#[he considers his father yet another disappointment in his life]

[cxldtyrant]

send me a ✧ and my muse will bold all that apply to your muse - Closed

dragonwish asked: ✧ ((From King Cold. Also we need to rp at some point.))

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).  

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (18/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Canned soup always works wonders.

Warnings: cliffhanger (whoopsie), angst (duh), Lando is a cutie, swear words

Word Count: 3.6k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: not 10k words, but I did my absolute best. thanks for always having my back. I love you.

 "Fuck!" You cross your arms in front of your face and exhale deeply. "FUCK!"

How hard can it be to find an apartment in the south of France? An apartment that has a shower, a bed, and a stove top? A window would be ideal, too, but you have to cut back somewhere, after all. But even a single room in a shared apartment costs almost 2,000€ - how much do you have to pay for an apartment where your privacy is not disturbed?

Although that didn't bother you much in this apartment either. After all, you even shared the only bed with Charles. Voluntarily. The longer you think about it, the worse your headache gets.

After slamming the door in his face yesterday and then wallowing in your misery for hours, you decided to tackle the apartment hunt this morning. You don't want to spend a second longer than necessary in these four walls, which is why you briefly considered asking Kika if you could move in with her and Pierre at short notice and only for a short period of time.

But then you would also have to explain what happened. And since both of them are Charles' friends first and foremost, you don't want to get in the way, even though he's been acting like a huge asshole.

Meanwhile, you're neither sad nor angry - you're just disappointed.

Of him, because he's gone to so much lengths in the last few days to make you feel at home in his company and presence. He showed you the place that is most important to him, told you about his father and showed you his vulnerable side. He has indirectly supported you financially by getting Joris to pay you back and waiving the accruing rent. By God, he even took you to dinner with his friends so you could meet them because he thought "you'd fit in quite well."

And then he ditches you, showing his coldest, rudest, nastiest side by using what your last relationship failed at against you.

But you are even more disappointed in yourself. There has been absolutely no reason why you should trust Charles so much after such a short time. You told him about Raphael, that he left you because you wouldn't sleep with him, and that he cheated on you. You took his compliments without even a thought as to whether he meant them. You had even had a fucking - hot - sex dream with him. 

You trusted him blindly. And that's getting back at you now.

Lounging lazily on the couch and looking at apartments that are definitely beyond your budget isn't an approach to making you feel better either, so you decide to pack your suitcase already.

If you can't find a place to stay in a hurry, you'd move to a hotel first. Or a hostel. You wouldn't have any privacy there, but at least they are so cheap that you could stay there longer and thus have more time to look for something reasonable.

And anything is better than staying here.

You open the suitcase you've kept in the closet for months, spread it out on the bed, and start putting your clothes in it. Sweaters, jeans, gym clothes, underwear - the stuff you don't want to leave home without. When it's filled and locked, you put it next to the door of your room. But only to realize that your whole life doesn't fit into one suitcase.

You put your hands on your hips. 

You still have a few days before Charles returns. Theoretically, you would still have enough time to get another suitcase, because you haven't packed your shoes or bathroom utensils yet. And you can only fit a few things into your gym bag.

A ping sounds from the living room, and as you poke your head into the room, you see your cell phone light up on the coffee table. You pick it up to read the message.

Lando: Hi. I wanted to check in and see if you're feeling a little better today. Been worried about you all night.

You're chewing on the inside of your cheek.

Yesterday at noon you sent a message to Lando saying that you were feeling unwell and so unfortunately you couldn't go out with him. Aside from the fact that your eyes were swollen from crying and no ice cube in the world could have helped you with that, it didn't feel right to have dinner with him.

Charles had thrown it at you that Lando only wanted to go out with you to get you into bed. How much truth there was to that, you don't know. After all, Charles said some things that hurt you. But whether you can take them at face value is another matter.

Charles has known the Brit for much longer and, above all, better than you. And the way he has courted and flirted with you since you first met, there may be some truth in Charles' words.

But even if there were, Charles has no right to judge. To judge how you handle the matter, whether you like going out with Lando or not. And if you were to go out with him, it could be on a purely friendly basis. Maybe you would have dated and immediately realized that you would be better off as friends. 

But you can't find that out now without worry. Now that Charles has hurt you so much and pushed you away. His words are burned into your mind, which is why you answer Lando carefully.

You: I'm feeling better already, thank you. I'm sorry I had to cancel our dinner.

His reply comes immediately.

Lando: You don't need to apologize. I'm just relieved that you're feeling better. Have you eaten anything today?

As if on cue, your stomach is growling. Yesterday your mood was so low that you lost your appetite and, apart from a few cornflakes, you couldn't choke down anything. And that's exactly what you answer him. 

Lando: All right. Give me half an hour and then I'll be with you, okay?

Indecisive, you type a reply, delete it, and start again. Does it make sense to let Lando into the apartment while you're in the process of packing your bags? If that's exactly what Charles was addressing?

Charles can go to hell.

You merely give Lando a thumbs-up in response before putting your phone aside and going to the bathroom to get ready for a bit. You may not care how you look right now, but you still don't want Lando to think the worst of you. You comb your hair, wash your face, and slip into more appropriate clothes than your sleeping clothes before cleaning up the living room a bit.

When the doorbell rings, you flinch. 

You open the apartment door and a smiling Lando stands in front of it. He is wearing a black sweater with a zipper on the collar and black sweatpants. In his hand he holds a white bag.

"I didn't know which canned soup was your favorite. And that's why," he raises the bag next to his face, "I brought a selection." Grinning, he pushes past you and enters. 

You close the door behind him. "You didn't have to do that."

As if it were a matter of course and as if he were here every day, he takes off his white sneakers and heads toward the kitchen, which of course he finds immediately because of the size of the apartment, and takes the cans out of the bag. "I know," he replies to you, setting the soups side by side before turning to you and resting his hands behind him on the edge of the counter. "But I'm someone who cares about his friends when they're miserable. So," he rubs his hands together. "which soup do you want to try first?"

The selection the Brit brought with him is limited to chicken, beef or vegetables, with the picture on the can of the former looking the most appealing. While he heats the soup in a small pot on the stove, you sit at the dining table and watch him. 

"May I ask why you weren't feeling well yesterday?" he asks, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the soup.

Indecisively, you look at him. 

Lando is Charles' friend. And you don't want to tell him about how Charles treated you yesterday any more than you want to tell Kika or Pierre. Because even though he hurt you so much, you don't want his friends to think badly of him. 

Lando hands you a bowl of soup before sitting down across from you in the seat that actually belongs to Charles. An image flashes before your eyes of you eating croissants for breakfast with your roommate. Sitting across from each other, eating pasta, even though you've only known each other for half an hour.

You barely noticeably shake your head to get rid of the image. A movement that Lando takes as an answer to his question. 

"Okay. But if you need to talk to someone, I'm here for you."

You smile at him. It's the exact same phrase Charles said to you in the most beautiful place in Monaco when you were feeling so bad about Raphael's call. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

"Thank you," you reply to Lando. "I really appreciate that."

As you comfortably spoon up your soup in a slightly better mood, the Brit tells you about his plans for the coming Christmas. He wants to fly back to England to be with his parents and siblings. He shows you pictures of his niece Mila, who steals the show in every photo, but you can't blame her with the chubby cheeks. 

"I can't wait to see everyone again," Lando says as he puts his phone in his back pocket. "Are you spending Christmas with your family, too?"

You shake your head. "Nope, I'm staying here." 

Lando looks at you, confused. "Alone? What about Charles? He'd take you to see his family for sure."

He would. In fact, he offered when the two of you sat at Jori's dinner table a few days ago. You remember how the two of them joked around, even though Charles had been busting his best friend's chops just minutes before. You thought that you wouldn't do anything that would risk that friendship. 

A thought you had often. 

"Where is he, anyway?" asks Lando, stretching to be able to see the rest of the apartment from where he's sitting, which isn't difficult when the apartment itself isn't particularly much bigger than a shoebox. 

You look into the empty bowl you're clutching tightly. "He has meetings in Italy," you reply curtly, setting it on the table in front of you before pulling your knees up to your chest. 

Your friend raises an eyebrow. "Are you going there too?" As you shake your head in confusion, he points to a spot behind you with a nod of his head. "I'm just asking because there's a suitcase there."

As you turn around, you immediately realize what Lando means. You've left the bedroom door open, and from where he's sitting, he has a perfect view of the doorstep. Right to where your suitcase is. 

"It's not for that," you reply. 

"What for then?"

You stand up to stall some time, and to avoid looking Lando in the eye. You rinse the bowl slowly, hoping you'll think of another good excuse to give him. But you don't want to lie to him either. After all, Lando doesn't deserve that. 

And that's why you don't say anything as you reach for the kitchen towel to dry the bowl. You rub over each spot at least three times, and even though it's already completely dry, you keep wiping over it. 

When you suddenly feel a warm hand on your shoulder, you wince. 

"What did he do?" Lando's voice is calm and gentle as he takes the bowl and cloth from your hand and sets both down on the countertop. 

"Nothing," you reply curtly, and are about to grab a glass from the cabinet when his large hand clasps yours and stops you in your tracks. 

"Come on, Y/N." Lando pulls lightly on your hand to make you turn in his direction. You keep your head lowered, however. 

If you were looking at him right now - you just can't lie to him.

"I know Charles," he says softly, before placing his index finger under your chin and lifting it to make you look at him. When you look into his worried blue eyes, you've lost the fight. "What did he do?"

You can't stop the tears that gather in the corners of your eyes. Nor can you stop them from rolling down your cheeks as you try to blink them away. Lando thinking badly of his monegasque friend is the last thing you want. 

But if you move away from here, you certainly won't see Lando again either. And then, theoretically, you may as well not care what he thinks of his friend. And after all, it's not like Charles didn't deserve it, the way he treated you. Charles brought it on himself. 

You tell Lando everything. 

You start with the fact that Raphael cheated on you and dumped you. That you lost your job a few days ago and Charles was suddenly standing in your - his - apartment. You tell him about your agreement to share the apartment because he still lets his ex-girlfriend live in his first apartment and that after four days he grew so close to your heart that it made you dizzy. 

You tell him about Raphael waiting for you in front of the apartment on the day of the dinner with your friends, and that's why you had to spend the night at Kika's, and that Charles called you in a panic and after that you shared the bed for the first time. How you were so unsure about your feelings, because Charles is Charles, and that he had you completely wrapped around his little finger, even though you've only known each other for a few days. 

You tell him about yesterday morning. What he threw at you, even though he knew exactly how much it would hurt you. How he talked about his own friend to make you feel even more insecure. And you tell him that you told Charles that you were going to move out. 

Lando stays silent the whole time, but doesn't take his eyes off you. His eyes follow every tear that drips from your chin onto your sweater, and in between he gently squeezes your hand as a sign that he's following your story. 

When you fall silent, he says nothing at first, but pulls you toward the living room, where he places you both on the couch. You worry that you've told him too much, gone a giant step too far, but it all just poured out of you and you couldn't stop the torrent of words. 

But Lando doesn't seem to be angry with you. Quite the opposite. His gaze seems softer as you look at him. "I'd like to offer you the guest room in my apartment," he finally says. "But I don't think you'd accept the offer."

You tighten your mouth into a thin line. "I think it would be best if I just moved away. There's nothing keeping me here. No job, no responsibilities. I can go anywhere." You wrench your arms in the air. "Maybe I'll get a job in the United States. Or in Australia. Just really far away from here."

"That would be a possibility, of course," Lando replies. "But that can't be what you really want, can it?"

Puzzled, you tilt your head. "Why not?"

Lando leans against the back of the sofa. "You could have moved away when you were fired. Or when Raphael dumped you. But you stayed."

You shrug helplessly. "But now I have a reason to leave."

"Do you?" he asks. 

"Obviously."

"Then why didn't you tell me everything yesterday? Or when I was just outside your door? Or warming up your soup?" he counters. You don't like the direction this conversation is taking. "You could have told me all about it right away. But you didn't, because you didn't want me to think badly of Charles."

You shrug, trying to express your indifference towards your still-roommate. But Lando isn't buying it. Not one bit of it. 

"Come on, Y/N. You can't tell me you don't care about him at all. If you did, you wouldn't be so upset by all this that you'd want to leave the country. And then you wouldn't have tried to protect him in the first place."

You hate that he's right.

"I didn't realize you were so emotionally mature," you reply to him, slightly flippantly, and no sooner have you said it than you're sorry. "Sorry. You're not the person I'm mad at." You pucker your mouth into a thin line. "Are you mad at him? At Charles?"

Lando shrugs. "I'm not thrilled, of course, that a friend of mine would talk about me that way. Especially since he knows none of it is true," he explains. "Charles is good at pushing people away who mean something to him. I just don't know if he's doing it to protect the person or himself."

"Definitely himself." You shake your head. "You don't do something like that to protect someone! That's complete bullshit!"

"Are you sure about that?" Lando rubs his palm over his cheek. "Weren't you planning on sleeping on the couch and breaking your deal?"

You raise your index finger. "Nuh-uh. That was to protect myself."

"So you haven't been telling yourself the last few days that a friendship between you is better? After all, your ex cheated on you and left you because you wouldn't sleep with him. You got fired, Y/N. Your emotional baggage is higher than the Eiffel Tower." He puts a hand on your shoulder. "You know I don't mean that in a bad way, or to hurt you. But I'm sure you're trying to protect not only your heart, but Charles' heart as well."

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. But this time you don't even try to stop them. "He deserves someone better. Someone who won't lie to him. Someone who doesn't carry around so much baggage." You shake your head slightly and wrinkle your nose. "He deserves someone great."

Lando's hand moves from your shoulder down their arm until he can intertwine his fingers with yours. He squeezes them gently. "I know someone who's been hurt so much, but still sees the good in people." He smiles at you. "I don't know anyone more great than you."

Lando stays with you for the rest of the evening, trying to distract you, which he clearly succeeds at with the miserable rounds of Uno in which he cheated at least twelve times. As you part with a tight, friendly hug, he presses a kiss to your cheek.

"You're still allowed to be mad at Charles. What he did is absolute bullshit," he says as he slips on his shoes. "But wait a little while before you move out. Maybe he'll come crawling back and apologize. Besides, for selfish reasons, I don't want you to move to the United States. Or Australia. Or anywhere else." He gives you one last squeeze. "If you need anything, call me. I'll be right over."

"I know," you smile, "and thanks again for the soups." 

He raises his index and middle fingers to his temple, a joking goodbye. "You're always welcome. See you around. Here in Monaco."

You close the door behind him and actually feel a lot better. Lando's presence was comforting and warm, and he's someone you definitely wouldn't want to miss as a friend. 

After brushing your teeth and combing your hair, you settle into bed. Your suitcase is still at your bedroom door, but the decision to move out isn't as set in stone as it was just a few hours ago. Perhaps you would look for a hotel for the time being to gain some distance. And then seek a conversation with Charles to have his behavior explained to you. 

Friends don't treat each other like that. And he's definitely going to have some work to do to straighten that out. But there needs to be distance between you to make it work, which is why you're looking for hotels in the area to check into tomorrow. 

A violent knock on the front door startles you. It's the middle of the night and you're not expecting anyone, so you carefully tiptoe towards the door. Maybe it's Lando, who left the rest of his soups here, or maybe he left his cell phone and can't call you to let you know he's coming by. Or maybe it's just a neighbor who got the wrong door. 

It could have been all of these possibilities. But it's none of them when you open the door. 

And you immediately regret that you didn't move out yesterday.

next part

[daydreamkissesxo]

Father Charlie x reader | Sinner pt 4; Is this how it ends?

Warnings; manipulation, coercive behaviour, mentions of pregnancy and active labour, angst, mentions of abortion (no smut this time😢)

A/N; I really struggled for this part and I’m not entirely happy with it but it’ll do😂 part 5 is cominggg

Your sudden disappearance was the talk of the church each Sunday, every family theorising what could have possibly happened.

Your mother was distraught, inconsolable as she had no explanation as to where you were or whether you were even alive.

Father Charlie often comforted her after mass, cruelly lifting her spirits by claiming that you would one day return, though he knew otherwise.

Your family's persistent searching often left him anxious, that they'd somehow trace your disappearance back to him.

He'd thought of several different ways to resolve the issue, all exposing your pregnancy one way or another with the knowledge that your parents would disown you for it.

He'd thought of carefully planting a pregnancy test in one of your coat pockets after conveniently visiting your family home to console your mother, hoping she'd find it as she rummaged for clues as to your whereabouts.

He'd even considered paying one of the local homeless men to falsely inform your mother that he'd seen you leaving town with a blossoming baby bump, but that seemed to be one of the riskier options, he knew he'd be setting himself up for blackmail.

You were completely oblivious to the state your family were in, confined to the four walls of Father Charlie's home as he claimed it would be impossible for you to leave it without being noticed now that half of the town knew you were missing.

His intentions were far from pure, he disguised his reasons for keeping you a prisoner in his home as concern for the abandonment you'd inevitably receive from your family if they discovered the truth.

He'd carefully manipulated you into believing that he had done nothing wrong, that he acted on the lust you inflicted upon him and that any consequences were only yours to suffer.

You were disconnected from the outside world as he'd even taken away your phone, claiming that you were easy to trace as long as you were in possession of it.

Each day that passed was another that he'd paralysed your mind, ridding you of your independence unconsciously so that you were solely reliant on him for even the most basic human care.

He had a strong desire to control every aspect of your life, carefully planting small seeds of doubt in your mind that you were incapable of making your own decisions and taking proper care of yourself.

He provided you with a home, the clothes that you wore, the food that you ate and the comfort most people long for, it made him feel so unbelievably powerful.

He'd carefully prepared every meal you'd eat, insisting that he knew best where nutritional value was concerned due to his previous work as a personal trainer, yet his intention was to ensure you never ate unless he provided it, much like a dependant child.

The only time he'd leave your side was to fulfil his duties at the church and even then he wondered if that were too long, he couldn't risk leaving your mind unoccupied.

Despite his extreme measures you'd never once thought of yourself as a prisoner, he appeared so attentive and caring that you believed it was just in his nature, not part of his carefully crafted plot to manipulate the woman he'd purposely impregnated so she could never exist without him.

You couldn't help but feel like a house pet, always perched on the sofa or beside him in bed with no real purpose other than incubating his unborn child.

Father Charlie had managed to convince you not to see anyone of the medical profession during your pregnancy, claiming that once you'd stepped foot over the threshold of a hospital that they'd inform your family immediately.

Being so fearful of their disappointment, you agreed that a doctor he had known previous to becoming a priest could regularly check you over.

Violent nausea woke you from your slumber each morning, you'd spend the majority of your day hunched over the toilet bowl and for that father Charlie was pleased, while you were in that state you were incapable of even attempting to leave which bought him more time to work his manipulative ways.

While he was sympathetic to your sickness, he strongly felt it was the perfect punishment for trying to end your pregnancy, though he never told you that.

He hadn't totally forgiven you for your actions but he wasn't a complete monster, he knelt beside you to hold your hair back when he could.

In an ideal world, the two of you would have been married and equally excited for the arrival of your child, but the conception date made it difficult for him to find a way to leave his position at the church without exposing his sexual relationship with you during his time there.

It was at dinner one night that he'd noticed how withdrawn you'd become, assuming it was due to the toll early pregnancy was having on your body but the sound of stifled sobs caused him to stiffen.

He'd immediately placed the dinner plates onto the table, rushing to your side to kneel beside the chair where you sat.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asked softly, lifting one of his hands to gently cup your cheek and wipe away your tears, caressing your soft skin with his thumb.

"I..miss my family.." you whispered quietly, your gaze thankfully adverted as Father Charlie clenched his jaw in growing frustration for the reason of your sudden sadness.

"I know you do. But think about it..your family think you've run away. You can't just suddenly show up pregnant, with no husband in sight." He attempted to sound reasonable and sympathetic, as if his sole purpose of keeping you within the four walls of his home was for your own good and not his.

"You're not the reincarnation of Mary, somebody put that baby inside of you and they'll want to know who."

You flinched at his words, perhaps he didn't mean to be so crass but the thought of you exposing him as the father of your child made him anxious.

Hurt by his words, you attempted to turn your head away but his hand nudged at your cheek to force your head back towards him.

"This goes beyond you, sweetheart. What about me? How can I support you if I lose my position? We'll lose this house, I'll lose the support of the community."

He intended to scare you into thinking the two of you could never survive if he were to lose his priesthood, that the luxury that came with the role was the only acceptable choice for your new family.

He knew you'd feel guilty enough at the thought of him losing everything he'd ever worked for to not raise the issue again, but it didn't stop you from feeling disappointed.

He placed one of his palms against your barely noticeable bump, a prideful smile replacing the scowl he wore a moment before.

"This is what happens, sweet girl. You move on, and you start your own family..you leave those you love behind to make space in your heart for new." He said in a soft yet condescending tone, attempting to sever the ties between you and your family completely.

You lowered your gaze as you allowed his words to soak in, unknowingly ingesting the poison that would slowly rid you of your clarity.

His infectious smile caused you to smile back, and for the first time during your pregnancy, you felt hopeful for the future the two of you would share.

Your second trimester brought its own challenges, your breasts were notably larger and constantly sore, and you were almost always in discomfort as the skin of your abdomen stretched to accommodate your growing bundle of joy.

Most days were spent perched in the same spot on the living room couch, no longer able to read nor watch the television as the outside world was all that seemed to occupy your mind.

Each time father Charlie left for mass you'd spend your hour of isolated silence staring out of the window into the front garden, watching as spring finally swept away the darkness of winter.

Once naked tree branches were now beautifully decorated with blossoming flower buds, sparsely planted flowers blooming from the ground while nature began to emerge from its hibernation.

Butterflies were a rare sighting so you were always pleased when one did appear, you thought you'd struck gold as two suddenly appeared to drift past and settle on the window ledge.

You leant closer to the window in fascination, A beautiful white butterfly trapped beneath a black and red patterned one.

It was oddly symbolic, the darkness holding the pure and innocent captive, much like how Father Charlie held you.

The sudden sound of a closing door forced you to jump, your hand falling to your rounded belly to clutch it as you glanced over your shoulder, your gaze meeting Father Charlie's.

He stood frozen in the doorway as he took a moment to admire the sight before him, how beautiful you looked as you sit and wait for him to return, the natural light reflecting against your skin to create a radiant glow.

"There's my girl." He murmured as he walked over to take a seat beside you, excitedly placing a hand on either side of your pregnant belly.

"Not much longer and I can finally come home to two beautiful girls." He chuckled, lowering his head to press a soft peck to the top of your baby bump.

"We don't know if we're having a girl." You replied, quietly giggling as you found his assumption of the gender amusing seeing as he was so adamant.

"Oh she's definitely a girl." He argued, lifting his head to look up at you before leaning in to place a delicate kiss to your lips, silencing you from correcting him once more.

He'd pulled away before you even had chance to reciprocate, your lips left parted as your eyes met once more.

"How have you been feeling? I thought perhaps we could take a walk around the church grounds later, get some fresh air?" He offered, a reward for your compliance now that he was confident you'd never run.

Later, meaning after it had gotten dark as he certainly couldn't allow anyone to see you now you were very visibly pregnant.

He watched as your eyes lit up with excitement at such a small offering of freedom and it left him nervous, mentally questioning how you'd act if he ever accidentally left the door unlocked.

"Great. But first, I've got some ideas about the nursery I'd like to run by you." He added, his hand falling from your bump to his pocket to retrieve his phone.

He lifted it slightly as he swiped through his apps in search of the photo one, clicking on it to then scroll upwards in search of the screenshots he'd taken from various shopping sites for inspiration.

"I was thinking neutral? Seeing as you're not going to let me paint it pink." He teased, smiling as he held the phone up just enough for you to see the inspiration photos he had.

It was later that evening that he'd taken you to the church grounds as promised, aware that gentle exercise is essential for expectant mothers and would aid the correct positioning of the baby as your due date drew closer.

He kept a slow pace as he walked beside you, acknowledging that due to the pressure bearing down on your pelvis it was uncomfortable to walk any faster.

Despite the discomfort, the walk was more than pleasing as you'd finally got to feel the fresh spring breeze brush past your skin while taking in a view far more pleasant than the same four walls of his home.

The church held many memories for you, most fond while some were unpleasant, such as your scuffle with Father Charlie.

You'd often dreamed of marrying at such a beautiful place, though now the thought of marriage was no longer as your relationship with Father Charlie would be frowned upon by most.

He'd often wondered whether you missed the church, the beautiful hymns you knew every word of and the scriptures you'd followed so closely until his corruption of you.

"Do you miss being here?" He asked sincerely after noticing the longing in your eyes as you take in the view, for once not taking the opportunity to taunt you.

You nodded simply in response, reminiscent of the Sundays you'd spent sat amongst your family as you looked for guidance from the Lord, when your feelings for Father Charlie were nothing more than your best kept secret.

"I do. I wish I'd have had some self restraint, things may have been different.."

Father Charlie grew stiff at your confession, your words of regret made him feel both uncomfortable and somewhat sad.

"But I'm not regretful. What good is regret? Everyone's path in life is different, and if it's God's will..I will gladly accept the path chosen for me." You softly add, turning your attention towards him as you smile warmly.

Somehow he'd felt even more sad, God's will never played a part in your fate, it was his decisions that led you down the path you now walked.

The warmth of your smile filled him with nothing more than shame, more shame than he'd inflicted upon you for attempting to better your future by aborting the living evidence of your sexual relationship, he understood in that very moment why you'd considered it.

You gently took hold of his hand, intertwining your fingers with his as a way of showing that the two of you would walk your ill fated path together.

"God will forgive us for our sins, and I hope you will forgive me for the selfish decision I almost made.." You timidly said, his reaction to the abortion you almost endured still ingrained on your mind.

Father Charlie could only respond with a smile, truly stunned by your sudden remorse and compliance, it was deeply unnerving.

Father Charlie never truly recovered from that day, he'd become even more nervy and on edge, waiting for you to one day take your revenge instead of now appreciating the compliance he'd always sought from you.

It was several weeks until your supposed due date and you could barely tell the difference between every day pain and possible contractions.

The pain prevented you from sleeping at night, every time you'd settle another sharp pain in your lower abdomen would disturb you, leaving you exhausted and desperate for your pregnancy to be over with.

Father Charlie felt your accidental nudges throughout the night as you stirred, always waking from his own slumber to ask whether you were okay.

He was reluctant to leave for mass one morning but you insisted he should, convinced that the pain was nothing more than those practise contractions you'd read so much about, but you couldn't have been more wrong.

The pain became drastically worse and had you still been in possession of your phone, you'd have called the first contact you could to come and help.

The intense pain lasted for just a few seconds every couple of minutes, it was a pain you could only describe as a tightening squeeze across your lower abdomen.

Father Charlie had returned from mass to find you slumped against the wall in the hallway with your knees slightly bent up towards your chest, your hand desperately shaking as you clutched at your belly while your body writhed in pain.

His eyes widening in panic as dropped his briefcase in desperate hurry, rushing to your side faster than his mind could even comprehend before falling to his knees beside you.

Your skin was visibly clammy while your face was scrunched in clear discomfort, your purposeful drawn out breathes interrupted as loud pain filled sobs erupt from your lips when another contraction reached its peak.

Father Charlie was visibly panicked, untrained and certainly not educated enough to deliver a baby but there was hardly any time to wait for his doctor friend.

"Baby? Baby, tell me how far apart the contractions are?" He asked, attempting to sound confident while completely overcome with nerves, raising a hand to softly stroke your hair in an attempt to comfort you.

"I, I don't know!" You choke out, arching your back from against the wall as the pain rippled through your abdomen uncomfortably.

Unbeknownst to father Charlie, your mother had followed him home in hope of seeking the comfort he'd often provided her in regard to your disappearance.

Though he could hardly hear a thing over your agonised sobbing, a loud knock at the door followed by a familiar voice caused him to freeze in absolute panic.

"Father Charlie, are you there?" She called out, and the sound of your mother's comforting voice was everything you'd wished to hear as your body fought to bring new life into the world.

Father Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the door, his breath audibly trembling as he believed the two of you would inevitably be caught.

He felt your body tense beside him, confident that a contraction was impending, and as you began to let out a violent sob his hand came to harshly cover your mouth to muffle it.

It felt sickeningly cruel to touch you this way knowing the intense pain that rushed throughout your body, but he just needed to let your mother leave before attending to your greatly immense suffering and the delivery of his beautiful baby.

Taglist; @targaryenswhxre @dckweed @psychocitylights @yoongling 💖💖

[seongwars]

ardently | {TBD}

Pairing: Viscount!Choi San x Countess!Reader AU: non-idol | regency Summary: After falling victim to one of Choi San’s many wagers, you vowed to a life of eternal spinsterhood. However, when the Choi family faces the imminent threat of losing their estate, the very man you swore you would never forgive re-enters your life.  Word Count: 2.1K Warnings: you were a bet trope, some violence, misogyny, men being disappointing, some angst

a/n: I'm gonna let this marinate because i don't know what I want to do with this yet

“The Choi’s have sent a letter of proposal,” Yeosang announced, stepping into the drawing room. His voice was tinged with hesitation as he approached you with the unopened envelope. The weight of the situation seemed to hang in the air, palpable and heavy.

You remained seated on the sofa, eyes fixed on the novel you were reading. Without looking up, you replied, “Perhaps they sent it to the wrong address.” Your tone was measured, but the underlying bitterness was unmistakable, a sharp contrast to the calm exterior you maintained.

Yeosang sighed, clearly grappling with how best to navigate this unexpected development. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you recognized as one of his tells when he was deeply troubled. 

“I assure you, the address is indeed correct,” he said, his voice softening as he placed the envelope on the small table before you. The Choi family’s wax seal was unmistakable.

You finally looked up from your book, meeting his eyes with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. “Please send them my regards,” you bristled, flipping the page with a deliberate nonchalance that belied the turmoil brewing inside you.

“Y/N,” Yeosang’s voice softened, almost pleading. 

You scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Choi San has an assembly of ladies to choose from. I cannot fathom why his father would send a letter to our household.” The mention of San brought a flicker of anger to your eyes, but you quickly masked it with a carefully crafted indifference.

“The Choi’s risk losing their estate and fortune. They view this marriage as a strategic endeavor to ensure their survival.”

“How unfortunate,” you replied flatly. “Perhaps the Viscount should not have squandered all of his investments in trade with the East Indies. It seems that the gamble did not pay off as expected.” The words came out more cutting than you had intended, but the frustration was evident in every syllable. 

Years before the letter arrived, a different kind of gamble was afoot, one that involved Choi San and his circle of friends. Known for their competitive spirit and reckless dares, San’s friends wagered that the future Viscount Choi could not successfully court you—a wallflower who stuck out like a weed in the garden of the ton. This challenge both intrigued and amused them.

“I bet you couldn’t win the heart of the most unassuming lady in the ton,” one of his friends declared, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You mean the wallflower?” San said with a casual shrug. “Consider it done.” 

His friends, lounging comfortably around him, erupted in a chorus of laughter and cheers. The challenge had been laid out, and San’s assurance that he could win the bet sparked a round of applause. 

San had always been adept at winning people over, and this challenge was no different in his mind. To him, it was just another game to be won and bragged about later. His friends, intrigued by the prospect, eagerly awaited the outcome, unaware of the repercussions that would ensue.

For you, who had long been a wallflower in the grand halls of social events, his interest was both bewildering and flattering. You found yourself drawn to his charm, his seemingly sincere gaze, and the way he made you feel seen for the first time in a long while.

As the days turned into weeks, the lines between the dare and reality began to blur for San. He found himself genuinely enjoying your company, your conversations, and the way your eyes lit up when you spoke of your passions. Yet, the shadow of the wager loomed over him, a constant reminder of the deceit at the heart of his courtship.

The turning point came on the night of your mama’s ball, a night that was meant to be filled with joy and celebration. The garden, usually a haven of soft moonlight and the scent of blooming roses, now felt like a cold and unwelcoming expanse. 

You had sought a moment of solitude, desperate to escape the crowded ballroom and the superficial conversations that had begun to wear on you. The tranquility of the garden was a brief respite, a chance to catch your breath away from the prying eyes of high society.

“I can’t believe she fell for it,” one of San’s friends said, his voice dripping with mockery.

San’s voice was unmistakable. “Pay up gentlemen, I told you I could do it. It was only a matter of time.”

Your heart sank as you listened, your breath catching in your throat. “It was all a wager,” you whispered to yourself, the words a bitter echo of the shock that coursed through you.

Another friend chimed in, his tone sharp and dismissive. “You really had her convinced, Choi. No woman in high society has a future unless it’s with child-rearing!”

San’s chuckle was a cruel sound in the night. “It was almost too easy to get her to talk about her ambitions. She was so desperate for someone to care.”

The tears that had been threatening to fall now streamed down your face, unbidden and hot. The entire courtship, every moment of tenderness and trust, had been nothing more than a dare, a game designed for their amusement. The weight of the deception crushed you, making your chest tighten with anger.

Unable to bear the sting of their laughter any longer, you stepped out from the shadows. “Is this true?” you demanded, your voice quivering and strained, each word punctuated with the raw pain and disbelief that surged through you. 

San’s eyes widened in shock as he saw you, his confident façade shattering before your very eyes. “Y/N, wait, I can explain—” he stammered, his voice faltering as he grappled with the gravity of the situation.

“Explain?” you echoed, your voice rising in a mixture of fury and pain. “Explain how you toyed with my feelings for a wager? How you led me to lay bare my vulnerabilities only to use them as fodder for your amusement?”

The friends who had been complicit in the bet fell silent, their earlier laughter abruptly stifled. San took a hesitant step towards you, his outstretched hand a tentative attempt at offering comfort or perhaps an explanation. But you flinched away, the gesture feeling like a further violation of the trust he had already so deeply betrayed. 

“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking, the hurt and betrayal pouring through. “Leave me be.”

The words were a plea and a declaration, a desperate attempt to reclaim a semblance of self-respect in the face of overwhelming betrayal. The idea of confronting him further, of allowing him to come closer, felt like it would strip you of the last fragments of your pride.

San’s eyes were filled with regret and guilt, but it was too late. The damage was done, irreparable and deep. You turned and walked away, each step echoing with the finality of your shattered trust. The path back to the ballroom seemed impossibly long, your heart heavy with the knowledge that the person you had trusted was just another player in a cruel game.

A few nights later, Yeosang arrived at the club, his heart pounding with fury. The night air was heavy with tension as he pushed open the club’s doors, the clamor of conversation and music suddenly silenced by his forceful entrance. His eyes scanned the room until they locked onto San, who was lounging with friends at a corner table, seemingly oblivious to the storm approaching him.

San’s expression shifted from casual amusement to surprise as he noticed Yeosang closing the distance in a few swift strides. His fist swung through the air, connecting solidly with San’s face. 

“My sister!” he roared, his voice filled with a raw, piercing intensity. “Of all the people in this damned world, my sister?”

San’s eyes darted between Yeosang and the crowd, his shock turning to regret as he slowly began to comprehend the magnitude of his actions. He stammered, “I never meant for it to go this far.”

“Did you think you could just make a fool out of her and walk away unscathed?” he spat, his disappointment palpable. 

“I’m sorry–”

“Apologies won’t undo the damage that has already been done.”

With a final, scathing look, Yeosang turned and stormed out of the club, his footsteps echoing in the stunned silence. The room remained frozen, the tension thick in the air. San stood there, feeling the eyes of everyone upon him, the full weight of his actions crashing down on him.

“I’ll have to eventually send a reply, Y/N,” Yeosang sighed, his voice heavy with the weight of the situation. He stood by the window, staring out at the twilight as if seeking answers in the horizon.

You leaned back on the sofa, the letter from the Choi family lying unopened on the coffee table like a looming storm cloud. “Why don’t you marry San? You both seemed to have made up after you nearly dislocated his jaw,” you said with a wry smile.

“Ah, yes, because nothing says true love like a fistfight at the local club,” Yeosang quipped, shooting you a bemused look.

You leaned forward, your voice taking on a serious tone. “Their troubles are not my burden to bear. I’ve already been a pawn to their son before, and I won’t let myself be used again. The last thing I want is to be part of another arrangement that diminishes my worth.”

Your words were more than just a rejection; they were a declaration of your resolve. The Choi family had been close to your father, but their offer now felt like a cold, calculated move rather than a gesture of genuine concern or respect.

The grand halls of the Choi estate were alive with activity, but not in the usual festive manner. In the midst of this flurry, the family’s domestic staff worked with a practiced efficiency. Their hands deftly placed the covers over the delicate upholstery of the sofas and the intricate designs of the armchairs. The rich tapestries and decorative vases were carefully wrapped, their vibrant colors and intricate patterns momentarily hidden beneath plain, protective fabric.

The Viscount's usually composed demeanor was marred by the strain of their financial predicament. His brows were furrowed, and his hands rested on the edge of the polished desk, gripping it as if for support. Across from him, San’s normally confident air seemed overshadowed by the weight of their current situation.

Maps and financial reports were scattered across the desk, the papers bearing the marks of multiple revisions and frantic calculations. The flicker of the fireplace cast long shadows on the walls, adding to the somber mood.

“We’ve exhausted most of our resources in trade and investments,” the Viscount said, his voice weary and resigned.  “A proposal might be our last viable solution.”

San’s shoulders tensed as he listened, his gaze shifting between the documents and his father’s troubled expression. “Father, I know you’re trying to protect our legacy, but I’m not sure if this is the right approach. A marriage proposal, especially one of convenience, might not be received well. It could damage our reputation further if not handled delicately.”

“Our estate and name has always been at the heart of high society and we can’t afford to lose that standing! This proposal might be the only way to secure the financial support we need,” Viscount Choi sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “The Kang’s have a daughter who is a suitable marriage prospect.”

San’s heart sank as those words settled in his mind, a cold dread spreading through him. The guilt he had managed to bury beneath layers of rationalization and distraction surged back with an intensity that made his chest tighten. He could vividly recall the way he had toyed with your emotions, how he had made a cruel wager out of your genuine feelings. The memories of his laughter with his friends, the mockery hidden beneath what he had presented as genuine affection, all came flooding back.

“Father,” San began, his voice cracking slightly as he struggled to maintain his composure. “It would be improper to involve her in this matter,” his words tumbled out in a rush, his eyes pleading for understanding.

Viscount Choi’s expression softened further, a hint of regret in his eyes. “San, I know this is difficult for you. I do not take this lightly, nor do I wish to cause anyone harm. But our family’s future is at stake. Your future is at stake.”

[strawberrystepmom]

yami x f!noble reader. cw smoking, sex insinuated, misogyny and mentions of marriage as well as fertility but not on yami's part. i just like these two sorry for party rockin | wc 1.1k, divider thanks to @cafekitsune

you can read more about these two here

“I know it’s impolite to ask but what happened between the two of you?”

Yami chuckles, shoulders pressed against the rickety headboard behind him. 

“Who?” He asks, well aware of what you mean despite his attempt to seem unsure. You sigh, turning to look at him. 

“Charlotte.”

A moonbeam pours in over the two of you, the room otherwise dark and silent, the stillness emboldening you to finally ask him some questions. Tightening the sheet that is wrapped around your body, you dare glance up at him to find him already staring at you, as though he’s trying to figure out why you’d ask in the first place.

“Sometimes things just don’t work out,” he shrugs flippantly. You get the sense that he’s downplaying but keep it to yourself, wide eyes watching his every movement. “We were more different than we thought and decided to go our separate ways and it has been mostly fine.”

Perhaps it’s naivety (or the four failed engagements) but you believe that you understand what he means, nodding slowly. You’ve always viewed love as an ever changing puzzle, similar to the one in your father’s study at home. A wooden frame holds ceramic sliding tiles and you position them again and again until a picture is clear and in front of you - what you’ve been looking for the entire time. 

You blink hard and glance down at your hands, once again pulling the linens over your exposed cleavage. Goosebumps prickle your skin, forcing you to dive further under, and he notices and pulls you against his warm side.

“Since we’re asking questions all of sudden, how about you?” He raises a brow, sliding lower into the bed and giving you room to rest your head against the firmness of his stomach. “Four is damn near impressive.”

Mirroring his prior shrug, you contemplate quietly what it truly means to tell four men you don’t want to marry them. Arrogant is what one told you and you found it hard to disagree when he was red cheeked and yelling at you. Frigid was what another said, accusing you of hiding potential issues with producing an heir for his family. A third said nothing but left you silently to consider your opinion of yourself, sitting in a wooden backed chair in the study where that slide puzzle rested on a table across from you while he cast you a disappointed glance.

The fourth and most recent you objected to before he could harm your ego further, refusing his offers of land and jewels. You have both of those things. You’re an heiress in your own right despite the sons your father has now sired amongst your 11 siblings. Physical means mean nothing to you when what you desire is deeper than gilded flesh. 

“I cannot commit to living a life where I will be unable to be who I am.” 

You finally answer after prolonged silence, giving yourself permission to be honest since he was honest with you. 

“So you don’t want to get married?” He asks, finally lighting a cigarette but politely blowing the smoke in the opposite direction of you. You shake your head, the back of it against his stomach, leaving you to look up at him. “The opposite, actually. I would love to be married and to have a family but not at the cost of myself and having to be misunderstood to maintain peace.”

He hums, a sound you believe is some level of understanding of what you mean, and inhales another puff. 

“What makes you so different from all the other noble girls?”

The question would be offensive if it were to be asked by anyone else but you know Yami. He’s rough around the edges and sometimes a bit too curt in saying what he means but there’s genuine curiosity not derision in his tone. 

“I’m apprehensive to say that I am all that different considering how similar our upbringings tend to be yet I feel like I’ve never quite fit in with them.” Your head remains resting in the cradle of his slightly bent middle, the cherry glow of his cigarette illuminating his face enough you can make out those wise eyes staring at your mouth. “I’ve never loved high society. It’s suffocating and everyone is very judgemental and most of them have already, probably correctly, theorized that I will be a spinster left to take care of my siblings for all my life.”

A chuckle rumbles through him in tandem with a shake of his head you can see thanks to the glow of his cigarette. He mumbles around the filter, one big hand coming to rest on the covered dip of your waist. “Don’t say shit like that. You’re pretty and smart and funny once you get to runnin’ your mouth so what’s the point in pretending you aren’t?”

Your face warms beneath his praise and your eyes dart away from him, choosing to settle on the specs of dust floating through the single beam of light shining through the room. You’ve already given him more of yourself than you intended and not simply your body, your feelings as well. There’s no turning back so you continue, feeling your heart beating in your throat while speaking.

“I believe it’s easier for me to make all of this my fault,” you nearly whisper, keeping your gaze locked on the ceiling above while you’re making a confession. “To believe there’s something wrong with me rather than the system we use to decide people’s value.”

Stamping out his cigarette against the windowsill with his free hand, he squeezes your waist with the occupied one and draws your attention back, leaving you blinking up at him.

“Well don’t. It doesn’t seem like you’re the problem here at all.” Another squeeze and your heart beats in time with it. There’s an easy smile on his face, one you can barely make out in the dim room, yet you match it with one of your own.  “I think you have plenty of time to find someone if you want to,” he continues. 

“I think the same of you, Yami.” An unexpected response. He raises a brow, sliding further down into the bed beside you. You remain with your head against him, tucked into his side, a large arm wrapped around your waist. “I think the woman who ends up with you will be lucky.”

Pulling you tighter against him, he considers your sentiment and hums.

“I guess you’ll have to ask her when that day comes if she’s lucky or not.”

You nod once, deciding to let silence win you both over as the night continues to fade away, hoping to prolong your time with him as much as possible without any further interruption.

[myownwholewildworld]

acta, non verba - ii. there is no treachery in the art of war

chapter 1 | series masterlist | ao3 | main masterlist | chapter 3 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: you need to start moving the game along, but you cannot be too obvious. or... can you? a/n: hello there! c: here's the second chapter! there is quite a bit of character & world building in this one, as i felt it served the storyline, so i hope you guys like it! i wanted to thank you all for your nice, encouring words on the first chapter, it really motivated me to keep on writing! you guys are amazing 💖 as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. references to marital abuse (physical and sexual) and child marriage (massive age gap, not in a cutesy way), in line with the time this story is set on. mentions of death/murder. mention of infertility. sexual tension galore (👀). a smidge of angst. w/c: ~8.6k. dividers by @saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)

“Honestly, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Callie”, Torcall sombrely warned you, his eyes locking on yours over the wooden spoon he tightly gripped close to his mouth.

“And what would you have me do then?”, you sneeringly replied back.

Your brother-in-law had been pestering you the whole morning about what your plan was to win your lands back. You knew the long game was your best bet — you didn’t have the numbers to face Rome on your own. Your athair had tried and failed in his attempt. Another defeat like the one your people suffered in Raedykes would destroy your clan. It would wipe you out off the map — everything your ancestors had worked for, gone under the crushing yoke of the Romans.

“I would not have you whoring yourself out to a fucking Roman, that’s for sure. Your athair would be so disappointed in you.” He snapped back at you, anger flowing in his words.

His reply stung badly, so much you unconsciously crossed your arms at chest level — an unvoluntary gesture to protect yourself from his accusation.

“That’s beyond the point”, you barked, the green of your irises burning like hellish fire. “And my father would be just fine with my decision. Need I remind you who he married me off to?”

Torcall’s knuckles went white as his fingers pressed around the spoon harshly. You cocked a brow, unwavering.

Ten years ago, your athair had reached an agreement with Iain of Am Baile Ùr(Insh), the lord of Badenoch whose state was a few miles south of your birthplace. For as long as Caledonia had formed, there had always been internal disputes about who was the rightful heir to the Overlord title.

The clan who held the stronghold at Inbhir Nis had historically always been considered the legitimate title’s holder. Your family had been the keepers of the land for as long as anyone could remember. But it didn’t stop those who were thirsty for power, so your father had to prove himself over and over again.

After several bloody skirmishes, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis had crowned himself, yet again, lord and master of Caledonia. Iain had been a strong contestant against your father and was only appeased when your athair offered you as a consolation prize to him, as if you were a lamb up for sale at the local market. A cheap one at that.

At the tender age of six and ten, you had been shipped off to an unknown land to be wife to a man you had never seen before. The next ten years of your life would be living hell — what you had to endure, you would not wish it upon your worst enemy.

The memories that would crawl back at night would still wake you up, a cold sweat trickling down your spine every time. Abuse in your arranged marriage was your bread and butter. Every time you returned home under the prying, controlling eyes of Iain or your family came to visit, you would lie to them about the new bruise on your cheek, the limp you had for a couple of weeks or the teeth marks on your neck. Murdoch was the last to realise, unable to come to terms with the destiny he had forced upon you. And by the time he did, there was not much he could do without infuriating Iain, without risking another war.

The peace of the Caledonians outweighed your suffering, after all. You were not worth such a bloodshed.

So you pushed through it all and survived — for family, for clan, for honour. Never resented your father either; he had a duty to protect his tribe, and so did you. For a decade you dragged yourself across ember and ash, until you finally caught a break six months ago.

Iain was found dead in the marital bed, his eyes wide open and his expression struck with horror, as if a wraith had taken his life. At the mature age of six and sixty, you had been his third wife, so when his only son and heir from his first marriage ascended, you were no longer needed. With no family of your own tying you to that ghostly place, you packed your things and swiftly left, the Will' O' the Wisps guiding you home.

“I didn’t mean it that way”, his answer burst out in a pitiful whisper. One of your eyebrows raised even further into your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

You sighed, unfolding your arms and looking at the cold broth in front of you. Grabbing the spoon again, you swirled it in the bowl aimlessly. You didn’t need your most trusted ally questioning your decisions, not when the whole clan depended on your actions. At least he was doing so in the intimacy of a crannog and not in front of your folk.

“I’m just trying my best, Torcall. I know I can win our freedom back, so I need you to have some faith in me. How I get to the endgame is up to me. The means justify the end.” Your words were imbued with unfaltering determination.

“I do trust you, Callie. With my life and the lives of my children”, he mumbled solemnly with a curtsy as his eyes drifted to the other end of the room.

Your niece and nephew, whom you loved dearly, were obliviously playing with some wooden swords their father had handcrafted a while back. They were six years of age, both born during the cold winter months. The twins had filled the blackhole in your heart, one that your marriage had not been able to lade.

“Ah, ye brute!” Your nephew, Daimh, let the sword slip from his fingers to hold his hand close to his chest. “You’ve hurt me, Iona!”

His little feet dabbed towards you, raising his injured hand in the air.

“Auntaidh (auntie), Iona has broken my fingers, look!”, he wept while you cradled his hand.

“Oh, come on here, mo laochain (my little hero). Let me see”, you said while rubbing his hand between yours and kissing it where it hurt.

“What a wimpy!”, Iona complained, running to her father. “I won, daddy!” Her proud, high-pitched voice squealed in excitement, and you couldn’t hide your smile.

“I’m going to tell màthair (mother)!”, Daimh blew raspberries at his sister, and she reciprocated from the other side of the table.

Your heart sunk to your stomach at the mention of Maisie, tears welling up at the corner of your eyes. Both you and Torcall had explained to them that their mother had been reunited with Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, but they were too little to fully understand what that entailed, what it truly meant.

“When is mama coming back from Tech Duinn (House of Dhuosnos), daddy? I miss her dearly”, Iona’s innocent words ripped at your heart.

Torcall and you exchanged mournful glances.

“Aye, me too”, exclaimed Daimh as he snuggled in your arms.

“So do we, sweet pea, so do we”, you mumbled as you kissed the crown of his blonde head.

Daimh stirred in your arms, his green eyes piercing yours. He looked so much like his mother that it was painful. Maisie and you had the same emerald irises, although she had been blonde. Daimh and Iona were living images of her.

“When can we go home? This place smells funny”, your nephew questioned while he sat on your lap.

You wished you could tell him. Your whole family had been living in the castle that now Marcus Acacius occupied. Torcall and his children could not risk staying there, not when the threat of death was hanging above them. If the Romans knew your sister had offspring, they would hunt them down.

Despite the adversity, you had been lucky in a sense. The highlanders had always been wary of strangers — outsiders brought tragedy with them, in the way of disease or war. The Caledonians had learnt to keep their distance, to be extremely cautious. So, when the General and his army arrived, no one spoke of your family, not even when questioned.

Your people, despite the differences that had them at each other’s throats some years back, were loyal to you. And it was their fealty what enabled your plan, what allowed you to pretend, to just be another servant girl.

So Torcall, his children and you had sought refuge in the skirts of town. Your uncail Aengus’ wife had welcomed you into her home.

The crannog was a circular hut with a straw roof, the walls made of mud, rocks, wood. There was only one big, round room, with an open hearth which kept the inside warm. The open shelving gathered some necessary clutter, but there were many things scattered around the place. There were only three beds lined up against the wall, which meant that you shared a bed with Iona and Torcall with his son. Your cousins had moved out to the small barn just a few feet away to make room for you.

It was cramped and very modest in comparison to the thick walls of your castle, but it was a roof over your heads. You were extremely grateful to her. Your heart still wept at the memory of telling her the demise of her husband.

“Soon we will, but in the meantime, we are keeping Bonnie and her sons company. And this place smells just fine. Are you sure it’s not you, you stinky little deamhan (demon)?”, you jested, pinching his nose and then tickling his ribs.

His laughter was a soothing balm on your aching, longing heart.

“Was everything as expected, Dominus?” His Roman servant asked, his head bowed to him.

Marcus patted the corners of his mouth with the rag on his lap and then nodded to Atticus. The food was somewhat decent, a venison stew with some root vegetables he could not identify. The bread, unsurprisingly, was a bit stale, so he had left it untouched.

The great hall was lugubrious, silence filling up the atmosphere. There were two other maids in the room, cowering in a corner with averted eyes. They only spoke a barbarian language he had no wish to learn. Communication with the natives was extremely difficult, as they seemed to be uneducated.

But there was one lass who knew how to speak Latin — you, Callie.

He wondered where you had gone. Marcus had not seen you since your encounter in his new-found bedchamber. It had been three days since then and with each passing one, he found himself searching the room for you. There was something about you that had reeled him in but was unsure of what it was. Maybe it was the eerie, magical aura that surrounded your fiery hair — or maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the way you had briefly but decisively held his gaze. The way you quickly retreated — unwillingly.

Marcus imperceptibly shook his head and waved his hand at Atticus, motioning for him to pour another cup of the bitter wine.

“Yes”, he simply replied, bringing the wooden chalice to his lips.

Atticus signalled the young women to come forward and they quickly cleared the table of dishes and cutlery. When he was alone with his servant, away from enemies’ ears, he signalled at Atticus, who quickly stepped forward.

“Fetch my commanders and bring them here. There are matters I need to discuss with them”, Marcus demanded of him.

His attendant curtsied and vanished from the great hall, leaving him alone.

Marcus was taking in every detail of the room, of the tapestries and their stories, when a scattering sound distracted him. He thought to hear a commotion, then a blasphemy. Curious, he stood up, stepped off the dais and sauntered towards the double doors. The door was slightly ajar, so he only had to push it for it to swing open.

There was nothing in the corridor except for a distinct scent. Rosemary and thyme with a hint of something unrecognisable, he identified. A smell that had loitered in his bedchamber once you left. Wrinkling his aquiline nose, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see how a shadow dissipated at the end of the corridor.

Furrowing his brows and in long strides, Marcus covered the distance, tracking the distinct aroma — like a lost man after the beckoning of a nymph, he followed. As he was about to turn the corner, he almost collided with Maximus, Valerius and Cassius.

“My lord,” Cassius was the first to talk, “we were on our way to you. You wished to see us?”

Marcus tried to conceal his confusion at the sight of the three men. With his head slightly tilted, he asked, “Did you encounter anyone on your way to me, Commander?”

Cassius slowly shook his head no, baffled by the question. “No, Dominus, no one. Were you expecting someone else?”

The General hmphed, taciturn. He needed to be cautious — if the tapestries were right, ungodly, mythical creatures lingered between the walls of the castle. Evil ones at that.

“Worry not”, Marcus rapidly dismissed. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

The four men sat at the rectangular table on the dais, Marcus’ fingers drumming on the wood as Maximus flattened a piece of parchment before him.

“These are some names that have been thrown around in the last few days, people who may act on their rebellious comments. Our spies have been trying their best to mix in with the townies, but they are tough nuts to crack. They are wary even of the people who speak their own language”, Maximus’ index finger slid down the list as he talked.

Marcus’ hand darted forward and pinched one corner of the parchment, pulling it towards him. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar names.

The barbarians did not use surnames, which spoke to their lack of sophistication. Instead, they used patronyms and the land where they were born, so the list made it difficult to identify individuals who might belong to the same family. Knowing what families were a menace would be a great advantage, one they did not have.

“There seems to be a recurrent name here”, Marcus paused, his fingertip pointing to the words scribbled in lead ink. “Seumas and Anndra of Dail an Eich (Dalneigh), sons of Aengus. Who is this Aengus?”, he questioned, looking up to the frowning faces.

“We are not sure, Dominus. As I said, the villagers are not talking much”, Cassius replied, his fingers intertwined, resting atop of the wooden table.

“Well, find out then. I don’t care how you get the information. Just get it”, Marcus’ back reclined against the chair he was sat on. He felt like they were wasting his time with trivial details. He needed more than that.

“You didn’t get Murdoch’s wife to talk, even when she was hanged half dead in a cage off the main tower, after being brutally tortured and whatever else you inflicted upon her, and you expect us to get names just like that?”, Valerius’ insolence spoke for him.

Marcus’ eyes lazily locked on his commander’s. He should have his ill-mannered tongue cut out for such disdainful arrogance. Valerius’ Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he forcefully swallowed, his eyes slightly widened, realising his impertinence.

Whispers flew around the town; his name being cursed from mouth to mouth. Marcus was not too worried about whatever rumours they could spread about him. They probably would be true — he was no saint.

But Marcus had not been the one who had ordered such distasteful death upon Mòrag, wife of Murdoch. Agricola did, with no respect for his name when he dropped it mid-sentence. Marcus did not even lay an eye on her, even less a hand.

Let them all think what they might. Marcus was used to being the scapegoat of the governor — when something went wrong, Agricola would blame him. And when something went right, he would just take credit for himself, the evil, power-thirsty rat.

He looked at Valerius dead in his eyes, one cocked brow showing his mild incredulity.

“Do you have something to say, Valerius? I hear a certain condemning tone in your words?”, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but the reality was there was a raging fire within him he could not make manifest.

“Absolutely not, my lord”, the man bowed his head to him, his knuckles white.

“Then be gone. All of you. Find those two men or I will have you hanged too.”

The resolution in his tone scared the seasoned warriors, who quickly said their goodbyes and hurriedly left the premises.

Marcus’ elbows sunk in the wooden table, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was angry, but amongst all, he was tired — tired of masking, of cleaning up after Agricola’s hideous actions, of power plays, of trickery, betrayal and deception. He was surrounded by it all.

At eight and forty, he was tired of war and conquest. He had seen it all, lived it all. If retirement would be an option, he would gladly take it. But he knew — he would wield a sword till the day he died in a godforsaken battlefield, till Pluto welcomed him with open arms. Rome would not have him any other way.

Marcus Acacius was truly exhausted.

So it was him who had your beautiful màthair tortured and hanged in a cage until she greeted death. Your blood boiled as your breath quickened. The rage flickered inside you like wild flames burning down an entire civilisation.

When the rangers announced your arrival to a few selected loyal men who had stayed behind, they got out at night to cut the ropes holding the cage your mother had been thrown in. They did not want you to see such act of savagery.

Your kinsmen had really tried to conceal how badly damaged your mother’s body was. Despite the heartache, you had been grateful that they had gone to the effort of making her somewhat presentable. But one look at her mangled body had been enough to understand what type of wickedness you were up against.

In the dead of night, you had buried Mòrag, the woman who so selflessly gave you life, in the outskirts of town. Just like her other children and husband, she would not rest under the family’s chambered cairns. Your family had been wiped out of history as if they were mere droplets in a vast ocean of human tragedy.

With one ear flat against the wooden door to the great hall, you unknowingly squinted your eyes, trying to listen to the rest of the conversation. If someone caught you eavesdropping, you would have a lot of explaining to do. But so far your spying was being productive — you would need to warn your cousins when you got home that night.

The faint sound of approaching footsteps made your heart jolt in your chest.

“Cac (shite)!”, you swore, frantically looking for a place to stow yourself away.

Picking up your skirt so you would not trip, you hid in a nearby garderobe. The cupboard smelt sweet and musty — barrels of wine decorated the whole height of the stone walls. The scent was so intense, you felt it soaking through your skin, appeasing the craze that had a tight grip on your mind. The darkness that surrounded you only accentuated your sense of smell. Could you get inebriated just with the sugary aroma of grape juice?

When the booted treads slowly faded away, you quietly pushed the door open, emerging back into the cold corridor — the contrasting temperature between the garderobe and the hallway gave you goosebumps. Palm flat against the wood and the other hand tightly gripping the iron pull handle, you gently shoved the door back into its frame, hoping to make no noise.

“What are you doing?”, a deep, masculine voice startled you, making you jump on the spot.

A set of warm, firm arms wrapped around you as you stumbled with your feet. They enveloped you so steadfastly, your body involuntarily relaxed against the person behind you. Leaning back, your back met the cold touch of metal.

Swallowing a profanity that would bring a repenting clergyman down to his knees, you turned around, in the arms that held you tight, to face the embodiment of hate. Your hate.

Marcus Acacius was standing, all righteous and proud, intimately close to you. He was wearing an impeccable white armour with golden details. Two flaxen griffins adorned the center of the plackart, their claws wrapping around a floral design. Linen straps, snug around his hips, fell from his waist, covering the fauld and the tasset underneath.

Marcus’ body was a fountain of warmth, even with all the layers enfolding his frame. His arms, although tense around you, did not feel suffocating — in fact, they were almost coddling you into a state of ataraxia as your brain quietened. His hug exuded a sense of security you had not felt in years — as if nothing nor no one could ever harm you as long as you stayed in Marcus’ embrace.

You traced the topography of his plackart with your fingers, your palms resting against the alloy, as your eyes peeked up —he was considerably taller than you— and were met with the fervour of two brown irises. Their gravity pulled you in for an eternal second. With your face near his, you picked up on the tired bearing on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes, the hard press of his lips. A kempt but patchy beard coated his jawline, and salt and peppered hair curled at the nape of his thick, muscular neck — a stray silver lock caressing his forehead, asking to be tucked away.

Your fingertips suddenly itched with longing, your eyes slightly widened, and your mouth partially parted. And then you came back to reality with the full force of your conscience yapping at you. What the hell? You had to control the contortion of your face so your disappointment would not be evident. It’s because I want to slap him so bad, was your afterthought.

Something changed in his expression — Marcus suddenly let you go, leaving you cold again. As if it was a rehearsed move, you both took a step back, breaking the electric contact that snapped between your bodies.

You now realised his clean image was a shocking contrast to how you first met him. Covered in mud, blood and sweat, his untamed expression as he dispatched your father still haunted you at night. And that was how you had to remember him. Sinking his gladius in your father’s belly. And nothing else.

“Well?”, the General insisted after clearing his throat, his eyebrows knitting together as he folded his arms.

You rapidly lowered your gaze when you realised you had been looking at him too intently, too directly. A maid would have fainted at the audacity you had just shown him. But you were no maid — albeit he was not privy of such detail for obvious reasons.

You hoped he didn’t notice, although you could feel his eyes studying you eagerly.

“I— I was looking for wine, Dominus.” You faked the stammering in an attempt to convey innocence. “Cormag, the cook, wants a very specific wine to accompany your supper, Dux Meus (My General/Leader). I was making sure we had it.”

“And what wine is that, if I dare ask?”, he pressed with a steely voice.

Thalla gu taigh na galla (go to hell), you thought, browsing your brain for a quick reply.

“It’s a fine wine imported from Carmo, my lord.” Your father had been a wine enthusiast, so you knew some places he had his wine shipped from. Not that it really meant anything to you, anyway.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his arms falling to his sides, his threatening posture softening.

“Carmo? In the Baetic region of Hispania?”, Marcus’ incredulous voice made you glance up at him through your long eyelashes.

You nodded, your fingers laced at your front as you bowed your head again, showing a deference you didn’t really feel towards him. And you prayed there was at least a few drops left of said wine in one of the barrels, or you would be in trouble come dinner.

“That’s one of my favourites”, he let slip and you instantly knew he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Feigning bravery, you fanned your eyelashes back at him, a half-smile softening your lips. The General almost looked mortified at the fact of letting a stranger know about his likes. You could see it in his eyes — the brief moment of asking himself, “What have I just said?” Although he seemed all stoic and unattainable, he was just a man. Just like any other.

“Is that so?” You did not wait for a reply you knew would never come. “I’ll try and remember that, Dominus, to make sure we never run out.”

He was a hard man to read, you would give him that. His expression didn’t flinch, as if your words had gone over his head. The only sign he had actually listened was a subtle tic on his jaw.

You just needed to drop some hints here and there, let him brew. If you were too obvious with your intentions, Marcus would become suspicious. You knew nothing about the man except he was a cold-blooded murderer, but perceived he was observant. Probably too observant.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I wish to retire now so I can attend to my tasks.” Asking for permission was not something that came naturally to you, but it was a trained response you had learnt from your late husband.

“Take your leave then”, he granted, his hands hiding on his back.

You curtsied. “Thank you, Dux Meus.”

Marcus turned on his heels in a swift whoosh, the sword swaying in front of him, his fingers gripping the handle tight. He intuited his opponent’s next move before it happened, so he bent his knees and ducked his head right under the swing of Maximus’ gladius. With a wild, toothy smile, Marcus pulled back, weighing the blade on his left hand.

“So predictable”, he teased the commander, who was an old friend of his.

If one could have friends in the midst of war, that was. Their friendship easily transformed depending on the circumstances — in war matters, Maximus knew to respect Marcus above everything else. Outside of that, they just were two friends with a long history behind them.

“I’m being gentle, lord General. We have spectators, I don’t want to embarrass you. I know your ego is as fragile as a rose’s petal”, Maximus chaffed, a grin taking over his mouth as they circled each other like two lions on the gladiator’s pit.

Marcus’ tunnel vision had him so tuned in on his friend’s advances, he had not realised that a small group of people had gathered around the makeshift arena. Feeling a sudden heaviness weighing him down, Marcus combed the gathered faces in one sweep.

Until his eyes locked in on yours. He saw a glimpse of wonder metamorphosing into surprise in your emerald greens — then you quickly withdrew your eyes from his at the realisation of getting caught staring.

There was something about you that drew him in — something mysterious, uncanny, but also strangely enticing. Exciting. Your eyes spoke of mischief, of adventure, of the unknown. Of something eerie, almost witchy. The flickering, iridescent fire within them had him under a spell for a brief moment.

Marcus vividly remembered holding you against his chest, your soft curves perfectly moulding to his hard edges. Even through the armour, he had felt the heat your body irradiated, the way it seeped through to envelop him, soothe him. For a moment, having you between his arms felt just right. And that thought had unsettled him gravely, letting go of you as such wild, unnerving concept sank in — his mind point-blank rejecting the notion.

Despite his inner refusal, how you looked back at him would plague him. For days and nights on end.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus watched as Maximus inched forward, the sword aiming at his open flank. Just in the nick of time, the General’s steel deflected the attack.

“Getting distracted? That’s unusual of you, Marcus”, the commander jeered at him, closing in.

Marcus scoffed at his words, bluffing. But the reality was that Maximus had hit the nail in the head. Not that he was going to acknowledge it in public anyway. If he was to successfully bring Maximus down, he needed to focus on the task at hand and not think about a green-eyed nymph.

Studying his adversary’s body language, his feet dragged on the sand. Maximus was on edge, tense, too focused on his sword, so Marcus wagered a distraction would tip the scales in his favour. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly knelt, the fingers of his non-occupied right hand extended, palm down. Maximus’ brows wrinkled when he saw Marcus getting a fistful of sand and the General knew he had the diversion he was looking for.

With Maximus focused on his right hand, too worried with a cloud of sand that would get in his eyes, Marcus took the chance, quickly stood up and swung his heavy sword against his rival’s left loin. Maximus did not have time to prepare for the impact and so dropped to the ground.

Marcus smiled with sufficiency, straightening out his aching back, and offered a hand to his old friend.

With a grunt, Maximus accepted his gesture and got up, palming Marcus’ back soundly.

“You treacherous man, making me believe you were going to blind me”, he quipped as they both started to walk out of the circle people had formed around them.

“There is no treachery in the art of war”, Marcus replied, patting his friend’s back in playful jest.

A loud snort made Marcus look around him. He had no time to fully study your face, but he could swear you had made that disapproving noise before turning on your heels and trotting off.

Confusion and a smidge of curiosity settled in him — what had he done to gain your dissent when a minute ago awe darkened your eyes? The sudden change in your attitude left a lingering question in the back of his head as he and Maximus ushered towards the barracks in the northwest corner of the bailey.

“But you shouldn’t be serving, mo bhean-uasal (my lady)”, whispered the young lass, her hands twisting in her lap with nervousness.

“Shush, Brighid, lower your tone.” Anxiously you checked out your surroundings, ensuring you were alone. You were relieved to know you were. “You cannae refer to me like that. I’m just Callie now, remember?”

Upon your arrival to Inbhir Nis, Torcall and your father’s retinue —now yours, you guessed— had made everyone aware that the Romans thought you dead and hence, concealing your identity was of utmost importance. A slip of a tongue and you would be hanging in a cage too. Every passing day you feared someone might forget and show you deference publicly — but you had to trust that no one would run off at the mouth and rat you out.

“Duilich (sorry), mo bh— Callie. I—I promise I didn’t mean to”, she profusely apologised, her big wide eyes begging for your pardon. The wee lass could not stop fidgeting.

“I know, I know”, you tried to calm her down, placing your hand on her forearm. “But please, I need to take your place tonight.”

“Cormag will fire me for not turning up. I cannae afford that, my family depends on me.” Her pleading plucked some fast beats out of your heart.

“Don’t fret about it, lass. I’ll speak to that old crank of a man, he owes me. You’ll get paid, awright? He’ll be fine with it, I promise.” You gently squeezed her forearm, so your words would sink in.

Her eyes broadened in understanding. Before the girl could think about her actions, she jolted forward, her arms wrapping around your shoulders. You could only smile at her relief and let out a soft cackle when Brighid lumbered back, mortified.

“I’m so sorry, do Ghras (Your Grace).” Her excitement was so palpable the poor girl didn’t notice the second blunder.

“BRIGHID!”, a raspy threat left your tongue as you jerked her closer to you by the elbow. “For the love of Morrìgan, do watch your mouth!”

The young servant covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes speaking of self-reproach as it dawned on her. “I’ll have it sewn”, she muttered with great remorse.

The guilt splayed across her heart-shaped face brought a smirk to your lips. “Off you go now, before your runny tongue gets me into trouble.”

Brighid scurried away towards the barbican, and you hurried along to the kitchens. You followed the tangled web of corridors and passages thoughtlessly — you had played hide and seek countless times with your siblings between the stone walls, there was no nook nor cranny you were not familiar with.

The air got denser as you approached, the thick smoke of the open hearth filling your lungs. Repressing a cough, you entered the galley as good ol’ Cormag was shouting orders at the helping lads. The head cook had an aging face, creases around his grey eyes and bulbous nose, and a thick bush of white hair — hair strands shooting in every direction, almost comically. He was short and round around the belly, living proof of his good, delicious cooking.

“Keep fanning the fire, ye lazy ass! Don’t you see it’s going to die out? Faster, stronger! Aren’t you supposed to be young and full of life?!”, Cormag had wrapped his thick fingers around the brittle wrists of the lad, forcing his feeble arms up and down, fingers tight around a thin plank of wood. “Tiugainn (come on), with more enthusiasm, ye numpty!”

“Do you really think that’s how you motivate the young lads to do a good job, Cormag?” You questioned his teaching approach, with folded arms and a cocked brow.

An oath escaped his mouth as the cook turned around, his face downcast at your reprimand. “Callie!”

Thank the gods someone remembered how to approach you now. It came easier to Cormag though, considering that he was almost like family to you. The old man had seen you grow, having served your father since before you were even born. He was there, on the background, to wave you goodbye every time you had to return to Am Baile Ùr. And each time you came back, he had a full plate of haggis with a side of neeps and tatties waiting for you.

“No wonder your apprentices quit so fast if you treat them like that, Cormag. Have you no manners?” You kidded — the man had the filthiest mouth of the shire.

“I was raised by an ogre, young lady, of course I don’t”, he jokingly replied, cleaning his dirty hands on the apron tied around his round belly.

“Aye, and Nessie was your pet. I’ve heard that story before awright. I am still to see proof of such claims though.” Unfolding your arms you approached him, immediately going in for a bear hug.

Cormag palmed your back enthusiastically and you circled his stout frame, sinking in the comfort of his presence. In the blink of an eye, you were a five-year-old crybaby being consoled by a younger Cormag because there were no more mutton pies left that you could shove down your tiny mouth.

“I heard you were back, fear beag (little one). Wondered when you’d come visit this old git.” With a last squeeze, he took a step back, his hands placed on your shoulders. “Know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times now, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

His whisper was loaded with a heavy affection that shot your heart down to your stomach. Pressing your lips to stop your face from contorting at the memory of being alone in this world, you nodded, almost frantically, and sniffed. His eyes were a reflection of yours — the friendship between your athair and Cormag had been a staple in your life for as long as you could remember.

“But let’s not get all teary now!”, his demeanour changed as he rubbed your shoulders before taking a step back. “Got something for you.”

He turned around to rummage through a rattan basket on one of the counters. Cormag exclaimed an enthusiastic “Ha!” when he got his hands on what he was looking for. Then he presented his discovery to you with a flourish that made you crow.

When you saw the peachy plum on the palm of his hand, you almost squealed. “Plums!” You quickly snatched it, afraid he would take it away.

“I arranged for these to be brought from Fachabair (Fochabers). The cook who serves the clan chief there is an old friend of mine.”

“But Cormag, plums are not in season yet!” You marvelled at the sight, munching on the delicious fruit eagerly. Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head.

“I know.” He winked at you mysteriously, but you didn’t press the matter if it meant you could get your hands on some more plums.

“I did come to you with a favour to ask”, you batted your eyelashes at him, anticipating his disapproval.

He looked at you, inquisitorial — it was his turn to fold arms at the chest. Cormag snapped his tongue as if to say, “do go on”.

“I already convinced Brighid so you cannae be mad at her. In fact, I promised her you wouldn’t.” You grinned at him, his face already puckering with exasperation. “I’m taking her place tonight as a serving maid.”

“Have you lost your damn mind, lass? Nay, I’m not having it”, he quickly dismissed you, grunting.

“I’m not asking for permission. I need to be there, I—” Just in time, you remembered that the two lads were still running around the fireplace, trying to keep the flames alive. “I’ll fill you in later, but I have to be there, there’s no discussion about it.”

“What? Serving that Roman scoundrel? There’s more royal blood in you than there is in him.” He was more offended than you were.

You laughed, patting his forearm. The old man already hated the Romans more than you did, and that was difficult to accomplish.

“Aye, and that’s not the worst bit, Cormag”, you teased him, because you knew he would lose his mind with rage.

“Enlighten me”, he said between gritted teeth.

“We are serving the Corma wine tonight with supper”, you pursed your lips, watching his reaction.

His round face turned all shades of red, and his nostrils flared. If it was physically possible, his ears would be steaming too, like a ceramic pot with boiling water over the open fire.

“NAY, OVER MY DEAD FUCKING BODY!”, he exploded, shaking his arms over his head in disbelief, and you burst into laughter. Cormag was too expressive. “Ah, no, NO. We are not wasting such finery on that murderous cunt!”

You blinked rapidly at him to appease his fury, but his rage just gleamed brighter.

“Well… I kinda told him we would. You winnae make me look like a liar, right, Cormag?”, you muttered, as if you were a child who had committed the grave felony of stealing a sweet off the counter.

“You did WHAT?!”, he snorted angrily.

“Tìoraidh (bye)!”, you effusively waved him goodbye as you bit into the plum, sprinting off and ducking when you heard the wooden spoon flying by your ear.

“Trobhad (come here)!”, but you had already turned the corner into the hallway.

Why he was so taut, he did not fully understand. Marcus’ body was in high alert, and he had his suspicions about the cause.

You were just a woman like any other. Sure, your green eyes flickered like hellfire, your red hair was so bright it looked like you were up in flames, your upturned nose covered in freckles twitched adorably, and the skin on your hands was unusually soft — but that was it, really.

So you were nothing out of the ordinary, he kept telling himself. But it was hard to keep to that line of thought when your breast would brush against his shoulder every time you approached to clear the table from empty plates, when your velvety fingers would briefly caress the back of his hand while reaching for his cutlery, or when you would talk too close to his ear, a tingling sensation on the back of his neck almost making him shiver uncomfortably.

Marcus did not know if you were doing it on purpose or not — your face had an innocent look to it that was hard to read for him. The most prudent thing would be to ignore it all — ignore you. Surely you were only being suggestive in his imagination. And he still had the feeling something had upset you that afternoon when you stormed off after his training session.

“How’s the wine, Dux Meus?”, your sweet voice trickled from your plush lips like honey.

The way you kept referring to him as Dux Meus unsettled him. The first time you had said it during your encounter in the corridor, it caused certain havoc in his mind — and body.

Although it was appropriate for his title, no one really referred to him like that. My leader, my general, my god. It was the last connotation what made him feel… uneasy, for lack of a better word. It just sounded too intimate, the way it would pour from your oval-shaped mouth.

Marcus blamed it on Latin not being your first language. If you knew how seductively it rolled from your lips, he was sure you would stop addressing him like that straight away. Which meant he should correct you, tell you to just stick to Dominus.

But for whatever inexplicable reason, he did not.

“It’s as tasty and earthy as I remember it.” He replied, his fingers wrapping around the chalice with more strength than what was necessary.

You smiled at him, one of your hands gently placed on his right shoulder giving him a subtle squeeze.

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord”, you mumbled, Marcus’ eyes following the movement of your hand when you broke contact.

You inched forward over his shoulder to grab the glass jug and refill his cup, gifting him with the sight of your generous cleavage — your breasts almost spilling over the neckline of the dark blue, linen dress that so tightly wrapped around your hourglass figure.

Marcus had to swallow hard, tension suddenly building up on his groin. Was he getting hard just by the mere touch of a woman? He sucked in his breath while forcing himself to look forward, not down.

He just nodded in reply, unable to find his voice. If he had talked, he would have just groaned in frustration. Marcus had to readjust his posture as he saw you walking away, your waist evocatively swaying sideways with every step you took.

“I’m sure the wine is not the only tasty thing around here.”

Maximus’ whispered jest forced Marcus to look in his direction, turning to his left. They, along with the other commanders and a few other people of importance, were sat on the table on the dais, facing the crowd. Other tables were scattered around the great hall, where some legionnaires were enjoying a meal and a drink, sharing a joke and bursting in laughter.

“I don’t follow”, he grunted, feigning ignorance, before taking a sip.

“Oh, you do follow. At least your eyes do.” Maximus mocked him while Marcus just sneered at him, eyes squinting. “No one would blame you though. We are far away in an unknown land, and we all have needs to satisfy. I myself am considering getting laid tonight.”

 “I did not doubt you would.” Men like Maximus had no consideration for their wives.

Neither does Livia, the intrusive thought wiggled its way through his mind. Despite the lack of passion in bed with his spouse, Marcus had been a faithful husband. While others looked for warmth in the folds of a pleasure woman after a battle, the General would tend to his wounds and rest, focusing on what next skirmish lied ahead.

And while he had been loyal although there was never love between them, Livia had been fucking the “love of her life”, as she had referred to the man stuffing her cunt full during his long absences. Marcus was yet to know his name. What he would do with that information, he did not know.

Thinking of his perfidious wife had an extinguishing effect on him. The strain against his subligaculum (underwear) had softened.

“You’re too tense, Marcus. You need to relax, have some fun. I bet you two denarii that she will fuck the stress out of you expertly, I can tell.” Maximus pressed maliciously, conscious of how uncomfortable the conversation would make Marcus feel.

“Just shut up, will you?”, Marcus snapped back, tired of his friend’s quips, and downing the drink in his cup.

Maximus laughed it off and turned to talk to Cassius when you sauntered towards the table again, stopping right behind him.

“More wine, Dux Meus?”, you asked, infusing your honeyed voice with a sweet touch of flirtation.

You bent over his shoulder again, hand lazily looking for the wine jug in front of him. His hazel eyes fell on your bosom again and your nipples involuntarily hardened at the desire you saw in him — you were sure he noticed them peeking through the thin fabric.

In your attempts to arouse him, your body was betraying you, getting warm in all the wrong places. As much as you wanted to be immune to your own provocative games, you were not. But it wasn’t him who made you wet with lust, you told yourself. It was your own actions, nothing else. The long game.

But Marcus quickly tamed his expression, grinding his jaw and looking away.

“No, I’m okay”, he rejected your offer, hovering his hand over the chalice so you would not pour more.

You forced your lips into a flat line. You needed the man to let go of his defences. Having him drunk would help with that. But not tonight, apparently.

You nodded.

“Of course, Dominus.” You placed the jug back down on the table, your left breast brushing his right shoulder again.

You bit down your bottom lip, your free fingers curling on the back of his chair. It’s just the game, you thought to yourself again, your core slick and hot.

Slowly you retreated to the kitchens, fully aware of Marcus’ eyes feasting on your body. You smiled to yourself — he might be a taut General, but he was just a man.

A deceitful man at that, who thought there was no treachery in the art of war. Was that how he defeated your father? With deception? You had been too far to see and hear how the fight between your father and Marcus had unfolded, but having been witness to how the General distracted his opponent that afternoon, you wondered if he had followed similar tactics with Murdoch. If your father’s demise was just a byproduct of Marcus’ boldness.

The memory of Marcus being your father’s executioner put out the liquid fire in your crotch. And rightly so.

It wasn’t long before the Romans started to vanish from the great hall, retreating to the barracks or to town, maybe looking for the comfort only a woman could offer.

When you walked back out to clear the last plates, you saw the General leaving the room. Alone. Where he intended to go you did not know, but you had to make sure he was not considering joining the men in town — if he was to choose a woman to enliven his bed, he should pick you.

“Isla, I’ll be back in a minute.” The lass gave you a puzzled look as the bits you had gathered previously clattered against the wooden table when you let go of them.

You hurried forward to meet him as he swung the double doors open, the cold breeze of the corridor filtering into the great hall.

“Dux Meus, wait please”, you interjected in the hopes he would stop walking.

Indeed, he did. His whole body stiffened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. You were not sure what to make of that reaction — exasperation or frustration. You hoped for the second, especially the good kind of frustration.

As soon as you reached him, you placed a daring hand on his forearm — an unusual surge of energy sparked at the contact between your skins, giving you goosebumps. You quickly retrieved your hand with certain surprise, the tingling sensation evaporating right after.

“I trust everything was good?”, you queried, tilting your head to one side.

“Yes. Now I’ll retire to my bedchambers. Bonum noctis (good night)”, his words dragged for a second, “Callie.”

There it was again, your name falling from his lips as if it belonged to him. It angered and pleased you equally. If he pronounced it like that on purpose you did not know, but it surely felt like it.

Before you could come up with an answer, he trudged to his right and you took a step forward.

“That is not the way to the main bedchamber, my lord. You should follow this other corridor instead”, you pointed to the left.

He paused and turned around to face you. A lingering question danced in his pupils, but whatever it was, he did not say out loud. Instead, he nodded.

“I am aware. However, I have taken a different bedroom.” He did not give you an explanation, but you could have a good guess. Your father always complained his bed was like a blanket of spikey rocks. “I am now lodged in the second tower, the room in the top floor.”

You tamed your face into nothingness, but internally you flinched at his reply. He was sleeping in your room, in your bed. The thought of him naked with your bedlinen draped around his waist and thick legs made you gush. Fuck.

This was unknown territory to you — although you had been married for ten years, you had not known pleasure in the bedchamber. Iain just chased his own release, using you in disgusting ways, proving you that you were the problem, not him — that your womb was barren. You had been told by your friends that fucking was enjoyable for both parties, but you were yet to discover that. Maybe the dampness your legs harboured was a start?

“I see”, you curtsied, fingers laced on your back, looking up at him through your long eyelashes.

“How come you speak Latin?” His question blurted out, catching you completely off guard.

Marcus had a nick for inconvenience, forcing you to come up with lies on the spot. Luckily you were astute and creative.

“My late father was a scrivener to Murdoch. He taught me how to speak Latin, as it was his favourite language.”

“He passed?” You simply nodded. “I trust you still have family around though?”

You shook your head no. You killed them all, ye cunt. But you could not express your hatred out loud. Although when the time came, you would. Aye, you definitely would.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” For a second you believed him, his tone almost sorrowful.

“It was a long time ago.” You lied through your teeth, shrugging. “I’ll leave you to your rest now. Oidhche mhath (good night), Marcus.”

You heard a loud sigh being drawn into his lungs, possibly because of your cheekiness — calling him by his first name was a very bold move on your part. Maybe too bold.

Before he could reprimand you for your audacity, you scuttled back into the great hall, a sufficient grin tugging at your lips.

@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey

@thepalaceofmelanie @harriedandharassed @whoaitspascal87

@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel @pepperstories

[thewalkingwillowtree]

Courting Ayelýn

Series Listing Found Here

Aonung x Original Na'vi Female Character

Summery: Pressured by his parents to enter a formal courtship, Aonung rebels in his own way and what starts as a ruse, turns into something real. 

Note before reading: This is a spin off of my Safe Haven Series.

Reading Safe Haven is not necessary to follow this story.

Some characters have been aged up. Aonung in particular is 25.

Ayelýn is my own creation. *Pronounced Aye-Lin

~

Part 1 - When They Met

“You want us to… what?” 

“Court. You and me.” 

“Clearly you’ve gone and lost your head.” 

~

Months Before…

Aonung stormed out of his family’s marui after yet another argument with his parents. Their demands were already ridiculous, but their constant reminders at every family meal were becoming annoyingly overwhelming. 

The anger and irritation inside of him was building, festering and threatening to make him do something he knew he’d regret. 

He was also about ready to punch something… Anything!

Clicking his tongue, he called for his skimwing and the second he reached the edge of the pier, he was leaping off and diving into deep crystal waters. Tsaheylu made, and at his command, the water beast shot off, taking him further and further away from his home… away from Awa’atlu. 

Mind distracted in a jumbled mess of fury and frustration over the situation at hand, Aonung let himself be blindly carried through the ocean. 

His parents had given him a deadline to find a woman to court. A woman he was then expected to eventually take as his mate. 

And honestly, it bothered him just how much of a shock the news had caused for him when he was told. Aonung had known all his life it would eventually come- it was expected of him- his birthright. 

But was it worth the pain it came with? 

“You should know better,” his father would say. “Be better.” Aonung was constantly criticized for his training techniques… his life choices, his decisions… his ways. It was, “do as I say,” and “when will you learn?” and… “you disappoint me.”

Nothing was ever good enough!

Words of honor and commitment and duty were forever shoved down his throat at every given opportunity. And although Aonung still considered himself a rebel and a rule breaker in his circle of friends, he was very much stifled and controlled. 

It was why most of his daydreams involved him running away. Daydreams of him leaving behind the duty, and the expectations… the fucking title. 

But he couldn’t leave. 

Tsireya. 

And Khalhan- his little brother. 

Aonung could never desert them. 

Damn his parents. Damn the entire situation. 

Fuck it all. 

~

For the remainder of the day, Aonung spent it by himself. Hidden away, he brooded, wallowing in self pity. It wasn’t until the sky began to change, suns slowly sinking into the sea that he considered leaving his shaded haven. 

A sudden muffled swear however, followed by a thunk, pulled Aonung from his thoughts. He couldn’t fathom who would have possibly ventured this far out to the abandoned, tiny island he considered his own. 

Curious, he climbed over a short wall of moss covered jagged rocks, only to find… a female.

He was unable to see her face from his position, but she was clearly upset, angry even, judging by the way she kicked the canoe that was half docked, half bobbing from the sway of rolling waves. 

“Oh you stupid thing! Couldn’t you have waited until I reached the reef line?” 

He snorted when a curse escaped her again, along with another thump, from the serve of a fierce kick. 

“Having fun there?” he called out. 

She startled at the sound of his voice, flinging her body around, knife drawn from her hip in preparation for danger. 

“Don’t do that!” she hissed when she found that it was just a loitering Na’vi. “I could’ve hurt you, you fool. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” 

Aonung approached, hands lifted in surrender. The tip of her knife brushed his stomach as his eyes darted between her and the weapon.

Head titled, he noted that she barely reached his chest and her puny blade looked so dull, he was certain she wouldn’t be able to make much- if any damage with it. 

“I highly doubt that, but if it makes you feel any better,” he shrugged, ignoring her pretty scowl as he moved to inspect her canoe. It was laden with laundered items, so with ease, he pulled it all the way onto the shore. “What seems to be the problem with this?”

“It’s got a leak,” she huffed, sheathing her blade. “I tried patching it before I set out this morning, but-” Head snapping toward the sea, she glanced around in immediate panic. “Wait, where are we-” Her stomach dropped at the sight of a significant flag blowing in the far distance. “Are we near Awa’atlu?”

It was only at this question did he take note of the purple and brown string of beads dangling from a lock of her tangled, messy hair. “You’re from the Keftxo village,” he said stupidly. It now made sense to him why she didn’t immediately recognize him. 

She sized him up when her eyes found his own string of blue and brown beads- Awa’atlu beads to be precise- attached to the sheath on his hip- her expression almost daring him to say something. 

And he would have… but for some reason he held his tongue. 

“I… got turned around,” she mumbled, thumbing at a small scar on her shoulder. The almost healed cut had ripped open in her haste to keep both her and her canoe safe. Thankfully it was no longer bleeding. “Riptide, along the eastern sharp rocks.” 

“Riptide?” he repeated in alarm. “Why in Eywa’s name are you even traveling near there?! It’s high tide. Were you trying to get yourself killed?” 

“W- Did you not just hear me say I got turned around and caught in a riptide?!” Tail flickering in annoyance behind her, she gestured to the vast ocean before them. “It’s not as if I had any control! I left Keftxo before dawn and now look where I am! Oh, and I’m fine, by the way. Thank you, for your concern,” she snarked. 

His gaze traveled the length of her body, spotting no other injuries. “Are you really?” he asked sincerely. 

That gave her pause. “Yes.”

He didn’t believe her but accepted her answer anyway. “Alright then.” Kneeling beside her canoe, his brows creased incredulously. “Just how old is this damn thing?”

“It’s fine!” she exclaimed in offense, crouching beside him to inspect the damage. “Only needs a bit of mending.”

“A bit?” He flicked at a thick, crusty patch of reinforcement. “You’re better off without it. I’d scrap it if I were you. One wrong turn along a pier and it be nothing but a pile of fucking splinters.” He snickered. “Who even made this thing? The work is shoddy, a mess of piss poor craftsmanship, sloppy carving. Look- even the design is off. How did you get it to float?” 

Nostrils flaring, her chin jutted out at his words. Aonung was pretty sure he’d be dead if her glare was a dagger. 

She muttered a slew of very creative swear words under her breath that had him raising his brows and while he should’ve been insulted, he was rather impressed. 

“Scrap it… scrap it?! I’ll have you know, I fixed it up myself! This canoe was specially gifted to my father by council elder Fjid!”

Aonung snorted. “Fjid?! The old man hasn’t been on the council in over a decade. And what does he know about canoes? Last time I saw him, he could barely tie a knot.”

“I know we just met, but does anything good ever come out of your mouth?” 

“Actually. I’ve heard my tongue does wonders,” he boasted cockily, tracing the tip of said tongue along his bottom lip sensually.

Instead of swooning or blushing like he thought she would, revolution clouded her features. It threw him off honestly. 

“Who is the nearest mender in your village?” 

Aonung blinked. “W- I can mend it for you,” he offered, getting to his feet quickly when she looked about ready to dive out. 

“No, thank you… Mender?” 

“Wait…” He pointed to himself, baffled by her reaction to him. “Are you upset with me?” 

“Hm, let me think,” she hummed sarcastically, pretending to ponder. “I almost died from a riptide, got washed up near Awa’atlu of all villages. My canoe has a gaping hole in it and the first person I’ve come across who I thought could maybe, possibly help me, insults its craftsmanship and tried to crudely insinuate that I let him please me with his so-called wonderous tongue… So, yes. I’d dare say I am upset with you.”

She blew out a gush of air. “Now… would you please tell me where I can find your nearest mender.” 

~

Aonung led her to a marui on the outskirts of his village where many canoes were lined docked along the pier it was connected to. 

All the while throughout their journey there, he couldn’t help tossing glances at his new found companion. A companion he found to be scruffy and slightly volatile… but also… pretty. Very pretty.  

Her reactions towards him were slightly refreshing- she clearly didn’t know who he was- status included - something he was keen to keep hidden from her for a bit longer for some reason. 

He found great amusement every time she caught him staring- her face morphing into an unimpressed scowl that most definitely read, fuck off… He was right, because a second later she was signing those two words right at him and speeding past, purposely sending a wave of water his way.

Oh he liked her alright.  

Was it terrible that he loved pissing her off? That scowl did it for him, honestly, especially the one she gave him after he’d caught up and yanked on her tail, signaling that they had to travel in the opposite direction. 

When they’d reached the shoreline, her annoyance towards his theatrics had subsided. Distracted, it was evident that she was trying not to gape at her surroundings, and failing to. 

Unbeknownst to him, Awa’atlu was in every way different from the little village she’d grown up in. While of course there were some similarities, Awa’atlu screamed life- brightness, adventure… promise. 

His companion was so rapt up with her awed surveying that Aonung was secretly glad she missed the few passerby’s reactions to him. 

Two women he'd slept with on two separate occasions, flirtatiously waved at him. And then there were also the overly respectful nods and gestures from others that were becoming obvious.

Desperate to avoid running into anyone who’d try to stop and chat, Aonung gently tugged on her elbow to change their direction. “This way.” 

~

The mender available to help seemed rather enthralled by the pair that had come to visit him that day. 

Hythspon, while no longer in his youth, but nowhere near considered old, stood for a full solid ten minutes watching the bickering two hurl snides and sly comments to each other, all while trying to come to a decision. 

His future chief wanted the Keftxo female to leave with one of the newly crafted canoes Hythspon had available, while the unnamed metkayina wanted to simply have her own canoe mended and be on her way. 

“I told you already, the thing is a deathtrap! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because at this rate, I’m starting to think you are!”

“It’s not a deathtrap!”

“It is!”

“Not! It’s perfectly fine!”

“So perfectly fine that it almost killed you?! Sorry, gorgeous but you need to let it go. It’s time.”

“No. No, no. The riptide almost killed me, skxawng, the riptide! And for future encounters, the decent thing to do would be to ask about someone’s well being after facing a catastrophe like that! Not, lecture them as if they're stupid!” 

“Well you wouldn’t have ever been in that situation if you had ditched the fucking thing and worried about your own life! You seemed to think so too since I found you kicking and swearing at it!” 

“I already apologized for the kicking!”

“Yo- you,” he spluttered incredulously. “Did you actually apologize to a pile of splinters?”

“Canoe!”

“Deathtrap!” 

“It just needs a little love and care, I told you!”

“Aha! Love and care? I’m sorry, gorgeous but that thing is way past love and care.”

“That’s the second time you’ve done that now. Stop calling me that!”

Anoung paused… then, head tilted, he grinned wickedly. “Gorgeous.”

“UGH! Why do you insist on behaving like such an annoying little kit?! Even my brother is more mature than you and he’s eight!” 

“Oh-ho! So me trying to stop you from harm's way is-”

The clearing of a deep throat halted their argument and also made them simultaneously straighten up and put a little distance between them. At some point during their feud, they’d ended up merely inches apart. 

“Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed this rather entertaining ordeal,” Hythspon chucked, “I would like to get on with the rest of my day.” 

“Right, sorry,” she mumbled in embarrassment, tail curled as though she wanted to hide herself behind it. 

Hythspon’s solution in the end was to loan her a canoe. He’d have someone find her own and promised to mend it to his best and then have it returned to her- which she was ever grateful for.

That left Aonung with nothing else to argue about and the minute Hythspon gave her an oar, she was dashing off. Before he could think of running after her, she stopped abruptly at the marui’s threshold and pivoted. 

“Um, thank you. For your help… skxawng.”

“You’re welcome… gorgeous.”

She scowled, but he didn’t miss the tiny twitch of her mouth. He probably imagined it but he thought for the briefest moment that she’d almost smiled.  

Walking along the pier, Aonung watched her row until her silhouette faded into nothing more than a blob in the distance. Confused by the unknown churning he felt in his chest, he shook his head and finally turned away. 

It wasn’t until later that night as he waited for sleep to claim him, that he realized something…

He hadn’t gotten her name. 

~ 

In the blink of an eye life went on. 

The Sullys were gone and a few months later, Awa’atlu received word that Xilä- Neteyam’s mate had given birth to a healthy baby boy. 

Left behind was Lo’ak of course, who’d decided to stay at Awa’atlu for good. Much to no one’s surprise, the forest boy was officially courting Aonung’s sister, Tsireya. 

Whilst Aonung and Lo’ak had started off on rocky footing initially, they both had quickly overcome it in their youth, and dare say even become close friends since then.

And even though Aonung’s immediate confidant was Rotxo, Aonung found himself confiding in the Sully brothers more often than not. 

Neteyam had given him some good advice when Aonung had first opened up about his worries to find a mate. Advice that he was actively trying to practice. Neteyam had told him not to look- not to stress and worry. That Eywa would show him the way eventually… But his patience was wearing thin and time was also running out. 

Arguments with his parents had intensified and the gossip and whispers about his “playmate” days being over, had spread. Though it was the truth. 

Gone were the days and nights of fucking and fooling around with playmate after playmate. He hadn’t been with a woman since after Neteyam’s chat with him that night. 

It was harder than he thought- not getting his dick wet on the regular. Not only was it painful at times and he had to get rather acquainted with right hand, but it also put him in a foul mood most days. 

Aonung was secretly proud of himself however. Every time temptation tried to lure him, he didn’t give in. He was serious. He was trying… Even though he had his doubts. 

And then, just like that, his year was up. 

And still no woman from Eywa. 

~

“Bro… Are you shitting with me right now?”

A disgusted expression formed on Aonung’s face. “I do not shit with you, brother.” He shook his head. “Your human sayings are quite vulgar, do you know that?”

Lo’ak ignored him, focusing instead on the bombshell of a confession Aonung had just shared. “Can we go back to the part where you said you lied to your parents about having a courting partner?” 

Aonung grimaced. Not only because the words sounded just as bad coming from Lo’ak’s mouth, but also from the sour flavor of the pungent booze he and his friend were passing back and forth. 

“I didn’t know what else to do.” His jaw clenched at the thought of the tongue lashing he was in for when the time came for him to confess. 

Ronal had the spirit of the Great Mother running through her veins. Aonung knew his mother didn’t believe him when he’d told her his news earlier that day. 

Fuck. 

“Okay. Let’s start over, man. Why would you even do that?”

Right. Lo’ak didn’t know everything. Neteyam did.

Slightly tipsy as he and Lo’ak sat along the shoreline, waves kissing their feet, Aonung divulged, telling his friend every detail all over again, because, what else was there for him to do?

“Damn, that’s just… damn.” Lo’ak sighed, slightly stunned by the angry rant Aonung had just given. “You’re lucky it’s not as bad as Neteyam- he had a fucking blood oath.” He winced at his choice of words. “Sorry, cuz.” 

Aonung paid him no mind however, his gaze instead distracted and locked on the horizon before them as Lo’ak went on a long winded rant of his own.

“- all one fucking mess, this whole elders’ tradition thing. If you ask me, brother, I’d just get some poor girl to pretend to be in love with me- ya know, appease the parents, then just have her break your heart… and then-” Lo’ak drank another healthy mouthful of their booze, “and then everyone would feel so sorry for your moping ass, they’d give you a break over this whole courting thing… I’m sure of it.” 

Aonung’s head snapped to his friend, slightly stunned. 

“What?” Lo’ak glanced behind him for good measure, but nope, Fishlips was staring at him. “What?” he asked again.

“That’s… that’s actually a good idea.” 

“The shit I just spewed?”

Aonung cursed at the burn from anther sip of the liquid he swallowed. Why was it worse each time? “Yeah. I think I’ll just do that.”

Lo’ak plucked his bottom lip in thought. His mind was hazy but not that hazy. He probably hadn’t heard right. “Pfft. You’re yanking my tail.”

“No, I’m serious,” Aonung said, sitting up as his mind started whirling. He twisted to face the Sully man, taking another shot of the disgusting, throat burning spirits. “It’s the perfect plan. Just before the formal ceremony, I’ll have her break it off, but by then I’d have “fallen in love”… My parents wouldn’t push anyone on me after something like that.”

“Dude… I was fucking joking,” Lo’ak emphasized. Then, paying attention to the determined look on the man’s face, Lo’ak shoved his shoulder. “Skxawng, you’re not seriously thinking of going through with this?”

“Why not? It’s good advice- Hey! I was going to drink that!”

Lo’ak had snatched the waterskin they hid their liquid stash in. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Fuck you.”

Facing the metkayina man fully, the omaticaya shook his head. “Listen… back at Home Camp, there’s a saying, don’t ever take advice from Lo’ak. Now usually I’d be offended, but right now, I think you should listen to the masses… Also, I’m pretty sure you’re drunk. Better yet, we're both drunk.”

Aonung waved him off. “Lo’ak. This plan could actually work.” 

“It could also blow up in your face.”

“Then that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“You’re that desperate?! Reya’s got so many female friends, why don’t you-”

“No. I wouldn’t ask that of my sister. I know myself and it’s this unspoken rule between us anyway. I don’t play around with her friends, and she stays clear of mine- even if she’s never been like that- like me.”

“Nice. Guess I’m the exception then?” Lo’ak grinned. 

“You’re not my friend,” Aonung deadpanned. 

“Ouch!” Lo’ak pretended to be hurt. 

“Are you going to help me with this or not?” 

“Dude, I really love your sister. And I’d really like to stay on good terms with your parents, you know, so they’d let me continue to court her?! If they knew I helped you with this they’d toss me back to the forest before I could even plead my case!” 

Aonung squinted at him. “Tsireya’s made you soft,” he taunted. 

“Nice try, but I have two new badass tats that say otherwise,” he replied, gesturing to the intricate ink that adorned his left arm, and right shoulder.

The corner of Aonung’s lips twitched. He was secretly proud of the forest boy. Lo’ak impressed them all with his determination to learn their metkayina customs.

He’d been through grueling challenges that endangered his life and partook in lengthy, traditional ceremonies all for the chance of love. All for Tsireya. No wonder it was so easy for Aonung to approve of their match. 

Lo’ak blew out a breath and handed the booze back to his friend who took a swig. “Alright then, let’s do this fucking thing.” 

“That was fast. What changed your mind?”

“I know too much. Your parents will kill me either way, especially if they knew I didn’t do anything to stop you. So, let’s get to planning properly so they don’t find out.”

“Let’s hear it then. What’s first?”

Lo’ak thrummed his bottom lip again. “First things first, we need to find you a woman. Should be easy to help you get a willing partner, you’ve already got so many swatting at your tail.” 

“No,” Aonung shook his head, eyes glassy in the moonlight. “It can’t be one of them. They’d think they could handle it but they’d also think they could change me. Make me fall for them. I’m not stupid.”

“Nope,” Lo’ak agreed. “You’re just a cocky bastard… a fucking fishlip skxawng if you ask me,” he mumbled.

“Skxawng…” Revelation formed on Aonung’s face. “I think I know the perfect woman.” 

~

Ayelýn was furiously scrubbing at a filthy mat someone had brought in. Frustrated, she cursed at whatever substance had left such a stain, praying it wasn’t blood… or worse. 

Thankfully it didn’t smell like either. 

She wiped at her brow, and blew out a breath toward a stubborn loc of hair that refused to be confined in her tie. This would be her last article to clean for the day. 

If she could just get the stain out. 

Scrubbing until her already bruised knuckles blistered, Ayelýn tuned out the sounds of the village around her. 

Keftxo, was the smallest and last in the chain of fifty islands occupied by the metkayina people. Hearing countless whispers and rumored talk when she was growing up, Ayelýn found out that Keftxo, was sadly known as “the lesser” island. That included the reef people inhabiting it, also.

Despite learning this, her parents taught her to never be ashamed of being from here. It was full of the hardest working Na’vi, Na’vi who undertook jobs that may not have been the most grand but were no less important than any other. 

Life in her little village was all hard work most days. Her duty, along with a handful of others was the grueling job known as a scrubber. 

Everyday, canoes from their neighboring villages were filled to the brim with tarps, sleeping mats, hammocks, heavy fishing nets, tapestries and harnesses. And everyday she would spend hours scrubbing them clean. 

She’d just added another sweet smelling soap spud directly to the already almost potent concoction she’d formed for this one mat, hoping the concentrated effects would aid in her task, when a familiar fine voice called her name. 

“Lýn! Lýn!” Kaiiff, her little brother excitedly bounced into the marui she was in, boxy grin wide. “You won’t believe this! We have a visitor from Awa’atlu and I think he’s asking for you!”

Wiping sweat from her brow again, and mostly likely smearing herself with soap studs, Ayelýn began to rinse out the stubborn article. “No one from Awa’atlu knows who I am, Kaii,” she said with a forced smile, trying to mask her tiredness from the ball of life in front of her. 

“Lýnnn, I’m serious. He described you perfectly. Asked for a puny, scowling female and even said you have a tiny scar on your left shoulder. At least that’s what Talu said he was asking for. And who else in the village could that be?” 

Ayelýn paid full attention to her brother now, brows scrunched in confusion. Before she could ask, two individuals were entering the marui behind her brother, flanked by a very obvious crowd of onlookers behind them. 

Her father seemed uneasy as he approached her, suspicious eyes flickering from her to the man following close behind him.

“You!” her lips spat in fury before her brain could comprehend who exactly she was seeing. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” the familiar stranger greeted- rather loudly too, once again with that stupid smirk of his. 

“Ayelýn?” her father called. “You know the Olo'eyktan’s son?”

Ayelýn audibly inhaled- shock clouding her features at the revelation that the wall of a man before her- the man she’d practically insulted quite a few many times now, was none other than their Olo'eyktan’s son. 

Aonung…

Ripples of not so hushed whispers from Lýn’s workmates echoed behind her as her face paled in mortification. Despite the reveal, she had never wanted nothing more than to punch the stupid smug smirk off his face, mirth dancing in his eyes because he knew… that she knew now. 

“Ayelýn,” he voiced as though testing it out- her name sounding sinful coming from his lips. 

Time seemed to have sped up, because in a matter of seconds, quite a few things happened.

The first being, Aonung’s surprisingly pleasant introduction with her younger brother and her mother, who’d quietly snuck into the mix as well- her cheeks tinting as she bashfully patted Aonung on the arm for thinking that she was Lýn’s older sister and not her mother. 

Having enough, Ayelýn snapped rather rudely, interrupting their small talk. “What are you doing here?” 

“Ayelýn,” her mother hissed in disbelief. “Have some respect.”

“Sa'nok, you don’t under-”

“No, it’s okay. I know my presence is a bit of a surprise… I was actually hoping to have a word with your daughter, if you’d allow me,” Aonung directed to her parents, tone dripping in charm Ayelýn knew was probably- most likely all an act. “Somewhere private if possible?”

“Oh! O-of course, of course,” Bwena replied, grin stretching so wide that Ayelýn thought her mother’s face must hurt. She was ever eager to encourage whatever was happening here. “You may use our marui. Ayelýn will show you! Go on, Lýn,” her mother quipped, bodily shuffling her forward and even taking a fast second to try to hastily wipe away a streak of soap residue from her brow. 

“No- wait-”

Protesting was futile because before she knew it, Ayelýn found herself in her family’s shabby but quaint, tiny marui- quite alone with a towering Na’vi and his stupid smirking mouth. 

It annoyed her how much he was enjoying this- whatever this was.

Her eyes tracked his every move as he observed her home. It wasn’t as nice or grand or even tidy like the ones she’d snuck glances into during her brief visit to Awa’atlu, and she suddenly found herself feeling self conscious- lesser than… and she hated herself for it. 

When he finally returned his attention to her, his lips did a funny little quirk as though he were trying not to laugh.

“What?” she snapped.

Instead of responding, he snagged a cloth from a line of clean drying articles and approached cautiously, surprising her when he began to gently wipe at her brow and down her cheek. His other hand held her chin in place, thumb and forefinger keeping her still as he worked in silence. 

Ayelýn didn’t know why she allowed him, but something gave her pause… maybe it was the way his smell attacked her senses- salt and spice and comfort. 

“There you go,” he hushed, voice rumbling deep and wrong. “All pretty again.”

Senses betraying her, she forced herself to take a step back. “What are you doing here, Aonung?”

“Looking for you.”

“Mm, I gathered… You’ve created quite the spectacle and now it will be all my village talks about until I’m frail and old.”

“That’s dramatic… and presumptuous of you.”

“Presumptuous? Me? Oh-” she scoffed. Oh the nerve of him. “I have lived here all my life and I have never seen you step foot in Keftxo. You’re the one that walked into my village- like you own it mind you-” She gave him a flashing warning glare when he tried to rebut, because technically he did own her village. “-looking for me! Can we get this over with so you can be on your way? What do you want?” 

Mouth set, he shrugged casually. “I want us to form a courtship. A formal one.”

When Ayelýn didn’t answer, his head tilted, trying to catch her attention as he poked her shoulder. “Did you hear me, gorgeous?”

“Hm? Oh yes, I did. Nice joke. I'm just too tired to laugh though. Now what do you really want?”

“I’m… not joking,” he enunciated slowly, peering at her in concern, as if she were the one saying crazy things. “I want us to court and-”

“You want us to… what?” 

“Court… You and me.” 

Ayelýn snorted. “Clearly you’ve gone and lost your head.” But something about the way he kept staring at her however popped the amusement bubbling at her chest. “You’re being serious right now, aren’t you?” 

He nodded. 

And for the first time, she saw his sincerity shining through.

“So, what do you say, Lýn?” he asked with an expectant smile, using her nickname as though they were old friends.

“Absolutely not!”

~

Hey, you lovey people!

I’m sure you all know the drill by now, please let me know what you think. 💛

Parts 2 & 3 are mostly complete and just need a full edit, so be sure to share anything in particular you’d like to see happen.

~

Tags:@jakesullyfatjuicypeen@granddearduck@riatesullironalite@strawberri-blonde@earthling55 @innercreationflower @duckworthbean @gyuventure @btsiguess-kpop@blkmystery@neteswife@luvteyams@isnt-itstrange@erenjaegerwifee@faatxma@ivysully@bakugouswaif@pinkpantheris @mntx666@ironcaptainnataliabarnes

[tiredmamaissy]

Moment of Truth

Neteyam’s First Rut: Chapter VII

Read Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV, Chapter V & Chapter VI

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Characters: Neteyam Sully (21) x Avatar Reader (21)

Warnings: nsfw, ANGSTANGSTANGST, pregnancy, blood, reader cries way too much, a sliver of smut (in comparison), make up/pregnant sex creampie, oral sex (f receiving)

Word Count: 8.5k [I have no excuse]

Requested: Yes || No || Kinda

Author’s Note: why am I so dramatic lol. the amount of angst in this is sickening, but it’s okay there’s a happy ending, I promise.

Synopsis: You’ve been keeping a big secret from your mate, Neteyam. It’s time to come clean, but when finally you decide to... something happens.

Previously:

“Ma’ yawne. You had me worried. Ta’sun is in good hands, okay? Let us go home.” he reassures you, not even considering how being away for long would make you feel. He rubs your back whilst coming out the water. “How do you feel... otherwise?” he asks, a sliver of relief in his voice.   

“I’m okay. I just want to go home, please.” you mumble, already feeling the guilt of lying about something so big.

The ride home is quiet. You cling to your mate, running an array of scenarios through your head. Scenarios of you sitting him down, and telling him the truth. Only for him to respond to you with a cold shoulder, or worse – anger and disappointment. You can already hear it:

“y/n, how could you be so careless? If you knew, why did you not say anything? I asked you, multiple times!”

Because the truth is, you knew. You knew from the moment you sat in between his legs on Seze, feeling the influence of his pheromones. You knew, deep down, that your heat was creeping up on you, yet you still reassured him that you wanted this – wanted him. You knew that when you did accept the truth, that it was too late.

Your eyes remain shut, tears still silently running down your cheeks, hurting from words he never spoke.

“Shh... my love. We are almost there. Ta’sun is going to be so excited to see his sa’nu [mummy], that he will not even look his sempu [daddy].” he chuckles, a warm hand holding you close to him.

His words only make you bawl more, dimples forming in your chin as it quivers. The thought of your baby jumping about excited to see you makes your heart sink even more, because you know you could have another budding in your womb, excited to meet you too.

----

Three weeks have passed since Neteyam’s rut. Each day felt torturous, carrying the burden of such a heavy secret in your heart. There were countless moments where you yearned to sit down and tell him the truth – to tell him you may be pregnant. But there were also moments where you tried, where it came out more as a light-hearted joke, rather than a confession. The moments where he made it clear that it not something he wanted.

--

“You look like you want a baby tsmukan [brother] or tsmuke [sister] to protect, ma’ Ta’sun. Look at you getting so big.” you coo, watching your son crawl to you.

Neteyam chuckles behind you, watching his son try his best to make quick strides back to his sa’nu. “None, right ma’ Ta’sun? You are still a baby yourself, too young and sweet to have that responsibility.” Neteyam speaks from his own experience, being the bigger brother – the protector, all his life.

Just like that, a few more stones in your heart. 

It hurt you. To know the father of your child wouldn’t be excited to hear he was having another. It only made you retreat even further into your shell, denying yourself your own excitement of possibly having another Ta’sun in your womb. You tried your best to turn a blind eye to your blatant symptoms, that you began to experience in only a week.

Just the sight of steamed bladder polyps made you gag, and if the smell ever wafts past your nose, you’d to run out of the tent to heave into the shrubs. The craving for Yovo fruit has come back ten-fold, now being the only thing that you can keep down. There was a new heaviness in your womb, much like the heaviness in your heart. A heaviness that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t deny.

Your breasts became tender and sore. Each time he latched white-hot pain seared through your breast, making you jolt in your skin. You endured it regardless; you’d do anything for your son. But Ta’sun weaned overnight, out the blue – another thing that kept you from sleeping soundly.

--

“Teyam, he keeps biting me.” you cry, frustrated and worn out. “It hurts, I-I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what is happening.” you lie once more, already knowing it’s because your milk doesn’t taste the same due to the new hormones in your body.

“Ah, my love.” he rests his hands on your shoulders, only for you to shrug him away. “It is alright. It is time now that he weans.” he tries to reassure you, stepping back to give you the space you want.

“You are not listening to me... I wish you listened to me.” you hiccup, talking about something completely different.

His brows pinch together, pity plastered on his face. “Oh, ma’ yawne. I know you are frustrated.” a hand hovers over your shoulder for a split second, “I am sorry.” he apologizes, retreating his hand, feeling like he could be a better mate – a better father.

You felt terrible. You knew your attitude hurt Neteyam, lashing out on him when you were upset.

Neteyam could tell something was off about you, but he chalked it up to something that happened that day – something that he did wrong. There was unspoken, unpleasant tension between the two of you. You remained in your shell, trying to hide all the symptoms of the budding babe in your womb. But it only came off as detachment. He tried to make it up to you daily with numerous gestures of love, all of which you brushed off because of the guilt bubbling deep in your chest. You felt that you didn’t deserve his love, keeping a lie this big from him – and he felt that he deserved your cold, distant treatment.

“Ma’ txe’lan [heart]. I made your favourite. Are you hungry?” he smiled wide, bringing you a bowl of steamed bladder polyps with Ta’sun strapped to his chest.

Your face screwed, stomach turning at the smell wafting past your nose. Eyes slamming shut, you exhale harshly, trying to get the smell out your system. A fire sets in your lungs as they beg for air. You shake your head, and run outside, leaving him there alone – his smile drooping into a frown.

He waited patiently for you to come around, giving you as much time as you needed. At times, he confided in his mother, wishing to get clarity – to gain some sort of understanding. He thought, perhaps it was something deeper, something that women experience after having a baby. There would be moments where he would try to talk to you, or just cherish you in his arms. The moments where he would lightly tug at your queue, silently asking to feel connected with you.

--

Neteyam presses his body against yours, yearning for his mates’ soft, soothing touch. He misses you, yet you’re lying right in front of him. Not wanting to pressure you into anything, he never took it father that just this. But tonight, his heart weighs extra heavy, despite it being empty.

“Y/n.” he whispers, lips brushing against your neck. “I miss you.” his voice cracks, riddled with anguish.

The words are like a dagger to your heart, piercing it enough for the stones to tumble out. You miss him, too. Yet you lay there as silent as a yerik [hexapede], putting on yet another sleeping façade. Desperate fingertips brush the length of your queue. He knows that you’re awake, he could hear your thumping heart.

“I love you, y/n.” he whispers once more, knowing you’re listening. “I see you. For life.” his way of telling you that he’ll wait for however long you need him to.

You cry, and cry, and cry, scooting back into his arms as you tugged your queue from his fingertips, holding it tight to your bosom. “I love you.” you spit the words, breath hitching from your sobs.

You couldn’t believe yourself, being such a hypocrite. You were so upset with Neteyam when he lied to you about going on the hunting trip with his father so he could just spend his rut alone. A lie that was for your benefit.

It all became unbearable. Your symptoms became unbearable – indubitable. It was eating you alive, you had to know for sure... to come clean. But you didn’t know how. To simply say “I think I am pregnant” seemed too easy – too simple. How could you say such a thing after weeks of mistreatment? After weeks of being a horrid mate? You needed advice. Who better to give that to you than your best friend?

Kiri.

----

“Neteyam. Kiri wanted to talk to me. Sounds important. You okay with Ta’sun for a while?” the lie slips off your tongue too easily.

“Of course, ma’ yawne. Don’t you want to eat before you go? You have not eaten all day.” he smiles slightly, glancing at the bladder polyps.

“Uh – no. But thank you, Nete. I’m gonna get going before the eclipse starts, okay?” you say, backing out of the tent. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Oh, okay. I love-” his voice strains, quickening to catch you before you... slip out the door. “...you.” he finishes his sentence, a sinking feeling in his chest makes his ears lay flat. He looks down at his son, perched in his lap.

“What did sempu [daddy] do wrong?” he croaks, tucking Ta’sun’s growing hair behind his ears. Ta’sun babbles at his father in return, staring up at him with a wide-eyed goggle and a gummy smile.

----

Too deep in thought, you were already at Kiri’s tent, standing at her door focused on your feet. The emotional overload is overwhelming. You were... everything, all at once. Angry. Sad. Disappointed. Anxious... In denial – heavy denial. Kiri being his sister didn’t make it any better. How would you tell her? How could you tell her? You’d been mistreating her brother for weeks. Surely, she wouldn’t be happy to hear that, even if you’re her best friend – her sister. Body going into fight or flight, you turn around, ready to flee.

“Y/n?” Kiri’s hushed voice makes to spin around, surprised. “Why are you here?” a look of puzzlement on her face, she peeks behind you, looking for Neteyam and Ta’sun before focusing back on you. Her expression softens, taking in the sight of her sister’s puffy eyes, and tear-stained cheeks. “...what happened? Come.” she asks through a gasp, dragging you in her tent.

She sits you next to her on her cot, waiting patiently for you to speak on your own. All you can do is bury your face into your hands and cry silent tears. Snaking her arm around your shoulder, she pulls you in, swaying you both side to side.

“Tsmuke [sister].” her tongue clicks, “tell me what’s the matter, hm?” she hums, rubbing your arm.

Breath skipping uncontrollably, you try to tell her what happened, only for it to come out as gibberish. All except for the words “you’re going to be mad at me.”

“Y/n. Take a breath. You’re okay. You’re safe. I won’t be upset with you, okay?” she calms you, holding you in front of her firmly by the arms. “Okay?” she repeats slowly.

You nod quickly, wiping away your tears. “I think that I am pregnant.”

Kiri searches your eyes, a look of puzzlement washing over her once more. “I don’t understand. Isn’t this a good thing? A blessing, yes? And why would I be upset with you about that?”

“B-because. I-I have been hiding it from Neteyam. I’ve been a horrid mate. I didn’t know my heat would come. I’ve been so cold and distant from him. And – and he doesn’t understand why! I try my best to hide my symptoms, but I just end up avoiding him. Lashing out on h-him. He – he thinks it’s his fault. That he did something wrong. I want to tell him, but... I don’t know how.” you blubber on and on, eventually looking up at Kiri’s even more puzzled face. “He’s going to be upset with me, Kiri.” you voice hushes down into a hoarse whisper, bottom lip trembling.

“Y/n.” she huffs out as a sigh. “Why would he be upset? Was he upset when you found out about Ta’sun? No. He loves being a father. Why would he be... upset?” she repeats her question, grimacing at the word. She knows her brother puts his mate and child over anything – anyone.

“He said it himself. H-he thanked Eywa... that he didn’t get me pregnant. He thinks it’s too soon – too soon for Ta’sun to have a younger sibling. He’s been like this since we first mated, Kiri. He told me once that I was lucky I didn’t get pregnant on my first heat. I just, I know he will be upset with-” your blubber is cut short by Kiri holding your face.

“Tell. Him.” she states firmly, pursing her lips slightly. She pulls you in, wrapping her arms around you. “Tell him, y/n. Trust me.” she hums, tightening her warm embrace. “And we need to go see grandmother. Today. Like, now.” she pulls back, raising her brows as she looks at you, as if to say ‘got it?’.

You try to smile, biting your bottom lip. Hearing Kiri’s comforting words and feeling her soothing touch lightened the weight in your heart. But it’s quickly filled with something else, something that quickened the thud of your heart. Fear.

Kiri picked up on it straight away, a gift from Eywa if you will. “Do not fret. It will be okay, no matter what she says. I am here for you. Everyone is here for you.” she says her words slowly, drilling them in your head.

Will Neteyam be here for me? You ponder.

----

“You are with child.” Mo’at grins, placing her wooden pick back into its casing. She kneels behind you, humming as she presses her palm firmly against your back. “seykxel sì nitram [congratulations], a girl child.” her grin grows wider, “Ta’sun will have tsmuke [sister].”

A baby girl.

For the first in three weeks, you feel nothing but happiness. It’s like a moment of silence in all the noise, all the buzz that’s been ringing non-stop in your head. All the voices finally hush, leaving your heart warm, and light. A moment of euphoria.

A moment.

A silent gasp parts Mo’at’s lips. Eyes rolling back into her head, she mutters under her breath – something you can’t quite make out. “Grandmother?” Kiri squeaks quietly, afraid to disturb the elder in trance. Mo’at’s grin falls quickly.

“Kiri?” you reach your hand out to find her. She holds your hand, giving it a quick squeeze, reminding you of her words ‘It will be okay, no matter what she says.’

“My child. Your distress has affected your unborn. You must rest. Go. Tell your mate.” she states, slowly backing away from you.

A moment.

Waves of anxiety and guilt crash into you so hard they wind you, leaving you breathless. Not only had you been a terrible mate, but a terrible mother, ignoring your unborn – denying her existence. The heaviness of your heart returns, ten-fold, leaving no space for the happiness that was just there.

It didn’t feel real.

Is there really a baby in here? You rest a gentle hand on your abdomen.

Kiri embraces you once more, snapping you out of your daze. “Tell him, y/n. Tell him now.”

“Okay.” you mutter, getting up to walk out the healer’s tent. Kiri walks next to you, linking her arm with yours. “I got it, Kiri. Thank you.” you say monotonously, trying to feel nothing for the sake of your... baby.

“Are you sure?” she asks, slowly unlinking her arm from yours.

“Yeah. I’m sure. I’m going to take my time anyways... to think some more.” your words are flat, lifeless – much like how you feel.

“Alright, y/n. The eclipse is starting, so don’t take too long. Okay?” she hesitates, reluctant to leave you alone.

“Yeah. Okay.” you say, keeping your eyes on your feet.

“Everything will be alright. Get plenty of rest.” she tries to comfort you, only to be met with your blank stare.

Parting ways, you begin the trek home. It wasn’t too far, unfortunately. You really wanted some more time to think about what you were going to say and how you were going to say it. Not only did you have to tell him that you are pregnant, but that your stress and dishonesty have been affecting the baby, too. At this point, you don’t know howhe’ll react.

How could you even say this? ‘Neteyam. I’m pregnant. A baby girl, but she’s at risk because of my careless actions’ or, how about ‘I was a piece of shit mate to you for three weeks and have been hiding my pregnancy – denying the existence of our unborn daughter, who is suffering because of it.’

Nothing you came up with was good enough. Nothing sounded right. The more you thought about it, the more it registered how badly you fucked up. Your eyes remain locked on your feet, watching each toe grip the flora beneath you, step after step. You watch as the freckles on your skin glow as the eclipse occurs. You didn’t even realize that you’d been walking aimlessly this entire time. So deep in thought, you veered off the path to your tent.

Finally looking up into the darkness, you see the bioluminescence of the panoprya, anemonids and kentens [flying fan lizard] light up the forest. “Shit.” you mutter, becoming aware of the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Doing a quick 360, it dawns on you.

You’re lost.

“Shit. Shit. How far out am I? I don’t even know where I am.” you think out loud. Without giving it a second thought, you pick a direction and walk. Unbeknownst to you, you were just venturing deeper into the forest. The sounds of the fauna frightened you, keeping you on edge, only making you walk faster, and faster. Before you know it, you’re racing towards a finish line that didn’t exist.

Winded, you stop to catch your breath, leaning against a thick tree trunk. In the distance, you spot a heavily damaged link shack. You had heard of it before, Jake told the story about his final battle with Quaritch at family dinner. But you had never seen it in person. The sight makes you dizzy. Heart thumping violently between your ribs, you press the button on your throat microphone with a shaky hand.

“Ma’ tìyawn [love].” you sniffle.

----

With the eclipse occurring, Neteyam only becomes more and more worried about you. “Ta’sun, where is your sa’nu [mummy]?” he coos quietly, looking down at his sleeping babe in his arms. “I think we should go check on her. What do you think?” he whispers.

With Ta’sun strapped tightly to his chest, he gears up with his bow and arrows and makes the quick journey to Kiri’s tent.

“Kiri!” he whispers with a harsh voice, babe still sleeping nuzzled into his chest. With no response, he calls out again. “Kiri! Y/n!”.

Silence.

Bursting through the door, Neteyam sees Kiri sound asleep. Furrowed brows raise, beaded eyes widen, pursed lips part – a shocked expression contorts his face. His legs take a second to long to respond to his commands to move. But when they do, he bolts towards Kiri, shaking her awake. Practically jumping out of her own skin, she stands in front of her brother, groggy and confused.

“Kiri. Kiri. Where is y/n? She told me she was coming here, to talk to you. Where is she?” he asks frantically, grip tightening on his sister’s upper arm.

“She – she went home! We went to see Mo’at and then she went home. Didn’t she tell you?” Kiri hand snaps to her forehead as she stares blearily at her brother.

Ta’sun stirs against his father’s chest. Neteyam bounces reflexively, hushing his voice to a harsh whisper. “No! Tell me what? Why did you go to see Mo’at? Where is y/n?”

A crackle of static comes through Neteyam’s earpiece.  

“Ma’ tìyawn [love].” you sniffle.

Neteyam’s heart skips a beat. He hasn’t heard you call him that in weeks. It sounds as if you’re crying, voice hushed, yet harsh. He could hear the whooping and cackling of nocturnal creatures in the background and your heavy breaths.

“Ma’ yawne... Where are you?” he chokes out, unwrapping the prrsmung [carrier] from his chest, signalling with his eyes that Kiri take the baby.

“If I tell you, you’re going to be mad, my ‘teyam.” you murmur.

Kiri takes the baby gently, so not to wake him. Neteyam fixes his bow to his chest, hurrying out of Kiri’s tent. “I won’t be mad. Just tell me, love.” he tries not to sound panicked, as he makes his way towards the forest.

“I – I don’t know.” you squeak, fear evident in your voice. “I think I’m at the old shack... the forbidden one.”

Oh, shit.

“Okay. Okay. Stay there. Do not move, understand? It is forbidden for a reason. I am coming now, just – please.­” his own fear shook his voice, too.

“O-okay, my Nete. I... need to tell you s-something.” your breath hitches.

“Tell me when I get there, okay? I’m coming now. Just stay there.” he hums, trying to calm you down. By the way you were speaking it sounded as if you were trying to mutter your last words to him, and that terrified him.

“No, i-it can’t wait. It’s important. I don’t even know how to stay it, Nete. I’m just so sorry. I really am. I love you, so much. And I miss you. I miss Ta’sun.” you blabber, tears freely flowing down your cheeks.

“Y/n. Please. You are scaring me now. What is going on?” his voice bounces as he weaves through the panoprya and jutting tree branches. He has not heard you speak like this in weeks.

“I need to tell you... the truth. All of it. I’m pr – ” a sudden gasp, then static.

“Y/n? Y/n?” he repeats, thuds becoming louder as his heels strike the ground harder – faster. “y/n?!”

---- [repetition of words incoming]

The eclipse is in full bloom, only the bioluminescence around you can be seen – leaving you with few senses to rely on. Ethereal sounds of the forest echo in your ears, the scaly bark of the tree scrapes the skin on your back, wafting the scent of your own blood by your nose. A terrible feeling wrings your gut, making you queasy. Or perhaps that was the budding babe in your womb. It’s an eerie feeling – right dead in the pit of your stomach. It frightens you... terrifies you. It feels as if...

...someone is watching you.

You huddle further into the tree, closing your eyes to concentrate on your mates’ voice. “Okay. Okay. Stay there. Do not move, understand? It is forbidden for a reason. I am coming now, just – please.­” Neteyam’s shaky voice comes through your earpiece.  

Snap. No other than the sound of a twig breaking in two. How cliché.

You squeeze your eyes tighter, hoping that if you don’t look, it’ll go away. A hand flies to your mouth – your poor attempt at keeping the sounds of your heavy breaths to a minimum. The last time you were this petrified was when Auzo assaulted you in broad day light. What if that day repeats? What if something... someone, is watching you?

You had to tell him, now.

“O-okay, my Nete. I... need to tell you s-something.” you whisper into your hand, breath hitching.

“Tell me when I get there, okay? I’m coming now. Just stay there.” he tries to soothe his shaky voice.

Your eyes fly open to the rustle of the lush foliage above you.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I want to go home to my mate. To Ta’sun. You let go a breath you didn’t know you were even holding.

“No, i-it can’t wait. It’s important. I don’t even know how to stay it, Nete. I’m just so sorry. I really am. I love you, so much. And I miss you. I miss Ta’sun.” you blabber out a little too loudly, tears stinging your face.

“Y/n. Please. You are scaring me now. What is going on?” his bouncing voice is panic-stricken.

The rustling intensifies.

You gulp down a wad of spit. The hand covering your mouth trembles, droplets of tears falling on its luminescent freckles. “I need to tell you... the truth. All of it. I’m pr – ”

You gasp suddenly, hitting the floor with a thud. Something – someone is on top of you, pinning you face down. The earpiece falls out your ear, cutting off Neteyam shouting your name. It all happens so quick. In a moment, he has your hands tied behind your back, and a knife to your throat.

“Up.” A chilling voice sends a shiver down your spine. “Now!” he booms, jerking you up by the base of your queue. A deafening whimper parts your lips as you stand on the tips of your toes, trying your best to make space between your jugular and the knife’s blade.

He looks quickly at your fingers, counting ten in total. “Colonel. It’s Zhang. We got a half-breed. Site 26. Over.” he pages Quaritch.

Zhang? Colonel? As in... Colonel Quaritch?

Your belly ached at the words, twisting, and turning into a tight knot. Heart thumping violently against your ribs, your hold your breath, afraid of the blade a millimetre away from your throat.

“You’re coming with us, buttercup. Care to explain how you got ten fingers?” he snarls, pressing himself against you.

“’m not your fucking buttercup.” you squeeze out of clenched teeth, surprised by your own words.

Zhang chuckles deeply, tightening his grip on your queue, earning a high-pitched squeal from you. “Got a lil’ fight in ya’. Sit still, pretty. We got ways to make ya’ talk.”

“Two clicks out. Over.” a faint voice comes through his earpiece.

The magnitude of the situation quickly dawns on you. If you didn’t do something – if you didn’t get out now, you’d be kidnapped and tortured. An image of Ta’sun crying for his sa’nu [mama] in Neteyam’s arms flashes before you, igniting a roaring flame in your heart – incinerating the heaviness in it. Dagger pressed firmly to your throat, hand gripping your queue, binds on your wrists – the only thing free was your mouth.

----

Neteyam cautiously approaches the prohibited area, old link shack in sight. Hearing your high-pitched squeal, he quickly camouflages himself in the tall flora. Peeking through the slivers of the leaves, he catches the sight of what seems to be a Na’vi male pressing against you, holding a knife to your throat. He inhales sharply, blood bubbling under his skin, lips curling over his teeth.

Repositioning his stance, he loads his bow in an instant, ready to make his first kill. Hot air huffing through his nostrils, fury blurs his vision. He holds his breath, attempting to still his shaky hand as he pulls the fatal arrow back against his cheek. Heart galloping like a direhorse, he exhales slowly, aiming the pointed arrowhead at his prey.

“I have a baby... at home waiting for me... he’s – he’s almost five months old.” you speak slowly as tears stream down your face. Neteyam’s ears perk up at the sound of your small voice.

“Shut it, buttercup.” Zhang snaps at you, leaving a warning on your throat.

“He... needs his mama.” you choke out between hitched breaths, tears mixing with the blood trickling down your chest. Neteyam grimaces at your words, struggling to get a clear shot.

“Shut it!” He shouts, twisting the base of your queue.

“Mmmn!” you muffle out a cry, body tensing – eyes squeezing shut. “Please.” you breathe.

“Fuck!” Zhang yells angrily, spinning you around to face his towering frame. “Didn’t I tell you to fucking shut it?” he yanks your head back, positioning the tip of his dagger to your jugular.

You could tell from the look in his eyes that your words were getting to him, triggering him. It was as if he didn’t want to hear that you were a real person, with a life, a family – a baby in your belly. Not only did you have a baby at home, but you had one here with you, inside your womb. Your heart skips a beat as you prepare yourself to utter the words – to face the truth.

“I’m pregnant.” you mouth, words catching in your throat. Top lip twitching from rage, he withdraws his dagger, ready to make the lethal cut. “No. No! I’m pregnant! P-please.” you cry out, words dislodging abruptly – loudly. Your words echo in your ears, fuelling the menacing fire in your heart to incinerate whatever denial or doubt you had remaining.  

Neteyam’s heart throbs in his chest, a surge of adrenaline rushing through him. His eyes widen, his focus becoming clear and sharp. His mate needs him – his mate who carries his unborn. Zhang’s grip loosens ever so slightly, predatory leer softening for a millisecond, providing Neteyam with a clear shot.

His releases his arrow of death, bowstring snapping against his forearm, impaling his prey through his back. You witness his body jolt, eyes dilate and constrict before they dim completely. His lifeless body slumps to the ground, arrow protruding out of his back as blood pools at your feet. Your eyes snap up, to see Neteyam’s wide stance, chest heaving violently from making his first kill. Your eyes lock with his, riddled with worry and anger.

“Neteyam!” you sob loudly, watching him bolt towards you.

“Did he touch you?!” he raises his voice, gripping your arms to move you back to examine your condition.

“N-no!” you stutter, in absolute shock.

Pulling you into his arms, he holds you tightly, one hand on the back of your head and the other fiddling with the tie on your wrists. “Mawey. Mawey [calm]. I am here. You’re safe.” he pants shakily, adrenaline still coursing viciously through his veins. “You’re safe.” he repeats breathily, finally freeing you from your restraints.

He steps back, eyes trailing your body thoroughly, narrowing slightly as they pass the wound on your throat. They make their way down your chest, watching at the red beads of blood and tears drip down your stomach. His gaze lingers at your abdomen, taking in the sight of the small bump left by Ta’sun – now filled by his unborn. Eyes snapping back up to yours, he swallows thickly.

“Is it true? Are you pregnant?” he asks breathlessly, a hand slipping from your arm to rest on your womb.

You nod weakly, tears welling up in your eyes once more. “Yes, Nete.” you catch your breath. “I am. I’m pregnant. I’m s-so sorry.” You bawl, salty tears stinging the wound on your neck.

Tears threaten to fall from his glossy eyes as he smiles wobbly, his hand cupping your cheek. “You’re pregnant. Oh, ma’ yawne, you are pregnant.” he breathes, putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

“I – I didn’t know my heat would come. I understand why you’re upset, that you’re not ready for another. I’m so sorry, Nete. I should’ve known, and I – I’m sorry I’ve been so distant, so terrible to you. And Mo’at says she is stressed, all because of me, and-” you sob hysterically, Neteyam cutting you off to embrace you closely.

“She? A girl?” he asks quickly, pulling you closer into his chest. “We’re having a baby girl?” his tears overflow, rolling down his cheeks.

You nod into his chest, sobbing loudly. He shushes you, swaying you from side to side, rubbing the dip of your back. “Shh, my love. You have made me the happiest man alive, bringing life to our family once more. Do not fret, ma’ yawne. It is going to be okay. She will be okay.” He hums, planting a kiss on your head.

The whirring of a kunsip [scorpion gunship/helicopter] can be heard in the distance, throwing Neteyam back into the thick of his protective urges. “Come. Come. We must go. Quickly.” he whispers, grabbing your hand and running through the forest back to hometree.

----

Neteyam barges into his sleeping grandmother’s tent, rousing her out of her sleep. “Grandmother!”

The elder sits up groggily, used to her sleep being disturbed as Tsahik. “What is it, Neteyam?” she croaks.

“It is y/n. Please, check her.” he huffs, out of breath from the trek. He ended up carrying you back home half way, not wanting the baby to be under any more stress.

“Put me down, my Nete. Grandmother, I’m fine really, it is just a scratch.” you reassure the elder.

“What happened, my child? How did you get such a wound?” she goes for her concoction of herbs, smearing it over the deep cut. Neteyam explains briefly, as Mo’at makes her way around to your back, placing her cold palm flush against your spine.

“Baby is strong.” She hums, a surprised expression washing over her face. “What have you done since I last saw you?”

You smile weakly, glancing at Neteyam. He takes his hand in yours, giving it a quick squeeze. “I told my mate.”

Mo’at’s eyes flicker between the two of you, her puzzled expression relaxing into one of happiness. “I see.” she states, corners of her lips curling upwards. “Everything is good. Get dome rest. Both of you.”

“Thank you, grandmother.” you shoot her a smile, thankful for her help. Neteyam sweeps three fingers from his forehead, also thanking his grandmother.

He turns to you, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Kiri has Ta’sun. Shall we go?”

You nod hastily, a smile plastered on your face. Oh, how you longed to see your son after such an ordeal.

Arriving at Kiri’s tent, Neteyam quietly enters to see Kiri pacing back and forth. “Neteyam! Y/n!” she whispers loudly. She sees your banged up condition, scanning your body frantically. She hugs you tightly, full of guilt for not walking you home. “I’m so sorry, y/n. I should have taken you home.” she pulls away from the hug. “Are you okay? What happened?”.

You explain the night’s events to Kiri, letting her know that it wasn’t her fault and she shouldn’t be sorry.

“I’m just glad you’re okay now. My brother does a good job at protecting you. Doesn’t he?” Kiri shoots a smile at her brother before glancing back to you. “I’m also happy to hear your baby is doing better. Speaking of, Ta’sun is fast asleep.” Kiri gestures to the sleeping babe in her cot. “Just got him down, too. So I hope you’re not thinking of taking my prrnen [baby] from me.” She smiles, knowing you two could use a good nights rest.

Neteyam and you share a quick glance, wondering if you should take her up on her offer.

“Go. You guys need the rest, look at you both.” she giggles quietly, rolling her eyes.

“Thank you, Kiri” you whisper, nose scrunching the wider your smile grows.

“Sister.” Neteyam smirks, thanking her silently with his eyes. You both walk out of Kiri’s tent towards yours, hand in hand.

----

Neteyam holds your hand tightly, relishing in the first form of intimacy he’s had from you in weeks. He’s careful not to take it any further than that, not wanting to pressure you into doing something you weren’t ready for. He’d wait on you for as long as you need him to. Anything for his beloved.

“My love. You must be exhausted.” he hums, opening the door of your tent, helping you step under the flap. “Let us get you into bed, yes?” He coos, as if you were Ta’sun that he were putting to sleep. He walks you over to the cot, trying to get you to lay down.

“Neteyam.” You whisper, fighting his gentle pushes to stay on your feet.

He stops, turning his head and quickly untwining his fingers from yours to take a step back, thinking he’s upset you again.

“Ma’ teyam.” you whisper once more, two fingers brushing the underside of his chin to have him face you.

His head follows the soft tug of your digits, glossy amber eyes staring deeply into yours. Wetting your bottom lip with a quick swipe of your tongue, you lessen the space between your bodies, dropping your gaze down to his lips. He stays still, body rigid, jaw clenched as he returns his gaze to your glistening lips. His stomach flutters as he watches you tilt your chin upwards, eyelids growing heavy.

Brushing your top lip against his, you linger there, open-mouthed, sharing the same breath. He closes his eyes, savouring your closeness, your warmth. Breaths turn raggedy as the tension buds in your chests. Your eyes close, hand smoothing over his jaw, up the nape of his neck. You pull him closer, noses brushing against one another, foreheads pressing firmly together.

“Kiss me” you pant.

His lips softly press against yours, lingering for a second too long to take in your silken skin. He pulls away, catching his breath. Your eyes pop open, gaze now boring into his half-lidded eyes, searching them for an answer.

“Kiss me.” you breathe needily, fingers interlacing with the braids at the back of his head.

Chest heaving against yours, his lustful eyes explore yours for a moment before dropping down to your flushed lips. He swallows thickly, crashing his lips into yours once more, eager for your touch – your love. Kisses so rough, so hungry that they bruise yours. Being starved for so long he has his fill greedily, crushing the suppleness of your lips with his, gently nipping at your skin.

He pulls away to catch his breath before diving back in with his tongue. His hands quickly move up to your cheeks, cupping them firmly, pulling you into his needy kisses as if you could even get any closer. He breaks the kiss, panting raggedy breaths into your open mouth, snapping his eyes open to look deeply into yours once more.

“I missed you” he pants quickly, before his tongue briefly swipes your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. You reciprocate the hunger as the ache in your lungs worsen from the words you inhaled. Your tongues roll over one another, tasting the desperation pooling in each other’s cheeks. Eager hands explore his body, brushing over his pulsing neck down to his hot chest, swiping around to his broad back as they tickle their way down to the band of his loincloth.

“’m sorry, ma’ muntxatan [husband].” you breathe into his mouth, slipping your trembling fingers under the purple cloth, only for a hand to stop you. He pulls away once more.

“ma’ muntxate [wife].” he whispers, forehead pushing into yours, “I’m sorry. I have left you alone in this.” he brings your hand to your belly, cupping it with his. “I have made you feel like you cannot be honest with me... Like I would be... upset, about you carrying my child. I am so sorry.” he grimaces, choking back his tears as he places another hand on your stomach. “You are my most cherished... most prized possession. Everything you do brings light to my life. A sense of purpose.” he blubbers, teardrops crashing onto his cheeks. “I-I love you, ma’ txe’lan”

“Oh, Nete.” you squeeze out a closing throat, “I love you, my sweet Nete. I have been so cold.” you cry quietly, untwining your fingers from his hair to gently caress his queue. “I have denied you of my love... my touch.” your hand strokes the length of his queue, bringing it over his shoulder – making his tail wrap around your waist.

“I have lied to you.” you squeak, not wanting to say the words. “I do not deserve you.” you weep quietly.

“Shh. Shh, my love.” he hums low in his chest, meeting the softness of your lips once again. A hand leaves your stomach, sliding up your back to gently graze your queue. “I want you. I need you.” a soft, needy moan parts your lips, “Please” he brings your queue over your shoulder, silently asking for tsaheylu.  

You nod hastily, smiling so hard that your front teeth click harshly against his. You both look down, witnessing your tendrils dance excitedly with one another before melting together to become one. A gasp catches in both your throats as your breath syncs together. You snap your gaze up to witness his pupils blackening his eyes, leaving nothing but a thin amber ring.

“I see you.” you gasp in unison, rubbing your faces against one another.

Sore lips crash into each other, desperate for an even deeper connection. Muddled thoughts race through your minds, as you try to express your immense adoration and love you have for one another. He hurriedly lowers you onto the cot, moving his feverish kisses down your throat, being careful not to graze your wound. Little, sweet moans escape your open mouth, head sinking back into the cushiony bedding as he settles between your legs. Wet kisses leave a trail of saliva down to your chest, where he takes your stiff nipple into his warm mouth, suckling gently. Your soft moans quickly morph into whimpers, thighs rubbing together to satiate the budding heat of your sex.

“Neteyam!” you whine lowly, hand snaking up his back to grip his hair once more.

He pops off your breast, staring up at you with love in his eyes. “Call me your tìyawn” he mumbles, kissing the dip between your breasts, making his way down to your stomach.

“Ma’ tìyawn...” you moan breathily, screwing your eyes shut at the sensation of his tongue trailing down your stomach.

“Yes? oeyä sevin [my pretty] ... mother of my children” he hums, planting wet kisses on your lower stomach.

“Ma’ tìyawn! I... I miss – Oh!” you gasp, eyes flying open as you feel his kisses move quickly to the soddened cloth covering the soft flesh between your glossy thighs.

“I miss you, too.” he mumbles through a smile before untying the flimsy knot on your loincloth with his teeth. He stares longingly at your plump, glistening slit, only glancing up at you briefly to make sure you’re okay with what he’s doing. “Can I?” he asks, breath hitching from his pounding heart. Another hasty nod grants him permission.

Wasting not another second, he presses his nose between your folds, taking in a deep breath to savour the scent of your arousal. He forgot how good you smelled pregnant. It only riles him up more, his fingers digging into your thighs to pin them to the bed. He opens his mouth, wide, and laps up your sweet nectar dipping slowly from your opening, all the way up to the sensitive nub at the top of your cunt. His single swipe of his tongue makes your body jolt, a hand fly to his head to shove him closer. Thighs trying to break free of their restraints, you look down to see his half-lidded eyes full of lust staring up at you intently as the flat of his tongue plays with your clit.

You taste so good pregnant, y/n. His words echo in your mind as he holds eye contact with you. Cum in my mouth, let me taste more of you.

Your little mewls weren’t so little anymore, they morph into loud, wanton, drawn out moans. The heat pooling in your chest trickles down your spine into your already-full womb, making your legs shake even more.

“Teyam! Oh - Ugh! Please, teyam!” you beg loudly, for what - you’re not sure.

He gives it to you though, knowing exactly what to do to tip you over the edge. Two digits prod at your sopping entrance, wiggling around to burrow their way into your heat. Your moans lodge in your throat once his lengthy fingers bottom out in your cunt, and they dislodge once his fingers furl into your sweet spot. Head snapping forward, an arm propping up your torso, you spread your legs as wide as they can go and push your pelvis harder into his relentless licks.

That’s it, mama. Cum for daddy. He thinks loudly, his own hips snapping to grind his painfully hard cock into the foot of the cot.

“Ugh! Oh f-fuck! Yesyesyesyes!” you release silent cries, violently humping his face as you chase your climax.

The bond makes it so that he feels it too, that heat pooling deep in your pelvis... that hot coil ready to snap into two. His hips grind harder into the cot, desperate to find relief for his aching, throbbing cock. He can’t help but grunt into your pussy, feeling his own coil about to snap.

“m’ gonna – m’ gonna fucking cum! I – Oh! I’m cumming – cumming!” you cry out, head dipping back as you give his face two forceful thrusts, pussy walls fluttering wildly around his fingers. He yanks them out in a hurry, cupping your quivering hole with his mouth to get his fill of your thick, sweetened nectar.

“Mm – mhmm” He lets loose throaty, broken groans into your cunt, a quick pause for every gulp of your cum he swallows. His cock only grinds harder against the cot as he feels the warmth of your cum trickle down his throat. He pulls away with a *pwah*, gasping for air. Quickly sucking his fingers dry, he crawls towards you.  

“Fuck. I missed having my fill of you when you’re pregnant.” he moans breathily, smoothing his palm over your belly as he lines his jumping, veiny cock with your slit.  

The words make your already flushed cheeks heat up even more, ridding any remanence of doubt you had left in your heart. “Please, ma’ yawnetu [love].” your lungs tremble.

“Tell me, mama. Tell me what you need.” he moans breathily, rubbing his already-wet cockhead between your plump folds, beads of precum oozing onto your throbbing clit.

“Mmm – I need you... h-here” you pant, shoving your hand between your sticky pelvises to shift his tip to your entrance.

“Yeah?” he smiles, crouching over you to pant hot breaths into the shell of your ear. “And then what?” he whispers shakily into your ear, pulling back slightly to look into your eyes.

“And then this.” you utter under a whisper, wrapping your wobbly legs around his hips, sinking him slowly inside of you. A quick hand tilts your chin to meet your chest, making you watch as his your heat swallows his cock, inch by inch. The deeper he goes, the louder your strained whines grow.

“Look at you, taking me so well.” he hums, watching himself bottom out in your pussy.

“I love you.” It slips out, just as his tip presses against your cervix. His eyes snap back up to meet yours, to see they’ve glossed over with tears.

“I love you.” he utters breathily, kissing you gently as he sets a languid pace with his hips.

He’s already so, so close, all from a few slow thrusts. Your walls clamp around him, still recovering from the orgasm that rippled through your entire being. Feeling your intense arousal through tsaheylu only amplified his, sending his hips into a frenzy – spasming slow and deep inside of your pussy. The bump of his throbbing cockhead brushes repeatedly against your sweet spot, the sensation pulsing through your queue only makes him rut into it even more. He unwraps your leg from his waist, hoisting it up over his shoulder, and leans into you so deep that your knee presses against your cheek.

“Ah! Ngh... t-teyam” you yelp out, his pelvis so flush against yours that his pelvic bone grinds against your clit.

“Too deep?” he groans, pulling out of you slightly.

“No, no. It’s so good... ‘s so good” you mumble as you wrap your arms around his neck and focus on the immense pleasure radiating through your entire body.

“Good.” he breathes, lazily thrusting into you, massaging your sweet spot with the swollen tip of his cock. “Ma’ yawnetu. You feel so good.” he bites back a moan, trying his best to restrain himself from being too rough with you.

“Do it, tìyawn.” you moan, feeling his resistance through tsaheylu. “Fuck me. Faster... Harder, please.” you breath into his mouth, tightening the leg that’s wrapped around him.

“Don’t wanna hurt you, or the baby.” he grunts, burying his face into the nook of your neck.

“Shh... do it, my teyam. I want it. I want you. I need you. I love you.” you blubber out, rutting your hips into his, chasing the feeling budding in the pit of your stomach.

“Oh – oh fuck, y/n.” he groans, looking down at you buck your hips into him.

“Please!” you cry out, feeling the swell of your sweet spot again.

He gives into his mate’s wishes, picking up the speed of his hips, working sweet squelching noises out of your cunt with his fast, insistent strokes. Your quiet, hoarse moans pierce his eardrums, the more he pounds into you, his heavy, swollen balls slapping noisily against the curve of your bottom.

“Oh – oh y/n. You... ngh, you’re so fucking wet. I – I’m gonna – hgnh- ” he grunts lowly into your neck before lifting his head up to look into your eyes. His open mouth brushes against yours, panting in and out your shared air.

“M-me too, my teyam. Faster! Faster!” you huff loudly into his mouth, tears trickling down your cheeks as the knot in your stomach quickly unravels. You can feel his cock twitch inside you, begging to release it’s essence inside of your hot cunt. “Cum i-inside me.” you pant into his mouth, wanting your cunt and his cock to flutter at the same time.

“Mmn. Fuck!” he growls deeply, forcing your leg further back against your face.

“Holy fuck! Cumming!” you squeal, sinking your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your cries of pleasure.

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh –” a guttural, loud groan evades his throat as he dips his head back from the sensation of your fluttering pussy walls and the sting of your bite. He gives you two, hard thrusts – his spasming cock emptying its heavy, thick load inside your cunt. He pulls out of you quickly, resting his hung, twitching cock on your thigh as he rocks into it, riding out the last lap of his high.

“I love you, Neteyam.” the trembling words slip out once more, before you close your heavy lidded eyes.  

“I love you, y/n.” he coos, nuzzling into your neck to cherish the moment.

Tags:@jakexneytiri @sweethoneycn @deadgirl02 @keijis-wifey @pandorxx @swiftielivvie @teyamfangirl @avatar-lover @sooebear @vanillawhale @bxnnywriting @athenachu @trashboat-the-raccoon @avaixe @qweq-6802 @rodeosayu @girlpostingsposts @erinloversworld @agelsully @zetey @raaaaainn  @eywascall @yawneneteyam @weirdomcu @pandxrastars @eichenhouseproperty @camgod78 @kibiscribbles @bedofpearls @kurtsworld096 @audrinawf @otukirey @deexdeez @c78r @bby-bo @neteyamsmate4life @wheniseeyouigogonutz @sullymenrhot @jakescumdump @erenjaegerwifee @eywaheardyou @saturnheartz @lovekeeho @afro-hispwriter @lovemyavatar @rainbowsocks @eddiesluvt @etherialblackrose @sleepilysworld @fezandashgirlfriend @kahlowy @babyymeme @lovekeeho @ilove444sworld @kaixiio @becksimagination @ameliestsblog @theycallmesia @boooogieman @fanboyluvr @boohoobaby @that-one-lightskin @st-cass @jakesully-sbabygirl @urfavgirlmakenna @zaddyskye69 @iikatsukii @netemoon @lu-the-ghost-reader

THIS IS FUCKING GIF I MADE IT SUCKS WHY IS IT SO FUCKING SMALL HELP ME

creds to my baby bubble anon for the gif ilysm

[ddejavvu]

could you do a spencer x daughter reader comfort for grade stress? my grades are a lot lower than normal and i feel awful :(

you’re an amazing writer much love <3

'$20 and a completely unabridged gossip session about my love life if you can hack into my school's system and change my grades...'

'Baby genius!' Penelope scolds, in response to what you personally believe was a very fair and enticing offer, 'I can't! I don't do bad hacking anymore, I only do the good kind :)'

'It would be good for me to not have these grades.' You type back, smearing an exasperated hand over your face. You swear you nearly drag your skin right off, and you consider attempting to do so, maybe you wouldn't have to go to school anymore if you were just a skeleton-face.

'I'm sure you're freaking out over nothing, wonder baby,' Penelope responds, full of all of her usual optimism that sickens you now, 'You of all people don't need to be worrying about your grades.'

She's wrong. Now you do, now your grades have inexplicably taken a nosedive, dropping into uncharted territory. With a father that attended college at the ripe age of twelve, you feel severely disappointing. You're not following in his footsteps, you've lost the outline of his sneakers and you're traipsing through mud trying to locate them aagin.

You don't bother responding; you're not even sure what you'd say. You don't even consider the ramifications of her saying no to your scheme, being that the world's biggest gossip knows you're upset about your grades and she's not bound to confidentiality by any suspicious illegal activity.

Which means that when your dad gets home, he heads straight for your room.

"Hi, angel," Spencer leans down to hug you over the back of your desk chair, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head. It's the same kiss he's planted on you every day since you came into the world, "Penelope said you're having school trouble?"

Your stomach drops and you groan, "That snitch."

"Hey!' Spencer scoffs, "She's the one that always spoils your birthday presents 'cause you give her puppy eyes. You use her poor secret-keeping abilities to your benefit just as much as the rest of us."

"It's nothing," You're still glancing blankly at your homework, keeping your eyes away from your dad so that you don't have to see his face. You try to brush him off before he directly asks what your grades are, "I'm just having a bad week or something."

"A bad week doesn't impact your grades that much," Spencer hums suspiciously, "And your teacher doesn't even put in grades until the week after you submit assignments, so this week being bad wouldn't have changed your grade yet. What's really going on?"

"I don't know," You confess, and you're glad he understands it's the truth and not another half-hearted excuse. He catches the wavering in your voice and knows you're being honest with him, and he can practically feel the cartoonish crack running down his heart, splitting it in two.

"Alright," He soothes, setting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing at its tense muscles lightly, "We'll figure it out. I'll help you, okay?"

"I don't want your help," You lament, tears stinging painfully at your eyes, "You- you know everything, and I don't want to hear how many times you have to correct me. I don't want to see what I should be while being reminded that I'm not."

There's a long bout of silence where your dad's hand lingers on your shoulder, the only reminder that he's still there. It's like he's stopped breathing altogether, air caught in his throat as his brain tries coming up with a solution.

"I don't want you to be like me." He confesses, and the tears stay in place at the corners of your eyes, waiting for a cue to fall.

"I'm... It was hard growing up and being different. It's hard now being different. Morgan still scoffs whenever I talk too much, and we've been friends for years. JJ cuts me off every time I go on a tangent. People aren't nice to anyone who's different."

"But that doesn't matter," You whimper, hands flying to your face to push against your eyelids like you could squeeze your tears back inside, "You aced classes, you got into college super young, you got a high profile job, you're successful, and-"

"-and if I had to choose one thing about my life to carry over into the next, none of those would be it." Your dad cuts you off, moving to pry your hands away from your eyes. He smooths his thumbs over your eyelids, softening the sting from your aggressive touches.

"Y/N," He starts, honey-colored eyes dripping with love as he stares at you from his spot perched on your bed, "All the knowledge in the world doesn't make you happy. Knowing what chemicals are attributed to love doesn't mean you feel it. Knowing what poets have written about love doesn't mean you get to experience it for yourself. I don't want you to know everything," He explains, drying a tear with the cuff of his shirt sleeve, "I want you to be happy, to be loved. And you are smart," He promises, "-just because you don't understand the material you're getting, or you aren't doing your homework, or you're overloaded with assignments so that your grades drop doesn't mean you're not smart."

"Dad," Your face crumples, your eyes squeezing shut tight as tears drip from their corners. He guides you into his embrace with a hand on the back of your head and you let him control where your weight lands, slumping into his stomach pitifully.

He rubs down your back with his free hand, letting the one shelter your face against his button-up.

"I love you," He murmurs, and you can feel the vibrations of his voice through his chest. You press your ear into it, so your brain soaks up the words, "Even if you're having trouble memorizing the..." He peers down at your paper, "-amendments to the Constitution. Okay, well, you really should know those. We'll work on it, honey."

"Okay," You can't help the weak laugh that shakes your shoulders at his reaction, and he smiles sweetly down at you when you break away, not an ounce of judgement in his eyes that are twinkling with fondness instead.

"Now," He pats your back, straightening up from where he'd been slightly hunched over to rub soothing circles into the fabric of your shirt, "Let's talk about how you're encouraging Penelope to commit cyber crimes for you."

"Uh," You grimace, glancing back quickly at your revision sheet, "I plead the... fifth?"

"That's-" Spencer looks away, biting his lip to conceal his laugh, "That's good. That's bad, don't do that. But that's good. You know number five. That's a start."

[aetherghouls]

I personally believe that Simon's gods awful father would use religious guilt and religion in general against young Simon.

The same man that doesn't care for any god, that breaks all the commandments and laughs at Simon for even believing; he'd absolutely weaponize the very religion Simon's mother, Tommy and himself use as an escape.

It's not like Simon has ever been very religious in the first place, but their local church was a respite from his father and it was something. His mother had been taking him and Tommy there every week, sometimes more often, because it was the only real place where they could be a family without him.

Don't get me wrong though, Simon as a child? He absolutely did believe, he prayed every damn day, begging God to save them, so they wouldn't have to suffer by his father's hand any longer, because they all did. Their life was a living hell and gods, did they suffer.

The older Simon gets, though? The longer his father uses his own religion against him and his family? The longer he says things along the lines of "what would your god say, kid? Disobeying your father? You listen to me and do as I say, isn't that what your God would want from you? Isn't that what they preach in this church of yours?"

It's either threatening the rest of the family because Simon is the oldest child and he feels protective over the rest of them or using the church against him. Two ways to get him to obey and don't say a fucking word, because Simon wants to be a good son for his mother, he doesn't want to be like his father and he needs to protect them.

Because other than fear, this man had nothing to hold Simon by. He is Simon's father by blood, but nothing else and Simon Riley had known that since he was old enough to comprehend what was going on around him.

So the older Simon gets, the more he just cannot stand anything about the religion because why is it constructed in a way that allows abusers to use it against their victims? And why doesn't God hear them out? He has been praying every single day, begging for it to get better, for a life that isn't just a constant suffering, yet it never comes.

Why does a god who's supposed to love His creations just leaves them to suffer this fate?

By the time he joins the army, he is not a believer anymore.

He prays one more time in his life though, the day when he tries to get back to his home before them, to make sure his family is safe. He hadn't prayed even once when he was in Mexico, when Roba had him, never did pray for his own salvation after he stopped praying for his father to be gone. But them? His brother, sister in law, nephew and mother? He prays for them to be fine, because that's the only and last thing he cares about in this world, even his own life doesn't hold any meaning anymore. He's here to make sure they are safe.

And God fails him one last time that day, for Simon Riley never has a real reason to turn to Him ever again.

Because he doesn't trust that God could keep Johnny safe, because all God did so far was disappoint him, fail him and those he loved.

And to be fair, he's afraid. That if he even thinks about praying ever again, he will lose Johnny too, the same way he lost his family; because the catholic God is cruel.

Also catholic guilt this catholic guilt that, Simon never feels guilty for killing, not in the way catholic guilt eats away at someone; God doesn't care about any suffering, so He cannot care if people kill one another, that's not where the catholic guilt comes in

It's Johnny. It's always Johnny.

Because for the first days, weeks, months, it feels wrong.

It had with any other man ever before that, but it's always passed with them. A temptation that didn't last for too long, the priest's and his father's words ringing in his ears whenever he even considered anything like that. But John MacTavish? It doesn't pass. It's always present, God, it gets stronger every fucking day he has to work with Johnny, so when they are in Las Almas and Graves betrays them, while he doesn't know where and how Johnny is? Before they meet up again? Simon has enough time waiting to realise that it's not just an infatuation that can pass as soon as it comes, because he's in love and he doesn't know what to do, because the wave of guilt that overcomes him, guilt caused by the very God who took away everything from him, it's nauseating, makes him feel small in a way nothing has since he got out from his father's claws. He has to take a moment to just breathe and pull himself back together, otherwise he would fail; fail the mission, himself, Price, Los Vaqueros, but most importantly, he'd fail Johnny.

And that, he cannot allow himself to do.

hello hello I am heavily projecting my own religious trauma onto Simon Riley in this one 🫶

as if bro didn't have enough trauma of his own lmao. Please don't eat me it came to me in a dream last night (not really in a dream) and after I made my friends suffer I came to a conclusion that I need to make more people suffer 🫡 bye

also I may or may not be cooking the other side of this for Soap haha (aka how I personally think Johnny sees religion)

[seresinhangmanjake]

For the drabbles!

I saw this tik tok where a toddler was meeting her baby brother for the first time and she thanks her mom which is something I feel like Eve would do

It is absolutely something Eve would do! 🥰

Oh, Baby Series

Words: 941

Alright, manic brain has been in full force again, so it's not perfect. My bad. It's also the slightest bit different from the ask.

---

You're about four months pregnant. Not so round as to be incredibly noticeable to the common stranger, but round enough at this point that, for Eve, looking at your stomach has become a daily curiosity. She knows there's a baby in there even though you haven't told her. She just knows it. She's smart for her age and watched her preschool teacher's tummy grow with a baby of her own, so when you get the slightest bump, you realize her eyes are now more often on your midsection than not.

She hasn’t asked yet (because you'd taught her it's not polite to ask people if they are pregnant), and you haven’t officially told her, either.

It feels wrong, though. She’s your daughter. She deserves to know she’s going to be a big sister, but you and Jake both know Eve has held every scrap of your attention for four whole years. From the moment you discovered you were pregnant again, you’ve been worrying about her reaction. She’s a bold kid. Opinionated. Stubborn. And therefore, occasionally unpredictable in her emotions. Yes, she’s wanted a sibling, but like any other child, it’s very possible that amidst her incessant begging for a baby brother, she neglected to consider that having another child in the house means that Mama and Daddy's attention will soon be divided.

That alone makes Jake terrified to tell Eve. Lingering guilt over missing her first few months of life has snuck back to the surface and he doesn’t want to disappoint her or make her think she’ll be any less loved. He can’t stand the thought of seeing her little face lose its smile, and doing anything to fill her eyes with big fat tears has always brought on bouts of nausea. So, the topic has been avoided.

But with each day that passes, the crueler it’s become to not share what you’ve known for months. So you and Jake pull your courage together and sit Eve down one morning to tell her the truth.

Jake's beside you on the couch, Eve nestled in his lap when you explain she's going to be a big sister. You expect an array of emotions—you and your husband being so prepared that you’d gone so far as to imagine the moment playing out in a very specific way: a look of awe then a wave of excitement followed by the potential settling in of pure jealousy.

On all counts you are wrong.

Your daughter is quiet as she stares at your stomach post news. Then she tilts her head back to receive her father’s encouraging smile before looking to you.

"He's really in there right now?" she asks.

And you answer: "Yes."

She takes a beat to consider your confirmation, her head tilting to the side. "But when did he get there?"

Jake looks at you with panic on his face. Oddly, no matter how curious your daughter has proven to be, your husband always finds himself blindsided by the unexpectedness of her questions. You, however, tend to manage just fine, and more often than not are willing to be rather honest with her. But you can't exactly tell Eve her baby brother "got there" during fifteen-minute shower sex in the hotel at Disneyland.

"Um,” you chuckle, “not too long ago."

She pulls away from Jake's lap and moves onto yours, and you lift your shirt up a bit so she can put her tiny hands to your belly. Her fingers are spread wide, as if covering as much of your skin as possible might mean her brother can feel her too.

"He isn't moving, Mama," she notes. "What is he doing?"

"Resting up," you reply. "It takes a lot to join the world."

She remains that way, just staring and feeling. And you glance at Jake, as unsure as he is of your daughter's next move, or thought, or word, until she mutters a quiet "Oh" and her face falls.

You cup her little chin and stroke her cheek with your thumb. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

With her lip worried between her teeth, she turns her head away from your gentle grasp and begins to fiddle with her fingernails. Like mother, like daughter, you think.

"Will he like me?” She asks so softly.

It only takes that brief moment to break your heart for the little girl who has never once had to worry about not being loved.

“Oh, baby girl," Jake sighs.

He runs his hand down the length of her blonde curls, then tucks strands behind her ear so he can have a clear view of the side of her face. "Of course he will."

"But how do you know, Daddy?"

"Because you're his big sister. And you're the only big sister he will ever have,” your husband stresses. “You will love and protect one another because that is what brothers and sisters do.” Then he squeezes her hand, smiles, and says “Ok?”

Despite his lovely argument, it's clear Jake hasn't fully convinced her.

She looks up at him. "But–"

"Baby girl, how often is Daddy wrong?"

Eve quickly turns her head so her eyes can meet yours. "Mama, how often is Daddy wrong?"

"Not very," you say through your laugh. "You can trust him."

Her lips quirk to the side. A beat passes, then she nods. "Ok."

She takes a breath before leaning forward to rest her ear against your belly. Jake grins at you as you rub your girl's back.

“Thank you," you suddenly hear in that sweet voice.

“For what, sweetie?"

“For getting me a baby brother.”

---

@wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @cinderellasmissingshoe @leila22rogers @novagreen04 @multifandomlover4life @mayhemmanaged @memeorydotcom @ryiamarie

[syrma-sensei]

Somewhere In Your Heart, Ch.3: Mirrors.

pairing: soldier boy x fem!reader.

rating: explicit.

setting: in the early 80s.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: prostitution, angst, sexual innuendos, violence, cursing...

summary: Soldier boy lives through the ennui of his peak, but everything is about to change when he has a shift in his heart.

“That’s not what I fucking signed up for!”

Legend flinches a bit as Soldier Boy flings the glass of liquor in his hand. Legend's face twitches as he sees it splinter into tiny pieces, which makes him often wonder if he’d end up with his head bashed into pieces if he carried on his career in this damned place. Despite everything, Legend has developed a tight resolve when it comes to dealing with Vought's supes, Soldier Boy in particular.

“You wanted the gal, and now you have her.” Legend answers crudely.

Soldier Boy seethes, “I don't recall being consulted about her fucking pimp tagging along!”

Legend sighs at this point, “Mr. Harold's her manager, and he emphasised his inclusion to be thoroughly considered. He's been her tutor for years. And you heard her yourself, she wanted him in.”

Soldier Boy smacks his lips in deep frustration. Great. Now, he'd have to deal with her manager being up on their asses in their little game of cat and mouse. What he wants is simple, he wants her in his bed after he's won her over. He doesn't want that fuck face to get in his way. Soldier Boy sighs, passing an aggressive hand over his face.

“When do we start the rehearsals?” Ben asks in a tight tone, he's still finding this hard to digest.

“Tomorrow morning, because you know, she's quite busy at night.”

Legend's insinuated smirk didn't go unnoticed by Ben. The little shit.

“Good.” Ben replies, and dismisses Legend, because he too has a busy night.

Ben exhales deeply through his nostrils before he scooches by the swarms of dancing and drunk people. He's donned in a casual outfit for tonight. Casual yet fancy; Ben never skimps on his looks whether it's for business or in his private life. He dresses both to impress (the gals) and depress (the pals). He's aware of his effect on both sides and likes to swagger with his looks; he has black jeans on his legs, black jean jacket wide open to show off his chest which is accentuated by a white shirt. His feet are comfortable in a pair of brown and sleek boots.

Finding his way to the bar, his piercing green eyes catch the visage of a pretty girl by the bar. Once his eyes land on her, she flashes him a grin which he partially ignores on his way to his destination.

He sits on a stool, resting one arm on the bar counter, ordering a drink, then he turns around to have a quick scan on the dance floor. Most of the people dancing are between late adolescence and early twenties. When he was their age he applied to Dr. Vought's Compound V trials to win his father's favour. He scoffs between him and himself.

A real man doesn't take a shortcut.

The words still titillate a bitter taste akin to ash under his tongue whenever he remembers what his father spewed in his face after Ben saw God under those fucking trials. It was perilous and shrouded with uncertainty, but he was willing to do it for his father, to make him proud. He became America's first superhero, the golden son of the states, but what good the golden son title could do him if he was a disappointing coward in his father's eyes.

He closes his eyes for a bit, he can't believe it still haunts him after all this time. His dad is dead. Hell, he's older than him right now, hitting his fucking sixties with ease his dad would've wished he had. The bastard died of cancer, or so he'd heard. It was a long time ago. He doesn't remember, of course, why would he bother? He didn't even attend his funeral. The old bastard didn't deserve the honour.

He gobbles down his drink in one go when it's served, relishing in the momentarily burning sensation. Then, he orders another.

Fuck, sometimes, he wishes he was normal like those youngsters, he thinks melancholically. Hell, he can't even get drunk to forget, to make mistakes, to feel alive again.

He comes to places like this because it's easier to blend in. He's rarely recognised among drunk and stoned people who are looking for some ass.

Ben's head whips to the side when he feels a gentle hand on his arm, caressing it tenderly. “You look sad…” He raises a brow at the girl, she's the same gal he saw when he first entered the club. “I can fix that…”

He lets her despite the fact he knows she can't fix shit.

After hours, Ben is lying naked in one of the club's rooms, beside him the girl who offered him help, the help that did him nothing at all. He knew from the outset this wouldn't work, but he gave it a shot because the girl looked somewhat akin to Rita Hayworth whom he had a crush on growing up.

He rubs his eyes with a groan as he sits up, deftly swinging his feet down on the floor. This is not good. Sex is never not good to him, especially if it's accompanied with some toots on fine breasts like this one had. God, she has two watermelons for a pair of tits. And boy did he fucking like tits. Big, medium, small, he likes all of them.

Ben glances at her, fuck, he didn't even ask for her name, but Rita-Hayworth-knock-off is a new mom. He can sense the milk hormone kicking in her system which she's trying to dial down with meds. Ben twitches his eyebrows; it explains why she's taken this road.

He shakes his head, looking at her, she seems in her early twenties, he can hazard a guess and say it's the same scenario. She met Romeo, got knocked up, Romeo left, big old daddy kicked her out. And now she has hers and her baby's mouths to feed.

Ben grunts as he reaches for his jean jacket on the floor, he grabs something out before he gets dressed in his clothes. He leaves her some money under the pillow.

Rita-Hayworth-knock-off wakes up after a while to find her payment under the pillow, and a piece of paper above it, with no trace of the handsome man. Her eyes widen when she flips it back and forth trying to comprehend what's that.

It's for you and your baby, not for the fucking pimp.

Rita smiles with tears in her eyes, hugging the check to her chest.

When his pursuit of pleasure has failed, Ben heads back home. And by home it means one of his private properties, a penthouse. He sighs as he slips the jacket off, tossing it on the armrest of the leatherd big sofa in the living room. He ambles towards the wet bar and pours himself a drink. He lets out an elongated sigh, it almost sounds longing and craving.

“Fuck…” He groans. You really did a number on him. His bodys is fucking raging with want and nothing besides having you will regale that burning desire to claim you. He guzzles up his drink.

He fucking met a broad twice and his body is acting up like a pussy. He's fucking Soldier Boy, the Soldier Boy. One fleeting girl can't bring him to heels like that. But again, the image of your sensual features, the rasp in your voice, the mystery in your eyes, they're all so fucking tempting him to coax you down layer by layer. He wants to see the girl behind this facade. Oh, he knows there's one behind that eloquent, sagacious mask. He wants to meet the one who's grinding on his vainglory's gears. He wants that woman, and he's intended to own her.

The world of Vought is a dreadful and dangerous place to be, but however the people in charge of making it dazzle with such glamour, they earn each penny they make.

You were fast to acclimate to the somewhat new atmosphere. Jack was proud of you, and you were happy you managed to do so.

You're always on time, with utter competence and professionalism; any lack of diligence is frowned upon. Your business is mostly tied to none other than Soldier Boy, the greatest hero ever lived.

Working with America's son is amusing to say the least.

In spite of his big headed self, he's actually good at taking orders and exerting them like a good soldier would. Through the days in the rehearsals, he's been unexpectedly nice to you, which makes you wonder what he really wants from you. You're not an idiot. Jack made sure of that. You know that Soldier Boy wants you; him practically eye-fucking you is a bit of a giveaway. However, he doesn't verbally express anything of the sort.

During the days at Vought, you've come to learn more and more about Soldier Boy, bits reporters would kiss your ass to divulge to them. But of course your professionalism and the NDA you signed prevent you from doing so.

You find Soldier Boy — or Ben as he emphasised to call him, is an interesting individual, as expected from a man of his rank and fame. But as any performer he's a complete hypocrite. Just like yourself. The first time in which he almost made you gasp was when he invited you to his headquarters in the tower so you could sniff some crunched crack with him. To kick back, as he put it. That shit is good, I'm telling ya. You discovered that America's golden son isn't as godly as his media pretence claims to be.

He's flawed, tremendously so. Just like you are. He has a short and firing temper that threatens to blow off at any second. And he isn't kind to those who don't make him happy. One time, he burst in the face of a poor assistant for not bringing his right order of coffee. Iced. He snarled at him.

And to add insult to injury, he's hard to please.

However, and oddly enough, he isn't as crass with the gentle sex. Especially with you. Maybe the fact he would fuck you at some time has something to do with that. Be that as it may, you enjoy the companionship of the supe, because there's a lot to him that intrigued you. Despite everything, his what is akin to giddiness that he shows when he's with you is growing on you.

Anywho, within the deepest layers of you, you envy him. He isn't on a leash like you. He comes and goes whenever and wherever he likes. He takes shit from nobody, and does whatever he wants. You wish you had anything close to what he had. The power, the money, the connections. You want to be like him, and not some bitch tied to her owner for life.

Today's the day you and Soldier Boy officially record the cover song after days of arduous rehearsals with the latter. Again, he's hard to please; you can't help but to think whether he made you and the rest of the crew reiterate when he didn't like that note, or when he disliked the harmony of the rhythm, or he was doing that on purpose just so he can spend more time with you.

You internally sigh, you shouldn't read much into the lines, but considering, you relish in the attention and you give him yours, the thing he wants the most as of yet. You wonder when he's going to get bored of you. Up close, Soldier Boy is the kind of a man who falls fast into ennui. It's only a matter of time before he tosses you aside and moves on to his next stimuli.

You're playing with fire, and you know that. Much like he is seeking the pleasurable sting, so are you.

Despite Soldier Boy's faults, he knows how to get the job done, whether it's on field or up on the stage, Legend muses. The latter can't but acknowledge that Soldier Boy is a talent. A magnificent and pure one at that.

Legend is glad about the fact this gal is being in Vought's favour. She has the voice and the looks, and he can feel it, everyone working in the studio can feel it. The chemistry between the two. Maybe, just maybe, he can consider making them a screen couple after the song hits the audience on cloud nine.

It's been a good day today. The records are going smoothly. The only thing that might've disturbed it was Jack Harold's presence in Soldier Boy's. The latter has a thing about the former. And casting professional shit aside, the man is hubristic and kind of unpleasant. Luckily, he doesn't come by often. Jack dropped by from time to time to establish his presence. Nothing harmful, yet.

Legend only hopes Soldier Boy keeps his cool in front of Jack just for a couple of days more. Legend watches the duo sing in a flawless consonance.

Everything is at ease until a rambunctious Noir barges in the studio, seeing red.

The music of “Just The Two Of Us” slowly dwindles away, as yours and Soldier Boy's melts into the walls of the recording room.

“You’re standing in my place, Soldier Boy.” Noir enunciates.

Soldier Boy wries a brow the young supe.

The palpable tension is a clear cue for the crew to scramble out of the recording room, because they know better not to get in between two supes. Legend watches from the control room, he notices that you aren't running like the rest of the staff. Instead you take the spot behind Soldier Boy.

The latter can hear your heartbeat quicken up and can distinguish it from Noir’s; each has its unique pattern like a thumbprint. And at the moment, Noir's is gushing with fury, and yours… Well, yours is bumping with fear and… excitement?

Soldier Boy scoffs at Noir, a small grin playing on his lips. “Your place?” He snickers, “Listen up, kid—”

“No, you listen to me, Ben.” Noir spits, “This is where you fucking stop getting in my way!”

Soldier Boy bursts out laughing, “Getting in your way? Kid, this is my hit, before your old man knocked up your mama.”

That's it. Noir couldn't take more insult into his wound and marches forward, launching an attack at Soldier Boy. However, the more seasoned supe grabs his fist in his first with ease.

Soldier Boy tilts his head, glancing at you over his shoulder, “You might as well get outta her, sweetheart, things are gonna get a little bit messy.”

You don't need to be told twice. Your feet hit the air as you scurry out of the room. But… Noir takes the shot and hauls you in his free hand and hurls you to the wall. You wail as you fall on the floor.

“You little shit!” Soldier Boy grits his molars and grasps Noir’s arms and fixes him to his spot before he headbutts the younger supe. Three hits were enough to make Noir stagger backwards, giving Soldier Boy the chance to punch Noir's cheeks, then depositing him unconscious onto the floor.

Soldier Boy lips twitch at the pathetic little shit, before he walks in your direction, crouching down to your level.

“Hey, are you okay, sweetheart?” Unlike the brutal scene from moments ago, Soldier Boy's touch is gentle when he holds you up to check for any injury. Luckily, and thanks to Soldier Boy, Noir couldn't exert enough power to cause any severe damage to you but manageable bruises and a sprained ankle.

Legend watches at the mess from behind the scenes as supe crisis staff pour into the room to clear that mess up. He doesn't heed anything of his attention but how Soldier Boy insisted on carrying you up in his arms to get patched up in his own personal quarters.

Legend lights up a cigar and wonders what kind of spells you cast on Soldier Boy that he's so smitten with you. Could it be you're a supe with hypnotising powers? Maybe, but if so, you'd have been within Vought's records.

But nothing of the sort was found on you. You're just a human with a pretty face and vocal talents that happened to captivate the mind of the current most important asset of Vought. He expected Soldier Boy to get bored and toss you aside after a couple of days when he was done with you. But Legend was gravely mistaken. For the past weeks, Soldier Boy only got more enamoured by your charms and was putty in your hand with only a bat of your pretty eyelashes. Legend kept an eye on both of you everyday to see how that was coming along, and it surprised him to say the least.

Perhaps they can use you to their benefit for a better communication with the supe, Legend says. Because as the days pass by, Soldier Boy is only getting older and out of touch with each day. He's become more tenacious and hard to deal with each day. Maybe you could become a key for a new affair. Who knows, maybe when the song is all the rage in the country, people will like the idea of pairing you together better than Soldier Boy with Countess. People would find a human girl paired up with Soldier Boy more appealing and more relatable. Legend flick the cigar in the ashtray on the dashboard in the control room. He shakes his head, and gets back to reality. There are two injured people in the mess today which makes him release a series of expletives as he huffs a vapour of smoke.

He sighs. The things he does for talents.

“Oww!” You groan as the medic dabs an alcohol-soused piece of cotton on your ankle.

“Careful with that one. She's delicate.”

Soldier Boy tells the medic as he patches you up.

When he's done, he leaves you with several plasters on your body and a swollen ankle wrapped with a white bandage.

Great. Now you're gonna be useless for few days. You sigh, already picturing the querulous frown on Jack's face. You're gonna miss a couple nights at his clubs.

“Relax, you’re gonna be fine.” He offers you a glass of whiskey with rocks. “I know you're no snowflake.”

You take a gulp of your drink and the searing sensation temporarily numbs the bitterness you've held for the most of your life.

You sigh again, placing the glass on the coffee table in front of you. In times of vulnerability like this, you can't be but haunted by the memory of your brother. The only family you had before your life took a shitty turn and snatched him away from you. Before you met Jack. Before you've become this.

You drown yourself in self pity and scoff. Life wasn't just a bitch by depriving you of your care-taker and protector, it also threw Jack Harold in your way who moulded you into what you are now. A complete hypocrite, who lives off kissing ass and sucking dicks.

Soldier Boy studies you before he pours you another. He knows you need another shot.

“You know…” You say after you feel the tantalising burn in your esophagus. “I didn't remember being roughhoused by one of you folks in our contract. Plus, what did he mean by you getting in your way?”

You usually won't care, but you're really curious what rubbed Noir the wrong way that he hurled you across the recording room. For all you know, and from what you've heard from the halls of Vought, he was on a solo mission.

Soldier Boy jeers. “The kid's delusional. He thinks I pulled the song from under his feet when in fact, Legend begged me to do it.” He swallows a mouthful of his drink.

You sigh again, “But isn't he a member of Payback? I thought you guys are like family.”

Soldier Boy sneers, “The kid needs to be reminded to respect the chain of command every once in awhile. He shouldn't have crossed me with such impudence.” Then through his fleeting ire, a sly grin pulls at his lips as he tips your chin up, “And he shouldn't have touched what belongs to me.”

A bemused shiver roils through your spine at his claim of ownership of you. You can't be his. You're Jack's. The latter made sure of it. Being Jack's property would be a dread to any woman, but wanting to be Soldier Boy's is frightening. You saw what he did to Noir with a sliver of his strength, the fact he can snap you in two halves like a toothpick makes your bowels liquid. However, you can't ignore the twinge in your core when he said it. No, no. You learnt how to lie and be a fake bitch to other people, but not to yourself. You don't misinterpret the aching throb between your legs for this man. No, no. You crave to be his, you wish he'd snatch you away from Jack the way life snatched your brother away from you; once and for all.

You drum up what remains of your deteriorating aplomb and keep your chin up. “I wish to be compensated.”

Soldier Boy quirks a brow up. “You want compensation?”

You nod at your bruises, “If you want me to be yours, you must show me.”

He falls silent for a moment that elapses like a year. Then, another grin curves his lips up. “Show you…”

“I want you to show me something I've never seen… Can you do that?”

His grin widens, it almost resembles a shark's. “I think I can, dollface.”

After a few days, and after your bruises fade away into yellowish smudges, Soldier Boy keeps his words.

He sneaks you out of Vought after you two finish recording the damn song. Pleasure after business as he told you. You only thank Christ that you conducted the visuals a day before Noir came back and almost ruined your work.

He takes you to a building in the heart of the city, the sliding spyhole glides open, an eye peeks through it, and as soon as it perches on Soldier Boy, the door immediately clicks open.

You step in, dogging Soldier Boy's steps. He turns to you and smirks. “Welcome to Herogasm, sweetheart.”

🦅 Previous Chapter: A New Window

🦅 Next Chapter: Unmasked.

🦅 Somewhere In Your Heart Masterlist

🦅 Soldier Boy Masterlist

Taglist: @thebiggerbear, @zepskies, @deanbrainrotwritings, @deansbbyx, @deans-spinster-witch

@venus-haze, @kaleldobrev, @k-slla, @ketchupjasmin, @demodemo909

@mystic-mara, @jqtaro, @pepsicolacoochie, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @prurose

@leavli, @robertthehoover, @soldiergrimes, @vanessa-boo, @uddiifiigj...

[itstimetojellyfish]

Yo hey I just finished your Misha angst now I'm addicted have you thought about writing for Yanqing platonically because I've got some good angst for that silly lil guy but anyway what about platonic angst for Jing Yuan like say he has a biological kid and they feel like they disappoint him because they aren't fully a long life species but they have a lot of achievements they just don't have like a lot of confidence and they feel that he prefers Yanqing over them bonus points if they are already an adult because they've been carrying that thought all throughout their childhood oh oh don't forget the dead nom

Great! I actually have considered it , but I’ve been on a writers block so this is a great opportunity! Thanks for the plot!

Always in your shadow ( Platonic Yanqing x reader)

Time for some more angst no comfort!

Here we go again..

“General! When will we have our next session?” The blond haired boy sprinted beside your father as he excitedly told him about everything he’s done .

You feel… jealous…

You press your lips together as you watch them talk excitedly, telling each other about battle techniques and chess….

You suppress a sob in your throat as you suddenly grasp your chest , your heart throbbing and clenching painfully.

Wasn’t the General supposed to be your father?..

You had nothing against Yanqing , in fact , you love him as if he was actually your blood brother, you took care of him ever since Jing Yuan brought him in .

However , he’s a teen , and you’re an adult now , and Jing Yuan still hasn’t smiled at you the way he smiled at Yanqing .

You’ve done so many things… fighting Mara-struck , leading his army , doing his desk work unfortunately.

And yet..

Here you are , trailing behind them like a guard while they laugh with each other as if they’re the blood relatives, not you .

You hiccups quietly, suppressing the tears that threaten to fall upon your face , you feel neglected.

You’re no longer that social anymore , because you thought that if you made more connections…

You would finally be useful.

However , you now know what the truth is.

He loves Yanqing.

Your head short circuits when it comes to that conclusion , making you stop suddenly behind them , eyes wide with disbelief.

No… that can’t be true, your father wouldn’t do that! He loves you both equally! He always did , he definitely didn’t host all of Yanqing’s celebrations!

He definitely doesn’t spend more time with Yanqing when he asks ,when you have to literally wait for months to get an appointment!

He definitely doesn’t dote over Yanqing whenever he gets seriously injured while never visiting you !

Oh who are you kidding?

You take a step backwards before running away towards your destination , a lush green field you cultivated yourself .

You now see the signs, ever since Yanqing came into the picture , you’ve been neglected because apparently…

You’re old enough to not depend on another .

You collapse underneath a willow tree and your long sliver hair comes undone , you wish you could tear out your hair .

You wish it was mother’s color , you wish mother was still here , then she would’ve took care of you when your father didn’t .

You wish that your eye color was the same as your mothers , then you’d have something to cling onto .

You wish you had at least one person to cling onto because you’ve been alone since you were 8 .

You…. Wish …. You just wish you had someone that would love you.

As you cry silently beneath the tree , a soft rustling came from your left side , you turn your head and then see a blue sleeve push the leaves aside and a blond head pops through the canopy.

Your eyes immediately dull and cloud up.

He looks at you and then says “ It’s my fault that you look so defeated and worn everyday isn’t it?” His expression has guilt written all over it .

You sigh,” Yanqing , it’s fine . No need to worry , my prime has already passed, just focus on you okay?” You give him a strained smile .

He just stares at you , the tension between you two thick .

In midst of your staring contest, a soft creak can be heard from behind the willow tree , making your head turn , Yanqing steps closer to inspect it , looks at the stem , however , the stem wasn’t the problem.

A Mara-struck had crept up and chopped the tree, making it fall towards you two . Your first reaction was to leave , but Yanqing didn’t realize until it was too late .

Wouldn’t it be easier if he just died?

(No)

Wouldn’t it mean more attention from father?

(More like hatred)

He favors Yanqing , and others don’t like you , so it would be better for everyone , if he survived , so you did what you thought was the most logical reaction.

Push Yanqing away , and get buried underneath the tree , letting the Mara-struck slash at you until Yanqing recovers from the shock.

As soon as you felt the tree bury you underneath it , a loud crack was heard , and your rib cage felt more and more in pain as the Mara-struck stalled towards you.

While you expected Yanqing to at least help you up , he just ran after he pierced the monster .

Was a little bit of help too much to ask for?..

So, you just lay there , sobbing quietly as the pain in your rib age became more and more unbearable, silently wishing for someone to comfort you .

It didn’t take long for you to slowly loose consciousness, the last thing you heard was ,

“ I’m sorry for everything “

[viscountess-nila]

Six Months - Bridgerton oneshot

This occurs in the two years Benedict spends pining for his "lady in silver" benedict is pathetically in love with her, but he doesn't know who she is yet. Basically, some Benedict pining and Bridgerton family bonding - no plot only toothache causing fluff

Six months.

Six months of losing his mind, tearing his heart, going to every ball, soiree and promenade in the off season (to his mother's astonishment and Eloise's disappointment), for the slightest sign of her.

Six months of drawing her eyes in every corner of paper he had, seeing those dark chocolate eyes every time he shut his own, but never once when they were open.

Six months of merciless dreams, of feeling that kiss with crystal clarify, her laugh ringing faintly in his memory, the slight accent in her words making his heart skip a beat even in his imagination - and yet not a sight of her in real life.

He didn't realise falling for someone would be so easy.

Was this how it had been for his siblings? Had Daphne felt like no one else understood her better than Simon when they met? Had Anthony felt an invisible string pulling him and Kate closer and closer, as though it was impossible to look away from her? Did Colin lose his mind thinking of Penelope, his dreams and thoughts filled of one person?

Benedict wanted them here (not that he'd ever admit that to them) they would understand, help him find her or help him deal with the madness his Lady in Silver had left in her wake.

He just wanted someone who had felt the same madness - who better than his lovesick siblings?

Sure he had Eloise, and she had been steadfast comfort without even trying, but he- he wanted his older siblings (they became each other's older siblings over the years, age was not the determinant)

Alas, they were all in different parts of the globe, Daphne with her third pregnancy, Colin and Penelope having left to Italy with little Thomas in tow and Kate and Anthony yet to return from India, leaving Benedict in London.

Both his sisters-in-law had written to him, making even him consider leaving the country, but the prospect of her presence made him stay.

There was Penelope's letter, just last week describing Italy and Thomas's exploits, stealing chocolates and charming shopkeepers in such vivid detail Benedict had been tempted to paint (he'd ended painting her, silver mask, dark eyes, rose pink smile and silky black hair)

Kate also wrote, stating their little boy was fine, jumping into streams, climbing trees, constantly babbling in Tamil, Hindi and English and begging his parents for stories his many uncles and aunts - though his nephew's name remained unrevealed (Kate claimed it was a surprise).

But who else would they name him after, except both their fathers? (he had stopped asking after one point, where he became preoccupied with finding another name, the name he wished he had asked her that day, the day he fell in love)

To say he was excited about his nephews would be an understatement, so he had replied, eagerly asking when they would return. While Penelope had said they would be staying in Italy for another month, Kate's latest letter (5 months ago) expressed both her and Anthony's want to return to their mantle of Viscountess and Viscount, and that even their son wanted to meet the faces of the many stories he had heard.

Benedict was not sure the young boy had a good image of his uncle, given that Anthony was the one telling the stories.

Seeing as the journey took 4 to 6 months, they should have been back by now (Violet and Benedict took turns looking out the window for an arriving carriage, even Eloise had eventually joined).

But they weren't here, so life went on as it was, dreaming and wishing.

Benedict sighed, trying to focus on the ledgers on the desk in front of him, knowing well enough he would end up sketching her eyes again.

----------------

Two weeks later, the preparations for the next social season were in full swing, and as Benedict and Eloise were about to enter their house, returning from a promenade (he needed an excuse - Eloise had been bribed with writing equipment and some good articles on feminism), the long-awaited carriage finally rolled up to their gates.

As the doors opened, Benedict heard a bright, young voice with a similar lilt as Kate's "Amma, Amma WE HE-YA!"

The familiar voice that replied had Benedict grinning and Eloise rushing to the carriage, "Yes, Chellam, we're here. This is Bridgerton-", Kate's eyes lit up as she noticed Eloise approaching and hugged her, beaming at Benedict as they broke apart from the embrace.

"Nice to see you all again"

Eloise was practically vibrating, "Kate, I've missed you so much. There isn't another intellectual person in this house-"

"And you've missed genius presence, I know", Anthony cut in, a huge smile gracing his face, holding his toddler son in his arms.

Benedict did not realise how perfectly Kate and Anthony's features could mesh, but here was he was, his long-awaited nephew tugging at his father's collar, insisting he can walk on his own.

Anthony met his eyes, noticing Benedict's attention, smile getting softer, his eyes a little brighter than usual, "He'll tell you his name, if that's what you're wondering", as he let his son stand, his hands not leaving the toddler until he found his balance.

His nephew looked up at Anthony, and at the responding smile and nod, he turned to Benedict, beaming, "I readh aa' you lethers"

Kate laughed and Benedict crouched down, his grin widening, "Did Amma tell you who sent the letters?"

He shook his head, "Noo, Papa and Amma tell me sthowies", his baby smile grew, "You closer to cloudhs that Papa, so you Unc-uh Bene- Ben- Benny!"

At that, Benedict laughed as well, though he could also feel something pricking his eyes as he lifted his nephew up, admiring the adorable mix of Anthony's face, Kate's eyes and all their spirit, "And you're Edmund Milan Bridgerton, aren't you"

He smirked at Kate 'I figured it out'

But, to his surprise, Kate smirked back, as the boy in his arms giggled, glancing at his Papa who grinned back, "Go on, darling, tell Uncle Benny your name"

Had he got the order wrong? Was it Milan Edmund Bridgerton, then?

"Papa saidh you say wong", there was pure glee in the young boy's face, "Me Edhmundh Bene- Ben- Benny Bidg-ton"

Oh. Oh.

Edmund Benedict Bridgerton

He didn't expect that.

Or that it would affect him this much.

But after a lifetime of feeling like he would never be valued by his brother, to realise he named his first son after him-

The pricking feeling in his eyes seemed to aggravate.

"Alright, alright, no need to start bawling, brother dear", Eloise taunted, though even her eyes seemed to sparkle a little, "You're not the only one who needs to meet our tiny nephew"

She she turned to Edmund, who was still in Benedict's arms, and raised her eyebrows with mock seriousness, causing Eddie to laugh.

Her lips curved upwards, unable to resist his contagious happiness, "You know Uncle Benny, who else have Amma and Papa told you stories about?"

Edmund's eyes lit up at the question, "Granny Violet, Unc-uh Colin, 'ntie Daphie, 'ntie 'Loise, 'ntie Frannie, Unc-uh Gregry andh 'ntie Icinth"

Eloise turned to gape at her oldest brother, "How...Half the ton can't do that!"

"He kept asking for stories", Anthony's voice was laced with laughter and pure joy, "I had no choice but to reveal all our exploits to him"

"Which are not a good influence, might I add", Kate continued, eyes filled with mirth, "Eddie was trying to scale buildings and climb coconut trees when he could barely walk"

Benedict laughed again, happiness lighting up in his chest, growing and growing, "And who came up with the idea of naming him after me?"

Anthony pulled him into a side hug, and Benedict realised how wonderful it was to have his older brother back, "We wanted to name him after someone important to both me and Kate, and while Edmund was decided, Benedict fits that category best"

"I would be offended", Eloise butted in, "But I haven't seen Benedict this happy in a long time, so I'll let it pass", she turned to face Kate, who smiled sheepishly, "Your daughter better be named Eloise"

"Mary Eloise Bridgerton sounds fine", Kate replied, taking her son from Benedict's arms, "Plus we had to name him Benedict, or gods forbid my wonderful son ends up like his strict and serious Papa, hmm chellam?"

Eddie giggled at Anthony's pout, "Andh- andh Amma say nex' Mi-an"

Benedict raised a questioning eyebrow, "Next?"

Now even Anthony's face turned sheepish, "We may be expecting again. Surprise number two!"

Laughter bubbled out of Benedict once more, "Mother will be ecstatic, though we should've seen it coming. It's not like you two can keep your hands off each othe-"

"Benedict", Anthony hissed, the inner Viscount showing, "Not in front of Edmund"

Kate rolled her eyes, responding before Benedict could open his mouth, "He's been like this since Eddie was born. Can't even seduce him in peace"

"Kate, not in front of Edmund", Anthony stressed again, though his frown had been replaced with his characteristic, rakish smirk.

Benedict opened his mouth to cut through the rising sexual tension (he could deal with it, but it was still sickeningly sweet), but once again was interrupted as Eddie tugged on his mother's collar, "Amma, Amma, sthowy, sthowy, sthowy"

Kate sighed, "This is what Anthony was referring to", but then caught sight of an unsuspecting Eloise and grinned.

"Eddie, chellam, which of your aunts likes reading?"

"'ntie 'Loise, 'ntie 'Loise!!", he grinned at getting the answer right, as his Auntie Eloise whipped around to glare at Kate.

"Well, that's Auntie Eloise", Kate pointed to Eloise, setting Edmund down and smirking wider.

Unaware of his mother's plotting, the young boy stumbled towards his intellectual aunt, his eyes glowing at the prospect of more stories, "Read me sthowy, 'ntie 'Loise!"

And, just like that, Eloise's glare melted away into a bright smile, as she shot back to Kate, "If he's a radical by the end of this, not my fault, Amma"

Because kids might not always be her forte, but a nephew with Kate's genes and a love for stories? Eloise could work with that.

And so she took the little boys hand, making sure to take slow steps and led him into the house, telling him how they'd steal some chocolate pudding for themselves then go to the library to read all the stories he wanted.

It was not a surprise that she ended up one of the young boy's favourite aunts.

This left Anthony, Benedict and Kate, standing outside, still basking in the glow of the adorable reunion.

"Thank you", Benedict's voice cracked, the extent of his emotion finally showing, "for-"

"No need, you idiot", Anthony cut in, ruffling Benedict's hair and beaming just like his son (or his son smiled like him), "We named him after who mattered a lot to both of us", he grinned a little wider, "Just name your son after me, and we'll call it even"

Benedict shook his head, "I knew you'd have ulterior motives, I never should've trusted you"

"It's better than putting glue in your shoes"

A beat passed and both brothers broke down laughing, Kate shaking her head with a wistful smile.

"Ok, now that your sappy reunion is over", the Viscountess interrupted their raucous laughter, "Why were you promenading?"

Anthony's brows furrowed, "Right, why were you? It's not a very 'Benedict' thing to do. You should be doodling away in your sketchbook"

That's when it hit Benedict, that for the first time in six months, his thoughts weren't being haunted by his Lady in Silver. It wasn't some grand award, but he had gone ten minutes not thinking about the angel of his dreams, ten minutes simply enjoying his wonderful, sweet, chaotic, annoying family.

So he replied with, "People change"

But Kate, heir to matchmaker Violet Bridgerton's position of Viscountess, smirked with maliciousness he didn't realise she was capable of, "More like certain people change you"

Benedict sighed, his mind once again whisked away to that fateful masquerade ball, "You've caught me, Lady Bridgerton"

And so, Benedict led a gaping Anthony and smug Kate into the house, so he could explain the mysterious masked owner of his heart to them.

But as he did, he realised that even if he never found her, he could survive. Sure he would feel as though part of him was always missing, but with moments this sweet and a family this chaotic and bright, he'd survive.

He had his family. What else did he need?

----------------

It was no surprise when, two years later, Benedict, husband of the magnificent Sophie Bridgerton nee Baek (who was now the family he needed most) walked into the Bridgerton household announcing the birth of his son, Charles Anthony Bridgerton.

I realise this is very Kate and Anthony centric. It was intentional. I love them. I just love the Bridgerton family being adorable together. and now that the possibility of Kate not returning came up, I HAD to write this scene. Please, please bring back Kate - I need scenes like this in season 4

[honey-crypt]

What do you think Elliott’s family is like? What would happen if they came to the Valley?

a/n: this is such a good ask!!!

warnings: alcoholism, neglect, bad parents, mention of death

★ elliott - family woes (with a dash of elliott x reader) ★

pt. 1 - who are the cunnighams?

★ elliott’s family, the cunnighams, is what people would consider a stereotypical upper class nuclear family.

★ his father, conrad, is an investment banker (think wolf of wall street) who had very little involvement in his children’s lives, other than to reprimand them or hand them some money to get them to go away. he was the breadwinner, too focused on chasing the next investment to participate in silly things like going to elliott’s poetry nights.

★ his mother, makenna, is a socialite, too busy hosting events for the fellow ladies of the community or getting drunk off champagne to properly parent. yet, on the rare occasion when she did express love and affection towards elliott, he always felt gross after the fact because that meant she was too drunk to function.

★ elliott has an older sister, eleanor. she’s the golden child of the family, always striving to please their parents so she could get attention. ever since they were kids, eleanor threw herself into academics and extracurriculars that she believed would impress their parents, such as mock trial and key club. she, to their parents, is the successful one out of the two children; after all, she’s the one who graduated with summa cum laude, the one went to medical school and became a heart surgeon. nonetheless, eleanor loves elliott and vice versa, despite everything.

★ because of his parents being too wrapped up in “other important things” to parent, elliott and his sister were raised by a nanny, an old irish woman named siobhan. elliott considered siobhan to be his true family, as she always encouraged him to express his creativity and always made time to attend his events like poetry night. sadly, she passed away when elliott was in his late 20s, which was the catalyst to elliott leaving home to make a name for himself as a writer.

★ when elliott told his family that he was moving out to pursue his writing career, his father laughed in his face and called him a bloody idiot for thinking he could make it as a writer. his mother was too busy nursing a hangover to criticize him for his choice. however, eleanor was supportive; she embraced him and whispered in his ear to escape “this hellhole of suburbia” and that she would always support him. so elliott sold off anything of value that he didn’t need and with that money, he relocated somewhere where he could embrace his inner hemmingway, a little place called pelican town in the idyllic stardew valley

pt. 2 - the cunninghams visit stardew valley

★ elliott had been living in the valley for about two-ish years and he was on cloud 9 with the life he cultivated

★ he was happily married to (y/n), stardew valley's local farmer and the person he felt head over heels for the moment they entered his cabin with a basket of pomegranates, and his book camelia station was doing well with elliott finishing up his first ever book tour

★ life was perfect... until his family paid him a surprise visit

★ he hadn't been in contact with his father or mother since leaving but he occasionally exchanged letters with his sister, the two of them updating one another on major milestones in their lives

★ conrad and makenna were the picture of faux kindness, subtly jabbing at elliott's spouse for being so rural while praising them for building such a successful farming empire

★ elliott could feel his mother's disappointed glare when she came to the conclusion that elliott got married without informing them but he honestly didn't give a damn

★ (y/n) did their best to be cordial with elliott's parents, they knew that they were major assholes (more so his fathers) so they focused their attention on getting to know eleanor

★ since he last spoke to his sister, elliott was informed that she found out that she was pregnant a few months ago and was now sporting a prominent baby bump

★ (y/n) offered eleanor some fresh produce from the season as a gift for her baby when makenna chimed in about not needing produce from "a little farmer from bum-fuck-nowhere" when they had access to the finest produce

★ elliott... just loses it; he completely loses it and yells to his parents about how shitty they were, how they were never involved in his life or eleanor's unless they did something that bettered their public image, and that they could insult him all they wanted but they could not nor would not insult the love of his life

★ conrad and makenna expected eleanor to come to their defense but she instead sides with elliott, sharing identicial sentiments and how she regrets letting her need for their approval get in the way of having a relationship with her little brother

★ elliott then promptly kicks his parents out but lets eleanor stay, holding back tears in his eyes while he wraps his arms around his spouse

★ eleanor later apologies for bringing their parents, she wanted to visit elliott alone after hearing about his marriage and the success of camelia station but conrad and makenna intervened

★ in return, elliott apologies for not inviting her to the wedding and the two make up, much to the joy of the farmer who finally gave eleanor that basket of produce for her

bonus - the aftermath

★ after that ordeal, eleanor would later visit the valley once a month to spend time with her brother and her sibling in-law; then with her husband jackson and her baby elias when she gives birth

★ elliott may have lost his parents but he found a new family in (y/n) and his sister's little family, working hard to dismantle the standards set by their parents and becoming a doting uncle to elias

★ and soon... he became a parent of his own, promising his newborn baby that they would have a life full of love and wonder and promising to himself that he wouldn't repeat his parents' errors

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

What is Broken II (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader) Sneak Peek 2

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Author's Note: Ooooooh first Aemond POV 👀

What is Broken II Sneak Peek

Aemond knelt in the Royal Sept at the feet of the Father. He had not slept the night before, not after he told his mother what had happened and watched her cry harder than he had ever seen. He’d gone all the way back to his rooms – those he shared with his wife – before remembering the promise he had made.

He could not go back to her. To his home.

So, he ended up in the Sept. He didn’t remember walking there. He just knew he’d been kneeling there long before the sun crested the horizon. He’d prayed and wept and begged the gods to either reveal to him a path to redemption or strike him down and spare him further torment.

The gods ignored him. He could not blame them for it.

His lamenting was halted by the sound of the doors opening, followed by a strangle rattling sound Aemond could not identify. He turned and saw his brother and king for the first time in months.

Aegon’s injuries from Rook’s Rest had been so horrific even Aemond struggled to look at him. The scars were hardly better. The king looked melted, twisted, broken – weak. It did not help that he was confined to a wheeled chair, with a blanket over his lap to conceal his crooked, atrophied legs.

The expression he bore was worse than all: empathy, disappointment, and rage.

Even Aegon had been protective of their youngest sister, to the point that he even restrained himself from making too many lewd comments in her presence. And after years of Aemond calling him depraved, perverted, and whorish, he would, of course, delight in the irony that his little brother was just as weak as him.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Aegon drawled. His voice was as damaged as his body, weak and rasping. “But then I saw our mother. I always thought I was the only one that could make her look like that. So sad and weepy and disappointed.”

Aemond reminded himself that Aegon was the uncontested king and that throttling the life from him was now more than ever considered treason. “I hardly think you are qualified to pass judgment on me,” he growled.

“No,” Aegon smirked as he brought his chair to a stop at Aemond’s side. “But I think I am well qualified to gloat, don’t you?”