me?”

You cross your arms. “I thought you would have preferred to be alone.”

“Misery loves company and all. I think I can make an exception for a fellow night owl,” he drawls.

You agree to walk with him then and quietly head in the opposite direction of both tents. You’re sure to bring your weapon with you in the off chance that something—or someone—attacks the two of you. A very small part of you still garners some suspicion for Astarion himself, especially considering that night in which he tried to feed from you while you slept. Perhaps that’s another factor in your insomnia; although you let Astarion drink his fill that night, you can’t be entirely sure he won’t try it again. That he won’t succeed in creeping up on you and draining you completely.

You shiver at the thought, but pass it off as a cold chill from the wind. As the two of you slowly move from the campsite, your surroundings become even quieter. The chirping insects from before are silent now, and the nearby stream is barely a whisper. You can hardly hear either of your footsteps. It’s at once peaceful and unsettling.

After a few short minutes, you’re the first to break the silence. “What do you usually do when you’re out here?”

Astarion thinks for a moment, and hums. “Hmm. Aside from hunting, I suppose I just sit with my thoughts. There isn’t much else to do, is there?”

You nod, but somehow you don’t think being left with one’s own thoughts is particularly relaxing for anyone in your party. You can’t imagine it’s any good for Astarion, especially.

“And what do you think about?”

“So much,” he says. “Plans, mostly. Where our next destination is, where I’ll find my next meal, what I’ll do when we reach Baldur’s Gate, how to get rid of this wretched parasite…”

“Do you ever think about your past?”

Astarion’s gaze is a bit distant until you ask that. He slows his pace and turns to you, looking unusually serious. “I prefer not to.”

He leaves it at that, so you decide not to push further. You only know a little about Astarion’s life before the tadpole entered his mind. You know he’s the spawn of an even more powerful vampire, a master to whom he was a slave for nearly 200 years, and you know he’s lived in the shadows up until now. It isn’t lost on you that this entire adventure is his first taste of freedom in centuries. You understand why he would rather focus on the future. Still, your nagging curiosity makes you desperate for more information about him.

“What about you, my dear?” He returns to his more amused attitude. “What do you do in that tent of yours to pass the time until the morning comes? Don’t tell me if it’s anything naughty… Actually, do.”

You shake your head and suppress a smile as he actually almost earns a laugh from you. “Nothing like that. I normally just try to distract myself until I can hopefully fall back asleep. Read something, sort my wares, hum a tune. Anything to relax.”

“I take it that hasn’t been working for you?”

“No. Not one bit. I’m actually kind of worried it might start affecting my performance from now on. Unlike some of the elves in this team, I actually need quite a lot of rest.”

“A true shame,” he tuts. “Although it is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I don’t need to sleep for very long. On the other, I can’t sleep for very long. Sometimes I do wish I could simply let the whole day pass while I doze off. That would be much easier than just waiting it out.”

You hadn’t considered this. While the rest of your traveling companions are able to sleep through the night, Astarion has no choice but to wait for everyone to wake up around sunrise. All he can do is hope to get a few hours of rest before sitting through the unnerving silence of the night, the only unique sounds being the faint snores and mumbles that float from the other tents. You and he are alike in this struggle, but you at least are lucky enough to have a few nights when your exhaustion is bad enough to force you to bed.

“Well, taking a stroll like this is a good idea,” you finally say. “Thank you for inviting me along.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Astarion’s lips. “Thank you for joining me. I will admit, it’s easier to pass the time with a… friend… by my side.”

Your heart swells at that word: “friend.” It’s a welcome upgrade from whatever you two might have been considered before.

A few minutes pass with the both of you chatting politely. As you walk, you make note of your surroundings to ensure that you don’t stray too far from camp or encounter any traps. This occupies your mind for a while, but Astarion seems to be running out of topics to discuss. Not wanting him to abandon your little trip just yet, you try to think of something to entertain him. Looking out at the forest and the sky in front of you, you notice that the moon has begun its descent into the trees, meaning morning is almost upon you two. This gives you an idea.

You stop and pivot to face Astarion. He stops too, surprised at your sudden pause.

“What is it?” He asks.

"Would you like to watch the sunrise with me?”

He’s taken aback only momentarily before he adopts his familiar flirtatious demeanor. “Trying to turn this into a romantic tryst, are you? If you want something more, you’ll have to be a little more direct than that.”

You shake your head. “No, I don’t mean anything by it. I want to know if you’ll sit and watch the sun come up with me. That’s all. It should be rising soon enough. It’s almost morning.”

He seems puzzled, his brows tightening and eyes scanning your face for any indication that you may be holding something back. When he doesn’t find anything, he settles back into an easy expression. “I seem to have misjudged. My apologies… Yes, I wouldn’t mind sitting with you.”

“Great.” You smile and begin to walk again. “I heard some water earlier, so I think there may be a stream near here. Maybe it’ll make for a nice spot.”

Astarion follows as you lead him closer to the sound of running water, and the two of you shortly come upon the stream. It’s a small, shallow brook that separates the woods from which you emerge and another expanse of trees on the other side. Right along the edge of the water is a line of smooth rocks big enough to sit on. It’s the perfect place to set up, you think.

The two of you find purchase on the edge of the rocks, feet just barely dangling off the side, hovering above the calmly flowing water. The rocks aren’t terribly big, so the two of you sit side-by-side, your knees close enough to touch. Across the brook, the trees begin to thin out, leaving a clear view of the horizon. You estimate that the sun will start its ascent in the next few minutes, but for now, the scene in front of you remains thinly bathed in moonlight.

In the quiet of the dawn, the moon casts its silvery glow on the world beneath it. Every blade of grass, every dewy flower, every mossy stone radiates with a hazy blue hue. The stream beneath you reflects this onto both of your faces, and you give a sideways glance to your companion next to you. You watch as the light dances across his cheeks, admiring how it shines in his curls, how it glistens in his deep red eyes, and how it collects in the space just above his lips. You inhale and the earthy scent of the forest mixes with the smell of Astarion’s perfume in your nose. As you do so, you realize now just how close in proximity you are to him. You’re close enough to trace his silhouette from the slope of his nose to his slender neck with your fingers if you so choose. You glimpse at the puncture marks just below his jaw and remember once more the night you let him drink from you. You remember the moment you awoke in terror before you realized who was crouched above you. You remember the uncertainty you felt as you gave him permission to continue, not sure whether it was a wise decision or not. You remember the sharp sting of his teeth entering your skin and the almost exhilarating dizziness that followed as he coaxed your blood out with his tongue. The rest of that moment is a blur to you, but you can still distinctly recall how he cradled your head with one hand, the other gently ghosting down your spine. For almost a full day after that night, the smell of bergamot and rosemary lingered on your neck.

“You do know staring is rude, don’t you, darling?” Astarion says. “Not that I particularly mind.” He leans back on his arms and turns to face you. “Not when it’s you.”

Your cheeks flush in spite of the cool temperature. You wonder when it was you became so vulnerable to Astarion’s flirting. Even though you have, you try not to entertain it. After all, you suspect his charming behavior is at least partly a ruse.

“Sorry,” you mutter and look back at the horizon. “It’s very pretty out. It’ll be even prettier in just a few more minutes, too. We’re in the perfect spot to watch the sun come up.”

“Is that so?” Astarion tilts his head as he continues to behold you. “You know, I’ve never watched the sunrise like this.”

You twist to look at him again, utterly shocked. “Seriously? Not once?”

He shakes his head.

“How come?”

He sighs. “I’m sure I must have before… everything. But I can’t seem to remember anything from back then. I lost most of my memories when I was brought back, save for a few of the important details. I suppose sunrises weren’t important enough to stick.” He frowns and stares out at a canopy of trees in the distance. “Then, as you know, it would have been incredibly stupid for me to be out in the light with this condition of mine. So, I never tried. I didn’t have very many opportunities to do so, in any case.”

Your brow furrows, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you let Astarion continue at his own pace.

“...I spent decades in my master’s lair, a- a dungeon, really. I was trapped in the darkness. The only time I was allowed out was when he needed fresh, new bodies, and even then it was always under the cover of night. For the longest time, that was all that I knew. In a way, it’s what I’m still used to…”

Suddenly his sleeplessness makes all the more sense to you.

“I know I’m free from that now, what with the tadpole and all, but…” He trails off. You understand.

After several beats of silence, you clear your throat.

“Once, when I was a child, I went playing in the woods with some of the other children in the village. There were maybe six of us in total? I don’t exactly remember. But we marched all the way from the market to the forest pretending we were a band of heroes. I was at the back of the line, right behind this boy that I really liked. I put myself there on purpose so that I could smile and blush as much as I wanted without him seeing me.”

“How cute,” Astarion comments with a quirked eyebrow.

“Yeah. I mean, I thought I was being clever, but it was pretty silly, wasn’t it? Anyways, when we entered the woods, we decided to split off into teams to see who could find the most ‘treasure.’ We just plucked up sticks, flowers, beetles, pinecones, that kind of stuff. I was paired with the boy I liked, and I was so giddy about it. I wanted to show him just how cool I was, so I climbed up every tree and jumped off every rock. Just hearing him laugh and clap for me was enough for me to keep going. So, I did. Before we knew it, we realized we had strayed too far from the rest of the group. We tried to call out to them but heard nothing in return. We were lost.”

You pause your story to get a brief look at Astarion. You half-expect him to be bored by this point, but you’re surprised to see that he’s giving you his full attention. He waves his hand, signaling for you to continue.

“We started playing late into the evening, so by the time we realized that we had no clue where we were, the sun had already begun to set. I remember cursing myself for wishing I could have some alone time with this boy because that wasn’t at all what I had had in mind. But, alas, that was the situation I was stuck in. When it reached midnight and we still hadn’t made our way back to the village, I started panicking. You should know that I used to be deathly afraid of the forest at night. I was terrified of what kind of creatures could be hiding, waiting to snatch me up and eat me alive.”

“Hmm, like vampires?” Astarion teases.

You smirk. “Precisely. You’ll remember, though, that I was stuck with the boy I liked. So, there was no way I could show that I was scared. I couldn’t display any sign of weakness or else he might not think I was as cool as I let off. Knowing this, I put on a brave face and silently begged the gods for some protection before I assembled a makeshift camp for the two of us. It was, admittedly, very shitty, but it did its job of giving us some shelter for the night. I told him he could sleep and that I would keep watch, and so I did. I didn’t sleep very much back then, either, now that I think about it. I guess not a lot has changed about me… But I digress. I stayed up the whole night, sitting outside our little fort, listening to him snore and talk in his sleep. I don’t think I could have left his side if I wanted to, considering how petrified I was. But I powered through the fear, for his sake. I was so young, but I cared about this boy so much that I felt I owed it to him to make sure he was safe.”

“You were quite the hero, even back then,” Astarion says gently. “Is this little story your way of telling me to be more selfless?”

“Not at all. I’m getting to the point, I promise. I sat there for hours as I waited for it to become day again. Eventually, I was able to focus on the more beautiful parts of the night: the moon, the stars, the lightning bugs, the sweet whisper of the wind through the leaves. The more I searched for the good in my situation, the less scared I became, until I was no longer scared at all. By the time dawn rolled around, I was at peace, actually. I was so proud of myself for making it through the night, I immediately woke the boy up to share the moment with him. Then, we sat together, kind of like this,” You gesture to your and Astarion’s seating position, “and just watched the sunrise in perfect silence. I had never watched the sunrise before. It was so nice, getting to quietly enjoy such a wonderful view with someone I loved.”

As you finish your story, you face Astarion once more. His gaze is soft as he listens to you speak, and the tender curl of his lips betrays a sincere gratitude for having shared this with him.

“Did anything ever happen between you and that boy?” He asks.

“Sadly, no. He eventually fell for some other girl in town. Last I heard, they had three kids together.”

“Hmm.” Astarion angles his chin away from you. “Well, that’s his loss.”

You look away, too, and smile to yourself.

Suddenly, the sky begins to transform before your eyes. The first gleams of sunlight begin to caress the horizon as the moon takes its final bow behind you. The forest, still coated with all the glimmering remnants of morning dew, stirs from its slumber under the streams of the emerging sun. As the sun slowly rises, its warm embrace spreads like honey between the trees, flooding the forest floor with rays of pink and amber. Shafts of light pierce through the lush foliage, creating scintillating patterns on the surface of the water that seem to dance at the promise of a new day. Finally, when the sun peers at you from above the treetops, it’s as if the sky erupts. A burst of brilliance envelopes the world below it in its welcoming embrace, casting everything in a blazing golden light.

You begin to say something to Astarion but stop when you see his face. He looks positively radiant. His face glows in the daylight, appearing even more magnificent than he did in the moon’s silver beams. His face and his hair are colored by the sun, making him look more alive than he ever has before. Every detail from the strands in his eyebrows to the smallest of moles is illuminated before you. You watch as his eyes glisten before softly fluttering closed. He breathes deeply, his chest slowly rising and falling, and he basks in the sunlight. He relaxes completely, letting the sun’s rays melt away any and all tension he may have been holding on to.

You want nothing more than to cup his face in your hands, then, and feel the newly imbued warmth of his skin as you press your lips to his. Instead, however, you carefully place your hand on top of his. His eyes blink open and he turns to look at you once more. You hesitate for a moment, ready to move away, but he doesn’t reject you. His eyes crinkle with appreciation and he laces your fingers together before gently stroking his thumb against the side of your hand. His skin is still a bit cold, but thanks to you, it quickly warms up.

The two of you sit there in tranquility, taking in all of the sights, sounds, and feelings of the early morning. Time seems to slow, then, as if the universe itself also wishes to savor this serene moment for just a little while longer.

Soon, you hear the distant sound of casual conversation as the others awaken for yet another day of arduous traveling. You sigh, knowing that the two of you will have to return to camp shortly and leave all of this behind. You don’t want to let go just yet.

“We should probably get back,” Astarion says first. “I wouldn’t want the others to think that I killed you and scurried off or something like that.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be very good for morale,” you joke. After a moment, you reluctantly untwine your fingers and push yourself up off the rocks. You extend a hand to Astarion to help him up, which he graciously accepts.

Neither of you moves at first until Astarion takes a step toward you. Standing so close to you, you wonder if he’s about to kiss you when he gingerly takes hold of your hands. He gives you that sincere smile again.

“Thank you again for this. It was… nice.” You almost can’t believe how vulnerable he seems right now, eyes staring into yours with no hint of false pretenses. “I’d like to do this again with you, if you’ll join me.”

“I would love to.”

“Wonderful,” he says. He lets go of you. “Shall we then?”

The two of you take your time walking back to the campsite, talking idly about what the next few days have in store. When you arrive, Karlach is the first to notice you.

“There you two are! We were beginning to worry.” She looks between you both and crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes mischievously. “Anything we should know about your disappearance?”

You chuckle. “Nothing that would excite you, Karlach.”

You walk past her and approach your tent. The rest of your team is already getting to work cleaning their weapons, armor, and other equipment, preparing to hunt, or strategizing together. Before you duck inside to retrieve your clothes for washing, you turn back and lock eyes with Astarion. He’s entered a conversation between Shadowheart and Gale, but he isn’t all that engaged. He shoots you a knowing look and another small smile which you return in kind.

As you wash your clothes in the river just south of the camp, you think fondly of the promise you’ve now made with Astarion and the many sunrises to come. Suddenly, insomnia doesn’t seem so bad.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion baldur's gate #baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #i want to give astarion so much love pls

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arcielee · 8 months

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Ours never knew peace.

Summary: On the morning of the Great Tourney of Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark's granddam visits to give her an heirloom, a necklace with a sapphire stone... Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader Word Count: 7600 Warnings: Third POV and first POV, AFAB, mentions of infidelity, graphic violence, character deaths, and there is a hyperlink for the smut, so mind those warnings too. Author’s Note: I definitely played with the timeline of the Dance of the Dragons a lot to fit with the narrative. Also, the idea is the bloodline stems from Cregan Stark's sister, which is why Lyanna's granddam is still kicking. Also, this was not beta read, please feel free to DM me any mistakes you may find 💜 A huge thank you to my Tumblr kindred spirits: to @aegonx for this inspiring gifset, and to my darling @itbmojojoejo for these perfect dividers 🦝💜 Also, to Hozier. I started writing this in June and had not touched it until I started listening to Unreal Unearth. The title for this and the smutty one-shot are from the song Francesca.

“I have a gift for you, my dear.”

Lyanna was leaning against the ornate balustrade and watching how the sun rose above Gods Eye. She drank in the sight of how the rays danced against the blue-green gemstone surface, shimmering with the rippling waves that met with the shoreline and towards the center where the Isle of Faces jutted upwards; she saw the weirwoods shift lazily with the breeze, its red foliage breaking away and littering the laketop, like drops of blood.

She pulled her eyes away to see her granddam standing in her room, poised with her walking cane; a handmaiden was in tow, carrying a wooden box that had once been intricately carved into, though its detailing was now worn with age.

Her granddamn was the matriarch of House Stark and the only mother figure she had ever known as hers passed away when she was very young, leaving Lyanna with her father and three brothers: Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen. Though she originally had come from a noble house in Oldcastle, she had been proud to don the grays and whites of House Stark, dignified in such a way it seemed that she was born into and not just married.

Her reputation was notorious and though some would consider her shrewd, Lyanna knew her granddam had a sharp mind and wit, an undeniable ability to see beyond the façades of court with her storm colored eyes; she was gallant, devoted to her husband until his last breath and remained in Winterfell after, her devotion extending to the North.

“This is my home,” she had explained as if it was the simplest thing. “Always.”

Time now showed itself in silver streaks, a bold contrast with her dark hair that had been meticulously combed and knotted at the base of her neck, showing the severity that lined her features. This look alone had the other handmaidens–who before had been aimlessly flitting around her room, coaxing Lyanna to ready for the day’s events–quickly excuse themselves, allowing her a moment alone with her granddaughter.

“Set it there,” and the remaining handmaiden jumped to command, placing the wooden box on the vanity before following after the others.

There was the click of her cane with her sure steps, one hand resting on the gilded handles and the other coming to place on the edge of the wooden box, its brass hinges groaning in response to her opening it. Placed against the velvet inlay was a necklace of a peculiar silver that did not shine, but seemed to permeate a strength despite its delicate, celtic chains interwoven with one another; its pendant, a sapphire stone no larger than a silver pence, was nestled in the same style, curled around to hold it in place.

Only the stone gleamed, just like the water’s surface–alluring, calling, but she kept her hand at her side. “It is beautiful,” Lyanna acknowledged.

“It is reforged Valyrian steel,” her granddam continued, and she was pleased to see how her eyes widened with a reverence for the rare medium. “This is a heirloom that has been passed down, once belonging to your thrice over granddam. It is something for you to wear today.”

Lyanna remained rooted, only a wistful sigh in response. “This is my duty in life now, to be adorned in gems and silks and rare silvers, just to be shown off at this event.”

“It is our lot in life, yes,” her tone cut through the self-wallow. “Lord Whent wants nothing more than to parade the money he poured into this cursed castle, to show off his simple-minded daughter to the highest bid. The queen of love and beauty,” and her laugh was sharp, “only her brothers would defend that nepotist title!”

Lyanna felt her lips curl; she loved her granddam, dearly, especially when she was unabashed with her bold opinions. Her eyes fell back to the necklace. “Love and beauty,” Lyanna murmured. “No man has want for a clever wife.”

It was her turn to sigh. “This can be true, but some are fortunate with their matches.”

“Robert has no want for a clever wife,” Lyanna continued as if she had not spoken. “He wants something docile and pretty at his side while he wags his cock at every set of tits in Westeros.” She could see how the inside sagged with the weight of the necklace and a bundle of parchment that was tucked beneath, hidden in the folds of the fabric.

Her granddam plucked the paper bundled together with string and then moved back towards one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. “My dear girl, love is always unexpected. Perhaps in time, despite the faults you each share,” she gave a knowing look as Lyanna moved back towards the bed, “you, hopefully, may have a gradual love and respect grow between.”

“He is already convinced it is love,” she sat back on the mattress, sinking against the goose feather pillows piled at the head. “But it is with this idea of me. He does not know me, who I am truly or what it is that drives me…” her eyes were drawn again to the box, opened still, and to the glint of the sapphire. “How did this come to our possession anyway?”

“It was a gift,” her granddam scoffed, untying the string and smoothing the letters on her lap.

Lyanna closed her eyes a moment, her own smile playing at her lips. “Yes,” her tone forced, “but who would have gifted this to her to begin with?”

Her granddam hummed, now her turn to smile. “How clever of you to ask, sweet girl,” but she did not answer Lyanna. “I saw how you are blossoming into a lovely young woman, especially after last night’s banquet,” and she saw that her granddaughter grinned, cheeky. “Ancestry has its weight with House Stark, and I thought now is the time to gift this necklace, just as your grandsire gifted it to me, and how it was given to your mother, who listened to me read this, years ago,” and she gestured to the letters.

Lyanna reached for the pillows, fluffing them and sinking back into them, her arms folding behind to hold her head upright. “I would never deny my granddam of my company,” she teased.

“Yes, how kind of you,” her tongue wet her lips, her eyes flitting over the first page. “Now shut up and let my old eyes read.”

And so she began.

It was the unmartyred act of my mother to bring me into the world. My father was a proud man, an honorable man who would never blame me, but I could see how he would wilt in my presence; perhaps it was that I reminded him of her as I grew, reminded him of the cost of her life so I may live instead. My brother, Cregan, kept his grief quiet, though it clouded his storm-gray eyes with this pain, this hurt that shadowed behind his irises.

With the unsaid, I know my existence haunted my father, Lord Rickon Stark, the Warden of the North, to his grave. It was only then that Cregan truly recognized me with our sorrow now shared, as well as the burden as our uncle Bennard was quick to come to Winterfell, bringing his shrewd wife and his sons, our wretched cousins.

I could only watch from the shadows with how Cregan fought to stay afloat with the smothering regency brought with them; our uncle was cunning, wishing to isolate my brother, which was why it was decided for me to be sent away to King’s Landing. It was under the promised lady-in-waiting for Princess Helaena Targaryen, though its true intention was for me to marry a Targaryen prince, for the opportunity to have a Stark within the royal inner circle and a direct line to the Iron Throne.

Cregan hugged me farewell, the whispered promise that he would write, and I was ushered into the carriage, cramped with my trunks, and my aunt Margaret, with her wardrobe and endless idylls of how I would lure King Aegon II.

I reminded her that King Viserys was not dead, and of the crowned Princess Rhaenyra. She bristled with her response: “No woman will ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.” She embellished this, and her inane plans to make me a princess; I had just turned ten and three with the soured taste of her words the further south we traveled.

We arrived at the capital almost two months later, coming as the last of the daylight disappeared in the horizon, with the full moon and stars already glowing in response. I wished to sleep, but was forced to bathe, to be soaked in a gilded tub with rose petals that floated on the surface while hands flitted over combing and scrubbing and cleaning every bit of me, all while my aunt hovered with her critiques.

The next day was our debut luncheon, allowing my formal introduction to the House of the Dragon. My aunt was peevish that the king did not join, we still met with the queen and Lord Hand, who introduced Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena.

It was said that Prince Daeron was away in Oldtown and Prince Aemond would not attend either, but did not speak more of it.

The prince and the princess held their old blood features, the shades of purple in their gazes and the gold-silver of their hair, a contrast to their mother’s auburn and her dark eyes that were watchful and worrisome.

Prince Aegon already had an exhaustion lining his face, with shadows that stretched beneath his lilac eyes, something heavy for someone only two years older than myself. In time I would learn that his shoulders sagged with the forced Hightower expectation placed, and its accompanying slow suffocation. The prince responded to it as well as any adolescent with unwanted responsibility: to rebel.

The princess–who we learned, to the woe of my aunt–was his betrothed, but that day she also became my savior, in a sense. Though she carried her own burdens, something deeply rooted within the ichor of Old Valyria that surged her veins, her company was enjoyable, nonetheless.

I enjoyed my time spent with the princess, learning of her fascination with entomology, with a favoritism that stemmed towards arachnids; though I found it unsettling, I still knew it was better company than my aunt. I was devoted to the task to fill mason jars with dirt, leaves, sticks to create little habitats for her ever growing collection, and it became our daily ritual to walk the gardens of the Red Keep, always in search of more to add or to release others who dutifully served their time in their glass confines.

One thing I noted was her utterances, her singsong riddles on repeat. “Be mindful,” she said with a hum one afternoon.

“Of what, princess?”

“A song of ice and fire,” her eyes were glassy, sorrowful. “It is a tragedy, again and again…”

My evenings were held captive by my aunt and her ever growing determination to force her way into the royal social circles; her daily mantra to remind me of the two remaining Targaryen princes, how I need my focus to be on snaring one of them.

I knew that Prince Daeron was a child and away in Oldtown, which left the second son of King Viserys, Prince Aemond, who I thought peculiar and quiet. He was isolated the first six months after we arrived, and I heard the whispered incident at Diftmark that had involved the crowned princess and her bastard sons; I also learned how it ended with the loss of his eye, but that was not learned until Princess Helaena brought me to visit with her brother.

“It would be good for him,” and her lilac eyes sparkled.

He was sullen, but rightfully so; he was still bandaged and refused the milk of the poppy, though I knew he was hurting, his anguish was vicariously heard with the roars of his dragon, Vhagar, whose bellows rattled the entire capital, leaving the inhabitants uneasy.

Eventually, Prince Aemond healed enough to leave his room, though the queen was still adamant he not venture outside of the Keep. I watched him, a dragon caged, stalking the corridors, a dark passing in search of confrontation, his unbridled want for vengeance and his inability to see it through; a tormented unrest, an unruly anger from the injustice of what happened that fateful night at Driftmark.

I had been present for over a year and would inevitably have the misfortune to cross his warpath, alone, without my shield of his sister. It was a foreboding presence that drained the air, a palpable anger that hung heavy, and I flinched, perched by the window, curled up with Ten Thousand Ships.

“What are you doing here?” He spat.

I remember how his anger darkened his features shown, but the rest was still hidden beneath bandages wrapped around his silver head. “Reading,” was all I dared reply, refusing to look away from the pages as if the very tale of Nymeria held me captive.

“They educate the women in the North?”

His words were mocking and this is when I pulled my eyes away to meet with his one uncovered. “The North does not only teach their women how to read, but how to fight as well, my prince,” my tongue had a life of its own I could not control, sneering his title in return.

Her granddam paused a moment, peering over the edge to see how Lyanna had shifted; she was now closer towards the foot of the bed, curled up with one of the pillows, her eyes glowing with admiration.

“My great-great-great granddam was fearless,” Lyanna concluded.

She chuckled in response. “It is a trait in Stark women, that is for certain,” she clucked her tongue. “Stark men also search for strong women to survive the winters. Maybe another day I will tell you about your great-great-great aunt Alysanne Blackwood.”

Her eyes shone. “I would like that very much.”

And then, her granddam continued.

I would learn that Prince Aemond was just lonely; allowed out of his quarters, his mar was forever isolating with how the castled treated him with kid gloves, like an open wound that never healed despite the jagged red of new flesh mended, cutting from his brow to his cheek and peeking beneath the eyepatch he took to wearing. Though he would never apologize for that day in the library, the next time I found him within the walls I saw he was lost in the pages of Winter’s Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell.

I could only assume it was all the apology that could be expected of a dragon prince.

Our friendship was something predetermined by the gods, or this was what Princess Helaena wholeheartedly believed; for a time, we were a trio of lonely souls akin and knitted together until the princess inevitably became pregnant with the twins. And then, there was the subtle change of our dynamic with the seasons passed, an initial wariness that settled in the edges of his features that only softened whenever I took his hand and pulled him forward.

Perhaps he believed that I would abandon him for his sister’s company, which would be expected of her lady-in-waiting. But I did not.

Instead I indulged the prince and his company, and we became inseparable; whether we visited with his sister, playing with the little prince and princess, while Helaena budding with a third, or going to the courtyards to train under Ser Criston’s watchful eye and my aunt’s apparent disdain. It was then that the evenings became our own and spent in the library of the Keep; it was here that Aemond dared remove his eyepatch, the sapphire stone that showed brilliant from his scarred socket.

The first time, I stepped closer so his nervous exhale fanned my cheeks; I could see the plumes of pinks to his features, my fingers ghosting his jawline as I attempted his ancient tongue. “Gevie.”

Beautiful.

Prince Aemond was respectful, always, but he was also fearless with me, allowing the same sense of freedom in return, to speak my mind as I always had. But I faltered with what I truly wished to say: that the years crafted him beautiful as any Targaryen prince, with sharp edges chiseled from marble stone, his lips that curled with a perpetual smirk as he voiced his peculiar insight which always led to a good natured battlement between us, leaving me flushed.

And then the day came that he took my hand, that his palm now enveloped my own.

It was the familiar touch now paired with a feeling, a fluttering in the pit of my stomach that I could not place, though writing these words allows a clearer perspective with the retrospect: that I was falling in love with him.

My aunt grew more insufferable with the passing days, though I expected as much with the letters I exchanged with Cregan. I knew his every action in Winterfell, what he was learning, of his sweetheart Lady Arra Norrey, my new nephew, but mostly of how our uncle continued to tighten his hold. My brother was a wolf, restless, and spoke that his hour was coming; and meanwhile, I continued to play my role, a simpleminded girl from the North.

My aunt tsked. “He will never see you as more than a plaything,” as if this was a cruel fate. In truth I was still so unaware of what was growing within the confines of my heart, but I knew that I only wished to remind at his side, devoted, present, always.

So when Aemond asked that I finally become acquainted with Vhagar, I went. I remembered how my hand fit within his as he pulled me to follow his steps, moving through the ingresses that weaved with the castle walls. We broke out to follow the coastline, a crisp salt air and the clouds covering the sun, heavy with the threat of rain, but Aemond promised we would rise above them.

I followed his long steps until we came to where Vhagar waited for her rider, diligent, alert.

Dragons are magnificent creatures, and I swear them sentient with the bond I saw between Aemond and the she-dragon. Fear trickled my spine, but Aemond held onto my hand and I tightened in response to the massive eyes that focused on us, her pupils constricting in query. Aemond held up his other hand, the honey spill of his soothing voice of his old tongue to coax her and allow me to climb aback.

I then felt the gaze of Aemond and refused to allow my fear to root me, moving to take the bottom rung of the rope ladder; he was pleased, a hum, the slight curl of his lips, and followed behind me with his promise that he would not let me fall. At the top, he pushed past to settle into the saddle, then reached to pull me behind and I settled against his backside.

“Just hold onto me,” he murmured, bringing my arms around his slender waist.

This moment I was adamantly aware that he was no longer that sullen child that sneered within his gilded cage, but against my hold that Aemond was solid, lithe, and so warm with a woodsy musk mixed with smoke against his skin.

Pressed against, I was able to feel his low baritone command Vhagar, followed by her jolted steps forward, the beating of her wings to take flight. To feel this power beneath you is indescribable; I could not help my scream, my laughter from the exhilaration that that spate my veins; I dared not close my eyes, tears streaming, and I peered to marvel at how small the capital seemed beneath, how large the shadow we cast overhead.

It was a newfound euphoria, and I felt my cheeks burn from the crisp air above the gray clouds, but I also knew it was from my close proximity to Aemond. I held onto him as we soared out over Blackwater Bay, and sighed from the touch of his gloved hand, from the heat that permeated through the leather when he placed it over my own.

And I knew then that I never wished to let him go.

He eventually brought Vhagar back to land onto the grassy knolls outside the city; the afternoon was growing late but there was still enough light to return. Aemond warned that my legs would be shaky and again he moved first, again with the promise he would not let me fall.

I still trembled when he set me on the ground, his large palms kept their hold on my waist and my hands rested on his broad shoulders. My eyes were wide admiring the beauty of his mussed, silver braid, his cheeks lined with his dimples with his pursed grin. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Enjoy myself?” I was incredulous, I was a mess; windswept and blooming red, a grinning fool with tear-streaked cheeks, “Aemond, you showed me the heavens.” And a boldness pressed me onto my toes, my lips against his.

It was my first kiss; it was a heartbeat’s length, it was everything, and when I pulled back, I fell solid to the earth, my soles grounded back on that gassy knoll. I looked up into his bicolored gaze, the lavender of one eye and the gleam of sapphire for the other that stared back.

Aemond was unreadable in that moment, and I felt my blood surge from my heart and pour into my face; the quiet that settled between us the same length of the years I had spent in King’s Landing, a choking regret that burned in my throat with the thought that I had ruined everything built between us.

Then he kissed me back.

And I felt alive once more with the touch of his arm that curled around my waist, how his other hand followed the curve of my spine, tangling into my hair and holding me to capture my mouth. His lips were warm and soft and his tongue clever in a way that drew the very breath from my lungs. I melted against him, my fingertips soft to follow the sharp contours of his jaw, trailing his neck and grasping his collar to bring him even closer.

We only parted for air; the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his riding leathers, the crimson on his cheeks with his quiet confession, something he held close to his heart.

“For how long?” I breathed

And he thought for a moment. “Always.”

To take his hand now was finding a piece that I did not know was missing from me; our fingers interlaced in a way that felt akin as if I held my own hand, though I knew it was him from the warmth of his skin, from the fire in his blood. By now the tendrils of dusk began to curl over the city, its amber hues bold against the blues and purples of the coming nightfall, but we continued our leisure pace back, Aemond and I.

We were greeted by the gold cloaks at the gates and they escorted us back, and though he did not let go, I saw that it was no longer Aemond who held my hand but the second son of King Viserys, a Targaryen prince. He was stoic, but this time I could tell the other emotions that flittered beneath, his uncertainty of what awaited, but above that was his determination.

We finally came to the barbican of the Keep where we were greeted by his queen mother, my aunt, and several White Cloaks.

Relief washed over the queen while my aunt raged, lifting her skirts to meet us in the courtyard, her nails biting with her grip on my arm and pulling me back; the rushed spill of her words, “I cannot believe this unseemly behavior of a lady, unchaperoned with a prince! We are leaving this moment–”

I tried to twist away but she held on still, a madwoman. Aemond moved after, quick, and his anger burning from him and his long legs moved to block her path. “She will not be leaving.”

The finality of his words, the barrier his form created halted her at once and I felt my heart between my teeth. “My prince,” she stammered in response. “We must leave this very moment! We have imposed on your hospitality far too long as it is, and when my lord husband hears of her behaviors–”

But she was unaware that Cregan and I wrote, dutifully; he shared his life within the walls of Winterfell, as well as his growing concern with the regency our uncle imposed still. She also did not know the newest letter I had received, how my brother was now the proper Warden of the North and our uncle imprisoned; my aunt paled with my words and it was commanded for her to be taken away. She did not leave quietly, her wails echoed and I watched impassively, knowing her every action was a self-serving and a selfish ploy for power for herself, her husband, for those wretched cousin kin in the North.

And I knew I would not miss any of them.

Ever the diplomat, the queen stepped forward with her congratulations for my brother, her condolences for the betrayal within our family, her practiced concern for my well being and its shift to confusion that knitted between her brows when she saw how I smiled at her son. She offered my escort back to Winterfell, but I was quick to decline as I knew I could not leave Aemond.

I saw the understanding began to roll over, and she then asked her son if he loved me. Aemond responded, “I believe I always have, mother,” and I knew I loved him in return.

It was decided that the ceremony would be held in the Royal Sept, and chaperoned until, though Aemond stole a moment to gift me this very necklace. I could feel the power of Old Valyria thrum from the metal, adoring how it was woven around the sapphire stone; he told me it was a piece kept from the same stone fitted for his eye.

I lifted my hair and turned my back towards him, my skin prickling from his touch to clasp the necklace around my throat.

He hummed. “Gevie.”

Only a week later, and the service seemed surreal. I felt his warmth that held to the robe he brought around my shoulders, the touch of my palm on top of his large hand kept me grounded while the Septon wrapped the ribbon around; shy glances shared, me to Aemond and seeing his gaze on the sapphire stone beneath my collarbone. The muted words called for a kiss and I burned when Aemond captured my mouth with his own.

The celebration after was an intimate meal with the king, who was a man withering away beneath a gilded mark, the queen, his siblings, and the Lord Hand, who seemed pleased with the idea of solidifying a truce with the North.

But I could not think of politics this night, not with the subtle touches from Aemond, a warmth that curled in my lower abdomen when he inevitably took my hand, his low voice that tickled against my ear. “Come with me, my sweet wife,” as we walked towards his quarters.

Her granddam stopped abruptly, flushed. “Well, you understand what is implied.”

“Understand what?” Lyanna quirked her brow.

It was a pregnant pause that allowed her eyes steel onto her granddaughter, and Lyanna returned her gaze with a cheeky, taunting grin.

“It would serve you well to not agitate your elders.”

“What a bore I would be if I was just another docile woman of nobility?” Lyanna countered, gleefully. “Granddam, Robert has bastards and I am no fool, I do not believe his immaculate conception claims…”

“Yes, you are very bright,” she huffed. “Now hush up and let me read.”

Our marital bliss that followed left me in a haze; Aemond was not one for public displays of affection and how I craved his subtle touches, his lingering hand that would have me blushing furiously in response. He would only hum, his perpetual smirk that played on his lips with my every visceral response to him.

I wrote to Cregan and informed him of our union; he was quick to respond with his congratulations, as well as his newfound concerns, asking if it was true that the crowned princess had sired bastards with the intention to make them her heirs without ownership of her actions.

“Our father was honorable until his last breath,” he wrote, “I would not besmirch his memory or our house, our legacy, for an oath made for bastard-born heirs to the Iron Throne.”

This was a topic I had already discussed in length with Aemond, even before we had even kissed. I was aware of his scar and its cause, and I knew of the old blood and the features lacking when it came to his nephews, something made apparent for the claimant hearings of Dirftmark, as well as the cruel response of Prince Daemon when a lord spoke out loud what the court was thinking.

I answered my brother truthfully, knowing full well that this would sway the North behind Prince Aegon II.

And then King Viserys met his inevitable demise; the small council moved quick to announce that his final words were that he wished his firstborn son to take the crown. Aegon panicked, but my husband and Ser Criston fetched him, washed him, fed him, but also comforted him.

It would be Ser Criston who coaxed him to the coronation, to be the one to place the crown of steel and rubies on top of his silver head, announcing: “King Viserys is dead, long live King Aegon!”

My husband would be sent to Storm’s End to negotiate a betrothal for his brother, Daeron, to one of the Four Storms. It resulted in tragedy, or vengeance on who spoke the narrative. The room stilled with Aemond’s words, the unspoken terror in the queen’s large, brown eyes, the shock that lined the severe features of the Lord Hand, but it was his brother, King Aegon wearing the Conqueror’s Crown who spoke that Aemond had shown the true blood of a dragon.

But in the quiet quarters we shared, Aemond lamented the loss of life, the war it started, a guilt that weighed heavily, and once more I saw the sorrowful prince when I first came to King’s Landing.

“There will be repercussions for my actions,” he rasped, unable to meet with my eyes. “I have ruined my namesake, and I have cursed our family…”

“War seemed inevitable,” I began slowly, my hands careful to hold his jaw, to bring his gaze to my own. “And with it comes rash decisions, with impossible choices to be made…I trust it was not intentional, but even if it was, cursed or not, I am still yours, husband.” A soft kiss to seal my words. “Always.”

War and its bloodshed was rampant in Westeros, and my brother wrote they would travel South when winter ended to help King Aegon with his rightful claim. I feared for the delay, for what would follow Storm’s End, and how it seemingly unleashed the Rogue Prince.

Hired men with the monikers Blood and Cheese came in the night, and I knew them to be sent for me, as one repeated, “An eye for an eye, a son for son,” but followed with his slow realization, “she is not a son,” before his sword was drawn and struck Prince Jaehaerys.

The screams of Helaena resounded against the cobblestone; Aemond found us covered in blood, his rage and his grief conflicting on his angular features. The king cried for vengeance for his firstborn son, to search for these men and place their heads on spikes; the kingdom was repulsed by the murder of the princeling, a martyr made with his blood spilled.

Aegon’s bloodlust made for rash decisions and the battle of Rook’s Rest; though one dragon and its rider slain, its cost was the king crippled in a way that he was not fit to rule. So Aemond stepped forward to take the title Prince Regent and the Protector of the Realm, a natural role that was suited for the second son.

The Rogue Prince struck against the Riverlands, torching until ash remained. In response, the now Prince Regent and Ser Criston left to claim Harrenhal.

I was told to wait, to remain at the side of our grieving queen, my sister by all accounts; I watched over sweet Helaena, coaxing her to eat, washing her, sitting alongside her in the haunting silence of the quarters that somehow still echoed her screams from that fateful night. We were often left alone, as the maesters and the dowager queen never left King Aegon’s side, and I remained with her until I received the latest letter from Aemond.

Harrenhal had been dispelled of every Strong traitor to the crown, and he spoke of a witch he wished me to meet, that I was to leave King’s Landing and be by his side, as the gods ordained.

A quick kiss to the silver head of Helaena and I left the castle, careful to retrace our steps that led to the coast and I continued until I was back on the grassy knolls from what felt like a lifetime ago. I waited the skies until I felt the rumbled call of Vhagar in the distance, gleeful when she finally landed and watched my prince descend to envelope me in his arms, his whispered adoration, “My love, my sweet wife.”

We returned to Harrenhal to meet with the witch he spared, a hushed reverence when he told me of her abilities. “She sees much and more.”

I could see she was hardened by life, but her expression was kind when she greeted us; her eyes roamed around, watchful, looking through to my bones and only then did I understand what my husband meant.

At supper, we sat around the table, along with Ser Criston, and her eyes watched the flicker of candlelight, the flames licking her irises, before she spoke: “Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Aemond finished chewing before he asked her. “And I am which?”

Alys’ eyes were black, her painted lips curled and framed around her pearl teeth. “To be the greatness, you must end the madness,” was all that she offered, and then, “the Rogue Prince is coming.”

Ser Criston looked uneasy, but it was a silent understanding in regards to her statement, something that pressed heavily on us both. King Aegon could only have a true chance to rule the realm if his sister lost the power she had with her husband, the Rogue Prince; it was known that he was unruly, untamed, but loyal to a fault, and willing to see it through to its brutal end.

That night, we fell back into an intimate embrace, cherishing the feeling of skin to skin–

Her granddam was crimson. “Oh, my, I believe I should skip this as well–”

She watched her granddam a moment, the intrusive thought to take the letters for her own readthrough, but it was muted by a growing sadness that began to settle in the edges of her sharp features. Lyanna knew well the history of the Dance of the Dragons, something scrawled on scrolls and tomes, its tragedy saved in ink and tucked away.

And still, she had to know this truth.

“Please,” and her voice was soft. “Please, continue.”

And granddam did.

It was the 22nd day of the 5th moon and we waited on the shores of Gods Eye, myself, Aemond, and the witch. Ser Criston rode North to meet with my brother, and we remained, waiting.

It had been a vision for Alys, something sinister; it was no surprise when the wyrm screeched its arrival, circling above, wary of Vhagar, before finally landing. Prince Daemon had an arrogance with his dismount, with his walk towards us.

There was a symmetry as they squared towards one another; the Rogue Prince was cloaked with the past and my Aemond embodied the future, the true hope for House Targaryen. My husband faced him, unflinching, his brow furrowed with his ever present determination, while Daemon rolled his eyes over the each of us, sucking his teeth.

Aemond broke the silence. “You were a fool to come alone.”

“Were I not alone, you would not have come,” Daemon was amused.

But it did not deter my dragon. “Yet you are, and here I am,” he sighed. “You have lived too long, nuncle.”

“On that much we agree.”

The prince retreated to his wyrm and Aemond looked to me, his eye pleading, the glassy lavender that bore through my skin, and the gleam of sapphire for the other. He then dipped forward to kiss me and the tears pearling in the corners of my eyes spilled onto my cheeks at the taste of him, the touch of him; I knew I could never imagine anyone else. Those words stilled on my tongue, how I wanted him to beg to stay with me, but I also knew that he must.

“Do not say it,” my voice broke, hushed against our kiss swollen lips. “Just come back to me.”

His two fingers pressed against the sapphire pendant I wore, before leaning forward to press his lips to my hairline, and then he climbed aback Vhagar, his lithe body quick to mount. I remained on the sand with the witch at my side, and we watched these winged beasts rise above us.

Dragons are truly magnificent, but they are also equally deadly. I trusted Vhagar was loyal to Aemond, but also knew it matched by the bond shared between Prince Daemon and his wyrm. It was said that Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, and I believed this as I watched them on dragonback, circling above the massive lake. Their roars vibrated through to our bones, the snapping of the jaws like cracks of lighting and their flames that singed the threads of my gown from my place on the shore.

My eyes did not leave, and I asked Alys. “Will he live?”

She was quiet for a moment. “The memory of him will live on,” and I felt her hand reach and touch my stomach.

And all I could do was hold onto my pendant with prayers to the old golds, to the new gods for mercy for my husband, whose child I carried.

They did not listen.

It was a clash of scale and bone, something that reverberated to Harrenhal and rattled the castle walls that still stood. The wyrm’s screams were cut short as the massive maw of Vhagar clamped onto its neck, and its talons flailed and cut deep into the old dragon’s underside. Blood rained onto the lake and I watched, struck with mortification at the dull glint of Valyrian armor, the flash raise of Dark Sister, and I knew it was over.

I remained on the shore as the waves created from the fall of dead dragons crashed against the sand, a blood foam that flooded and wet my skirts. I remained still as the sun tucked beneath the horizon, until I heard the call of the witch.

“My lady, the wolves have arrived.”

This would be the shift of power needed for King Aegon II; the Rogue Prince was dead and his men fell to the sword under the command of my brother and Ser Criston. Cregan was shocked to see me and I was stoic still, dumbstruck with my grief that did not feel real; we returned to King’s Landing with the Northern army, quick to dethrone Rhaenyra and place her in the cells with the company of all the lords who supported her.

King Aegon was scarred cruelly with a gimp to his steps, but he made his way to the Iron Throne, his crown of rubies and steel, and greeted his mother and the queen. This joyous moment died as I was tasked to share the news of the death of Aemond, of my husband and father of my unborn child; we cried our heartbreak, but I had no tears left.

This pivotal moment would be known as the Hour of the Wolf by our history. It will speak of the heroism of Prince Aemond and what he sacrificed to kill the Rogue Prince, of how my brother descended onto the capital with a vengeance and helped return the throne to its rightful heir. The casualties of war included the bastard princes, as well as both sons of the king.

When King Aegon learned that Prince Daeron the Daring met his fatal end, he decided mercy on the remaining Targaryen princelings, Aegon III and Viserys II, with his solemn vow to raise them as his own, as his heirs to the Iron Throne.

Cregan served as Lord Hand through my pregnancy, for the birth of my darling Lysara with a patch of silver that showed against her dark curls and her eyes the same as her father’s, lavender. My brother had also been widowed but met the Lady Alysanna Blackwood, a woman I admired fiercely, and Lysara was smitten with, and was thrilled when I learned I could call her sister.

It was then Cregan asked to be relieved so he could return to the North, to his son, and I asked to go with him. My time in King’s Landing was over, with every stone haunted with presence of Aemond; I already swore I would never marry again, would not dare have another set of hands touch and taint the memory of his hands against my body, his touch forever etched onto my skin and seeded into the marrow of my bones.

Aemond would return to me at night, a silver dream, my body thrumming with the warmth of his touch, his gentle kiss, the low murmur of his voice, but it always ended the same: my realization when my hands pressed to his chest and felt no heartbeat.

That I would never feel it again.

The pain of losing him has not dimmed nor diminished with time, but I do not mind it as it serves as my reminder that he was real, and that the love we shared was real.

As the witch predicted, Aemond also still lived within Lysara who was solemn, brilliant, and as determined and stubborn as he had been. I made sure to do an annual trip to King’s Landing, allowing her to meet her granddam, her royal family, and so that my daughter could learn that her blood not only held that of the Andals, the first men, but also of the fire that licks within her veins.

Which is also why I write this, along with the gift of the necklace. It holds legacy, but also the reminder of the words Queen Helaena spoke to me when we were girls, something said a lifetime ago and before I could comprehend the weight of them.

There is something in the blood of House Stark that calls out to these dragons, perhaps an ancient power of the old gods or a kindred spirit, the disparate bond of ice and fire, a clash that is brilliant, violent, and tragic, always.

As she once said: a song of ice and fire, it is a tragedy, again and again…

It ended with a finality that rested against her chest. This was a tragic history of the crown, something already written with facts and dates, but this was a personal storying stemming from the blood of Stark woman, and only now did Lyanna begin to understand how the stories remained so vivid, so detailed despite its years of retelling.

But also…

“What does this mean for me?” Her voice was soft, an almost childlike naivety to her tone. “I am already engaged to Robert Baratheon.”

Her granddam watched her, a tight lipped smile in response as her mind returned to the feast of last night, to the looks shyly exchanged between her granddaughter and the crowned prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, as he played his harp for her. It left her unsettled with a hunch, an inkling about this interaction.

Instead she agreed. “You are right,” and she sighed. “Let me help you get dressed for the tourney.”

The new Harranhal swelled with the life for the festivities, with the kingdoms’ best sent in response of Lord Whent’s invites; the new cobblestone seemed bright against the darkened foundation that still held, its ghosts trapped still and trampled underfoot by the crowds as the seats filled, the echoing chattered excitement that vibrated.

It dimmed with a hushed reverence to see Prince Rhaegar Targaryen entering the field on his steed; his lavender eyes scanned the masses, an intent to spot one soul in particular, and she unknowingly called to him with her sweet smile, by the glint of the sapphire that rested against her chest.

There's not one thing that I would change.

Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @lauraneedstochill @snowprincesa1 @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii @darylandbethfanforever9 @namelesslosers

arcie's masterlist

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x stark!reader #tragic romance #inspired by hozier #ours never knew peace #rhaegar targaryen #lyanna stark #rhaegar x lyanna

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michwritesstuff · 2 months

Text

It’s Not All In Your Head (Teen Wolf: Stiles Stilinski)

I KNOW THIS IS KIND OF A DYING FANDOM SO IF YOU LIKE THIS PLEASE REBLOG/SHARE/LIKE!! IM CURRENTLY REWATCHING SO IM FEELING QUITE INSPIRED BY THESE CHARACTERS!

this was formerly posted on my blog as “Unexpected” with a 1.5k word count, but I wrote it over two years ago and wanted to rewrite some things and add some more plot. So this really is a different story now, deserving of a new title and song that fits the vibe

pairing: female reader (she/her) x Stiles Stilinski

summary: When you find yourself mixed up in the mysterious supernatural world of Beacon Hills, a town you’ve grown up in your whole life, you find an unlikely ally in the form of Stiles Stilinski. The boy you’ve despised and admired for the last half of your life.

notes/warnings: small mentions of familial death, mention of dead body

word count: 3.3k

Getting out of bed this morning was rough.

Head rushing and pounding with the adrenaline from the night before.

It couldn’t be, right?

Everything you experienced last night wasn’t real, or at least that’s what you tried to tell yourself.

You couldn’t explain how you ended up in the woods in the middle of the night.

Hearing voices in your head, it was almost as if you had been summoned there.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

This was the second time in your life that you couldn’t push the voices away.

It had only happened once before this, right before your grandmother passed.

She had been in hospice for the last few months and hadn’t been doing well.

You begged your mom to let you skip school that day to visit her, but she insisted that the last time she had spoken to the nurse, everything was fine.

You got called out of class early that day, your mother rushing you over to the nursing home so that your grandmother would be surrounded by family in her last moments.

Neither of you had brought up how you somehow knew you needed to be there, but the coincidence never left your mind.

Tonight felt like that day from a few months ago.

As you sat at your desk doing homework you could hear distant muffled voices, the words weren’t clear, but they started getting louder.

You huffed, pushing your chair back as you got up.

Walking down the hallway you expected to turn the corner and see your younger brother blasting the tv at the highest volume, but you were met with the deafening silence of the dark and empty living room.

The voices continued as you wandered around the house, growing louder as you followed them outside into the back yard.

You looked back at your house before sneaking out the side gate.

The streets were empty as you walked down the sidewalk, making left and right turns when they felt right.

It wasn’t until you reached the entrance to the Beacon Hills Preserve that you snapped back to reality and truly took in your surroundings.

You barely enjoyed running through here when it was cross country season, you certainly wouldn’t have chosen to come here in the middle of the night.

Walking further into the woods, you reached a small clearing.

A large wood trunk sat in the middle of the clearing, a sizeable figure laying on top of it.

As you got closer you began to make out shapes; an arm, a leg, it was a body.

You stopped a few feet short of the stump, your eyes widening in horror as they focused in on the lifeless eyes of the body before you.

It was a dead body.

You couldn’t do anything but scream at the top of your lungs.

The murmured voices quickly stopped and were soon replaced by a different set of voices.

They grew louder as did the footsteps as they approached.

“Y/N!” Scott and Lydia exclaimed at the same time.

You turned around quickly, fear painted on your features as you attempted to speak.

“I—I don’t…”

Lydia stepped forward, wrapping her arm around your shoulder as she walked you away from the body.

“Y/L/N?” you heard another voice arise.

It was the first time you really noticed that he was there.

“Stilinski,” you greeted back.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“You know the usual, finding dead bodies in the woods, you?”

Hearing his scoff, you smirked to yourself, it was so easy to rile him up.

It didn’t seem like the appropriate time to be making jokes, but with Stiles the sarcasm and witty comebacks were hard to swallow back.

It was almost refreshing to be joking with him in that moment.

Whispering among themselves, you stood quietly looking around, of course your attention still drawn to the body splayed on the trunk a few feet behind them.

Their whispering soon came to an end and Lydia and Stiles stepped forward.

Taking your arm again, Lydia turned you around so that you were now walking in the direction that you came from.

“Y/N, did you walk here?” Lydia asked concernedly.

“Yeah, I—” you were about to explain how you felt drawn here.

“…yeah” you answered quietly.

She turned her head to give Scott and Stiles a worried look.

You know what this might have looked like to your classmates.

Standing over a dead body in the middle of the woods, late at night.

“C’mon, Stiles will take us home. It’s probably not the safest idea to be out now.”

“What about Scott?” you asked unsurely.

“Believe me, Scott knows how to handle his own,” Stiles replied while slightly increasing his speed so that he was now walking in front of you and Lydia.

You weren’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but you chose not to ask too many questions.

As you crawled into the back of Stiles’s Jeep you didn’t know what to think.

You were terrified about the discovery you made in the woods and the unexplainable feeling that you had that could have possibly led you there.

Terrified at the thought of your classmates, also walking around the woods at the same time and seemingly not as concerned about a body as you were.

The low hum of the radio filled the awkward silence as they drove you home, only speaking up when you had to direct Stiles.

As he pulled up in front of your driveway, you quickly thanked them and got out, trying your best to get to the front door.

Stiles was quick to shut off the car and follow you.

“Y/LN!” he called.

You brushed it off as if you had not heard him, quickening your steps as you got closer.

“Y/N!” he called again.

You rounded on your feet quickly, Stiles stopping abruptly as he almost ran into you.

“What?” you exhaled tiredly, your eyes watering slightly as they met with his.

“What could you possibly say right now?” you asked.

“I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he spoke up.

“No Stiles, I am not okay. None of this is okay.”

He nodded understandingly.

He reached up slightly, so that his hand was barely hovering above your elbow.

You swore you could feel the heat radiating from his body being so close.

As you glanced down, he quickly dropped his hand back down to his side.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he stated matter of factly.

You looked back up to give him a small nod.

He waited for you to go inside and only turned to leave when he heard the lock click.

You did not see it, but Lydia gave him a pointed look as he walked back to the car.

“Shut up,” he said as he started the jeep.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lydia smiled back.

That night you laid in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Every time you closed your eyes you saw the lifeless eyes of the body staring back at you.

Before you knew it, sleep had consumed your whole body and your thoughts and fears of the night slowly melted away.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

*BEEP BEEP BEEP*

You quickly awoke to the sound of your alarm clock blaring.

Immediately hitting snooze, you debated skipping school all together.

It’s not like you didn’t like school, it was quite the opposite.

You were doing extremely well in all your classes, involved in every club and team you thought would make your college application stand out, and you had a great group of supportive friends.

Thinking about the possible run in with Scott or Lydia and the inevitable run in with Stiles, since you shared so many classes, was more than your anxiety allowed you to handle.

Grabbing your bag, you headed to the kitchen, grabbing a granola bar and your keys from the counter as you said goodbye to your mom.

Walking to the driver’s door you were startled when a car horn honking caught your attention.

Looking up you were shocked to see Stiles and his infamous jeep, windows down as he blocked your driveway.

“Stilinski, get the hell out of the way. You’re going to make me late for school.”

“Yup, that’s the plan. Get in Y/L/N,” he replied.

Rolling your eyes, you walked over to his car. He nodded at you to get in.

You stood, looking unamused.

He huffed before getting out the driver’s side and walking around the front of the car.

He brushed past you, opening the passenger door, his eyes silently pleading with you to get in.

“Okay, okay!” you exclaimed, climbing into the passenger seat.

The radio was low, and you quietly hummed along as you passed the houses on your street.

After a few wrong turns you had finally turned to Stiles,

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“I thought you were taking me to school,” you huffed, annoyance clear in your voice.

“I never said that, I said I was going to make you late,” Stiles replied, an attitude in his voice similar to yours.

Rolling your eyes, you turned in your seat, resuming the activity of watching the world outside the car window quickly pass.

After about another 10 minutes you had pulled into a driveway of a cute looking house.

“Is this your house?” you asked confused.

“Yeah, now c’mon,” he answered, quickly turning off the car and getting out.

You followed him into the house and to his room.

Your eyes scanned his room, blue walls littered with posters and clothes thrown on the floor with little regard.

Typical, you thought to yourself.

If you looked under the bed you were sure you would probably find playboy magazines covered in some sort of body fluid.

You shivered at the thought.

What was strange was the wall by his desk.

Red yarn creating a maze as it led from one photo to another. Confusing words and maps printed alongside.

You watched as Stiles threw his backpack onto the chair.

“Don’t worry my dad isn’t home, so no one will interrupt us.”

You gave him a surprised and teasing look, insinuating that his words were some sort of innuendo, before he quickly spoke again.

“Jesus Y/N, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You chuckled softly, before letting your eyes roam around some more.

“I just meant, there’s some things I need to ask you about, you know, about last night?” he continued.

Stiles noticed you visibly harden at the mention of last night.

He knew why Scott and them were there.

But you?

That was a question still left unanswered.

Taking a seat on his bed, you sighed.

“What were you doing in the woods Y/N?” he asked more directly.

“I honestly don’t know,” you said unconvincingly.

“I mean, I could be asking you the same thing. Your dad’s the Sheriff, right? I wonder what he would have to say about you and your friends hanging around dead bodies in the woods.”

This caught Stiles’s attention.

“Ok, let’s not get crazy. And don’t forget, we found you over the dead body,” he reminded you.

“And what exactly were the three of you doing out there? Taking a late-night stroll in the moonlight,” you remarked accusingly.

“Listen Y/N. This is serious, there’s a lot going on in Beacon Hills. A lot that I can’t really explain right now. So please, let’s try and be honest with one another.”

“I don’t know how to be honest without sounding absolutely crazy,” you confessed.

“I promise you, nothing that you say to me right now will sound crazy. Just try me,” he smiled reassuringly.

He kneeled in front of you, now at eye level as you slowly nodded.

“Well, like you said, there’s a lot that can’t be explained, and I can’t really explain what happened. I was at home all night when I started hearing these voices—I.”

Stiles grabbed your hand as you stuttered, a silent comfort urging you to continue.

“It was like they were calling me. I mean I’ve heard voices before, they’re always different. Most of the time I can convince myself that I’m just imagining things, but this time was different. This time they wouldn’t stop. So, I just walked and walked, and next thing I knew I was in the woods and the voices had stopped. And that’s when I ran into you guys,” you said, finishing your account of events.

Stiles seemed less surprised and confused than you had thought he would.

“Y/N, do you know what this means!” he said, realization settling in his eyes as he started piecing things together.

You got up quickly, dropping his hand as you began pacing his room, the fear and confusion of the night before flooding back.

“No, Stiles, not really. I have no idea what any of this means,” you exclaimed, the fear evident in your voice.

His eyes softened as he took in your state.

“Okay, hey! It’s ok. We’re going to figure this out. I’m going to help you figure this out.”

“Figure out what? Stiles, this really isn’t making sense,” you exclaimed as you stopped pacing to face him.

“You said you’ve heard these voices before, right?” he asked.

“Yeah, once…”

“When?”

“What?” you looked at him confusedly.

“When did you hear these voices?” he pressed.

“Right before my grandmother passed,” you confessed smally.

“This is going to sound insane,” Stiles started.

“More insane than a girl who hears voices?” you interrupted.

“I think I know what’s going on.”

He got up from the bed, motioning for you to follow him to the desk, rifling through papers and a big leather-bound book, before stopping on a page.

Across the top you read Banshee.

You had read about Banshees before when you took a dual enrollment literature and folklore class.

You looked at Stiles with an angry and pointed look.

“Stilinski what the fuck is this?”

He was taken aback by your shift in demeanor.

“Is this funny to you?”

“What? No, Y/N, just list—"

“No, this is just too much. I thought you really cared about how I was feeling and if this is just you and your friend’s idea of a twisted joke, I don’t want any part of this.”

“Y/N I CAN EXPLAIN!” he continued.

You grabbed your stuff and ran out of the room, letting your long strides carry you further and further away from Stiles’s house.

As you walked through the school parking lot, you turned to find that stupid blue jeep following behind you.

Pulling up next to you, Stiles rolled his window down.

“Y/N!”

You stopped abruptly, causing him to slam on the brakes.

“Stiles, leave me alone.”

“Please Y/N, if you won’t talk to me just, please talk to Lydia or Scott. They’ll explain everything.”

You shook your head at him before walking away.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

You had gone almost the rest of the day, successfully avoiding Stiles and his friends.

There was a close call at lunch when you saw Scott and Stiles standing on opposite sides of you a few feet away. Your friend was a saving grace as she appeared next to you, demanding to know why you were so late as she yanked you away to a table across the cafeteria.

However, as you sat in AP Government, your luck was wearing thin when Stiles chose to sit right next to you.

You glanced over to him, an annoyed look covering your face. To which he gave a cocky smirk and wave.

You angled yourself slightly so that you were facing away from him while still being able to sit forward in your desk.

As your teacher began the lesson you did your best to ignore Stiles’ constant attempts to get your attention.

From excessively tapping his foot and pencil, nudging the edge of your desk with his shoe, and leaning over the aisle so that he was now in your personal space.

“Y/N, c’mon,” he pleaded quietly.

“I’m trying to learn about our constitutional right to contraceptives, shut up,” you angrily whispered back.

“Y/N—” he continued.

“STILES SHUT UP!” you exclaimed.

Your teacher fell silent as she looked up to see you and Stiles sheepishly sinking into your seats.

“Ms. Y/L/N and Mr. Stilinski, am I interrupting your social time?”

“No, Mrs. Thomson,” you answered embarrassedly.

“Right, well if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to teaching. The two of you can catch up in detention.”

You groaned, turning to look at Stiles who had a satisfying grin on his lips.

After a grueling 40 more minutes, class ended, and you were reminded of your unfair punishment as you watched your classmates pack up around you.

Mrs. Thomson wrote an assignment on the board, before packing her bag to leave.

As she walked out of the class, she gave the both of you a pointed look, a silent threat that you would be in more trouble if you did not actually stay to finish the assignment.

You were surprised to find that Stiles remained silent for the first couple minutes of detention.

He seemed preoccupied with whoever he was texting.

Unfortunately, the silence was short-lived when Lydia, quickly followed by Scott and Kira, walked in.

This wasn’t just any detention; this was an ambush.

“This cannot be happening right now,” you sighed, your hands rubbing your face as Stiles chuckled.

“Brought reinforcements this time,” he joked.

Your eyes quickly darted to his, shutting him up instantly.

“Y/N—” Lydia started.

“Look, I’m not sure how you got involved with these two idiots,” you motioned to Scott and Stiles before continuing.

“But I’m not sure what else to say about last night.”

“We understand that this is confusing,” Kira spoke up.

“I really don’t know what you guys keep referring to.”

“Y/N YOU’RE A BANSHEE,” Lydia spoke next.

Your eyes widened at her statement.

“ARE YOU ALL ON DRUGS?” you exclaimed.

“Like me…you’re a banshee like me,” she finished quietly.

They must be on drugs.

“The supernatural, it exists, we exist…” Scott spoke up, looking around the group as he finished.

“We?” you questioned; confusion clearly etched on your face.

“Banshee” Lydia raised her hand, answering with a sense of confidence as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You turned to Kira, her eyes turning a fiery orange as she answered, “Kitsune, it’s from Ja—”

“Japanese culture, I know,” you quickly finished for her. Your eyes softened as you shifted your focus to Scott.

“Werewolf,” Scott answered, his eyes glowing a bright red as he looked at you.

“Okay…so, what are you, a life-sucking vampire?” you asked, turning to Stiles with a mocking grin.

“I’m—I’m nothing,” Stiles replied.

“So, the body in the woods? They were killed by something supernatural?” you questioned.

They all nodded their heads.

“And I was called to it because, I’m a Banshee?” you tried clarifying.

“Pretty much,” Stiles replied smartly.

“And what are you guys, some sort of super squad?” you joked.

“We help people who can’t help themselves,” Scott answered earnestly.

A moment of silence passed over the group as they allowed you to process all the new information you had learned.

“Can I drive you home?” Stiles asked.

You looked around before nodding, a small grin on your face before you spoke up.

“I would hope so, you kind of kidnapped me this morning.”

He rolled his eyes before letting out a genuine laugh.

“C’mon loser,” he said, as he started getting out of his seat.

“What about detention? You are the reason we got it in the first place?”

“Me? You were the one screaming in the middle of class!”

“Because you were bothering me!”

Lydia, Kira, and Scott looked to one another, silently agreeing to leave the two of you to figure it out.

There was a lot you didn’t know about the supernatural world in Beacon Hills, but what you did know was that you now had a group of people committed to helping you figure it out.

check out the rest of my stuff here

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twilightjwy · 7 months

Text

your hand in my pocket to keep us both warm

wooyoung x reader

friends to lovers fluff <3 reader is friends with ateez, there are mentions of all of the members :)

summary: you go on a ski trip and become a lot closer with wooyoung than you expected

wc: 1.5k

notes: my whole inspiration for this was from the lyric (that i made the title) in the song ‘abstract’ by hozier <3333 that song is soooooo good

💭 ◟♡ ˒ ⊹ ִ

the air was cold and snow was falling as you rode down the mountain one last time. everyone was getting pretty tired and yunho suggested that they call it quits for the day and head back to the resort to watch a movie and relax before driving home tomorrow so you all raced down the trail to get to the bottom. you and the guys had decided to take a road trip up to a ski resort, which ended up being a real bonding experience (especially because you all had to work together to teach yeosang how to ski since he had never gone before).

the whole trip had been so fun with your best friends, but you and wooyoung had definitely been flirting with each other the entire time (and everyone could tell). you and wooyoung had been friends for years and you’d been in love with him the whole time. you always thought you would never tell him, but after this weekend you were starting to rethink it all. you two were glued to each other the whole time — racing down the mountain together, sitting on the ski lift together (so close to each other you practically left enough room for a third person to squeeze on there with you). you swapped jackets some days to see how long it would take the others to notice and then giggle about it to yourselves. hongjoong would just roll his eyes. “i definitely think there’s something going on between them,” he said to seonghwa.

tonight was the night that everything really changed, though. you had packed up all your stuff and left it in the lodge for you all to pick up tomorrow before heading home. the resort was just a short walk from the mountain but it was cold. your shivering increased with every step you took. you kept rubbing your hands together and blowing hot air into them to keep them somewhat warm since you didn’t have any gloves with you. wooyoung, with his giant warm winter jacket, was walking right next to you and noticed how much you were shaking.

“you cold?” he asked.

“very.”

with his right hand he propped open his jacket pocket.

“put your hand in here,” he said as he raised his eyebrows at you and motioned with his head.

you slowly put your left hand into his pocket and you could feel as he rested his hand right on top of yours.

“there, now we can both stay warm,” he said.

“thanks,” you said softly, with a nervous smile to him.

wooyoung was a touchy person, so you’ve been close like this before, but something about this seemed different, more intimate. you could feel his soft hand on top of yours, suddenly every nerve in your body was on red alert. you’d never been so aware of your own hand before, how does he make you feel like this?

you kept walking along the path and you noticed mingi look back at you both from up ahead. he quickly turned back around and giggled with yunho, his hand covering his mouth. you turned to the side away from wooyoung and smiled to yourself.

after about 20 seconds of silence that felt like an hour, you felt his hand shift in the pocket. you noticed him moving his hand so that your palms were touching and then you felt him lace his fingers with yours. neither of you said anything but you felt butterflies in your stomach — did he really just do that? you walked the rest of the way to the resort, your hand in his pocket the whole time, only taking it out when you got to the suite.

the resort you were staying at had a huge apartment style suite with a living room, kitchen, and multiple bedrooms that you all were sharing. you sat down on the empty couch, hoping wooyoung would come along next and sit down right next to you. but san, completely unaware that something was going on between you guys, immediately took the seat next to you. he was acting so happy and excited with you to watch the movie that you didn’t have the heart to tell him you were trying to save his seat for wooyoung. wooyoung eventually sat down in a comfy chair right across from you. occasionally during the movie he would look over at you, make eye contact, and give you a cute, small smile. he was resting his head on his hand and the way he looked at you was so sweet it made you feel almost lightheaded.

eventually the movie ended and you all decided it was time to go to bed, since tomorrow was going to be a long day of packing and driving. jongho had already fallen asleep on the couch during the movie but no one wanted to wake him, so hongjoong just draped a blanket over him and turned off the lights in the living room.

the thing, though, was that you and jongho and wooyoung were sharing a room. and since jongho was on the couch it was just going to be you and wooyoung. you were starting to get a little nervous as you were getting ready for bed thinking about you and wooyoung alone. you were worried you might end up blurting out how you feel about him and then the whole friendship would be ruined if he didn’t feel the same. you tried to block the thought out of your mind as you slipped under your comforter.

wooyoung walked into the room, pajamas on and looking the cutest he ever has.

“our last slumber party of the weekend,” he said as he puffed out his lower lip, looking sad.

“i know!” you said, “we’re going to have to do it more often when we’re home.”

“i’ll definitely take you up on that sometime.”

he turned off the light, got into his bed and pulled out his phone. “i was going to finish one episode of the show i was watching before i sleep, do you wanna watch it with me?” he asked, hoping you would say yes.

“sure” you smiled. as you got up he lifted the covers for you to get in.

you crawled in right next to him in the dark, your bodies touching. you could feel the heat radiating from him, comforting as it was still so cold, even in the suite. he turned on the show and you leaned your head on his chest to see his phone screen better (which really was just an excuse to cuddle him closer). you wondered if he was feeling the same knots in his stomach as you were. he was invested in the episode but you started to feel your eyes closing and eventually you fell asleep. wooyoung felt the tension release from your body and the weight of your head above his heart, which he hoped you could not feel was beating a lot faster than normal.

you woke up suddenly when the episode ended as you felt wooyoung shift beside you to put his phone on the side table.

“sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he said sweetly as he laid down.

“it’s okay, i should probably get back to my bed now,” you said.

“you know you can just stay here if you want to, i really don’t mind, i’d actually kind of like it if you did,” he said shyly. “but totally no pressure,” he added in a hurry, his eyes wide.

you blushed and cuddled in next to him again, this time with his arm around you. you looked up at him and met his eyes in the dark.

“i really don’t want to ruin what we have now, but i really like you,” he whispered to you.

“don’t worry, i really like you too,” you held back, not mentioning how in love with him you have been since the day you met. that would be for another time.

he took his hand and ran his fingers through your hair, still looking into your eyes. you lifted your head to meet his and gently connected your lips. he kissed you back even deeper, cupping your face in his hand.

you pulled away and you both breathed.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that,” he said as he closed his eyes and shook his head with a smile on his face.

“me too,” you said and pulled him back in for another kiss. eventually you went to sleep, your body on top of his, legs entangled together, his arms fully wrapped around you, and your head buried in his neck.

it turned out to be a pretty good ski trip — definitely a lot of bonding.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #wooyoung #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung fluff #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung scenarios #wooyoung fanfic #jung wooyoung #ateez fluff #Spotify

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bluejutdae · 7 days

Text

Somethin’ as hollow as trust | unnamed Stray Kids x you

a/n: angst born from Hozier’s “why would you be love” and a rainy day. Unnamed member of Stray Kids because I wrote this focused on feeling and not someone. Might delete later cause it honestly sucks. Title from the same song.

Growing up, the stories you used to read had a happy ending. The princess would end up marrying the prince, the heroine would save the world and, in the process, fell in love. Common girls like you would find the love of their lives and, obviously, live their whole lives with them. But that's stories and fiction. Real life had a surprise for you.

In real life, you found the love of your life. In real life, you fell for him, you got together with him, you heard him make promises to you, promises of a happy future.

In real life, after giving your heart fully and freely, he broke all the promises and the thrust. He broke your heart. He left you alone to pick up its pieces. He cheated.

Despite all the sleepless nights to support him, the long periods of time spent alone cheering him up, telling him what he was doing was worth the distance and the aches. Despite all the love you gave him, he cheated.

Apparently, after-concert adrenaline and distance are enough to forget about promises and loyalty and not being an asshole.

So now you’re in his room, a cardboard box on his bed, trying to find everything that belongs to you and that you left here. There’s a book and accessories, your spare charger and a few clothing items. Pieces of a shared life that ended in pain and lies.

If it wasn’t for him talking in his sleep, would you have even known? And when you confronted him, he had the audacity to tell you it was just a little mistake that meant nothing, a momentary lapse in judgment. It was you who were throwing away years of relationship for something silly, it was you focusing too much on a detail and ruining what you had.

It doesn’t matter that you gave all you had, it wasn’t enough. It doesn’t matter that you put your whole heart into it. After all, why would you play it all on somethin' as hollow as trust*?

* this is a direct quote from the Hozier song that inspired this.

#bluejutdae #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #skz #skz angst #stray kids angst

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tinygarbage · 4 months

Text

Do I Wanna Know?

part one

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x f!reader (Cheese)

word count: 4.4k

summary: december is passing and you start to wonder what you mean to your lieutenant.

warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, alcohol consumption (reader and ghost have 3 drinks), no use of y/n, reader is mentioned to have hair (no specific length), readers call name is “Cheese”, American reader, mutual pining, fluff, implication of severe anxiety, swearing, military inaccuracies, drunk soap and gaz, not really edited lol (let me know if i missed any)

au: this chapter is inspired by hozier’s cover of “do I wanna know” by the arctic monkeys 😚 i linked it in the title just in case y’all wanted to give it a listen! im thinking about one more part for this bad boy :)

༝̩̩̥͙ ༓༝̩̩̥͙ ⊹

The pub is busy when you step in. Loud music and noisy chatter smacks you in the face as you shove your hands into your pockets. You feel your heart beating faster as your eyes search for the team's faces. The painfully familiar feeling of anxiety crawls through your brain as you walk through the crowded space. People are dressed in all sort of attire, a mix of casual and fancy outfits scatter across the dark pub. Party hats and sunglasses work of people heads. Cheap, plastic necklaces around peoples necks. They all chatter, drinks in their hands as they watch TV at the bar or cheer of the people on the karaoke machine. You recognize a Bon Jovi song being sung horribly by a middle aged woman. Her friends crowding the stage with their phones in hand, drunkenly recording her screeching performance.

Your heart races and your breathing quickens as your eyes continue to dart between the overwhelming amount of people. You were already late. Dreading coming since Simon gave you the invitation during training one day. Quietly mumbling about how the guys were carrying their tradition of going to Price's favorite pub. Inviting you to come along. Which you immediately accepted. Not stopping to think about the fact that crowded pubs make your head spin and stomach flip like the worlds most dangerous amusement park.

"Cheese!" You hear Soap's thick accent call out through the crowd. His voice immediately sending a soothing blanket over your jittery nerves.

Your head snaps in the direction you heard it from to see your team grouped up together at a large booth in the corner. They all sit tight together. Gaz and Soap clearly having indulged in their alcohol quickly. Soap's cheeks are rosy and his faux-hawk is tossled slightly. He's wearing a dark grey hoodie with some band graphic fading on it. Next to him sits Gaz. Who's wearing his worn baseball cap backwards. A navy hoodie with a grey and blue flannel over it. His eyes droop as he seems to be searching for where soap spots you. Across from them sits Simon and Price. Price wearing his typical beanie and a flannel. He's in the process of taking off his brown leather jacket. Next to him is Simon. Wearing a black hoodie. You cant see anything but his broad frame and the hood pulled up. But you can guess he's wearing his "civilian" balaclava or a black surgical mask.

As you approach, Soap is still waving his arm like a maniac and Simon slides out of the booth. Turning slowly to watch you approach. You don't even try to bite back a smile as you get closer. He's in his black surgical mask and a pair of dark denim. Thick leather boots on his feet. Jeans cuffed to reveal the lighter denim on the inside. Hiding the very top of his boot. His pale hand reveals itself, gesturing for you to slide into the booth. To sit right between him Price's broad frames.

You slip right in. Sitting close to Price. Your cardigan brushes against his flannel and he looks down at you. Giving you a sweet, genuine tight-lipped smile. "Hey, Cheese." He rasps, nudging your shoulder lightly.

You smile back in response. Glancing back over the busy pub as Simon squeezes in next to you. Both of your arms pressed against each other. "It's packed." You observe, adjusting between the two large men.

"Well, you did show up at 22:00." Gaz chuckled.

"How long have y'all been here?" You ask. Your American accent standing out in the pub full of Brits and Soap.

"Y'all!" Soap repeats in a southern accent. Surprisingly nailing it despite the fact that he's completely tossed.

The group ignores it, Gaz answers. "Soap and I got here around 19:00. Price and Ghost got here about an hour ago."

Before you can respond to Gaz, Simon speaks up from beside you. His gaze darting from you to the glass of whiskey sitting on the table in front of him. Pale fingers fidgeting with the wrapper of a straw. The straw from Price's coke. "How come you came so late?" His voice is quiet. Only being heard by you and maybe Price.

"Oh, I was calling my parents. And i got a little distracted."

It wasn't a lie. Not entirely. Just withholding the full truth. Not wanting to explain the fact that you had been doing every single chore and calling every single family member instead of getting ready to meet them at the pub. So you just wear a baggy, knitted cardigan over a grey cami. The lavender color of your cardigan and it's marble white buttons standing out amongst the men you were with. Who were wearing rather dull colors. A pair of light wash jeans on your bottom half and your trusty converse. The pair you've had since senior year. The fraying canvas and scuffed soles giving them character. And a sense of nostalgia. A birthday gift from your older brother. Who saved up all of his tips that he got working as a barista while attending college.

You shift awkwardly under his intense stare, waiting for any sort of response from him. Nothing comes. Instead, Soap leans over the table and speaks loudly. His accent thicker with the more he drinks, "Gaz and I have bets going on some pool games, you want to join?"

"I'll pass, I'm not very good at pool." You chuckle, speaking up so they could hear you over the crowded bar.

"That's better for us, means you'll lose!" Gaz chimes in, leaning against Soap.

"Maybe next time. What are you getting anyways?"

"Loser sings karaoke. Winner chooses which song." Soap answers with a drunken giggle, Gaz joking in. You've never seen either of them this drunk before.

"You're going to force an entire bar full of people to listen to your awful singing?" You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Cant be as bad as the Cougar screaming on stage." Gaz nudges Soap as they laugh loudly. God, they were obliterated already.

Time passes and eventually Price has moved to the bar, leaving you and Simon to watch as Soap and Gaz play pool together. You cant tell who's winning, so Simon updates you with each play. You now had a vodka cranberry sitting in front of you. After Price begged you to let loose for once and stop being a "block of cheddar." Whatever that meant. But when he said it was on Shepherd, you couldn't refuse ordering a few drinks on the dreadful man's pocket. Price giving a big belly laugh as you make a remark about Shepherd's bald head.

With the drink and Simon's calming presence, you feel your anxiety starting to rinse away. A second drink comes and you and Simon are still pressed together despite having more room in the booth now that Price disappeared. The two of you watching Soap lose brutally in a game of pool. Most likely due to the fact that he can't even stand straight. You watch as him and Gaz stumble to the karaoke machine, which is vacant now that people are more focused on midnight approaching. Typing in the song Gaz had chosen as the pair giggle and try to read the screen. Their vision most likely blurred and spinning. The song starts playing once everything is set up, the microphone in Soap's hand as he leans on Gaz for support. Probably needing a glass of water more than a song. You cant help but giggle as Come on Eileen starts playing. Typical karaoke song.

You're still sat in the booth with Simon, watching as Soap curls his arm around Gaz. His singing getting louder and increasingly incoherent as he attempted to read the words on the screen. His accent thick with each word. You wish your hearing was non existent as you watch the shit show in front of you. Simon sitting silently at your side.

"We're going to have to roll that man out," You say with a grin. Soap's an idiot but he's the team's idiot.

"I say we leave him to Price." Ghost replies, glancing at you while you take a chug of your drink.

You glance over to Price, who has his arm loosely around a blonde. A charismatic smile as he leans against the bar, the pint of dark beer half empty and her flashy margarita with nothing but the salt around the rim and the flimsy umbrella laying. It's place as a decoration looking rather sad in the empty glass.

"It seems like Price is on his own mission," you say with a raised brow.

"At least the old man is getting out there," he grumbles. You watch subtly as he lifts his mask to finish off his whiskey. Catching a glimpse of a scar down his pink lips. The sight bringing a familiar pool of heat to your stomach. Your ribs squeezing from the desire building.

You swallow your alcohol infused thoughts, turning back to your drink when you notice his brown eyes shifting under your gaze. You weren't being nearly as subtle as you thought. He had felt the tension build between the two of you the moment your eyes landed on his lips. Clearing your throat you speak up, "Yeah, he's been getting irritable lately. Maybe some stress relief outta do him some good."

You hear a small huff of laughter next to you, watching as his shoulders shook slightly under his black hoodie. A small smile creeps on your lips. Not able to hide the giddiness you feel every time you manage to break his shell. Even if it was something as subtle as a huff of laughter or a sheepish expression.

"Can't remember the last time I've seen the poor bastard do anything for himself." He responds, a hint of a smile in his voice. It was light, airy. But it was everything to you. A moment worth a mental picture in your brain.

"Good for him," you conclude with a proud nod. Watching as the blonde places a hand on Price's bicep. Which looked like it was screaming to be let out of the flannel he wore.

Your eyes flick back to Simon, admiring the curve of his nose. The very top of it peaking out from the surgical mask. The mere sight of him drowns out Soap's awful singing. Drawing you in and letting your mind wander to all the places you wanted the talk, blonde man to take you. You couldn't help but imagine how his nose would feel against your skin. His breath fanning on the open landscape as his lips trace every inch of you. Breathing you in with each peck. You imagine how it's feel as he leaves a trail of kisses down your stomach. Or pressed against your sensitive bud as he buries his face in your dripping cunt. Jesus, Cheese. Slow down.

With that last thought in mind, you stare down at your drink. It's your third. And probably your last. Given the fact that midnight was approaching minute by minute and you needed to be sober to try and get Gaz and Soap out. Simon was on his fourth and final glass as well. Announcing he was cutting himself off before he would have to endure a nasty hangover the next morning. Soap was finished singing, gesturing to you and Simon that they were going for one more round. A round that would probably tie them over to midnight.

And it did. Leaving you and Simon to drag him and Gaz out of the bar and to the Uber you had ordered. Price having left swiftly after midnight with the blonde he was chatting up. Her dragging him out as they laughed like a couple of teenagers. Price giving you and Simon a smug smile and a wink as he passed. You waving goodbye and Simon glaring at him. Pissed at the fact you two were left to taking care of the drunken babies screaming in the karaoke machine. Especially when Soap turned into a runner after 3 pints.

You and Simon wrangle the drunken toddlers into the Escalade. Gaz sobering up quick once you had buckled him in and gave him a bottle of water that the bartenders were handing out. On the other hand, Soap was being a straight menace. Making Simon's life ten times more difficult than it needed to be. Acting like a toddler in the middle of a bloody, screaming tantrum. Trying to slip out if Simon's tight grasp to take off through the streets. You and Simon having to resort to scaring him into sitting still in the Uber. Leaving you in the middle of him and Gaz, holding onto Soap's hand as he babbles. His thick, slurring accent completely impossible to understand. He even asks you a question. One that Ghost has to translate for you.

"Why do they call ye Cheese?" He slurs, head turning to look at you.

"Grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin." You explain with a shrug. You had gotten used to people asking by now. But internally you were certain you had told him already.

"Oh," he pauses, his lips pressed into a small pout as he thought more about it. "Well, that's silly."

"Your name is Soap. What if I think that's stupid?" You say flatly, watching his pout grow.

Eventually, you're back to base. Gaz walking up on his own, but you stay next to him. Ready to catch him if he takes the wrong step or needs to puke. Simon practically carrying Soap behind him. Who's now singing old Scottish folk songs while Simon grumbles profanities. Your favorite being a threat to make him sleep in the bushes. Which causes infectious laughter from the Scot. Which you are quick to quiet as there's other people on base.

Once you're in the confines of your groups own little sector. You and Simon get Gaz into the respective rooms. Propping them on their sides in case there were any accidents. Leaving a water bottle and a couple tablets of Advil for their heads in the morning. Simon was partial to dumping them and heading to bed. But you made sure they were out of their jackets, in their beds, converse with blankets, and had water for the morning.

Soon, you find yourself in Simon’s room. Listening to him grumble endlessly about the behavior from the other three men you live with. You watch in the corner as he lazily unties his leather boots. Body hunched over completely as he sits at the edge of the bed. Kicking them off with a bit of a tipsy struggle. Letting them plop at the end of his bed with a large thunk!

Awkwardly, you shift in your place by the door. He had invited you to come in. But this side of him was so foreign to you that it still felt wrong. Like you were in forbidden territory. But you bury the anxiety. Reminding yourself that the flipping of your stomach could be blamed on the three mixed drinks you had indulged in.

He’s sat up now, stretching his back. A loud crack sounding through the room as his spine arches like a cat. You watch as his hand reaches for his surgical mask. You don’t think twice of the motion. You’re occupied with a fuzzy brain. Crossing the room with a shy stride, blinking a few times as your vision adjust to the dim lighting in his dorm. Your eyes flicking back up to catch his movements. And it isn’t until the mask is pulled completely off that you realize what is happening.

“Simon?” You ask quickly.

His eyes snap to you, head turning towards you ever so slightly. Revealing the rest of his face to you. And god, he’s fucking gorgeous. The curved bridge of his nose that you always noticed is paired with a straight, and narrow length. Slightly tipped downwards. The pale scar you noticed earlier seeming to glow in the dim lighting. Crossing through his pale pink lips. His jawline strong and the shape of his face a little longer than you’d ever noticed when he was wearing the mask.

“You take that thing off?” You ask without thinking. Voice laced in disbelief and shock.

He lets out a huff of laughter. A small, boyish grin tugging at his lip. “Of course I do.”

You stare at him for a moment longer, taking in his strong, prominent features. Trying to drink in every centimeter to engrave in the back of your brain. “Why are you taking it off now? I thought you were hell bent on hiding your face.” You question, frowning slightly.

“You’re the only one who hasn’t seen my face.” He says bluntly.

“What? That’s no fair!”

“Perfectly fair.” He responds. You find yourself speechless. Now you got to put a face to the snappy, dry comments he had an endless supply of. Seeing the full expression of his face when he’s giving an unimpressed stare. You adore it.

“Why haven’t I seen it?” You ask, faking offense with a dramatic gasp.

“Because you’re insufferable.” He answers dryly. But the crooked smile on his lips give his intentions away. You grin, moving your body from its place on the edge of the bed with him. Leaving over to snatch the balaclava that rests on the nightstand where he had tossed the surgical mask. His “civilian” balaclava. The one with the skull print. “What are you doing?”

“Trying it on.” You giggle.

“Don’t touch it.” He says sharply, moving to reach for it.

Your reflexes are heightened. Holding his mask out to the side with a giggle, trying to push his massive body back. But he's too big and overpowering. Not to mention the three drinks you had were still buzzing through your system. He grabs your hand on his chest, pulling you into him as the other arm snatches the skull mask. He tosses it to his nightstand before using both hands to pick you up from the edge and throw you down gently on the middle of his bed. The wooden bed frame creaking with age. "You're a brat," he says in deep voice. His dark, playful glare making your heart spike as you're pressed against the mattress.

"Am not!" You argue, laughing as you realize he's about to tickle you. Picking up the lower half of your body as he inserts his larger frame between your denim covered legs. You wonder if it's third grade again as his hands move from holding you down to your sides.

He then laughs and tickles your ribs, causing you to gasp out into a fit of giggles. Your hands shooting up to his wrists to stop him as you try and speak through the laughter erupting from your chest. He laughs mischievously. His hand moving down to your stomach and up your sides again. The action making you laugh even harder while begging him to stop. Words broken and squealed as you giggle. He finally stops the tickling but he keeps his hands on your sides, looking at you with a crooked grin on his face.

You try not to dwell on the fact that you've never seen him smile before. And have never ever imagined it would look this good. Or boyish. This felt completely out of character. And it was. All you could think to do was blame it on the glasses of whiskey he had downed just before midnight. But that wouldn't stop you from memorizing each inch of his face without the mask on. Taking in the sight of his blonde lashes that are just a little bit lighter than his thick eyebrows. Or the scar running down his cheek to his jaw. The line dark and uneven, a contrast to his pale skin. The other scar just below his nose and through the pale pink lips that spread thin with his smile. He was everything.

The veins in his pale hand popping against your hips as he keeps your ass in place on this thick thighs. "You are and you know it." He finally says, a bit breathless from laughing at you.

"You're so mean." You say breathlessly, giving him a playful pout.

"I know, that's why you love me...right?" He asks you, with that charming smile and a smug voice to match. His hands on your sides, leaning down towards your face.

You just giggle again, nodding slightly as you admire how he looks above you. Your breathing starts to calm as you two sit in the warming silence between each other. Your back is against his sheets, hair spread on his pillow. He's sitting between your legs. Your thighs pressed over his hips as his large body leans over you. As your giggling ceases, you notice him getting closer and closer. Your heart beats faster as his face leans a couple inches forward. Stopping for a second to look over your features. His breath was warm. The scent of a heavy mint mixed with a bit of whiskey. The slow exhales fanning your jaw slightly as his eyes flicker to your lips. His hands on your sides started to get lower the closer he got. Thumbs digging into your hips lightly. Like he was trying to imagine how your flesh would feel gripped beneath his bony fingers.

Suddenly, you realize what's happening. It hits you like a train coming full speed ahead. You feel your heart lurch as a fire erupts through your hips. His thumbs brush over the skin that is exposed. The cardigan you're wearing rides up to reveal more of your skin peeking between its hem and your jeans. Wires in your brain start to connect when you realize the severity of your situation and your rising feelings. This was Ghost. Simon fucking Riley. These thoughts weren't allowed. These feelings are forbidden. This isn't real. This isn't him.

You sit up, scooting back as you come to your senses."I...I should probably get back to my room." You clear your throat. Trying to even your breathing.

He moves back, sitting up completely as your close proximity starts to sink in to his senses. You hear him swallow slightly, shifting back more to allow you to move. Sitting up, you shift towards the edge of the bed. Your feet dangle as you try and calm down the screaming arousal pumping through your veins. As you sit there, you wonder what thoughts run through his brain. Was this all good fun? Was this something he wanted or thought about? Were you something he thought about?

"Right," his voice deepens and his dark eyes run cold, "you should probably go."

Fuckin' hell. The tension in the room grows thick. It's painfully obvious the affects of the alcohol have taken over their senses. Creating a false perception of each other in a close proximity. You internally calm yourself. Reminding yourself that you're human and a very large, brutally attractive man was hovering over you just second ago. Of course you'd be turned on. But he's your lieutenant. The second in command. The man who'd take over if Price left or retired. Your superior.

"Right." You repeat. Your voice just above a whisper.

Another consequence of drinking rears it's ugly head when you feel tears start to burn at the corners of your eyes. Why were you so upset? You scold yourself, repeating the fact that you were the one to stop things from progressing. And he's your superior. Not like it should happen anyways.

But your scolding only goes so far. Instead, a dark shadow of guilt and shame starts to crawl over your skin. You pull your cardigan tighter against yourself as you stand up from his bunk. Your converse tapping on the floor as you start to step away. Glancing at the way her shifts to sit on the bed. Long, large legs planted on the floor. His pale, striking face observing you.

This type of look wasn't different from the look he always gave you. But this time, you could see his entire face. You can see his thick brow knitting together as his dark eyes scan over you. His eyes stained with dark circles. You could see all of the flaws he so desperately wanted to hide from everyone. But you. The face he allowed you to see. The one with a crooked smile. The sheepish smile that he'd try to bite back. Or the way his nose was a little crooked at the end. And it scrunched up when he lets out a boisterous laugh.

But all you see is the dark wall that began to rebuild itself. The glaring eyes and the shadow from his thick brow. The rest of his face void of expression as the hand on his leg squeezes his thumb a few times. A nervous tic you had noticed. Something he does when he has so much more to say. When he has an overwhelming amount of feelings bubbling up in his throat. Threatening to spill out like when a toddler spills their milk. Accidental. Inevitable.

Slowly, you make your move. Spinning around and walking towards the door with your arms wrapped around your torso. Feeling the overwhelming urge to crawl into yourself like a little shell. Hiding from the reality of you being completely enamored by him. Hiding from all of the pining you shamelessly embraced. Shielding yourself from the fact that you want him to pull you back into his bed. Knowing that if he did, it would ruin this. All of the effort you made to get this close to him knocked over like Jenga blocks. Leaving him to be nothing but a stranger. This is for the better. You know it's for the better.

A choked breath stops you in your tracks. Your footsteps halt and you turn your head over you shoulder. His large frame still sat on the bed with hunched shoulders. His voice monotonous, speaking out your name into the dimmed room. "Happy New Year."

Your words come out fragile, on the verge of tears. "Happy New Year, Simon."

༝̩̩̥͙ ༓༝̩̩̥͙ ⊹

moot tags: @annasinterests @pertinentpostmortem

#simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader

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blackberrywars · 8 months

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♥️Lambert/Aiden Fic Reclist!♥️

For anybody and everybody interested in Lambert, Aiden, and/or their relationship! I've been obsessed with these two since the start of the pandemic, and they inspired me to start writing my own fic, so making a reclist has always been an idea in the back of my head. Plus, it's come to my attention that the tag can get crowded sometimes, so, Laiden fans, this one's for you.

Parameters: I've decided to divide my recs based on common story types that explore Laiden both in and out of canon. Other ships are allowed, but the focus is Lambert/Aiden. Additionally, I put a cap on 3 fics max per author. These are not arranged in any particular order beyond the categories.

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♥️Lambert's Revenge/Aiden's Death or Return♥️

(i know dead people, and you are not dead) by @brighteyedjill (Explicit/5,940/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Lambert finds Aiden after ten years of torture, maimed and broken. They retire and learn each other once again, mind, body, and soul.

I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory by CamilleDuDemon (Mature/2,327/Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death)

Aiden dies on a beautiful sunny day, while Lambert waits for him in their usual meeting place. Witchers cannot love and witchers never die in their beds. If only neither of those were true.

No Grave by @blackberrywars (Mature/2293/No Archive Warnings Apply)

A shameless self-rec, because I'm very proud of this fic. To the tune of Hozier’s Work Song, Aiden crawls from her almost-grave, determined to see her baby wolf again.

Fair Trade by Anoke (Mature/40,373/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Karadin sells Aiden to a mage, and he becomes an experiment, trapped in his own head while searching for a way out. It's a series, and this is the part where shit gets ugly.

Very Dark Magic by @bomberqueen17 (Mature/23,683/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Aiden is once more getting tortured and mind-controlled by a mage, but luckily enough and via the power of psychic beams, Keira and Lambert find him. And Lambert's pissed.

Roses Fall but the Thorns Remain by @t4tlambert (Teen/1,458/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert holds Aiden's medallion in his hands, and he knows what it means. He pays for the privilege of having this last piece of his lover, and falls apart for just a moment.

No Grave Can Hold My Body Down by @t4tlambert (Teen/14,414/No Archive Warnings Apply)

A fellow Hozier-lyric-title user. Aiden crawls out of his grave and is found by Eskel, who begrudgingly decides to not piss off his little brother and does his best to keep his Cat alive.

Fortunes of the Fearless by @tumbleweedtech (Teen/627/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert is a vicious bastard, and Aiden is lucky enough to be around to appreciate it, even if Lambert's victim is long dead and drowned.

Survival by @kitdubhran (Teen/1,278/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Aiden wakes up in enough pain that he kind of wishes he hadn't. But he does wake up. And we all know who he's gonna go find.

♥️Getting Together & Being Together♥️

Intent by tnico (Teen/18,551/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert does everything in his crotchety (open to interpretation) power to get Aiden to reveal his devious plans and fuck off, except all he wants is to be by Lambert's side. Incredible characterization, funny as hell, and awesome research footnotes.

Bad Blood (Runs True) by @fairytrashmother (Teen/8,368/No Archive Warnings Apply)

The Tournament never happened, and the Cats and Wolves are actually trying to make peace. A young pup and a young kit might just solve their problems

Silver for Monsters by @crimsonherbarium (Explicit/108,559/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

A canon-compliant look at the development of Laiden with awesome cover art and plenty of angst in later chapters. Lambert is slow to trust, so the burn follows thus.

Lacebound by @heronfem (Mature/39,391/Graphic Depictions of Violence)

Lambert and Aiden as young witchers in winter, lacebound by the fucked-up system they live in, and soon, lacebound to each other. Extremely nuanced politics, people, and circumstances, but also something like a college AU, if Bombs 101 was a class

Denial by tnico (Teen/16,989/No Archive Warnings Apply)

This fic quite possibly wins the award for bitchiest Lambert dialogue in existence, and no one loves it more than me and Aiden. They go a-curse-breakin' and have a grand old time together. More awesome research footnotes

Therapeutic Effects by @laurelnose (Teen/900/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert finds Aiden purring himself back to health, and it's mad cute (but also hilarious because Lambert is Lambert)

Fuck Off: A Love Story (In 5+1 Parts) by @skaldingrayne (Mature/17,080/Graphic Depictions of Violence)

Despite all his efforts to appear the contrary, Lambert is just a bit too noble (and then a bit too horny and a bit too in love) to let this mangy Cat die by his own stupidity. He's still gonna bitch about it tho.

i won't say i'm in **** by @purpurred (Mature/5,848/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Keira arranges for a Cat to fulfill one of Lambert's more private fantasies, and Lambert takes it in the worst way possible. That doesn't mean he can stop thinking about the way Aiden held a poisoned knife to his throat.

ease me of its fever by @inexplicifics (Mature/5,226/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Omega Lambert has spent so many years saying absolutely-the-fuck-not-i'll-rip-your-cock-off that it's more than a little difficult to say yes. Aiden is so, so patient.

mountains that are stacked with fear by @xianvar (Mature/11,171/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert, being Lambert, assumes the beautiful love confession he found in Aiden's bag was actually a prank, and lashes out accordingly. He gets his shit together, and his Cat, eventually.

♥️Meeting the Family♥️

Lambert's two orens' man by Ledgea (Teen/1,861/No Archive Warnings Apply)

One part in an incredible series about the slow development of Aiden and Lambert, but it's just a fun bit of Eskel getting to see his baby brother happy

Hide and seek by Ledgea (Mature/6,617/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert sneaks Aiden into Kaer Morhen, and his whole cohort of bastard pups work hard to cover his ass while causing as many problems as witcherly possible; part 1 of 3

a promise to keep by @all-hail-the-witcher (Teen/983/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Tooth-rotting fluff of Aiden in Kaer Morhen, appreciating the effects of good, regular meals on Lambert's physique. Cutagen biscuits are made.

Winter with the Caravan by @damnbert (Teen/14,229/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert goes home with Aiden for a while, and all the other Cats take the opportunity to take the absolute piss out of them both (and maybe do a little matchmaking on the side)

Lambert's Family by @freudensteins-monster (Teen/5,901/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert hides his biological family until he finally feels safe enough not to. They might be growing up around him, but they still welcome him home every year, and they welcome the Wolves and Cats too.

Did he who made the Lamb make thee? by @tumbleweedtech (General Audiences/1,461/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Being the (asshole) older brothers that they are, Geralt and Eskel constantly rib Lambert about being the littlest wolf, and that his mysterious cat must be pint-sized to match. Lambert is happy to prove them wrong.

♥️Good Old Fashioned Smut♥️

wild green wonder by elizabethgee (Explicit/42,554/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Laiden smut in just about every configuration you can think. Sweet and tender, rough and wild, this one has it all. If you like a dom!Aiden and repressed sub!Lambert, this is stellar

Lambert's (Not-So) Mysterious Vial of Oil by @on-a-lucky-tide (Explicit/11,291/No Archive Warnings Apply)

The Lambert-kicks-ass-at-alchemy headcanon applied to sex. He receives (heh), and then passes his glorious knowledge of lube onto a his student, Aiden

Sweeter Than Pride by @blackberrywars (Explicit/2524/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Another self-rec for the f/f lovers. Lambert is a sweet brat and earns herself a spanking so good she cries. Aiden freaks out a little, but after it all, they fall asleep spooned together

An Evening of Frippery by @bard-llama (Explicit/3,105/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert being a power bottom whose gender is "mind your fucking business," but who nonetheless looks fantastic with his exquisitely tailored skirts hiked to his waist

I Like how the day sounds through this new song by Lynge (Explicit/9,222/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Some porn with plot where Aiden forces Lambert to confess to petty theft and also his deep and abiding romantic feelings (in that order).

Problem by elizabethgee (Explicit/1,977/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

In a fic I've just now realized has the exact same premise as one of my wips, Aiden is obsessed with Lambert's thick ass thighs and will do anything to ride them

Cut You Clean by GreenBird (Explicit/4,203/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert loses a bet and has to let Aiden shave him. It has some... interesting effects on him.

Thicker than Water (and Other Poetic Bullshit) by @kushielsmercy (Explicit/2,835/No Archive Warnings Apply)

A mini-character study of Aiden and Lambert through the lens of some filthy blood-play. They're both far more possessive and codependent than they'd want to admit.

Puppies Don't Talk by @damnbert (Explict/8,725/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Very kink-heavy fic of Lambert going fully into subspace and getting to be taken care of for a while. He can't bring himself to really ask for what he wants, but puppies don't talk anyway.

all dressed up (with no place to go) by @childoffantasy (Explicit/6,707/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert fulfills the redhead contract of wearing green and killing it dead, and there's just enough room under his pretty skirt for Aiden to crawl right up it

Thief's Reward by @inexplicifics (Explicit/1,592/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Maybe Lambert shouldn't reward this handsome Cat for stealing his kill, but it's been awhile, and he might as well get something out of the bargain (it's orgasms. and 60% of the corpse profits)

Dichotomy by @tantumuna (Explicit/25,054/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Extremely kink-heavy fic where Aiden and Lambert switch to see whose methods can get Aiden pregnant the fastest.

Kneel For Me by @alllthequeenshorses (Explicit/2,269/No Archive Warning Apply)

Lambert can only really let go with Aiden, and as soon as he can, it's a freefall. Aiden's there to hold him tight. It's some kinky reunion smut, come get a helping.

Catch and Release by @top-notch-swords (Explicit/9,570/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Aiden is deeply possessive and more than willing to manipulate the situation to remind Lambert exactly who he belongs to. Filthy alley sex and a little codependency that they should probably talk about but actually just fuck about

♥️One-Shot Roulette♥️

A Logical Conclusion by @heronfem (Mature/18,674/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Essentially the thesis of Laiden shippers, seeing Lambert's prickly ass and knowing the only logical conclusion is that he must have loved Aiden very deeply, even across space, time, and AUs

Wheel of the Year by @crimsonherbarium (Explicit/20,717/No Archive Warnings Apply)

A series of Lambert and Aiden celebrating the holidays on the outskirts of society, but finding twice the joy for it. Lots of smut, but also sweetness and angst.

You and I (and what we get up to) by @iwillpooponthefloor (Explicit/19,396/No Archive Warnings Apply)

ABCs of Laiden that focus on them as a team of two. They pull off contracts, schemes, and each other, from time to time.

Purr For Me by @round--robin (Explicit/8,407/No Archive Warnings Apply)

A whole bunch of short and sweet snapshots into Laiden. I couldn't put them on this list, but Robin has a lot of other fics combining Laiden with other ships.

♥️Modern AUs♥️

A Beginners Guide to Exploiting the Kaedweni Tax Code For Fun and Profit by @heronfem (Mature/167,193/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Lambert and Aiden get accidentally married and decide to make it work for the tax benefits. And then they fall in love. And work through trauma. And get a cat. And it's gorgeously written.

What Happens at Waffle House by Anoke (Teen/1,993/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

The rituals are intricate, and Lambert's sometimes involve mutual combat with the Waffle House line cook. Somehow, the feral gremlin gets a date out of it.

All those wonders sit in wait for us by Theladyknight23 (Teen/14,847/No Archive Warnings Apply)

My fellow fem!Laiden crusader with a delightful modern take on witchers as a combination between truckers and pest control workers. Americana themes and the best additional tag ever: "love is like bread."

The Bark that's to Your Bite by @theimpressionablelizard (Explicit/12,976/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Where Lambert is Deadpool pre-mutation and he falls in bounty hunter love with Aiden, who I personally imagine looks like Dev Patel from the Green Knight. A little romance, a little co-worker wolves, and lots of swearing.

Three Cats Walk Into A Bar by @halehathnofury (Teen/2,607/No Archive Warnings Apply

Inspired by the lovely @whyzowl's art, it's the Wolves + Ciri dressing Lambert up to get him laid, and Aiden taking the bait.

Helpless, Feckless, Far Too Young by @keirametzbrassknuckles (Mature/14,605/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

The Wolves are a traveling group after a death in the family, and Lambert is so fucking sick of them acting like nothing is wrong. He meets Aiden, and they get on like a fairgound on faire. Written by my personal mistress of angst.

♥️Miscellaneous♥️

Once, Again by @brighteyedjill (Mature/4,521/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Aiden has to save Lambert in a time loop without explaining anything, but we all know Lambert doesn't trust easy. Sometimes the simplest solution is the right one.

The Art of Living by Ledgea (Explicit/25,636/Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Lambert loving people as the story of an art gallery, a skill honed from his cohort to his brothers to Aiden, The Damn Cat, when he makes his appearance.

Fields of color by @witcherscrane (Mature/2,057/Major Character Death)

In the wake of Aiden's death, Lambert follows a beautiful illusion with a smile on his face. His brothers help him find rest.

Give Us A Smile by @etcorsolus (Mature/2,945/No Archive Warnings Apply)

A 5+1 of Aiden making Lambert smile. Textual adaptation of that one post "look at you! you're so handsome when you're not being a bitch."

The Basics by @kushielsmercy (Mature/375/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Aiden gets possessed, and Lambert has a choice to make. Ambiguous ending.

Ashes in His Mouth by Faetality (Mature/3,924/Graphic Depictions of Violence)

Fear makes humans cruel. It makes them not care who gets tied to the stake, so long as they can breathe easy while the victim drowns in smoke. Or, Lambert suffers, and Aiden watches.

remember me as i was not as i am by @all-hail-the-witcher (Explicit/40,248/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Aiden has been dead for a very long time, long enough that Lambert has long since forgotten his face. It's just in time for a beautiful man with green eyes to break in through his window and ask for his services.

Deafening Silence by @wolf-and-bard (Explicit/13,230/No Archive Warnings Apply)

Destiny is a stubborn bitch, but it hasn't Lambert, who doesn't give a rat's ass that he's never meant to see Aiden again.

A Spot of Blood by MsThunderFrost (Explicit/3,440, No Archive Warnings Apply)

How the phrase "Pops didn't raise a quitter" turns into a "sex sent me to the ER" story for Lambert, because he's a stubborn bastard who would rather injure himself than communicate.

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Let me say a few things outright, because I want zero drama.

This reclist is for the benefit of Laiden fans, and is not meant as a criticism of any other ship or fic.

The fics chosen for this reclist are only ones I have read. It is by no means comprehensive, and definitely favors older fics, since that was when I was deepest in the fandom.

I actually had to cut this short because I hit some kind of content block limit, which. Oh welp. If anyone wants me to remove their fic from this list for any reason, PM me and I'll do it asap

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #lambert #aiden #laiden #witcher lambert #witcher aiden #lambden

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nateconnolly · 4 months

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Hozier Reading List of Free Texts You Can Finish in Less Than A Week

Another Hozier reading list is floating around the Internet, and it’s very thorough. Huge respect to @notmysophie for putting that together, they put in a lot of effort and research and it really shows. This is an alternative reading list for people who are too busy or tired to read all the entries on a complete list of Hozier’s literary influences. This list is incomplete—even after finishing it, there will be some very prominent literary references in Hozier’s music that might go over your head. But this will definitely help you appreciate the depth of thought in his songs, and if you read just five pages a night, you’ll be able to finish this reading list in less than one week.

ONE: ICARUS

Hozier puts the myth of Icarus to song in I, Carrion. You could very easily argue that Sunlight is also a response to Icarus. Many classical writers have told or mentioned his story, but I’ll let my own personal tastes shape this list, and recommend Ovid’s Metamorphoses. He tells the story of Icarus in Chapter 8 Lines 183–235. If you can afford it, I love the Charles Martin translation. You could consult the free Brookes More translation, or the one by A. S. Kline. Remember, you don't have to read the whole chapter--just find the part named "Daedalus and Icarus"

TWO: DOOMSDAY CLOCK

The title track Wasteland, Baby! is such a gentle love ballad, I almost have trouble remembering it’s about the apocalypse. Wasteland, Baby! finds hope and love in the face of annihilation. Hozier wrote this song as a direct response to the Doomsday Clock moving two minutes in 2018, one year before the album was released.

THREE: GENESIS 1-3

I also recommend reading Genesis Chapters 1-3. You’re probably familiar with the plot, but I think From Eden is such an ingenious twist on the familiar story that you’ll appreciate it even more after consulting the original. Hozier takes the symbols of Genesis 1-3 and uses them to make his own radically different point. The stories of Eden also come up in Be.

My favorite translation is by Robert Alter, but it’s currently not free online, so you might want to check out the Sefaria translation or the New King James Version (NKJV), both of which manage to capture the beauty of Genesis without becoming difficult for the average English reader. The King James Version (KJV) is also roughly the same level of difficulty as a Shakespeare play. I definitely think the KJV is beautiful, but at the end of a long hard day, you might be better off with the Sefaria, the NKJV, the NIV, or the NRSV. You can Google “Genesis 1” followed by any of those names/abbreviations, and you’ll find it right away.

FOUR: A MODEST PROPOSAL

Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal, written in 1729, might be the most gutting satire in history. UCLA students put together a very thorough explanation of the economic suffering and the proposed “solutions” that inspired Swift. References to A Modest Proposal form the skeleton of Hozier’s Eat Your Young.

FIVE: SEAMUS HEANEY

Before learning about Seamus Heaney, you’ll need some background information on the Troubles. I recommend this National Geographic article. I also recommend looking through these Chris Steele Perkins photographs of life during the Troubles.

During the Troubles, Heaney wrote a series of poems about bog bodies. His poetry directly inspired the corpse imagery in Work Song, Like Real People Do, and In a Week.

Disclaimer: I cannot read Hebrew or Latin. I am evaluating these translations solely by 1) how difficult they are to read and 2) how beautiful they sound. I cannot independently review them for accuracy. Just know that all the translations I’ve listed are widely respected among academics and/or religious leaders.

Anyways if you liked reading this go check out my Substack where I originally posted it.

#hozier #reading lists #original post

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stars-and-inkpots · 7 months

Text

Psychopomp

You are kind. You are good. You trust him. Astarion hates it.

Pairing: Astarion/reader

Tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, cuddling, Astarion-centric, mentions of Astarion's past abuse

Notes: Title is from Hozier's song Abstract (Psychopomp), a song I associate with Astarion a lot and have a lot of feelings about.

Ao3 Link: Psychopomp

Two hundred years.

Two hundred years can change a lot about the way you think about the world. Two hundred years under the control of the most vile man- no, monster was a better word- in Baldur’s Gate. Two hundred years where he had no control, no agency, and no one to save him.

Even so-called “heroes” that would consider intervening if they knew, Astarion knows that they would only see him as a vampire spawn. He would be killed, along with all the others- no different than Cazador. It didn’t matter if he didn’t want to do any of the terrible things that Cazador made him do, it didn’t matter if he was physically incapable of refusing. To the only people who could help him, he was just another monster.

The nautiloid, the tadpole, everything that happened after, it was some sort of cruel joke. He could walk in the sun again, his mind was his own, he could finally be free… but he was at constant risk of turning into some disgusting, tentacled horror under the control of yet another monster. How ironic.

Gods, life wasn’t fair.

Nothing in life was fair.

Two hundred years.

Then there was you. You, who was so ready to help him even after just meeting him- even after he held a knife to your throat. You, who continued to help everyone that you met and expected nothing in return.

You infuriated him.

How could someone like you exist? Everything that he had gone through, everything he had endured until now, all of it proved to him that good people don’t exist. Heroes- true heroes who saved people for the sake of saving them- couldn’t exist, because if they did then why was no one ever there to save him ? Why would he meet one now, after he had already gone through so much?

Watching you save stranger after stranger, turning down their offerings of coin as a reward, it made him sick to his stomach.

And you’re kind to him.

Even after finding out he’s a vampire, you still treat him the same way you treat the others. You even let him feed from you when he needs it, a generosity he thought impossible for a vast collection of reasons. You trust him.

You are kind. You are good. You trust him.

Astarion hates it.

Astarion figured that you would eventually outgrow the naive hope you had for the world. He figured that soon enough, after witnessing all the horrors this world had to offer, that you would grow cynical and jaded just like the rest of them.

But you didn’t. Even now, spending what could be your final night in camp, you had the gall to smile. You continued to shine that insufferable light despite the suffocating darkness of the shadow curse that plagued the land around you.

And the worst part of it all, was that he realised he wanted to share that optimism. You made him want to believe there could be light in the world. You made him hope .

Being back in Baldur’s Gate brought on a lot of conflicting feelings for Astarion. On one hand, he was relieved to be back inside the walls of a city, one he would even be bold enough to call home. On another, he was closer to Cazador again… and the city was sitting overtop a volatile Elder Brain.

Regardless of the unseen threats, you continued to help people while the group travelled through the city. Even before the city, you did what you could for the refugees who couldn’t get inside. Astarion noticed that the sight of you talking with the children and handing a sizable amount of your own supplies over to their parents didn’t seem to inspire the same distaste as it would have a month ago.

Sitting on a bed in the Elfsong Tavern, a welcome change to the admittedly uncomfortable bedroll he’s grown accustomed to over the course of your travels together, Astarion finally admits to himself that maybe you’ve grown on him in a way he doesn’t fully want to acknowledge because it scares him. You’ve changed him, and not in a way that's entirely unwelcome. He cares about you. He trusts you. Both things he hasn’t felt for someone in a long time.

That’s why he finds himself standing outside your door. It’s late, and he knows that you’re likely already sleeping, but he has to at least try and talk to you now before he loses his nerve.

Astarion knocks lightly, almost hoping you won’t hear it.

Of course, you do.

“Astarion? Is everything alright?” You ask, voice thick with concern. You look softer in the low light, gentle shadows cast across the room from the lamp burning on the bedside table. Without your armour, you look even more open, at ease, a look Astarion thinks suits you well.

“Can we talk?”

“Of course, come in.” You open the door wider for him, stepping aside to let him in before closing it quietly behind you. “What’s troubling you?”

Astarion sits on the bed, staring at the ground. You continue to hover near the door, unsure of just how much comfort he wants. He’s silent for a while, but you’re more than okay to wait.

“When I first met you, you irritated me to no end.”

The admission doesn’t exactly surprise you. There were many times where Astarion had voiced his concerns about your actions, especially the ones that served no benefit to yourself. He didn’t like helping people the way you did, but you were stubborn. Of course that created some friction. You wait for him to continue his thoughts.

“You’re nice to people, even people who don’t deserve it. You help people for no reason. You do so much and expect nothing for it- you turn down money when it is offered. Everything you do confuses me. I hated you for a time, because you were the first person I’ve ever met who was truly good.” Astarion still hasn’t looked at you. You move closer, sitting beside him on the bed. Even though the confession confuses you, you let him continue uninterrupted. “I thought people like you didn’t exist. I spent two hundred years learning that the world was only full of selfish people who wouldn’t hesitate to do anything they needed to get ahead. That there were victims, and there were monsters, and you could never escape being one or the other. But then I met you.”

Astarion finally looks at you. He looks physically pained. You reach out and rest a comforting hand on his shoulder, happy when he leans into the touch and sighs.

“I had a plan, you know. I was going to seduce you, make myself indispensable to you. I thought that the sex would make you want to keep me around. But every time the opportunity arose, I couldn’t do it. I spent two hundred years luring people back for him ; making them trust me, but I couldn’t manipulate you like that. I was worried for the longest time. I kept telling myself I had to make a move soon or else you wouldn’t want to keep me around, but you did. You protected me time and time again because you wanted to. You want to go kill Cazador because you want to help me. You want to keep me safe. I haven’t done anything for you. Do you know how infuriating that is?”

You don’t quite understand. It almost hurts to think that Astarion thinks you need a reason to care about him.

“Astarion, I don’t help people because I want the fame or the rewards. I don’t help people just so they might help me. I help them because it feels right. If there’s something I can do, then why would I not do it?” You pause, watching as Astarion’s eyes turn back to the floor. “I’m sorry that no one was there to help you before. You deserved kindness then, just as you deserve it now.”

Astarion’s shoulder tenses under your hand.

You know why your selflessness angers him, because you share a similar sentiment. You mourn those you couldn’t save; the people who died alone and scared. In a world like this, it was difficult to find reason in your actions. But even if only you could make the difference, then you would continue to do so. But gods, it was exhausting some days.

For a moment you worry that you’ve misspoke. Then Astarion speaks up again.

“Thank you.” He’s quiet when he says it, voice nearly threatening to break.

You move to hug him, hesitating to give him time to move out of the embrace if he wants to, but he doesn’t. He wraps his arms around you tightly, clutching the fabric of your shirt behind you. He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear entirely. You bring a hand to his hair, running your fingers through it, and the tenderness makes Astarion almost sob.

“I care about you, Astarion. That will never change,” you promise.

He can’t say everything he wants to yet, but you know him well enough to know he means it all the same.

The two of you end up laying down together, still holding each other, Astarion’s head tucked safely under your chin. It’s the first time he’s ever laid in bed with no expectations of anything other than this. It’s new, it’s daunting, but it’s with you.

He’s with you and he feels safe.

And that’s all that matters for now.

#baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate x reader #astarion #baldurs gate 3 fic #x reader fic #astarion x reader #astarion x you

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