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queers-gambit · 4 months

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Confection Invention

prompt: what is a legacy other than what we're remembered for after we die? names are lost, stories altered, family names obsolete, but recipes are forever because cuisine transcends time.

or how Sansa Stark's favorite dessert, lemon cakes, came to be after discovering your husband's never had a nameday cake.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 3.5k+

warnings: none? none. seems suspicious.

Sansa Stark, newly crowned Queen in the North, was once a child too small, too scared, too sheltered from the harsh brutality of life's reality. Before she left Winterfell that fateful day, it was well known in the castle that the young girl adored the tasty sweet treat, lemon cakes. A confection of dense cake with lemon shreds mixed in the batter, a lemon glaze poured over, and garnished with a bright and tart lemon slice.

King's Landing was equipped to make the dessert and the young redhead still found pleasure in them, sure, but then shit got real when the Lannisters, you know, murdered her father. Sansa "grew up" and didn't bother with sweet treats after that. They just never tasted the same, and she began to admonish herself whenever she had a hankering; figuring with so much bad in the Realm, her want for cake was inappropriate and misplaced.

After years of turmoil, of losing any and everyone she ever cared for, the night the North declared her Queen of their newly-independent realm, Sansa Stark indulged herself and asked the kitchen staff to send lemon cakes to her room with supper. When her private meal was served, so was her dessert, and Sansa had to ask the servant serving her before they could disappear, "Excuse me?"

"Yes, Your Grace?" The serving maid bowed her head, facing Sansa with clasped hands locked stoically in front of her. Sansa almost cringed when she heard her new title, but refrained from reacting - it would simply just take getting used to.

"Might I ask, how are these made?"

"How what are made, Your Grace?"

"These lemon cakes."

"Oh, uh, I do not know the recipe, but I can ask the kitchens - "

"Well, it's odd, isn't it?"

"What is, Your Grace?"

"I've been all over the Realm," she spoke with an even tone, ever the emotionally-stunted diplomat, "and I've sampled many of these cakes in my lifetime, yet fail to find any real distinction. It's almost as if everyone is following the same recipe."

"Oh, well, I do know that they are, Your Grace."

"They are? All of the kingdoms?"

"Yes, Your Grace, i-it's a rare thing, but yes, the Seven Kingdoms use the same recipe."

"How can that be possible? How do they all get the same recipe?"

The maid glanced at the door nervously, "Uh, I-I do not know, Your Grace."

"You may speak freely, you are in no danger here," Sansa encouraged, gesturing to the only other empty chair at her table. "Please, come sit, indulge me in this tale. I am only curious."

"Well," she turned to shut the chamber door, speaking quietly as if what she was about to say was a secret, "it would depend if you know anything about the Targaryen dynasty, Your Grace."

"Only what was generically taught."

She nodded, taking the seat Sansa offered. "Some 2 centuries ago, there was a great scandal and a great war - one you may know as the Dance of Dragons." Sansa nodded and the maid explained anyway, "You see, it started because King Jaehaerys lost his heirs and was forced to choose between eligible familial candidates. Viserys Targaryen, the King's grandson, and his granddaughter, Viserys' cousin, Rhaenys Targaryen."

"Right, I remember the names somewhat."

"The King chose Viserys because, well, he was a man and Rhaenys was only a woman - though, married to a Velaryon, another ancient House hailing from Valyria." Sansa nodded along. "Anyways, uh, King Viserys' first wife was a Targaryen woman who gave him a daughter and then died birthing a son. He remarried a Hightower girl after that and had four other white-haired children; three sons and a daughter."

Sansa nodded slowly as she ate. Nothing like dinner and an entertaining story.

"The second son was Prince Aemond Targaryen, and he had this wife, you see, who was something akin to a saint on soil."

"Nobody's that nice," Sansa snarled in refusal, eyes almost rolling.

"You forget, Your Grace, some 200 years ago, the people never considered rebelling against the Targaryens. Only an arrogant fool would charge a horse at a dragon and think they'd win, so, at the time of this tale, there was no thought to protest the monarchy. Anyways, it wasn't just her kindness that made Aemond Targaryen's wife saint-like. It was all she was, and her most notable work was helping establish, build, organize, and operate orphanages in King's Landing, and then, around the Realm."

"Hmm."

"Well, she worked with those kids and apparently, had an affinity for baking. And because she worked with orphans, when she would take them around to other regions for adoption or placement, she'd leave each kid their own copy of the recipe."

Sansa considered the tale for a moment, then asked, "So, why lemon cakes? Where did they come from?"

The maid smiled.

Aemond Targaryen flinched when he heard something shatter, walking up the hallway alone and only a few strides from his bedchamber. When he opened his door, the One Eyed Prince actually laughed at the sight, "Oh, Gods, are you all right, my love?"

You pouted up at Aemond from the floor, "It was an accident."

"I can tell."

"I really didn't mean to."

He leaned on the doorframe, crossing his arms across his chest, "No, no, I can tell by the way only the vase my mother gifted us for our wedding is broken. Never mind you telling me over the weeks how you despise it."

"It was an accident! I really didn't mean to," you sighed, glancing at the shattered vase around you.

"How'd it happen?" Aemond asked softly, moving forward after pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door. "Hmm? C'mere, little love," he bent at the waist to pick you up from the floor, hoist you in his arms, then carry you to the bed. "You all right? You hurt?"

"No...?"

"Show me."

You frowned and showed the shallow cut on the underside of your forearm, informing, "It was an accident, I swear t'the Seven, Aemond. I just tripped on the chair," you pointed to where the sitting furniture was overturned, "and fell into the table. I was replacing the flowers in the vase."

He nodded, "Your cut isn't bad, here, just hold this to it." Your husband pressed a spare cloth to your wound before straightening his spine. "Sit here a moment, I'll clean."

"No, let me - "

"No, no, love, just wait," he chuckled. In the time it took a maid to bring in a broom and dustpan, Aemond had successfully distracted you enough with casual conversation. It was there you discovered a secret you deemed unacceptable. "No, I am not lying, sweet girl," Aemond chuckled, "I've truly never had a cake for my nameday. The idea just seems silly, doesn't it? To celebrate such a common event?"

You scoffed, "We'll come back to your cynicism later. Surely, in your youth, your mother made you cake?"

"Being the second son, you often got overlooked," Aemond shrugged as if it didn't bother him. "I am not missing much, it's just cake."

"'Just cake'!? You say that because you do not know," you pouted. "What kind of a wife am I that I did not know this?"

Aemond laughed, "We've been married all of 3 months."

"It should've come up," your eyes rolled, "or at least in the lifetime of friendship before our betrothal."

"Consider this a learning opportunity between spouses. It isn't a bad thing," Aemond defended, the shattered and scattered ceramic being swept away. "So what, I've not had cake? I am missing nothing."

"It makes me sad."

Aemond laughed as he eyed you for a moment, nodding like he understood something. "You mean to remedy this, don't you?" He asked, showing the maid out of your chambers.

"Of course I do!"

He chuckled, "You know I am not fond of sweets."

"Doesn't matter, I'll find something you like. We can start with the basics, uh... Um... Well, I guess, do you like dense cakes? Fluffier, lighter ones?"

He paused to think, offering, "I like the gooseberry pies served at banquets?"

"Those are dense."

"Hmm, then dense is fine. They're in smaller quantities because they're so heavy."

You nodded, "Any flavors?"

"I am unsure on that front."

"Fruits? C'mon, fruits are usually really good with pastries and cakes."

"You know what I like," Aemond sighed, uncomfortable with the idea of attention for his nameday. "Trust me, love, I cannot make this decision - I just don't know. I am terribly green when it comes to sweets. Even when offered at formal events, you know I'm not interested."

"Well, how about a sampling? I can make you different treats and you tell me which you like."

Aemond chuckled, knowing you wouldn't let this go and agreed, "All right, sure."

And boy, did you keep to your word. The kitchen staff was already used to seeing you on a decently regular basis, but suddenly, you were spending all day in the kitchen, trying out different recipes. You made cakes, cookies, brownies, pastries, all kinds of desserts! You even went a step further, trying out newly invented ideas until narrowing down several options. You were determined to give Aemond something, wanting him to feel your love and effort in the confections because his nameday was the one day you had to pamper and spoil him without complaint.

(Though, trust me, he still complained and deflected attention.)

You loved Aemond's nameday because he had no choice but to be at the forefront of your attention and affection; something his family found amusing after their years of neglect towards him. Every other day of the year, he was stubborn and impossible and made everything about you; but not his nameday!

Even though he truly wasn't a fan of desserts, Aemond still met you on a balcony at the end of the week because not only did he adore making you happy, but he hardly ever said no to you. You had an array of treats made and displayed, and slowly, he sampled what you presented; speaking simply for your mental notes. However, he came upon something new - something he's not seen before.

"What's this?"

"Um, well... See, my younger siblings sometimes like citrus in their desserts, so, I thought this might be good? Or it could be tart - one or the other."

"This is lemon?"

"Yes, and that is made with limes from Volantis," you pointed to another platter, "that one's orange, that one's cherry, and that one has coconut."

"Where did you get coconuts and cherries?"

"That's not important. Which one is your favorite? It's what you're getting for your nameday, so do not lie."

"Pardon my pun, but the lemon cake takes the cake, sweet girl."

Aemond's heart soared in his chest when your grin of pride was hardly contained; looking pleased that you had invented something to his liking - making it all the more special, being something Aemond never has to share with others.

Sansa thought it was a lovely tale, clarifying, "So, when you say she established King's Landing's orphanages, did she use the Crown's money or the tax payer's?"

The maid smiled, "No, Your Grace, she used royal funds. King Viserys commissioned her bakery, and after a bit, the people actually started donating to her cause because the King offered tax exemption for those who donated."

"And she would take the kids around the Seven Kingdoms for placement? By herself? Why? Why not bake full time? She was obviously good at it."

"She was passionate, and the kids couldn't all fit in King's Landing anymore, so, she had to help relocate them for a better quality of life. She also gave each child the recipe so they could have a little taste of 'home' when they wanted."

Sansa nodded slowly. "How did word spread if she only made it for her husband on his nameday?"

"A moment, please," you interrupted your in-laws departure from the dinner table. When Alicent looked you in the eye, you smiled, "I've something for you all to try in honor of Prince Aemond's nameday."

"Oh, love, no," Aemond whispered in embarrassment, "not tonight."

"Would you mind, Mykal?" You asked the kind servant, who nodded once and exited the dining room.

"What's this about?" Otto questioned.

"Well, I thought we just might celebrate for just a moment together," you eased. "What with tensions so high lately, I just figured we deserved something... Sweet."

Alicent's lips twitched, always knowing in her heart that you were too good for Aemond - too good for this wreck of a family. When Mykal returned, he carried a decorated platter of lemon cakes and set it in the middle of the cleared-away table. You stood.

"What are they?" Aegon asked with an unsure curled lip.

"Lemon cakes," you smiled, "a confection of my own invention made especially for my husband, hmm?" You served a small, personal cake to each family member using saucer platters. "Please, just try it - tell me what you think."

You placed the final cake in front of your husband, grinning and taking your seat again. You knew he hated the spotlight, it gave him anxiety; so, you tried to do your best by acknowledging his nameday without needing to fuss over him. He always liked that you two celebrated privately, but being a "special event", the family had dinner together that night and you thought it a great time for the tart dessert to debut. You dwelled in anticipation as your in-laws all tried their cakes, Aemond feeding you every other bite from his fork as there came a chorus of satisfying hums and groans of approval.

"Holy Mother," Otto chuckled, instantly forking another bite in his mouth. "Mh, mh, mh, wow," he smacked his lips, nodding in impression. "You invented this?" He asked, watching you nod. "You invented a new cake..."

"For Aemond's nameday, yes," you confirmed, tone a little sharper than usual in an effort to make your point.

"I gotta admit, Y/N," Aegon spoke with a full mouth, a few crumbs flying, "this is bloody delicious."

"It really is," Alicent agreed, offering her husband a bite. "Viserys? Love? It's a lemon cake, here, try a bite."

"A what?" Viserys wheezed in confusion. "N-Never heard of l-lemon cake."

"They're new," she explained, "Y/N made them for Aemond's nameday. Isn't that special? Try a bite, love, there you go."

Viserys accepted the bit of cake on Alicent's fork, wincing gently at the tart taste before, too, humming. "'S good," he whispered, looking drained of energy.

"Gotta make these more often," Aegon pointed his fork at the cake crumbles left. He continued, "Like, bring these to every banquet we host and this will be the star." You chuckled and put another cake on his plate, it being instantly torn into.

You smiled at Aemond, "Guess they're a hit."

He leaned down to affectionately press his lips to your forehead for a long moment, mumbling, "Knew they would be."

"So, does this mean I can bake you cakes now? Every nameday? You won't complain?" You asked, tangling his hand with yours and relishing in the way he squeezed.

"Oh, he'll still complain," Helaena giggled, licking icing from her finger, "no matter what."

Aemond smirked at his sister, offering a subtly jab at his family, "I would never complain about being loved. Besides," he offered you a fond, softening look, "she does it so well, wouldn't you say?"

The family hummed in agreement, not truly paying attention to his words - all enraptured with scraping their saucer platters clean. You smiled up at him, letting his lips find yours in a brief show of emotion.

Otto mused, "You know, I've heard it said, 'the love of a good woman will echo through lifetimes'. I think food is a surefire way to ensure that legacy of love, respect, consideration..."

For the next few weeks, you spent more and more time in the kitchens; whipping out batches of lemon cakes to offer the Keep's staff after rumors spread of your cakey goodness. You gifted guards, trainers, tutors, members of court, maids, the castle's servants the newly invented confection. It quickly became the most talked about topic in King's Landing; the citizens being obsessed with your cake and demanding a taste of their own.

In fact, Viserys was so pleased by the turn of events that on one of his rare good days, he consulted Otto. "A bakery for Y/N - would it be worth the purchase? Do you think the Crown should fund the purchase?"

Otto considered, "Well, since her cakes are the hottest commodity currently, I'd say, yes, Your Grace, it'd be worth exploring as a new revenue for the Crown."

"No, no, not for the Crown t'collect from - leave it for Aemond and Y/N to share. This is not to be a business we collect the profits from - but rather, something they might enjoy." Viserys tried to smile, deciding, "Make it happen, Otto, my friend."

"Your Grace?"

"I want - I want her to have a bakery. Where she might sell her baked goods as she sees fit, not as an extension of the Crown, she deserves it. All her hard work," the King wheezed, coughing violently.

"Of course, Your Grace."

Yet when you were informed about your new business venture and shown the building that was to be your bakery, you told Otto that you didn't bake for money and having your own business would be terribly redundant. Yet Otto insisted that you made your own rules and if you wanted to charge, you could, but Viserys wanted you to have a designated safe space to create in.

Upon the grand opening, you were a SMASH hit. The line in your bakery was nonstop and extended out the door; the Gold Dragons overflowing enough for you to restock your ingredients tenfold AND have leftovers to funnel back into the orphanages. People talked, they spread word and rumor, and most patrons had heard through the "grape vine" that your bakery was well worth any wait. Being so popular, you required extra hours baking and only opened about three days a week because you still had your other job.

Speaking of, you obviously still worked with the orphans; in fact, some of them even came to hang out in the bakery! No, they didn't help bake unless they asked to specifically mix the icing or something, because you didn't believe in exploiting child labor. Anyways, on certain days, you closed the bakery and brought all the cakes to the orphanage to distribute, always having a warm heart when the kids giggled while eating the little sweet treat. It inspired you to write down the recipe you invented and every trip you took to help kids find their placement, you brought them recipe cards.

"Here," you handed the card over to the guardian agreeing to care for the kids, "this is just a recipe for a cake and I promise it's really simple to follow. It'll be a familiar taste to them when living here, somewhere unfamiliar for now." You sniffled, offering a watery smile, "Just wanted them to have a piece of home."

The volunteer guardians were usually grateful, knowing baking these cakes could be a form of bonding between them and the kids. It was difficult trying to get these types of kids to open up after all they endured on the streets before your orphanage took them in. Maybe a little cake would help mend those wounds and assure them, while here, they were safe.

You never expected to live out through history, but while names are lost, stories altered, and family names become obsolete, cuisine is a universally shared experience that transcends time.

Sansa sat for a moment, stewing in the story. Never had she imagined such a history lesson surrounding her favorite dessert; she would've thought some old granny would've been messing around in the kitchens to invent such a treat. Not a Princess of the Realm, especially one belonging to the most fearsome and longest reigning monarchy in Westerosi history.

For a brief moment, she was jealous by the description of your relationship to Prince Aemond; hearing how loving your husband was, how supportive and kind to you. She wondered if she'd ever experience something like that - and if she'd ever meet someone who would take her nameday as seriously as you took your husband's.

"What happened after?" She asked quietly, taking a long sip of her wine. "To the Prince and Princess, I mean?"

The maid shrugged meekly, "Not too long after, the Dance of Dragons started and there was no time or reason to bake anymore. They both perished in the flames of war, unfortunately, becoming victims of the Princess Rhaenyra - Aemond's older half-sister."

"Mh," Sansa nodded, "I've heard of her. Maegor with Tits, they called her."

The maid nodded, finishing, "But, you see, Your Grace, the recipe was already spread around the Realm and to this day, is still being used."

The room was silent for a long moment.

"All that," she stabbed her lemon cake with her fork and lifted the bite to her eye for examination, "just because she loved a man and wanted to give him what he's never had before."

"Perhaps, Your Grace, that is why nameday cakes are now tradition. They say the love of a good woman will echo through lifetimes, Your Grace."

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jakescakeislateforourdate · 2 months

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Hey girly!! Im too shy to ask this without the anonymous filter but first of all I’ve been reading through your blog and I love it honestly. I was wondering if you are open to requests if you’d be able to write up something about joe rantz (I am absolutely LIVING for blonde callum) and maybe a coaches daughter trope? he saw her when he went to sign himself up, at the practices all that jazz and just them like becoming friends then more than friends, the boat scene where he gets his seat taken away from him maybe? thank you so much and again I love your work! xx

Hello, my lovely anon. Glad to see you in my inbox. I apologize for the wait but I've been coming out of an awful slump and I was trying to make this piece not total garbage. I hope you enjoy it and I hope I see you in my inbox again.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Joe Rantz (Callum Turner’s) x reader

wc: 4,600

Joe finds himself utterly gobsmacked when he discovers that the pretty face he’s seen at the shell house is the coach’s daughter and not his wife.

Enjoy this garbage!

…

Joe Rantz had come to the shell house in search of work. He’d hoped that making the team would cover his tuition and get him a room and he needed it so desperately. Roger Morris stood next to him, chewing nervously at his nails. “Sorry, Joe, didn’t realize competition would be so tight.” He mutters, spitting out a shred of his fingernail. Coach Ulbrickson was going over the basics of practice. It sounded like absolute hell to Joe but he was out of options. He fidgeted with the number painted on his jersey. Sure, he was strong from a lifetime of rough labor but so were the other boys. Most of them were broke too and just as desperate. Joe didn’t know if he had what it took to stand out but he’d be damned if he couldn’t make a life for himself because he couldn’t muscle up some money for college.

As Ulbrickson speaks, a shadow appears in his office window. It’s too far for Joe’s nervous gaze to actually study the figure. He tries to focus on coach but the shadow continues to draw his attention. Roger notices too. “Who the hell is that?” Joe just shrugs. The shadow never leaves the window even as Ulbrickson finishes up and the boys get split up. Joe can’t dwell on the figure any longer because he’s being herded into the middle of shellhouse. He begins a horrible set of workouts. His body is made for hard work but he’s never actually worked out before. His muscles aren’t used to straining this way.

It’s not long before his breathing becomes labored and sweat is pouring down his back. His curls hang down his forehead, sticking to his skin uncomfortably. And just when the pain is becoming unbearable the coaches are swapping them out and Joe is put on a junky old boat and an oar is pushed into his hands. They start rowing and instantly, the only thing on Joe’s mind is how bad his back hurts. Pained grunts and groans echo across the water as the boys struggle to keep pulling the oars.

Eventually, it’s all over. Joe stumbles onto the dock in front of the shellhouse and feels his knees shaking with excursion. Men begin to drain away from the shellhouse and as the numbers dwindle, the shadow in the window of Ulbrickson’s office reappears. It moves through the glass panes like a swan through water. Then the office door opens and Joe sees your face for the first time.

“That was some tough practice, huh?” Roger bumps Joe’s shoulder, a crooked smile on his face. Joe cannot respond and Roger follows his gaze. “Washington, Washington, what finery you enjoy.”

You descend the steps and take a place between Ulbrickson and Bolles. Ulbrickson puts and arm around and Joe feels his heart wither a little. You’re probably Mrs. Ulbrickson. Though he can’t shake the impression that you look a little too young to be with Ulbrickson.

“Alas,” Roger throws up his hands, “Finery we cannot also enjoy.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“I’m not! How was that crass?” Roger purses his lips and nudges Joe.

Joe just buttons up his jacket and picks up his books, “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

The very next day, Joe is suffering through practice. He aches all over and his muscles scream at him. He’s already shaking when he gets done with the basic strength building exercises. Most of the boys are. There are fewer numbers today but this does not better Joe’s odds by much. They clamber into Old Nero and start rowing away. His wrists twinge and his knees spasm. He rows and rows until he thinks his body will give out and then Ulbrickson is directing them back to the shellhouse. Jow crawls out of the boat, soaked to the bone and stiff as a board.

Then he sees you again, this time your sorting registry papers with Pocock. Your back is turned to him, so you don’t notice his longing stare. He keeps telling himself that you’re a married lady and that he should be focused on making the team, but nothing seems to chase you from his mind.

Coach Ulbrickson sweeps across the dock and places a hand on top of your head, an odd gesture between husband and wife but Joe wouldn’t know about those things. Since his group was the last to use Old Nero, they get the privilege of stowing the oars. Joe begins unlatching the mechanism when he shifts on his knees.

It happens so fast he can’t clock what’s happening. First there’s the sensation of slipping, the horrible thrust of his legs flying out from beneath him. He twists mid slip, and his side smacks the dock painfully before he’s swept off the dock by his own weight. He plumets into the cold water with a catastrophic splash and agonized shriek.

When Joe resurfaces a dozen hands are reaching for him. He grasps onto George Hunt’s forearm and allows Shorty to hoist him onto the sodden wood planks. A fluffy white towel is draped around his shoulders; firm hands rub his chilled biceps. “Are you alright?” You face appears before him.

Joe is almost too stunned to speak, “I—yeah, yeah I’m okay.”

You tuck the ends of the towel into his hands, “Better get showered up and dressed.” Joe just nods and stumbles past you and into the locker room. Roger follows closely behind, teasing Joe relentlessly.

“You’re fallin’ harder than I thought.”

“Roger!” Joe grinds his teeth, huffing and puffing. “You need better jokes.”

Joe spends that night struggling to focus on his schoolwork. He has math homework that needs doing. He has books to read. The one in his hands now periodically goes in and out of focus as Joe’s mind wanders. On the page is the story of a western novel, a man had found a girl walking alone the road at dusk, all on her own. He didn’t want to leave her to the coyotes, so he offered her a ride into the nearest town. They were riding horseback across the prairie. Her arms wound tightly around him; her hands splayed over his chest.

Her hands—

What is wrong with you, Joe?

Joe reads this line over and over again. Each time he nears the end his brain short circuits and all he can think about are your hands on your shoulders. You hadn’t even really touched him, at least not his skin. Yet the only thing shooting through his neurons are the sensations of your fingers along his skin. That imaginary touch he can conjure up so perfectly. He eventually gives in and skips down a few paragraphs. He reads late into the night and the phantom touches are still nagging his senses when he closes the book and rolls over to sleep.

…

Day after day, Joe sees you at practice. You congratulate him when he makes the team and help him with his technique every once and a while. “Roll your wrists just a bit more.” Your fingers would poke at his forearms and direct him in graceful strokes. It fries his brain. You give pointers to the rest of the team too, working closely with Bolles and Pocock to get them in racing shape. It’s not long into the season when Ulbrickson decides to switch coxswains.

“This is Bobby Moch. Your new jockey.” Bolles announces one day. Bobby is short and slender and sharp tongued. The second he climbs in the boat and starts barking out commands, Joe is flabbergasted. Who is Bobby to talk to the team this way? But they all find themselves obeying his every word. What really irks Joe about Bobby is how friendly he is with you. You exchange jokes and poke fun at each other. Joe tells himself that he just thinks it’s inappropriate to flirt with the coach’s wife but beneath it all he’s incredibly jealous that Bobby can make you laugh so easily. It makes Joe pine for attention in a way that he never has before.

The day of their race against California, Joe is all jitters and nerves. He bounces on the balls of his feet and shakes his hands, trying to loosen the anxiety. Streamers and garlands of flags decorate the locker room and the campus. People have gathered in clusters along the course and wave flags of purple and gold. The smell of popcorn and peanuts permeates the air and Joe promises to indulge himself if they win.

As the crew carried their shell down to the water, they begin chanting to themselves. “Bow down to Washington!” They neglect the varsity’s jeers and clip their oars into position. They spot Coach Ulbrickson in the stands, you at his side. And then there’s another woman. And Ulbrickson hugs her. And then he kisses her.

Right in front of you! What is going on?

“Rantz! Eyes on me!” Bobby hollers. But Joe can’t help stealing another confused glance. “I said quite drooling over coach’s daughter and LOOK AT ME!”

Joe feels like an idiot. He puts his head down in shame and tightens his grip on the oar. Ulbrickson joins them on the dock and gives one of his famously encouraging speeches. Joe is only half paying attention. They push off and are left with lovely Bobby hyping them up while they wait for the race to start. They lean forward, like a bow drawn for a shot. And then the white flag flies and the boats shoot away from the docks.

There’s nothing but blur as Joe rows. He can only focus on the muscled shoulders of Don Hume in the stroke seat as Bobby screams at them. “28!”

About halfway through the course, Bobby demands the stroke rate be upped and Don performs. The shell lurches forward, eating up the distance between Washington and Cal until the JV boat surpasses the Berkeley blokes. Then the boat is cutting across the finish line, a clean win. Adrenaline rushes Joe’s veins. He throws his fists in the air as the team splashes and roars. They’re inevitably drowned out by the crowd who bursts up in a shower of peanuts and Washington flags.

Coach Ulbrickson, the new woman Joe assumes his Ulbrickson’s wife, and you rush the dock as the boys climb out of the boat. “Excellent job.” Mrs. Ulbrickson shakes their hands as they unclip their oars. Bolles is compassionate enough to give them each a pat on the back as they hoist the boat over their heads and haul it off.

Joe can’t help but notice the copious amounts of onlookers pooling around the shell as they carry it back to the shellhouse. They set it down on the stands and before they can even take their hands off the shell, they are bombarded by Washington fans. Girls reaching out to stroke their biceps or kiss their cheeks. Joe has never received attention like this once in his life. He’s as polite as possible, brushing off a few girls here and there and shaking the hand of the occasional fellow. Shorty has accumulated a few lipstick stains on his cheek. Don Hume is blushing from the tips of his ears down to the point of his freckled nose. Chuck and Roger accept a few hugs. They bask in the winners’ glory for only a few moments until the varsity team strolls by. They make a comment to Moch that Joe doesn’t catch but judging by the way Bobby’s shoulders square he can make obvious conclusions.

“You rowed so well today, Joe.” He hears your voice, and his palms start to sweat.

“Thanks, I uh—” It occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know a thing about you. “Sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten your name.” You smile at him, and syllables fall out but the crowd is too loud. “What?” Your grasp his shoulder and lean in, the sound of your name echoes off the shell of his ear.

When you pull away, you’re still smiling but before Joe can ask you another question, Bobby is buzzing by with a play-by-play of exactly what happened in Bobby’s world.

You shade your eyes and peer down at the docks, “Looks like dad is almost done with the varsity. I should get down there.” You say, and Bobby turns around to talk to Shorty. “Hey. Will I see you at the party tonight?” Your hand rests on Joe’s shoulder. He prays you can’t feel his heart skip a beat.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Good. You had better save a dance for me, Joe Rantz.”

You leave him breathless, the butterflies in his stomach so vicious that he shudders. He watches you disappear down the pathway to the dock and his heart starts hammering with anticipation. You want to dance with him. You want to touch his hands, touch him. And then he remembers that you already did that, he was too focused on the motion of your lips that he’d hardly registered the sensation of your hands on his arm. Damn! What had it felt like? He’d remembered it’d made him flabbergasted and choked his speech but he couldn’t remember how the grooves in your palm felt as they brushed over his skin. The warmth of your fingertips. He curses himself out and vanishes into the locker room to get changed.

…

The dance rolls around rather too quickly and Joe is swimming in nerves. He has to tie his tie twice because he messes up so badly, he can’t even draw it tight to his neck. Roger found out all too quickly and hasn’t let Joe catch a break.

“A date with coach’s daughter. Careful Joe, Ulbrickson might throw you off the team if he catches the wrong look in your eye.”

“Shut up, Roger, I’m not greasy like you”

“Ouch, that hurts me.”

“Clearly not enough.” Joe hisses as he finally gets his tie right.

“Feels like I’m a father about to send his kid off to prom.”

Joe sighs and throws on his suit coat. “Oh, please—”

“Look at you fly, shooting out of your league.”

Roger works a smile onto Joe’s face, and they set off for the party. Spring is finally warming the campus up from a brutal winter and a few couples mull around outside. Joe and Roger find their way into the crowded gymnasium, both shocked by just how loud it is. Joe can’t even hear his own thoughts. They spot the team almost immediately, clustered around tables, drinks in their hands. A few of the boys are dancing with some lovely dames, a few are leaned against the wall having close conversations. Don is sitting by himself on a bench a few feet away from the refreshment table, watching the dance floor. Joe is turning to follow Roger towards the other boys but an arm loops through his, “Thought you weren’t going to show.” You practically shout.

Joe can’t help but grin as you capture his attention. “You weren’t joking.”

“Not a bit, Rantz, didn’t have any other dancing plans except for this one.”

“Guess I should make it worth your wait then.” Joe leads you into the thicket of bodies.

He prides himself on the laugh you let out, “please do,” you say as he takes your hands and spins to face you. He places his hand high on your waist and cradles the other gently in his palm. He can feel the smooth plains of you hand against his. Each crease and each callous. His are no doubt unbelievably rough from the rowing and he would feel bad but right now all he can feel are your fingers lacing through his. “You’re not half bad.” You tease. Joe knows his cheeks are heating up to a flaming red. Probably his ears too.

His hand migrates to the small of your back as the music changes into a soft slow song. “I’ll be completely honest,” he starts, “I had no idea you were the coach’s daughter.”

“Then who else would I be?”

“I thought you were his wife.” He looks away sheepishly, but your laughter is so unrestrained and whole that Joe’s heart melts. You can’t stop laughing either and it’s contagious.

“You’re an engineering student, right?” Your shoes brush as you sway with him.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Joyce.” Joe’s heart drops. In his infatuation he’d forgotten all about her. “She was trying to hit on you, but she figured out that your attention was elsewhere.”

“You too are good friends then?”

“Just since the start of the year. We have an English class together.” You and Joe talk for a while, it forces you to be close and neither of you care to separate. Eventually, you move outside and sit with sit with Joe on the steps of the gym. It’s still chilly out and you sit close to Joe which he doesn’t mind one bit. At some point your head rests on his shoulder and you close your eyes. Joe can do nothing but stare down at you, his mouth agape.

“Why is your heart beating so fast?” You trace his knuckles with your pointer finger.

Joe’s head pounds, his mouth dry, “This has never happened to me before.”

“None of the girls from high school? Never?”

“Not one.”

You look up at Joe and reach to smooth back a blond curl. “Shame, they were missing out.” This makes Joe smile again and he’s immensely pleased with how easily you do that to him. Make him happy. He hasn’t felt like this since… he can’t remember when. Sure, he was happy when the team won but that was different. That was pride. So was making the team. This feels more affectionate, closer to the heart. He wonders if this is what love feels like but that would be silly; he’s only known your name for a day. He’s also never been flattered quite like this. Besides Joyce, he can’t think of anyone else who’s actually been interested in him. Certainly not one who compliments him the way you do.

People start to drain out of the gym very slowly and Joe checks his watch. “So late already?”

“Guess I should get home; my dad will be wrought with worry.” You joke and straighten out your skirt.

“Can I walk you home?”

“I would love that.”

Joe offers you his hand, “Where does coach live?”

“Not too far.” You accept his calloused hand and direct him off campus. Surprisingly, Joe has read the book you’re reading for English and time flies as you discuss the book. Then Joe makes a sobering comment that makes you stop and study him.

“His parents remind me of my own.”

Joe realizes what he’s let slip, “Don’t worry about it too much. I’m okay.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

Joe presses his lips into a line and stares down at his worn shoes. A wave of self-consciousness washes over him as he realizes how ragged of a life he has lived and just how much it shows. “Well—”

“Is this why you have a hard time trusting your team?”

“Hey now,”

“Sorry.” You take his hands.

He grimaces and squeezes your soft palms. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

Joe sighs and swipes a thumb across your knuckles. “My Pops just… left me one day. Told me I’d be fine on my own.” Joe gives you parts of the story. Mostly what he feels like stomaching at the moment.

When he’s finished you let go of his hands and cup his cheeks. He sinks into the touch, soaking it up like a flower budding in sunlight. You don’t say anything, you just look at him. You look at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered and his heart trembles because he has never once known what it’s like to be that for someone else. And then you stand on tip toes and plant a hearty kiss on his forehead. “This is it actually,” you gesture behind you at the hosue that must be the Ulbricksons’. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice?”

“Yeah.” The spot on his forehead that you kissed tingles. “Nowhere else I’d want to be.”

…

The Poughkeepsie Regatta rolls around all too quickly and Ulbrickson has to make a decision. The varsity boat who deserves it. Or the JV boat who could win it. His hands sweat as he stands on at that pulpit and reads off his preplanned speech. As he talks, he thinks about the future of the rowing program. The jobs it has provided him and Bolles. About how Pocock would have to find work elsewhere and it’d kill Al Ulbrickson to send him away.

He leans into the mic and spits, “and that boat is our JV boat.” It has to be them. They have to win. Moans and groans blow his way as the crowd rejects his announcement. Regret washes over him but he cannot take this back. He has to be right about his crew. He tips his hat and hustles off the podium as the JV bursts into celebration. He has to be right.

…

Joe is more than pleased to see you on the train to Poughkeepsie. He slides into the car with you, and you chat away. You were fast friends the night of the dance and have since become closer. The kiss on the forehead still lingers sometimes, especially when Joe sees your lips form your smile. You entice him into some card games and eventually a game of chess. At some point, he decides that he needs to sleep and bids you goodnight so that he can find a train car to sleep in. But before he does, he sneaks a chaste kiss onto your knuckles.

His good mood is stamped out the very next day when the team takes to the water. They don’t row good, and frustration starts to build. Bobby and the coaches try and get them working together, telling them that it’s just nerves and new water. But tensions rise regardless. The days start to dwindle, and the crew is getting worse and worse.

Blame starts to turn to him, and Joe is at a loss. He doesn’t want to believe that he’s holding the team back, but he thinks back to what you said that night he walked you home. But the most awful feeling creeps over him, not an ounce of care. What’s wrong with him. This crew has been the only family he’s had in years. He needs them. But he can’t bring himself to admit it.

Before he knows it, it slips and Ulbrickson is exiling him from the boat. As the crew watches Joe storm away, their spare crawls in and they set off for another row. Bolles taps you on the shoulder, “you had better see if you can do anything. Enlist Pocock if you have to.” Your father nods along.

You set out to find him, not that it was hard there’s not many places he can go alone. He’s stuffing his suitcase when you find him. “Don’t start.” He snaps. Then he sees your expression and his anger sours. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t—”

“Don’t give up on your team, Joe.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, you’re quitting and throwing everything you’ve worked for away.”

“Don’t, don’t even start to pretend you know me.” He realizes too late that he’s made everything so much worse and before he can fix a thing Pocock is at the door.

“I could use some help putting another coat of oil on the shell.”

You duck past Pocock and leave Joe with a painful pit of remorse in his stomach. He follows Pocock and takes the talking to straight to the heart. As he lathers on a thick coat of oil, he figures he can bargain with Ulbrickson in the morning, but he should make a proper apology to you now. He racks his brain for anything that would make it right, but he’s horrifically inexperienced and it’s crippling him now. He feels like a child having a tantrum. He feels miniscule and insignificant.

After Joe dunks his brush into the whale oil can for the last time, he figures he’d better just confront the issue head on since he has no way of handling it delicately. He has no grace and he’s sure you’re aware of this. Pocock gives him an encouraging pat and takes the can from him. Joe winds his way back to the hotel and through the halls. Your room is on the second floor, third door down. He knocks gently, eyes lingering on the hideous carpet and tacky sconces. The door swings open after a moment and Joe is met with your disapproving glower. His tongue seems to swell in his mouth so badly that he worries it’ll flop out when he tries to speak.

“Coffee?” You ask when you realize he will stand there silently forever if you don’t let him in.

“No… I just wanted to—to apologize.”

“Oh really.” Your eyebrow quirks.

Joe is fumbling for words. You stand aside and motion for him to step inside so you can have this discussion in privacy. “I know that was wrong to take out my frustration on you. That wasn’t fair and none of it is your fault.” He twiddles his thumbs. How does he go about this without absolutely butchering it? “I just—” As he trails off, he notices a hurt dullness in your eyes. He recognizes it as pity. “You and the crew are really all I’ve got, and I’m so scared I’m going to lose it.”

“These boys aren’t going to leave you behind unless you separate yourself from them like today.”

“I know.

“Really?”

“Pocock made sure I know.”

The edges of your lips tilt up. You pull him down onto the foot of the bed and take his hand. “Are you actually going to try and trust them?”

“Don’t have enough faith to put it in anyone else.”

You squeeze his hand and trace a finger along his jawline, sweeping a knuckle under his chin. You force his stubborn gaze to you and find nothing but desperation. Wanting things like this doesn’t come natural to Joe and it shows, but he’s not so different from the other boys in that boat.

You reach up and fiddle with a curl, “apology accepted.” Tears pool in the corners of his eyes and he tries to choke them down. You place a hand on his chest and rest your forehead on his. His breath fans over your cheeks. The tip of his nose brushes yours. His shoulders sag inwards and he reaches for your waist.

“Can I—may I kiss you?”

Joe’s sweetness never fails to amaze you. You cradle his face and bring him closer. “Yes, Joe.” His breath hitches and his lips finally meet yours for the very first time. He’s gentle but generous and lets you kiss him for as long as you like. His arms wrap around you fully and hold you to his chest. He gets the feeling that he’ll be craving these moments all the time now, finally understanding what Roger and Chuck rave about. He’s hooked on your lips and your weight against him and when you pull away it breaks his heart.

“You should get cleaned up before you talk to my father, you smell like whale oil.”

...

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading this. If you'd like to request, feel free to do so. I always love you in my inbox. I hope you enjoyed this fic and if you like it please check out my masterlist for more. Have nice day.

-the author

#boys in the boat #Joe rantz #callum turner #joe rantz x reader #callum turner x reader

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communistchilchuck · 10 days

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I was asked to help share Omar's fundraiser. He is urgently raising money to evacuate he and his family or start rebuilding their lives in Gaza. He has only raised €822 out of his €50,000 goal so far! Please share and donate, and if you can't donate, please still share!

From Omar's GFM:

Hello, I am Omar, a Palestinian from Gaza.

I’m reaching out to you seeking your help for me and my family from the horrors of the relentless war that has been ongoing in Gaza for 7 months now. I would like to tell you a bit about my small family.

I am married and have 4 children, Leen, Lian, Mohammed, and a 9-month-old daughter named Lolo. My 38 years of life in Gaza is what I love all about. I love its beach, its streets, its life, its smell, I love everything about Gaza. I had a normal, quiet and quite happy life with my husband and daughter and with my parents and siblings until last October.

After the 7th of October, my whole life came upside down due to the war on Gaza. I first moved to live with my wife and children at my parents’ house due to the ongoing war and the fact that we needed to be evacuated across the Gaza Strip. I was afraid of not being able to save my family with bombs falling around, so the first displacement was moving to my parent's house. The war became fiercer and we were afraid, my little child was crying due to the continuous shelling and explosions.

Eight months pregnant, my brother's wife struggles to care for herself and her unborn child. The desperation weighs heavily on all of us.

A few days later, we were ordered to evacuate the building where my childhood home once stood so we had to quickly collect a few belongings and leave my parent's house. Me, my wife and our family moved to my sister’s house which was in a quieter neighbourhood and a smaller building. That was our second displacement. Shelling equally followed us to that area, so this time along with my sister, her husband and his family all of us had to move again. We had to split to 3 different places due to available places to shelter and thus with our 3rd displacement, the incessant bombing, lack of water, food, electricity and multiple communications blackouts we also had to endure the separation and the inability to communicate inside Gaza as well as being cut out from the outside world.

There’s no place safe in Gaza, we can be bombed at any time and anywhere across the strip. Displacement is hard on adults, so it’s unimaginably harsh on children who are not able to comprehend why they have to move from one place to the other, the reason some basic day-to-day things keep changing, such as water to shower, food, water, being enclosed without going out and of course the noises of the warplanes and raining bombs. Amid all of these horrors, we received the news that my parent's house, that place we used to call home where we lived our childhood, as teenagers and adults, that neighbourhood where we lived with our friends and neighbours for years was simply reduced to rubble. All 4 buildings and surroundings were wiped up from the neighbourhood. In a few minutes, a lifetime was lost. Home, savings, friends, neighbours, and memories, all vanished in a blink.

My greatest concern is children, their future, where they will live, study and grow up. There’s nothing left in Gaza, all life-sustaining means are now destroyed. The future became blurry and dark. We had dreams, me and my wife, for us and our children. We dreamt of a simple, peaceful and bright life and a successful future for the children. We all have the right to have a normal life and children deserve a normal childhood and a bright future like other children worldwide. We should be able to provide them with the essentials for a normal life, such as safety first and material needs such as food, clean water and clothing and also education. These are the minimum rights of a child.

I’m also concerned about my parents who dedicated their lives to me and my siblings to provide us with the best education and the possible comforts of life so we feel like we live in a place as in any other free country across the globe. At this age and within these war conditions, I would like to be able to provide them with a safe place and a decent life to give back a bit of all their dedication throughout our lives.

In case this war gets to an end, we need to restart our lives, in Gaza or preferably outside where we can find safety and peace. In Gaza, we have no place to live any more and the rebuilding will take years and a huge amount of money. Outside Gaza, we need the money to get out and a reasonable amount to start somewhere.

To be able to find a safe place for our children where we can have a peaceful future alongside her parents and grandparents, I would greatly appreciate your contribution to donate and share this donation request so it can reach the highest number of kindhearted people and we can get a good amount of money to provide the children with what they deserve.

From the bottom of my heart, I would like to greatly thank you for your support.

Sincerely yours,

Omar

#palestine #free palestine #gaza

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lethalchiralium · 1 year

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Happiness Masterlist

A collection of Simon “Ghost” Riley and his daughter, Winnie, and his wife, you.

SERIES PLAYLIST | Simon’s Playlist | Your Playlist

AO3 Link!

Raindrops

It’s the first night home with his little one, and he’s trying to remember every moment.

Angel

“Can you please explain to my Captain why I am an hour late?”

Little

Ghost has somewhere to be.

Tattooed Heart

The 141 meets the mysterious Lieutenant's daughter.

You Belong With Me

It’s your 21st birthday, yet you sit in a nice restaurant in a beautiful dress and tears in your eyes - until someone comes to your rescue, like a knight on a white horse.

Dear Winter

Simon had to find a toy for Winnie, but discovers what finally pushes him over the edge to confess his love for you.

Diamond Ring

“Wear it on your hand, tell the whole world that I’m your only man.” Simon dodged death so closely that it finally snapped him from his stupor - he needed you to be in his life for the rest of time.

Wife content below!

Tonight, Tonight, Tonight

It was a long deployment, Ghost wanted nothing more than to come home and be Simon again.

A Little More

It’s Simon’s first late night and morning with his new daughter, Mellie. And you and him have an important conversation.

A Little More [2]

A simple day of mundane domesticity, life isn’t always jammed packed full of events + Simon still has a lifetime of making it up to you.

That Happy Feeling

“say hello, winnie.” “say hello, mellie.” + a text conversation with the 141 + los vaqueros!

Dramatic

Simon’s been sick for three days and has refused any medication, claiming the cold medicine you brought from your home in America is poison and he’d rather die. You are convinced that the British medicine does nothing. Only one will win.

Lover

Christmas Eve is over. With enough paper cuts to last a lifetime, you just want Simon to know how much you love him with a song.

Twice A Question, Once An Answer

Two times you asked your husband a question, and the one time he had the answer you needed.

Imagine It

It was just a nice afternoon, your husband’s brothers in arms trying to name your imaginary baby for you.

Almost

Just a doctor’s appointment to find out baby three’s gender.

Will Never Be Enough

"Simon, I need you." The Lieutenant dropped the papers he was holding, they flew across the office floor. "I'm on my way." OR, Simon comes home to find you in a puddle of blood.

Bigger Than The Whole Sky

It’s hard to get over something like this, it’s hard to feel like this. Loss is difficult. OR, your husband tries his best to comfort you, but he’s finding this new challenge difficult.

Ducks

It’s hot in England, so it’s time to pull out the plastic kiddie pool and dip toes in the frighteningly cold water. Winnie finds a new friend.

More Than I Could Ask For

Losing a baby is difficult, Simon knows that. But as he takes care of you, all he wishes for is for you to not feel the pain anymore.

All I Ask

Simon tells you why he feels ashamed, plus Mellie decides to be a comforting little baby.

A Late Night Last Minute Request

Laswell catches Simon at the supermarket, to which he brings bad news home. There's only one thing he wants - a late night last minute request.

Four

It’s cuddle time for your girls.

White Carnations

Simon spends time with Winnie before he goes, he reminisces on the time he’s had with her.

The Love You Want (NOT POSTED)

It’s late at night, it’s his last night home before he leaves and he needs you like he needs oxygen.

Fearless

With Simon's new deployment comes a surprise guest, Kate Laswell, and some very unwanted company knocks at the door.

Window to the Abbey

Winnie and Mellie are cautious of the two new operators in their house, Simon’s calling, and Mellie’s sick. To say you’re handling it with grace would be an understatement.

Dial Tone

It’s the afternoon, rain thundered against your home so you couldn’t hear the footsteps that backed you into a corner.

Drag Me Under

One moment, you’re home - the next? You’re somewhere you don’t recognize with people you don’t recognize either, holding one of your most precious valuables.

High Water

Price has to make a tough decision.

The Death of Peace of Mind

…

I Will Think Of You As I Surely Drown

…

The Drabbles:

Burps

Little Letters

Christmas Closet

Melody

Mummy

Don’t Jump

Mum and Baby

Dinner Plans

Just Five Minutes With You | Interrupted

Bye Bye Beard

Be Home Soon

Halloween

Sleep Patterns

The What Ifs:

Home or Hospital | Porcelain | Piece of You In The Morning

Drifting

Careful What You Wish For | 22 Years

If Simon was with you when you went into the OR.

The promise that John Price keeps. | The Locket

Comfortable (18+)

#simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x afab!reader #simon ghost riley cod #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x fem!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x wife!reader #simon riley x afab!reader #simon riley x wife!reader #simon riley mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon riley call of duty #simon riley x you #simon riley #lethalchiralium #lethal chiralium

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thebadboyfanclub · 1 year

Text

It Is Time (Daemon x Reader)

This is probably the softest imagine I have written and it was so much fun. I was listening to line without a hook so you get the vibe I was going for.

To be married into the Targaryen was considered a chance of a lifetime for most, however a marriage with the princess of the Summer Islands was a miracle, when (y/n)s father send the raven of her being open to wedlock Jahaerys was the first to respond, offering Daemon as a suitable husband, to align such foreign force was a must for the Targaryens, Daemon at first had retaliated, denying to part take in a loveless marriage with a woman he had never seen to just be a pawn of the king.

That quickly changed when (y/n) visited kings landing, “The diamond of the Summer islands” she was known for her bewitching nature, as she walked next to her father like she owned the place Daemon swallowed thickly at what his eyes were experiencing, it looked like she was a mystical fairy merely flowing instead of using her feet, she was a different type of beauty, a thicker frame with tanned dark skin from the place of endless summer, tall frame and curly hair, her eyes resembled that of a fox, full of mischief and secrets. The daughter of house Truefyre had brought Daemon to his knees with a single glance, once he greeted her and got a hold of her hand he felt shivers down his spine.

“It was the first time I felt like the Gods smiled down at me”

Their wedding was the talk of Westeros, (y/n) and Daemon danced the night away, whispers a of a the union growing strong took over as Daemon was seen tending to his lady wife in every way, shape and form, he was put under a spell that he never wanted to break free from.

“What is it my diamond?”

“I haven’t… bled”

“Oh…. Oh!”

Realisation hit daemon like a stone in the head, Daemon and (y/n) had been every affectionate with one another, Daemon would always have a hand touching (y/n) and there have been rumours of Daemon letting his hand slip in more inappropriate parts, how could he resist? His lady wife was the most perfect creature, his precious diamond that he held close in hopes to protect her forever.

Daemon was not a man of exaggerating declares of happiness, at the news of his wife being with his child he simply smiled and placed a kissed on her forehead before kneeling to be in the same height as her belly.

“I cannot wait to meet you little one”

(Y/n) had wished to reside to the Summer islands, away from duties and pointless dinner with backstabbing lords that would arse kiss in front of her face, her father was gracious enough to offer a castle right next to the sea shore as her wedding gift, Daemon could not deny his love such joy, he also secretly wanted to have a quiet life with his family.

As the morrows came and went (y/n) was changing by the hour, her lady nature kicked in with impeccable strength, compelling the princess to shed tears at the sight of a cat playing with her kittens, her hand was always caressing her growing belly as she sang to the babe while sitting in a swing located in a beautiful orange tree, the breeze passing through her as she rested in the shade and enjoyed the sounds of nature.

“The princess requested for deer meat with… peach jam”

Daemon found himself giving her strange requests to the cooks more than he liked to admit, it was almost a daily ritual for her to wake up in all hours of the night and beg her husband for stuff like plum juice and oysters, strawberry cake and beef meat, he would sometimes think her cravings were the reason of her sickness, although he was smarter than uttering his concern, he would simply nod and go searching for whatever she had asked for.

“I have gotten fat”

“You are with child”

“I am fat with child”

Daemon took in the scene of his wife standing as she watched herself in the mirror, she had gotten bigger as time went on but that was normal for her journey in motherhood. He had been reading a book in his bed when he puffed out a breath and stood up to approach her, (y/n) quickly went to wrap herself with her silk rob yet Daemon stopped her, on her vanity she had an open jar of cream that she would often run her belly with, it soothed her from the itching. Daemon took a small amount and gently went over the stretched skin with care.

“You are a mother, a beautiful woman that is strong enough to carry a child in her with such grace that you make it seem easy, I look at you and I see the world in those dark hues of yours”

“You are going to make me cry”

“I am going to make you happy and when the time comes and our baby is born I will be sure to let them know how infuriatingly gorgeous their mother was when you were carrying them”

“I hope it is a girl”

“I pray that it is healthy, now it is time you rest and no more talking down on your figure, the mother of my child will never be disrespected like that”

Daemon had been (y/n)s shadow, making sure she had everything her heart desires and was happy until she laid next to him with a grin, it was the only way Daemon could drift off, he wouldn’t be able to even sleep for an hour if he wasn’t certain his wife was unwell, especially now that she was risking her life for the birth of their child.

“Daemon, Daemon wake up”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It is time”

“Oh seven hells, I’ll summon the maester”

“No, no, take me to the ocean”

“(Y/n) it is not the time to swim”

“Daemon for the love of everything that is holy, take me to the fucking ocean”

Daemon was smart enough to understand there was no room for him to protest and not to even negotiate about it, he simply took his dear wife gently in his arms as she grunted and moaned and safely let her feel the coldness of the ocean waves. (Y/n) was overcome by a sense of relief from her muscles as the water soothed the ache, washing it away with each wave, her back resting against a rock with her legs spread wide open to give the babe access.

“Now may I call the maester?”

“No, I don’t want them here”

“Why?”

“I want you to be the first one to hold it, not a bunch of people who will let me know the gender before the status of the babes health”

Daemon empathised with his love, wet nurses and maesters were known for not quite caring of anyone’s health, only to deliver the next heir of the Targaryen bloodline.

Daemon nodded mostly to himself before he kneeled so he can take a proper look and guide his wife as much as he could.

“Now I am not trained for this but I’ll do my best”

“It’s alright my sweet, I just need you to hold it when it gets here”

(Y/n) was doing a wonderful job during the entire labour, if Daemon did not know any better he would say (y/n) had gotten through labour a thousand of times, the sound of the ocean calmed her nerves and the cold water seemed to come in to use as beats of sweat appeared on her forehead, she would often ask Daemon to splash her in the face or her chest.

“Here we go my diamond, just a little more”

It had been the wee hours of the morning until the babe was released from her, relief washed over her as her legs could finally spread flat and rest. Daemon caught the babe that was greeted by the ocean first before it was finally secure in their fathers arms, the beautiful little star cried while Daemon cut the cord with his dagger.

“Is the babe alright?”

“The dragon is as strong as her mother”

“Her? A girl?”

“Indeed”

“Give her to me”

Daemon silently complied, passing the fragile little girl in her mothers arms. (Y/n) had never felt more accomplished before, she delivered her daughter right as she wished, with her husband and with the strength of the ocean.

In her land the sea goddess was also the goddess of fertility, frequently plenty of couples would bring their babes to the shore and let the water caress the babes skin as a thank you to the goddess for allowing them to expand their families, to be able to give birth right in the goddesses home was a dream for a plethora of women.

“How about Ariel?”

“An unusual name for a Targaryen, what will your dear family say?”

“I couldn’t give two shits about them, you and our precious Ariel are the beginning and the end for me”

“you have become such a poet my prince”

“How could I not? dear (y/n) you have turned my life to a living fairytale”

“Help me up please”

Daemon allowed his wife to carry the small child while he carried her, the maester along with the servants were waiting for the couples arrival back to the castle, they were aware of how sacred this moment had been for them and watched from the sidelines, praying that everything would go smoothly.

“Behold (y/n) of House Truefyre and our first born, Ariel Targaryen”

(Y/n) only giggled as Daemon puffed out his chest with pride and carried her to their chamber while all the servants beamed with joy.

“I believe we should take the babe for a bath”

“No maester Gerald I will do it”

“As you wish princess”

“My love, you should rest”

“I would rather be Caraxes next meal than allow someone else experience her first milestones instead of us”

Daemon only leaned to peck his wives lips with the utmost adoration, his diamond was meant to become a mother and he felt a certain sense of honour that she chose him to share her future with.

The servants prepared the bath for little Ariel while (y/n) and Daemon kneeled, the babes first sensation was the ocean so Ariel was peaceful as the warm water was gently washing away the salt of the waves.

“She will be a strong dragon rider, like you”

“Or a graceful princess of the summer islands, like you”

(Y/n) leaned closer to her husband as a way to express her emotions to him. It was Daemons turn to smile at her, (y/n) was everything Daemon never thought he deserved in life, sometimes he would think what would his life be if he had not married her, and the result was just grim and cold.

“We should call the wet nurses my sweet, Ariel will need to feed in a while”

“Wet nurses? Daemon this is not kings landing, we feed our babes here”

He would never imagine he could love his wife more, that is until he was part of the moment (y/n) fed Ariel, such a sacred ritual and bond with mother and daughter. (Y/n) laid comfortably in their bed after she had a scorching hot bath with her favourite scented soap which was lily flowers, Daemon had even braided her wet hair so it will be out of her face and make her feel pretty.

(Y/n) hummed a tune to their little princess, light beaming through the windows on this glorious day and their babe healthy and already loved tremendously suckling on its mothers breast, (y/n) could almost feel the women of her bloodline gather around them and bless the babe with their hands on her shoulders, resilient women who suffered through months of pain, swelling, restless nights, broke their hips for the birth, even produced milk for their children to feed, Daemon had been a warrior who had taken plenty of life’s, his wife was a warrior who created a life.

“It is time for you to rest”

“No, I don’t want to take my eyes off of her, I want to watch her breathe”

“Alright, I’ll sit right by you with Ariel as you sleep, I will watch her for you. Do you trust me with that?”

“I suppose”

Daemon did as such, sitting up in their bed holding the princess while (y/n) got comfortable with her pillow, her eyelids were already heavy but she still fought, Daemon rocking the babe without even realising how bright he was smiling at his daughter was such a gorgeous sight to miss, they were not just husband and wife now, nor prince and princess of anything, they were mother and father, parents that would offer their life for their daughter, a bond made by passion and kept by devotion and love.

She drifted off to sleep with the sound of her daughter cooing at her father, praying that her body won’t be in need of countless hours of sleep, since she looked forward to waking up and be fully capable of holding her daughter again.

Requests are open

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spacebarbarianweird · 5 days

Note

Dadstarion prompt:

Caretaker takes the kid to a fair, playground, restaurant or shopping, just spending the day and having fun together

Ha! Take that. Pure fluff. What could possibly go wrong??

Synopsis: Tiriel and Astarion take Alethaine to a fair.

Tags: dadstarion, dhampirs, fluff, a snippet into the future

Another fluffy thing I have written! And there is also a snippet into the distant future with adult Tiri who hasn't inherited her mother's macabre nature!

Alethaine's age - 12-years-old

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Guide on How To Skin Monsters

Tiriel stops at the daggers’ stall. All of them look rather dull and Tiriel decides to search for something better for Astarion. Besides, he prefers to choose weapons for himself and Tiriel can always get something else – a book, jewelry, or a shirt. He always huffs when she brings him gifts, but she knows he is grateful for those little reminders of her care.

“Looking for something?” A merchant, a halfling woman, asks.

“Nothing in particular,” Tiriel says.

The halfling is definitely in the mood for talking and starts gossiping about a feud between two noble human houses, a serious plague “originated by giants” and someone’s wife cheating with an ork.

“Oh, and have you heard? There was a murder in Secomber! The whole family was slaughtered and by whom? A dhampir!”

Tiriel takes her eyes off the daggers.

“Yes! A half-vampire! Can you imagine sleeping with a vampire? But I think their mother was assaulted. Anyway, the dhampir grew up and slaughtered the whole family! Those half-undead are merciless cruel creatures, and they say there are so many of them!”

“Yeah… cruel monsters they are,” Tiriel mutters.

She heard of the slaughter, but there were no dhampirs or vampires involved. Just a young man possessed by a dryad. He was hanged a week later, but someone started spreading rumors his mother fucked a vampire and that’s why her child grew up so bloodthirsty.

Tiriel feels pale hands hugging her waist from behind. Alethaine presses her face against her back – she is 12 but she is still cuddly as a little child.

“Oh, is this your daughter? Such an adorable little girl. How old is she?”

“Alethaine,” Tiriel touches her fingers.

“I am twelve,” she says, trying not to betray her fangs.

“Oh… I am sorry… didn’t notice she was an elf.” The merchant apologizes and then proceeds to tell other gossip.

“Have a nice day,” Tiriel says, taking Alethaine’s hand.

“You too! And beware the dhampirs!”

“Beware the dhampirs my ass,” Tiriel says, moving further away from the obnoxious halfling.

“I can bite her,” Alethaine suggests. She is twelve, but elves mature slower than humans and half-elves and Tiriel notices her daughter sometimes behaves like a younger child.

“No, we are not biting people we don't like.”

“Dad wouldn’t mind if I bit her!”

“Hm, good thing it’s daylight then!” Tiriel rubs Alethaine’s ear. She knows her daughter too well not to notice the merchant’s words upset her.

Cruel merciless creatures? Alethaine cries her eyes out every time someone dies in the books she reads! Well, she mostly sympathizes with dragons and monsters – but also with orphan children, victims of arranged marriages and curses.

And little dead animals.

Little dead animals are a whole different story. It’s been three years, but Alethaine still feels sorry about an albino kitten killed by a stranger. The dhampir accidentally resurrected the pet and now Tiriel and Astarion also face the issue of raising a necromancer.

“Hey, don’t be sad!” Tiriel leans to a little dhampir. “Do you want anything?”

Alethaine doesn't answer. She stops by the book stall completely enchanted by a huge black volume covered in leather.

How to Skin Monsters.

Aletaine immediately flips the pages, and Tiriel sees intricate and creepy pictures of the insides of different beasts and monsters. She’d fought many of them in her lifetime (beholders in the Underdark are still one of her worst memories), but never ever did she want to look at their remains, let alone study them.

“Hey, don’t touch it!'' The merchant tries to take the book away from Alethaine’s hands, but the dhampir keeps holding it with her iron grip. “I think this book is rather dark for a little lady like you.”

“Mum, look, the cover is made of human skin,” Alethaine casually says. “No. It’s half-elf actually.”

“No it isn’t!” The merchant protests. “It’s… wolfskin!”

Liar, Tiriel realizes. She has good perception skills, and the merchant lies. And the dhampir necromancer has already passed the verdict.

Alethaine puts the book away and takes another one – a green volume with letters in Espruar.

“Is it just a collection of stories or the real guide on Feywild?’” Alethaine asks. “People who have never messed with fey write all sorts of fairytale stuff about pink unicorns and fairies who grant wishes.” She opens the book which is written with trembling handwriting. “Oh, I see. Looks like a feverish nightmare. So the writer has been there.”

The book merchant looks at Tiriel with a facial expression she knows too well.

What crypt did you find this child in?

“I have some ballads and traveler guides. Maybe...it is more for your age?” he asks

“Travelers guide on what places?”

“Icewind Dale, but it’s a rather uncomfortable read…”

“I’ve read about Icewind Dale,” suddenly something else attracts her attention and she points at a small book with a dragon on its cover. “Show me this!”

The merchant sighs in relief and reaches for the storybook. Tiriel looks at the pages – even though she still experiences issues with reading, she sees that it's just an adventure story about knights, princes, dragons, and treasure hunting.

Something her daughter stopped reading when she was five or six.

“I will take this too,” Alethaine declares.

“Eighty silver for all three,” the merchant says.

Too much, Tiriel thinks. Alethaine frowns but doesn’t try to bargain. For some reason, she is very shy when it comes to arguments.

“Thirty silver,” Tiriel intervenes. “And we are not telling anyone about the half-elf skin you’ve bound the book with.”

“It’s not made of anyone’s skin!”

“I can hear her screams,” Alethaine whispers, flipping the book pages. “They flayed her when she was still alive!”

The merchant gulps. Tiriel chuckles. So, this is true and the merchant knew it.

“All right. Thirty,” he mutters and Alethaine happily gives him the silver coins.

Alethaine puts the books in her black bag and wishes the merchant good night. The man mutters something not appropriate for children’s ears.

“Did you catch the scent of the skin or it’s more like your necromancy skills?” Tiriel asks, taking her daughter’s hand as they stand by the stall with needles and threads.

She shrugs. “I-I don’t know. Maybe both.”

“Do you know if Dad needs something to sew?” Tiriel still can’t really tell apart shades of the same color and all needles look the same to her.

“Take the black threads,” Alethaine says, touching the samples of fabric. “He’s always out of them.”

Tiriel nods. She doesn’t know why and when Astarion decided to make all his daughter’s wardrobe black, but here they are. Alethaine got from black onesies to black dresses, from black nappies to black skirts, gloves, and coats. Only her shoes and boots aren’t made by Astarion - and they are as pitch dark as everything else.

A few hours later, at sunset, they sit on the grass outside the market. It’s a beautiful summer sunset and Tiriel adores the light. Alethaine sits on her traveling cape and takes out one of her new books.

“Interesting?”

“Uh-um,” she nods, completely taken away.

Tiriel smiles to herself. She’s never been a stranger to violence and dark things – if you faint at the sight of a blood sacrifice, you won’t survive in the wilderness. But having a child like this takes everything to another level.

Death, dark arts, corpses – they have a special appeal to Alethaine, the same one Tiriel feels towards fights.

The sun sets and Tiriel sits beside Alethaine. Darkvision allows her to see in gray colors and Tiriel sees a picture of the monster inside.

“All right, now I understand who all these people were who hired me to bring them certain parts of the beasts I killed.”

“Dad is coming,” she says. “Or another vampire, but I think Dad scared all of them away.”

Tiriel smiles. “Good thing vampires hate the presence of each other.” She stands up and approaches the edge of the hill. Yes, Alethaine is right – Astarion has left his daylight shelter in the nearby inn. She can see his silhouette from the distance – white hair and black armor she can’t mix with anyone else.

She waves to him and he quickens his steps.

“Hello, darling,” he murmurs in her ear the moment he hugs her. Astarion pecks her cheek and Tiriel rubs his left ear.

“Dad! Look what I’ve bought!”

Tiriel thinks Alethaine will show him the anatomy book, but, instead, she hands him the adventure story.

Astarion studies the first page, then another. Tiriel watches them carefully.

“I just don’t get it,” Alethaine admits. “Is it about how to enter the thieves’ guild or how to smuggle drugs?”

“None,” Astarion returns her the book. “It’s about how to find a job as a bounty hunter in Neverwinter.”

“Oh, I misread the symbols then,” Alethaine pouts.

“Wait, the book is in Thieves Cant?” Triel asks.

“Yes. Hidden deep under snotty stories,” Astarion answers. “And what are these two monstrosities?”

Alethaine proudly opens the anatomy book as Astarion studies the Feywild one. Tiriel barely prevents herself from laughing as she sees Astarion cringing at the pictures. Vampire or not, he saw so many disgusting and cruel things he hated looking at them.

Then Alethaine yawns.

“Let’s go home,” Tiriel says. It will take them till sunrise to return to Daggerlake. If they don't hurry they will need to set up a camp for the daylight - or leave Astarion behind which Tirel absolutely hates to do.

It’s not like it’s a big deal right now – thirty-two years since he gained his freedom, he has nothing to fear. More than that, Tiriel is sure there is simply no other monster in the area who could be a threat to Astarion. He is a vampire, an undead, a skilled rogue, a dangerous assassin.

But when he is alone, the nightmares slowly crawl back. The loneliness fuels his memories and there are so many of them. Thirty-two years are simply not enough. Astarion can handle that too – he’s learned to. But Tiriel doesn’t want him to face mental struggles if it can be avoided.

Alethaine walks in front of them and Tiriel takes Astarion’s hand in hers. They are her little family – everything she’s ever wished for.

She looks at Astarion and notices his lips are squeezed and there is some anxiety in his eyes.

Hunger.

“Go for a hunt, we will wait for you”.

“Nonsense, let’s return home sooner.”

Tiriel doesn’t push it. They agreed years ago that Alethaine isn’t to see him dining on her mother (because it’s absolutely a sexual thing and must remain behind closed doors) and also that she shouldn’t see him feed on animals (because her dhamprisim might get awoken – blood will tempt her and they don’t want their daughter to become more a vampire then she already is).

Of course, she isn't stupid, she knows her father drinks blood. She often sees bite marks on Tiriel when she forgets to cover them – but the process remains out of sight.

It’s already sunrise when they reach Daggerlake and Astarion walks forward not to risk staying in the sun.

By the time they return home, Alethaine rushes upstairs to prepare for sleep. She sleeps a lot, even more than a human would – and Tiriel wonders how much dhampirism affects her sleeping habits.

“So, is the book really about how to be a mercenary?” Tiriel asks closing the door to the bedroom

Astarion has already put off his doublet and now sits on the bed watching Tiriel.

He waits.

“Yes. It was a guide on how to find people who will give her a job as a mercenary,” he slowly answers as if he had to concentrate on speaking. His eyes are focused on her neck.

“And can she read this book?”

“She thought it was about smugglers and thieves. Her skills aren’t that good.”

Tiriel approaches Astarion and he tugs her closer, forcing her to sit on his lap.

Astarion is no longer a sweet caring elf – his predatory side is on the loose and he pierces her skin with his nails as the fangs are looking for the vein.

Tiriel wraps her hands around his neck and lets herself drown in painful pleasure.

“Take as much as you need,” she murmurs. “I love you.”

She feels like falling into the warm dark void and, when she almost crosses the border of no return, the tender hands let her go and she finds herself on the bed with Astarion carefully applying a bandage on her fresh bite mark.

“Thank you,” he says, kissing her with his blood-stained lips.

“Will you stay with me when I sleep?”

“Of course,” he chuckles. “Besides Alethaine has occupied the bathroom – she isn't getting out any time soon”

“Oh… and I forgot…” Tiriel points at her bag. “I’ve bought you some black threads and new needles.”

Astarion kisses her cheek. “Such a caring and thoughtful wild girl. Now I have something to occupy myself with while you are asleep.” He takes her nightshirt from the floor. “Do you have anything in mind? I noticed you’ve ripped it.”

“Me? Astarion, you rip my clothes all the time!”

He unfolds the shirt showing the ripped collar. “Yeah, I agree. My fault. So, what patch do you want?”

“Maybe a dragon? A black one?”

Astarion covers her with a blanket – the one she uses when she sleeps alone – and sits on the floor with the shirt and the needle.

“I have a daughter who likes seeing monsters’ inside-outs and a wife who likes murdering monsters. Can someone in this family enjoy nice and cute things?” He pouts.

“Imagine Alethaine having a child who enjoys such things. She will pout then, ‘no one in her family has taste for macabre’”.

Astarion chuckles, and Tiriel wraps herself in the blanket.

Safe. She feels safe.

And loved.

Sewing has always helped Astarion to concentrate. It’s been centuries since he needed to shut the darkness up. Memories of his enslavement, memories of the misery have faded away and feel like a distant nightmare.

But habits never truly go, and Astarion enjoys sewing patches and repairing clothes even though the old purpose of that process has long gone.

“You know, for someone who is an elf and was raised as an elf, you are very messy,” Astarion says looking at the ripped cape. It looks like it was chewed by a tarrasque.

“It’s not my fault! I was careful!” Tiri objects. She is making new arrows (as she lost the whole quiver while running from a particularly nasty behir in the Underdark the previous day).

Astarion chuckles. Tiri, his granddaughter, showed up at his place deep in the Fairgheight Range five years ago. Red-haired like her grandmother, she was eager to see the world beyond the Isle of Evermeet – and she still doesn’t show any desire neither to return to her parents nor leave him be and travel alone.

“What patches do you want?” Astarion asks and takes his sewing kit from the traveling sack.

“Well, I am an adult independent woman…” Tiri starts.

“You are thirty and you are an elf. You are basically a child.”

“Hm, you were a magistrate and mum would work for smugglers using her necromantic skills. Barely a child activity.”

“So?”

“I want a unicorn patch,” Tiri finally admits. “Or a butterfly. Don’t laugh, ar’o’su!”

“I don’t, damia,” Astarion finds white threads. “Besides, Alethaine has never been fond of cute and nice things.”

“Mum has her own idea of what is nice and what is cute,” Tiri touches a thin tiara on her hair. While all Tiri’s clothes are made according to Wood Elves traditions, her father’s ancestors, the tiara is pitch black and with a small skull in the center. It definitely belonged to Alethaine and then she just passed it to her only daughter.

Tiri puts the new arrows on the ground and lies on her bedroll to reverie. Her drake, Aurix, immediately nestles on her chest like a cat.

Astarion casts a glance at his granddaughter. She has a certain similarity to Tiriel – and Astarion knows she would have loved her. But half-elves have such an offensive short life span in comparison with elves she had no chance to see little Tiri. At the same time, her facial features are her mother’s and sometimes she speaks like her. There is something else, something unfamiliar – Tiri’s father and their ancestors.

And she loves cute and nice things - and cringes at the sight of monsters’ inside-outs. Necromancy scares Tiri and she admits she’s never been to her mother’s dungeons just because of how uncanny it was for her. And elves would often joke that their “witch-queen” just kidnapped Tiri because no way someone like Alethaine could give birth to such a sweet young woman.

Astarion pierces the fabric with the needle.

“Well, so be it, a unicorn.”

-- Tag list

@tugoslovenka

@herstxrgirl

@herdarkestnightelegance

@vixstarria

@not-so-lost-after-all

@marcynomercy

@theearthsfinalconfession

@starlight-ipomoea

@micropoe10

@astarion-imagine-archive

@veillsar

@elora-the-slutty-songstress

@fayeriess

@lumienyx

@tallymonster

@caitlincat-95

@tragedybunny

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@marina-and-the-memes

@waking-eyes

@ayselluna

@connorsui

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@coffeeanddonutscafe

@my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen

@queenofthespacesquids

@ednaaa-04

@dajeong

@wilteddreamsofbaldursgate

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nebulablakemurphy · 1 year

Text

Moves & Countermoves (Part 3)

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2

Katniss and Peeta have it out during dinner. Bickering over who has a better chance of winning. Asking to be trained separately after that. It is an odd thing to get heated about and Haymitch is intrigued.

“We’ll explore that later,” he decides as the kids leave the table.

Effie tries her hand at small talk. “Tomorrow the tributes will be assessed. How are you feeling about that? I, for one, am hopeful that we might see a victor!”

“I feel like I need a refill.” Haymitch grunts, leaning up from his seat to reach the bottle, “and I feel like you,” he looks to his wife, “need a little bit of the good stuff to take the edge off.” He dumps the contents of her glass onto the floor, replacing it with the malt liquor of his choice.

“I’m going to bed.” Y/N pushes away from the table.

“Don’t be like that, angel.” Haymitch reaches out, catching her around the waist and pulling her against his side.

Y/N smooths a hand over his hair. “It’s been a long day, I’m tired.”

Haymitch begrudgingly releases his hold. “Go.”

“Night, Effie.” The woman waves in parting.

Effie clears her throat, “goodnight.” These people are awfully temperamental.

Y/N returns to her room, making for the tablet on the nightstand. Clicking open her files for Katniss and Peeta in turn. Adding archery and strength to their lists of abilities, then moving onto weaknesses, scribbling in at the top ‘uncontrolled rage and each other?’

Y/N opens that file last; the one where she jots down kind words for the tribute’s families. How they touched her life, how they made a difference in this world and will continue to do so. With the promise that they will live on in their hearts and hers, forever.

When she was reaped, a lifetime ago, Haymitch hadn’t been warm and fuzzy. Though he’d gone to the quarter quell with her maternal aunt. Allied with her to get to the top five, even held her hand as she died, Haymitch can’t bring himself to do much more than drink himself into a stupor.

“What exactly do you want me to do, girl?”

“I want you to help us!”

He’d left Y/N and her district partner, high and dry.

“Help you?” Haymitch laughs, “I can’t help you.” He couldn’t save Maysilee then, he can’t save Y/N now. He wonders if this is still part of his punishment for the force field, cruel and unusual in it’s crafting.

Even after she wins, set up in the house beside his in victor’s village, Haymitch still won’t speak more than a few words to her. That is until the next reaping rolls around.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Y/N asks.

Back to the Capitol, back to hell.

“Think I’m gonna sit this one out. You’re due to take one for the team, right? I was a shit mentor anyhow. Not you though, you’ll be good.”

She isn’t good. All of sixteen marching a couple of thirteen year olds to their final resting place. Y/N is inconsolable upon her return, mailing letters to the families of the fallen tributes from twelve and shutting out the world.

Her mother, who’s struggled with a morphling addiction most of Y/N’s life, is worse now. Her father, the mayor, makes his best efforts to shield his daughters from it. They do what they can to support Y/N through her victory and the transition to her new life, all to no avail.

In the end there is only one person Y/N wants to comfort her, the only one who understands. She has a new respect for Haymitch after that. There is no pain in the world like this.

It takes three years, three years before she marches up to his door on reaping day and pounds against it, hard. “You’re coming with me.” Gone is the child she was, a woman standing in her place.

“And why would I do that?” Haymitch smirks, leaning heavily against the door frame.

“Because I need you.”

Slowly, they became friends. Haymitch was happy to be whatever, whatever she needed him to be.

She folds the tablet back in it’s case, feeling tears prickle at the back of her eyes. Crying is useless, she learned that sometime ago. Not a single outcome changed or a life saved with tears. Only knowledge and fact driven perseverance can do that. Yet she is more man than machine and sometimes sadness wins.

The door of their suite hums to life. Y/N tries, in vain, to hide the evidence; her moment of weakness.

“You know, you,” Haymitch stumbles in, pointing a finger at her, “have become highly predictable.” Going to bed with him or after him is the norm. Means she’s fine, maybe not great, but she’ll tough it out. Going to bed before him is nothing short of a cry for help. She’s reached her limit. Haymitch knew she was getting there, that’s why he offered the drink.

Y/N heaves in a breath, “don’t say I told you so.”

“Fine, but I did tell you so,” he frowns. For all his flaws, Haymitch does love her and hates that she’s in pain.

She opens her hand to accept the little blue pill in his palm, it’ll put her out for a few hours of much needed sleep. Y/N swallows it dry, forcing it down her throat.

“Lie down,” Haymitch jerks his chin toward the pillows. Pulling back the covers to tuck her in, his wife’s eyelids already heavy.

She babbles out a bit of nonsense, her tongue like lead. Not heeding her command.

“We can argue all day tomorrow.” He promises, soothing her to sleep with her hand in his. Peppering kisses to her knuckles as she loosens her grip. “Sweet dreams.”

————————————————————————

“So besides the bow, what else can you do?” Y/N asks Katniss, prepared to take notes.

“Might help if you look at me.”

“Hmm?” The woman snaps her head up.

“If you’re analyzing me for the next kids, it might help to look up every now and again.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were.” Katniss cuts her off, with finality. “We’re all numbers to you anyway.”

Y/N offers a smile as she sets the tablet down. “You want my attention, you have it.”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“What way?”

“Like I’m a child,” Katniss furrows her brow.

“You are a child,” Y/N retorts. “I know you don’t want to be here and all that anger has to go somewhere.” She pushes off the training room bench and onto the mats. “Show me what you can do.”

The brunette charges her mentor, prepared to tackle her to the ground; only Y/N moves at the last second. Leaving Katniss face down on the ground. This only fuels her fire, she grabs Y/N’s ankle, tugging her off balance.

They carry on like this for a long while, ending with the pair covered in sweat, sprawled out on the mats.

“How can you do this?” Send kids off every year to fight and die. “You’re a mother.”

“I do this because I’m a mother,” Y/N whispers. “You’re not numbers to me, Katniss. You’re people. Who deserve to be treated with love and compassion, given access to every shred of useful information I have. That’s why I document everything. So I never forget.”

Katniss sees her then, as if for the first time.

Peeta finds them. “It’s time to switch,” he says.

Haymitch is waiting to help Katniss prep for the interviews and Peeta will now be…doing whatever this is.

Katniss musters the strength to drag herself away, glancing back at Y/N from the door. “Put that in my notes. Tell my sister I fought.”

————————————————————————

“As you know, the tributes are rated on a scale of one to twelve, after three days of careful evaluation.” Caesar narrates from the television.

Effie, Portia, Cinna, Peeta and Katniss have all joined the victors on the pristine white settee. Y/N slides forward to the edge, while Haymitch sinks back into the cushions. Feeling the familiar squeeze and release of her fingers against his knee as the results are displayed.

District twelve is last, the anticipation rises like bile in Y/N’s throat. The careers score nines and tens, the others a mix of fives through eights. Thresh, of district eleven pulled a nine, his partner Rue follows with a seven. Best of luck, sweet girl.

“From district twelve, Peeta Mellark; with a score of…eight.”

Portia gasps in delight, “Peeta!”

“Excellent.”

“An eight.” Y/N bumps his shoulder.

“We can work with that.”

“Bravo.”

Peeta smiles, relaxing marginally at the news.

“And finally, from district twelve, Katniss Everdeen; with a score of…eleven.”

“Eleven?!”

“I thought they hated me.” After she shot at their pig and all.

“They must have liked your guts.”

Cinna raises a toast. “To Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire!”

Part 4

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420 @avocadotoastwithegg @officialjellydoughnut @whoreforfictionalpeople @treehouse-mouse @emo-markie @spilled-mi1k

#haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch x y/n #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy fanfic #haymitch fanfic #the hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #effie trinket

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heartfullofleeches · 8 months

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Me and Laughingstock wearing matching bracelets (they spray painted some handcuffs my favorite color) and going on a dinner date (I am trapped in their house and they are feeding me unidentified meat) for our one year anniversary (I was only aware of their existence an hour ago)

"I love how much time we're spending together, hun. A couple hours can feel like a lifetime when you're with the love of your life. Care for some more Chuck?"

You eye the mystery slabs of meat on your plate. "More...what?"

"The Chuck roast I made you! Didnt have enough time to go to the store to pick up the meat - so I just used a substitute i had in the basement who was more than happy to help out if it meant I didn't go after his wife. Seasoned it just right so it tastes like the real thing. Eat up, Chuck'll be awfully sad if he lose a leg for nothing."

#yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere x you #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #yandere insert #yandere oc #yandere x reader

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asksythe · 9 months

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I've been understanding a lot of cultural subtext around MDZS thanks to you. I'd like to ask more about what makes "cultivation partners." Is it synonymous to marriage or is it a different thing altogether? From my understanding of various marriages depicted in MDZS, marriage can easily be a power move, right. I've also read about dual cultivation, but not sufficiently, and I wish to understand if becoming cultivation partners, sex, marriage - all are supposed to be exclusive stuff. like Jin Guangsham was married yet had sexual relations with plenty of people, perhaps including cultivators? JFM and Madam Yu had a complicated marriage; were they cultivation partners as well? Mianmian married a non cultivator (?) but still went on night hunts to cultivate her core. Other marriages were Qin Su and JGY, and JZX and JYL - so, I do wonder if all of these were classified as cultivation partners.

Another thing I do wonder is, from where I am, in olden times in certain dynasties it was acceptable to have many wives or spouses or marry for gains. In others, the emperor had one true wife who would repeat 7 lifetimes with him and the others were on a lower social level - ploys for expansion etc. I wonder how monogamy etc plays out in chinese context around mdzs time frame, as well as what sort of "expectations" marriage should entail?

Woo… that’s a fair bit. Okay. I’m going to try to answer what I can. Let’s take this one thing at a time.

1. The O.G meaning of cultivation partner:

Cultivation partner = Daolǚ （道侣）

From a lingual view, dao is path, truth, knowledge, and faith. Lǚ is a companion who shares your food, your bed, and your path. So Daolǚ = one who walks the same path in pursuit of truth, faith, and knowledge as you.

From a Daoist view, Daolǚ is a couple who cultivate together, who seek the same truth together, and who share life and death together. They don’t necessarily have to be husband and wife or lovers. They can also be family members, parent and child, or shifu and dizi. They can be of different sexes or the same sex. All of those are only accessories to the OG meaning.

The core of Daolǚ is “ones who seek the same truth.”

This video is from a master Taoist answering the question, “Are Dao couples husbands and wives?”

http://baike.baidu.com/l/nBoL850d

2. So why did MDZS use Daolǚ when talking about married couples? AKA a stealth reference to a real-life historical split in opinions:

The first time the topic of Daolǚ comes up in the novel is during the Cloud Recess era when Lan Qiren taught the history of the Lan ancestor, how Lan An met his Daolǚ, and together they created House Lan. Then the students started discussing their future Daolǚ, which eventually led to the fight with Jin Zixuan.

Daolǚ, in this context, definitely sounds like a different word for a married couple in the setting. Why?

Well…. Because there is a historical split in opinions regarding what Daolǚ really is in practice.

Of course, if we are only talking in theory and lingual origin, then the married or sexual aspect just doesn’t come into play. But in real practice, this kind of close proximity inevitably ends up becoming (or is born out of) actual physical, emotional, and sexual intimacy.

Think about it. The one who shares your faith. The one who shares your path. The one who holds the same ideal. The one who shares your food, your life, your bed. The one whose life and death are intertwined with yours. The one who will walk with you to the very end, wherever it may be. The one whose soul is literally linked to yours through shared cultivation.

You don’t really get this kind of exclusive, super intense, intimate relationship from anywhere other than a married couple. Of course, there are exceptions, but they are, by and large, exceptions that prove the rule.

It’s very funny because even in the official Baidu entry for Daolǚ, beneath the super official definition provided by Daoism associations and sourced from some of the most credible historical texts that survive to this day, even they had to admit in the modern understanding, and especially in media portrayal, Daolǚ is used almost exclusively to refer to Daoist couples in every way that a regular couple can be. Even funnier, if you go and search for the term 道侣双修 (Daolǚ dual cultivate) in the book section, it turns up some 4300 titles concerning Daolǚ dual cultivation. And a very significant portion of those 4300 titles aren’t actually entertainment media at all, but actual historical texts, modern research, and serious treatises written by reputable modern Daoists on the subject.

Okay. So then, why not just admit that outright? Why the extra step? What’s there to disagree about?

Well, because sex is icky.

Hahahaha! But no really…

3. Dual Cultivation aka Magic Sex:

And here we are at the crux of the historical split of opinions.

Dual Cultivation aka Magic Sex (eyebrow waggle!).

From Daoism's founding point, the idea of harmony between Yin and Yang has been one of the founding precepts laid by Laozi himself. There’s not a single reputable Daoist school that disagrees with this precept. The disagreement comes from the interpretation of this precept instead.

From very early on, there were already schools that believed in the application of Yin Yang harmony to manifest as the physical and spiritual relation between men and women (or Yang bodies and Yin bodies).

How early are we talking? Well, BCE kind of early. The earliest text that teaches sex art as part of Daoism is a pre-Qin-dynasty book named The Dao of Huangchi 黃赤之道. This text was later religiousized by various schools of Daoism.

Before the 10th century, there was not much disagreement at all among ancient Daoists about the sex part.

Sexually explicit dual cultivation only became an issue sometime around the Tang dynasty forward (618 - 906 CE). Why the Tang dynasty? Well, that’s around the time Daoism became bourgeois. Before Tang, Daoism was the religion of anti-authoritarian hippies (for lack of a better word). Yep, they were very screw-the-government, let-me-have-my-weed-and-intense-sexercise-while-high kind of people (I’m not even kidding).

One of the earlier records of Daolǚ dual cultivation after the bourgeois-ification of Daoism that still survives to this day is Wu Zhen Pian by Zhang Boduan from the 10th century. Around this same era, numerous sects and schools adopting the same practice of Daolǚ dual cultivation (sexually explicit at that) sprouted up, such as: Shuangxiu Sect, Fangzhong School, etc…

The Wu Zhen Pian, despite being a fairly cryptid text, also explicitly referred to the “places where the body is first given qi” as the male and female genitalia. So there really isn’t any room for misinterpretation as to what exactly it was speaking of.

Around this same era, the disagreement around dual cultivation being sexually explicit and Daolǚ being 99.99% couples became very intense… as in sect war kind of intense.

Ancient High Chinese society was, by and large, very “performatively” puritanical. So from the time Daoism started rubbing shoulders with kings and rulers (instead of eschewing them as the literal founders of Daoism taught), they also started eschewing their fairly sexual, anarchist roots.

Ergo… the ideological schism.

This schism would split between diehard, purists practicing Daoists from the more neutral ones that used Daoism as a political tool as well.

4. A history of sexual exploitation:

Okay, so sexy Daoism is the pure, root Daoism. Why isn’t it the one being preached as official these days?

Because… as usual, whenever there’s a great idea, some chuckleheads somewhere would come along, bend it around its knees, and abuse it instead.

Think about it for a moment. Daoist sects in ancient times were steeped in mysticism. Many of them were powerful and rich. You throw in the sex element. It’s extremely easy for exploitation to happen.

Cults are some of the oldest things in the history of mankind. Sex cults aren’t new, and they aren’t rare, either. Charles Mansion of the Mansion family is just one in a very, very long string of such things.

Let’s just say that for many reasons and many factors, pure Daoist schools practicing sexually explicit dual cultivation also tended to have a checkered history and that along with the historical transformation of Daoism from an anarchist religion to a state-sponsored philosophy massively discredited them.

To this day, you can still trace this history of exploitation down to modern media concepts such as “Human Cauldron,” which is the term denoting a human being used as a sex slave and a cultivation tool by another cultivator. You would think that’s a modern media invention… but no… this term has a long and dark history. Forgive me but I don’t exactly want to go into details in this part.

5. So, what does this all have to do with MDZS?

Well, you can use this context to understand how concepts like dual cultivation and Daolǚ are interpreted and practiced by different people within the MDZS world. MDZS is based in Wei Jin period, which was a period of transition, chaos, and clashing ideologies. You can kinda see that complexity in the way a concept like Daolǚ seems so… mixed and different between theory and practice.

When you really get down to it, there are two ways to understand Daolǚ. 1/ Those who share the same mind, the same faith, the same truth. And 2/ Those who are boinking magically.

Do Wangxian meet these requirements? Yep, both of them. I think that’s pretty clear. Near the end of the story, when Wei Wuxian said his goodbye to Wen Ning and Lan Sizhui, he also remarked about everyone having their own “road” to walk and that, in the end, only one person walked the same “road” as him. That person, Lan Zhan, was also the one person he wanted to walk with. (I don’t have to provide a snap for this, right? People aren’t going to shoot out of nowhere and accuse me of not providing adequate citations, right?). Dao is road. So that’s another nod to the fact that Wangxian are Daolǚ in every interpretation of the concepts (And yes, I’m totally into the interpretation that their boinking is, in fact, magical and working to stabilize Wei Wuxian’s cultivation! Look at the Japanese art featuring Wei Wuxian with the blue cloud patterns on his body! Clearly, lots of people agree with this interpretation! You can’t convince me otherwise!).

What about Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan? Are they Daolǚ? Ehh… it’s kind of a toss-up, isn’t it? There’s not really much in any permutations of MDZS (with maybe the exception of the live-action) that either supports or disprove. I think if you want to interpret them as Daolǚ and Jin Zixuan would eventually help Jiang Yanli cultivate a Jindan and be able to stay young alongside him, you definitely can do that. Or if you want to see them as a more traditional, ordinary husband and wife couple, then that’s a valid interpretation too.

Jin Furen and Jin Guangshan? Ehhh… the above paragraph applies… although… geee… I really don’t see them as either pursuing the same truth or… exclusively boinking magically or that either is using the other as a human cauldron… although that doesn’t disqualify Jin Guangshan himself from using that for his sexual escapade? But then why would he die to marathon sex? I guess Jin Guangyao is hax enough?

In any case, I’m going to stop here. I’ve been sick for the past three weeks and my work has been really demanding. I really tried hard to reserve some free time to write. So the things I have not answered, can you come back to me another time and I will, when I find the time and full citation materials, write a separate reply?

Have a great day!

Oh, also… just as a disclaimer, please don’t use my writing for fandom strife or anything like that. I only very recently found out there were people using my writing for… well… Let’s just say I’m not for that. If anything, please use my writing for creative purposes or just to learn something new!

#ask sythe #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #Daolu #Dual Cultivation

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