#HE WOULD HAVE HAD SCENES WHERE HE HAS TO LOOK UP FROM BENEATH HIS HAIR | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

littlebluebird2000 · 2 months ago

Text

Twirling Hearts- part 2

pairing: yeon si-eun x reader (female reader)

rating: 18+

genre: romance, smut

warnings: overprotective sieun, school bullying, discussion about food and weight, violence, harassment, smut, mature language, sexual harassment, slow-burn, jealousy, baku always being at the scene of the crime...

summary: Who would've thought that a ballerina and the school's most feared nerd would complete each other so well? Being the new student was never easy-especially not when you were the only girl transferring into an all-boys school. To make matters worse, Eunjang High has a reputation for having its fair share of troublemakers. Some of the rumors were enough to make anyone second-guess stepping through those front gates…

author's note: this chapter contains sexual content. if you are not comfortable with that, it’s okay, i’ll see you in the next story.

word count: 8k+(again, sorry)

follow #bluebirdyeonsieun for updates on the story. for some reason, my tags aren’t working :(

part 1, 2, 3. 4., 5.

Your skin was warm. Too warm.

Your alarm buzzed just after 5, sharp and unforgiving in the quiet of your room. You groaned, arm fumbling over the sheets until your fingers finally found your phone. The floor felt cold when you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, but even in the chill of the morning, your body pulsed with leftover heat.

You'd dreamt of him again.

Sieun.

You sat there for a moment, breathing slowly, trying to shake it off. But the dream lingered—soft at the edges, vivid where it counted.

You fanned your face with your hands, skin flushed and your heart embarrassingly loud in the silence. You forced yourself to get moving. The weekend had gone too fast for your liking… You started to get ready for the academy.

You dropped your bag and sat on the floor, beginning your stretches with practiced discipline. Pain helped. Just a little. You moved through the routine without thinking, tying your bun tight enough to pull your focus back. You were supposed to be grounded—pointed toes, perfect turnout, breath timed with grace—but your mind kept drifting.

“Y/N,” your teacher’s voice cut through the room, firm but not unkind. “Focus. Again, from the top.”

You nodded, blinking hard as if it would clear the fog in your head. You moved when the music resumed, but your body didn’t feel like it belonged to you. Your pirouette was too fast. Your landing was too soft. Your chest tightened as you pushed into the next movement.

“Your balance is off.” Mrs. Kim said again. “Center yourself.”

You sighed. This was going to be a long practice…

The door clicked softly behind you as you stepped out of the studio, the air brushing cool against your flushed skin. The bus was quiet this morning, filled with the low hum of the engine. You sat by the window, forehead lightly resting against the cold glass, watching the world blur.

No matter how many times you blinked, his face kept flashing behind your eyes.

When the school came into view, you sighed, adjusting your skirt and brushing down your coat as if that would help settle the nerves crawling beneath your skin. You stepped off the bus, blending into the slow-moving crowd of students, pulling your bag higher on your shoulder.

You slipped into the classroom a few minutes before the bell, doing your best to appear casual—even though your heart skipped a little when your eyes found him.

Sieun was already there—head down, pen moving neatly across his notebook. He looked the same as always: dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, faint shadows clinging beneath them, his shoulders relaxed like he had found a way to exist separately from everything around him. His eyes flicked up.

You gave him a small smile in acknowledgment, the kind you hoped appeared casual and effortless. Just a soft curve of your lips, barely there, before you slid into your seat beside him, heart thudding louder than you wanted it to.

He hadn’t smiled back, of course, but you hadn’t expected him to. Still, his eyes had lingered on you a moment before dropping back to his notebook.

No one notices the way the tips of his ears flushed. Unbeknownst to you, you weren’t the only one having dreams that lingered long after waking…

You pulled out your notebook, uncapped a pen, trying to act normal.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him stealing a glance.

Quick. Barely there. But it happened.

You shifted in your seat. Sieun’s pen keeps moving, neat and controlled. His expression remains unreadable—aloof, almost bored. But there was tension to his stillness now, like he was focusing harder on the page than necessary.

The classroom was starting to fill up—chairs dragging, bags thumping against desks, conversations bubbling with half-suppressed laughter. You didn’t look up. You just kept your eyes on the board, pretending to go over your notes even though you hadn’t really read a word.

You could feel it when Hyoman entered. His presence carried a weight, a cocky energy that crept over your skin like static. You heard his voice—low, arrogant, already joking with someone like the room revolved around him.

It made your stomach twist.

He passed by your row, and you could hear every step of it. The exaggerated scuff of his shoes. The scraping of his chair as he slouched into the seat directly behind you.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a glance. Still, your shoulders tensed.

The teacher entered a moment later, his footsteps brisk as he reached the front of the class. “Settle down,” he said, placing a stack of papers on his desk. “Let’s begin.” Conversations quieted. Papers rustled. Pens clicked. The usual chaos smoothed into a quiet rhythm as the class finally began.

You tried to focus, but then—

Tap Tap Tap.

The steady rhythm of fingers drumming against a desk behind you. Not too loud, but pointed. Deliberate.

You didn’t react. You told yourself not to. That’s what he wanted. Or maybe you were overthinking it. He probably didn’t register he was doing it. A kind of nervous tick? You—

Then came the kick.

Not hard, but enough to jolt your chair. Enough to make your back stiffen and your fingers freeze on your pen.

Still, you stayed still. Your eyes didn’t move from your notebook. You wouldn’t give him attention.

A breath passed. And then, beside you, Sieun moved. Barely. His gaze slid toward Hyoman—calm, cold, unreadable. The effect was immediate.

The tapping and kicking stopped.

Sieun turned back, calm and unbothered, resuming his writing without a word. He didn’t even glance your way.

You stayed still for another breath, letting the quiet return. You relaxed a little bit, but unease lingered in the edges of your thoughts.

Since the very first incident, 5 months ago, Hyoman hadn’t bothered you. Not in class, not in the halls. It was Sieun’s warning that had stopped him then. It had been enough to keep him away for months… until last weekend outside the karaoke room.

You’d tried to convince yourself it was the alcohol…That he hadn’t fully thought about the consequences…That he had temporarily forgotten about Sieun’s threat…That he wouldn’t have tried if he had been sober…

But maybe you were wrong.

And you couldn’t help but notice: even if he was testing the limits again, unlike last time, he wasn’t doing it boldly…Like he was still affected by Sieun’s warning… just no longer fully stopped by it.

You wanted to figure out had happened. Why was he testing the edges again, pressing into the boundary he had seemed to accept before, and why the warning that once worked no longer held the same weight….What had changed?

You pushed the thought aside, let it unravel before it could take root. You were probably reading too much into things. He hadn’t touched you today, not really. Just background noise—his fingers tapping, the occasional thud of his shoe against your chair. Maybe he was just bored and hadn’t noticed he was doing it?

You told yourself it didn’t matter either way. You weren’t going to give him the space in your mind.

Not today.

Because your mind was already full of someone else. Someone quieter. Someone who never asked for your attention, yet had it anyway.

There was only one boy who constantly lingered in your thoughts these days—and it wasn’t Hyoman.

It was Sieun.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The cafeteria was its usual chaotic mess—loud voices, trays scraping, the scent of fried food lingering in the air. You were seated comfortably between Baku and Sieun, one leg crossed over the other, completely engrossed in the ridiculous story Juntae was telling about his failed gym test.

You laughed, shaking your head, leaning slightly forward as you reached for your drink.

You didn’t notice your skirt riding up.

But Sieun did.

He’d been trying to keep his focus on the tray in front of him, eyes locked on a piece of kimchi he hadn’t touched. But out of the corner of his eye, that small shift caught him. A flash of bare skin, just above your knee.

His breath hitched—so quietly that no one heard.

He shifted in his seat. Once. Twice. First adjusting his legs, then his shoulders. He pressed his knuckles into his thigh, jaw tight, expression perfectly neutral, save for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

His knee brushed yours.

He moved it away quickly.

You kept chatting with Baku and Gotak, totally unaware, sipping on your drink. You adjusted again in your seat, accidentally rising your skirt another half-inch.

Sieun’s eyes flicked to the side, then to the ceiling, then back to his tray, scolding himself for looking. But the damage was already done…The dream from last night flooded back without warning.

He didn't ask for the dream. He hadn't gone to bed thinking about you like that, not really. But it had come anyway, slow and consuming.

Your breath in his ear. The softness of your voice. His name leaving your lips in the dark. The way you touched him. That dream had been soft and slow and maddening. And now this—you, here, real and inches away, so unaware. He’d woken up in a rush, skin flushed, breathing uneven. Aching. It was all new to him. He hadn’t known he could feel that way…Hadn’t thought it was possible for him. It was warm, unfamiliar and terrifying.

Shame curled through him like smoke. You deserved better than his messed-up thoughts. You didn’t deserve to be pulled into the confusing mess of whatever he was feeling—especially not like this, not without your consent. He had to stop.

But his body betrayed him. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm on the table. His shoulders were slightly tense. His breathing had grown shallower, barely noticeable unless you were paying close attention.

Which Baku was.

He didn’t say anything. But across the table, he watched Sieun shift again, the tips of his ears burning faintly red. Baku smirked to himself, leaning forward on his elbows. His eyes flicked from Sieun to you, then back again. A secret.

Sieun let out a barely audible sigh through his nose and finally scooted half an inch away from you, giving himself just enough space to breathe. But even then, his knee bounced slightly under the table—like his nerves wouldn’t quit.

You just glanced over at Sieun, your brows pinching slightly as you noticed he’d only picked at his food. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He blinked, his tone low and composed. “Not that hungry.”

You studied him for a second, eyes flickering over his face, like you were trying to read between the lines of a book no one else had bothered to open. But then, you slowly nodded in understanding before looking away. Sieun didn’t miss the concern look passing over your face. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse. You had no idea what he was thinking—what images were tangled up in his brain.

The first bell rang, a warning that class would start in 10 minutes. Chairs scraped against the floor as students stood, gathering their trays. You stood too, unaware of the soft tension beside you, brushing past Sieun as you adjusted your skirt.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Not yet.

Sieun sat there, rigid, his legs tense beneath the table. His jaw was locked, his breath shallow. He kept his gaze down, refusing to look at anyone—especially not you.

Because if he moved now, someone might see.

His uniform pants weren’t doing a good job of hiding it. The ache between his legs had built slowly throughout lunch, each brush of your arm, each innocent laugh of yours pushing him closer to something unfamiliar, something he didn’t understand.

His hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

He wasn’t like this. He wasn’t. He had spent years feeling numb, emotionless and detached. He had never once looked at someone and felt this.

“Go ahead,” he muttered to the others, barely above a whisper. “I’ll catch up.”

Baku glanced over with a knowing grin—but said nothing. You hesitated for half a second longer, eyeing Sieun with quiet worry.

Baku leaned toward you and nudged your arm. “Give him a minute. He’s okay.”

“But—” You started to protest.

“He’ll be okay. Just trust me.” Baku said, softer this time.

Y/N looked back at Sieun, still motionless and unreadable, then slowly nodded.

The group left, and Sieun finally stood, slow and cautious. He angled his bag in front of himself and turned the corner toward the bathroom, heart thudding in his ears.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

He didn’t stop at the sinks. Just ducked into the nearest stall, locked it, and pressed his back to the door, chest tight with something he couldn’t name.

His fingers trembled as he touched his waistband.

What was happening to him?

It wasn’t just arousal. It was confusion. Shame. Need. Want. He had never done this before—never felt the desire to.

For so long, he had been empty inside, untouched by anything, distant even from himself.

And yet here he was, alone in a bathroom stall, pulse racing, thoughts tangled in the memory of your smile, the warmth of your leg against his, and the ghost of your scent that refused to leave his nose.

He didn’t want to.

But he had to.

He exhaled shakily, teeth gritted.

It was over quickly. His hands curled tight at his sides afterward, and he didn’t move for a long moment. He just stood there, breathing hard, forehead against the cold wall. The shame settled right after.

He cleaned up in silence, eyes avoiding the mirror above the sink. His face looked the same. Cold. Blank.

But something inside him had shifted.

He dried his hands, adjusted his uniform, and left—shoulders tight. As he rejoined the hallway, he caught sight of you up ahead— entering the classroom with the others, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you laughed. He looked away.

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The bell rang, signaling the break between classes. Students spilled into the hallway, some stayed in class chatting and laughing. You couldn’t help but feel a strange shift in the atmosphere between you and Sieun.

He was quieter today—more withdrawn than usual if that was possible. His gaze kept flickering to the side, avoiding yours, and the usual cold mask he wore seemed to hide something more. He was studying, but his focus seemed scattered.

Curiosity stirred in you, and without thinking, you slowly reached over to touch his hand. Your fingers brushed against his lightly at first, but then your hand settled on top of his, fully connecting.

Sieun immediately tensed. His eyes snapped to your connected hands and his fingers twitched beneath your touch, as if he was trying to pull away but couldn’t. His hand—that hand. The same one you were touching so softly now—had been doing something else earlier. Something messy.

A quiet breath escaped him, and he clenched his jaw tightly, trying to mask whatever emotion was playing out on his face. You had no idea what that same hand had been doing, moments ago. How your name had been stuck in his head like a prayer…

“Sieun,” you said softly, your voice a little unsure, but you couldn’t ignore the growing concern building in you. “Are you feeling okay?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His face flushed ever so slightly, though he tried to hide with his hair. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he took a slow, shallow breath as if to steady himself.

“I’m fine,” he muttered quietly, his voice neutral.

But the blush on his cheeks didn’t lie.

"Are you sure?" you asked, a little more insistently this time. “You don’t seem like yourself today. You barely ate.”

Sieun finally lifted his eyes to meet yours. “I’m fine,” he said again, this time with a little more finality. He shifted in his seat.

You hesitated for a moment, sensing the tension between you, but you didn’t pull your hand away. There was something about his reaction that made you feel like maybe you should push just a little bit further. Was he sick?

Sieun’s eyes flickered down to your hand again. He let out a quiet sigh and returned to his studies, but this time, his posture was stiffer.

He didn’t want to look at you. He couldn’t look at you. Not when his thoughts still felt twisted. You stayed like that, touching him like he was clean…. His stomach tightened, guilt crawling up his throat.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Baku interrupted, walking past Sieun’s desk with a smirk on his face. You quickly snatched your hand away, your fingers retreating as if caught doing something wrong.

Baku’s eyes narrowed knowingly.

Sieun’s eyes drifted down to his hand, still resting on the desk. He stared at it—at himself—and felt his cheeks burn even more.

If you knew what he had done, would you still look at him with that softness in your eyes?

 Would you still reach for him?

Baku caught the shift in Sieun’s body. He knew exactly why Sieun was reacting this way—he had seen that look before. The kind of look a guy gives when he’s fighting with himself over something he didn’t want to admit.

Baku couldn’t help it. He chuckled quietly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You’re a mess, Yeon Sieun.” He murmured, his voice low enough that only Sieun could hear. "You're so obvious."

You, on the other hand, had no idea what Baku was talking about, but his laugh only added to the strange feeling in the air. Sieun, still avoiding your gaze, seemed even more uncomfortable now. You weren’t sure if it was because of your touch or because of Baku’s teasing, but something had definitely shifted in him.

As Baku walked away, he shot a quick wink in your direction, still chuckling softly under his breath. You caught the glance and felt a little confused, but Sieun seemed almost ready to crawl under his desk to avoid all the attention.

“Just ignore him,” Sieun mumbled, though the words came out as a hushed whisper, like he was trying to calm himself down more than you.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Class resumed, the teacher’s voice cutting through the lingering tension. You kept your eyes on the board, though your mind was still with him. Sieun sat stiff beside you, eyes trained forward, unmoving.

Minutes ticked by.

When the final bell rang, you rapidly stood up, not wanting to miss the buss bringing you to the academy.

Sieun didn’t move. You stopped in your tracks.

Baku caught your glance. Quietly, he stepped behind you and nudged your elbow.

“Hey.” He said low enough that only you could hear. “Let me talk to him.”

You hesitated but nodded, casting one last look at Sieun before walking out with the others.

Once the room emptied, Baku slide in the chair in front of Sieun’s desk. He glanced at him, then at the hand Sieun kept staring at.

“You planning to burn a hole in it or what?” Baku asked, leaning forward. “You’ve been staring like that thing betrayed you.”

Sieun didn’t answer.

Baku exhaled, more gently this time. “You wanna talk about it?”

Still nothing. Just that tense silence.

“Is it about her?” Baku asked, voice softer now.

Sieun hesitated, then nodded. “Earlier … After lunch. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept thinking about her…and then her skirt rode up a little today and—I didn’t mean to look... But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And I felt like—like I had no control.”

There was a long pause before Sieun finally spoke again. His voice was low, almost tight. “After lunch, I went to the bathroom... I had to…” He couldn’t finish.

“You touched yourself” Baku said plainly, not judging.

Sieun lowered his gaze. “Yeah.”

“So?”

Sieun looked up, startled. “So? That’s it?”

“What, you thought I’d freak out? Yell at you? Nah.” Baku leaned in closer, voice dropping. “It’s natural. You didn’t do anything wrong by reacting. You’re human, even if you hate it sometimes.” He teased at the end.

Sieun sighed, fidgeting with the sleeve of his uniform. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about her. And I… I had to relieve it. I didn’t want to. It just—happened. It felt—wrong”

“No, it felt intense. You’re not used to that. She makes you feel things, and you’re scared of what that means.”

Sieun’s jaw clenched. “She sat beside me, worried about me. She was being kind, like always. And I was just... I feel like some kind of creep.”

“You’re not a creep. You didn’t do anything to her.” Baku argued, voice softer now. “You didn’t cross a line. You just… felt something really strong and didn’t know where to put it.”

There was a long pause. Sieun shifted again, head bowed. “I don’t know how to handle, this feeling.”

“And that’s okay,” Baku said simply. “You’re figuring it out. Just like the rest of us.” Sieun exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

”Just don’t get weird about it.” Added Baku. “You’re not some monster for having feelings. You're also not the first guy to get worked up thinking about someone he likes.”

Sieun’s gaze flicked to him.

Baku smirked, nudging him. “I mean it. Stuff like that… wanting someone like that. It’s not something to be ashamed of. You like her. So what?”

Sieun blinked. His ears flushed as Baku went on, voice more serious now.

“I’m pretty sure she likes you back. Anyone can see it. Don’t beat yourself up just because your feelings don’t look clean in your head.” Baku gave him a lopsided smile. “You’re allowed to feel good things, man. You’re allowed to want them too.”

Sieun stayed silent, but his fingers flexed slowly, like he was finally testing whether the shame still lingered in the skin.

“And come on, man. She’s beautiful. Smart. Got that ballerina grace and all. If you weren’t thinking about her like that, then I’d be concerned.” Baku added with a knowing grin.

Sieun shot him a look—half scandalized, half mortified.

Then Baku added, laughing just a bit, “And hey, if you’re losing it over a glimpse of her thigh, you’ve got it bad.”

“Don’t cross the line, now.” Sieun said quietly, but the threat wasn’t serious. The blush on his cheeks was unmistakable.

Baku raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning wide. “Relax, I’m just teasing. But hey, it’s cute seeing you get all worked up.”

They sat in silence for a while. It was a rare moment—just the two of them, neither needing to speak, but still sharing an understanding. A silent thank you for the advice Baku had given him.

Then, out of nowhere, Sieun muttered, almost too low to hear:

 “…It didn’t even last a full minute.”

Baku blinked—then let out a sharp laugh, nearly choking. “Dude—”

Sieun winced, clearly regretting saying anything. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, no—this is great,” Baku wheezed, grinning like an idiot. “That’s—man, that’s so pure.”

Sieun groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Baku clapped him on the back. “It just means you're really into her. And also… maybe you need a bit more stamina.”

“Please shut up.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Baku said, laughing. Then, more gently, “Seriously, though. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re allowed to feel this way. It’s not shameful. It’s just human.”

Sieun glanced sideways at him, still wary.

Baku smirked, but his tone softened. “And hey. When it does happen for real—you’re gonna want it to last more than a minute, right? You have to make it last. Let it build.”

Sieun gave him a flat stare. “Stop talking. You're the worst.”

“I know,” Baku said proudly. “But I’m also right.”

For the first time, Sieun’s lips twitched up slightly.

And Baku, satisfied, leaned back in his chair.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The night was still, the world outside silent as Sieun lay in his bed, his mind restless. It had been days since that awkward moment with you at school, the touch of your hand was still lingering in his memory.

His eyes closed slowly, exhaustion pulling him into a deep sleep, but his thoughts followed him, lingering at the edge of his consciousness.

In the dream, it was warm—almost too warm. The air was thick with the scent of something sweet and familiar, and Sieun realized it was you.

You were there, standing across from him in a soft, flowing dress. Your hair cascaded down your shoulders, catching the light in a way that made you seem almost ethereal. You stepped closer, and with each step, Sieun’s heart began to beat faster.

He didn’t speak. He never did in dreams.

His breath hitched as you reached out to touch his arm.

“You’ve been distant.” You said softly, your voice a whisper that echoed in his ears. “Why?”

His throat felt tight, and the air between you felt charged, like the space was too small to hold the tension that had been building between the two of you for weeks.

Your fingers brushed against his skin, and he felt a shiver run through him. Your touch was gentle, almost delicate, and it set something in him alight.

He knew it was a dream, but it felt so real—too real to ignore.

“You know, I always thought that you were cold.” You said, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “But now, I’m starting to think you’re just shy.”

Your hands slid to the back of his neck, drawing him down to as your body pressed into his. “Sieun…” Your voice was low, sensual. You leaned in closer, so close that your lips brushed against his ear. “If you ever need someone to talk to… or something more…” You said, your voice teasing and playful, sending a shiver down his spine. “I’ll be here.”

And then, before he could stop it, the dream shifted again. The tension that had been building snapped, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming rush of heat.

He woke up with a start, his breath ragged and his body tense. His heart was pounding in his chest. His mind raced with confusion, the remnants of the dream still lingering in his thoughts. He exhaled through his nose, hand dragging down his face. He looked down and saw what he already suspected. What he already felt.

He was painfully hard.

No shame, he reminded himself. Just... focus on what feels good. It's natural.

Slowly, his hand slipped beneath the covers, fingers brushing against his stomach, his chest, before slipping lower, seeking the release his body was craving. Sieun’s breath hitched slightly when he gripped himself. He started the motion slowly. Up and down. Up and down. There was the faint sound of skin against skin—low, rhythmic, wet. A quiet curse left him. His fingers flexed, and the wet sound grew sharper, slicker.

His mind flashed to the dream again—your face, your touch, the warmth of your body. His breath caught, and his hand moved a bit faster now, the memory of you pushing him past any hesitation. He moved through the motions, not out of guilt or shame, but out of necessity, out of understanding that his body and mind were connected… and he needed you.

Baku's voice—a little teasing, but with a hint of advice, echoed in his mind: "Make it last. Let it build. Focus."

He squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lips, trying to push everything else out. His hand adjusted, a soft slick sound following, and a quiet exhale slipped from his lips. His muscles tightened, and his pulse raced as he focused on the sensation, feeling the pressure build slowly, forcing himself to hold back, to make it last longer.

He tried to savor it, to stretch it out, even as his body was demanding more. It was like a tug-of-war—his mind telling him to slow down, to take his time, while his body pushed him closer to the edge. The heat in his stomach spread outward, burning through him, but he kept his hand steady, slowing the pace.

Your touch, the way you’d smiled at him, the heat that had curled in his chest. He could feel you so clearly now, even if you weren’t there. His breath came in shallow gasps, and he focused harder, trying to make it last.

It was so hard, but he kept going.

He could feel the tension winding tighter inside of him, building, and he focused on every little sensation—every brush of his skin, the way the sheets felt beneath him, the rush of heat spreading through him. He pushed aside every other thought, except for you.

His breath quickened, and his hand moved with more urgency now. He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. A soft, involuntary sound slipped from his lips. The bed creaked faintly beneath him. His muscles tensed hard, breath ragged as he chased the rising heat—every stroke making the pressure more unbearable, his body tight with need, straining as the release crept closer, impossible to hold back.

And then, with a groan, it happened. The release was overwhelming, crashing over him, almost too much. His mouth stayed open as low whines left him. His chest rose and fell quickly as the warmth flooded him. The images of the dream were still there, still in his head, and his heart pounded.

His hand fell limply by his side, and he lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his body trembling. There was a part of him that almost regretted not making it last longer. He stayed still for a moment, the silence of the room wrapping around him like a thick fog. His chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths, but his mind remained restless.

His body moved on autopilot as he cleaned himself up, wiping away the evidence of what had just passed. It was a strange routine, but at least now there was no confusion or hesitation. The act of it felt natural, even though his mind felt fogged. His body felt light, like the tension had completely left him. There was no more pressure, no more urgency—just a heavy satisfaction that lingered, like he could finally relax.

With that last thought of you in his head, Sieun let himself sink deeper into the mattress. The coolness of the sheets wrapped around him, and his body naturally fell into a state of rest. He didn’t fight it.

Sleep claimed him then, gentle and soothing, pulling him under with ease.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

You couldn’t stop smiling as you pulled the envelope from your bag, heart fluttering with anticipation. These tickets meant more than just a performance. They were a piece of you—your world—and you were about to share it with them. With him.

You walked over to the group, pulse picking up as you handed Baku his ticket first. He flashed you a teasing grin before you could even speak.

“Of course I’ll be there,” he said, winking. “Wouldn’t miss my favorite ballerina for anything.” You laughed softly, rolling your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed. Then, you turned toward Sieun.

He was seated, calm as always, looking vaguely distant—but when you stopped in front of him and held out the ticket, his eyes flicked to yours. You felt it again—that odd flutter in your chest that only he seemed to cause.

“Sieun,” You said, quieter than before. “You’ll come, right? I really want you to be there.”

For a moment, he just stared at the ticket in your hand. His lips parted, like he was going to say something, but hesitated. Your heartbeat slowed, waiting—uncertain.

Then he finally looked at you, and the world narrowed. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low and shy. “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.” You breathed, holding his gaze a little longer than you meant to. He didn’t look away right away. But then, as if remembering himself, he dropped his eyes to the ticket, and you could have sworn his ears turned pink.

You handed out the rest of the tickets, but your mind stayed on him. That strange stillness between you hadn’t gone away. If anything, it lingered deeper now, like a thread pulling tighter. You couldn’t explain it—not fully—but you liked it.

You couldn’t wait to dance that night. To see them in the audience.

To see him.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

It was late when you finally stepped out of the ballet academy, the air crisp with the bite of late evening chill. Your hair was still damp from your quick post-class shower, clinging to your neck and soaking into your coat collar. You’d meant to dry it, but the clock had run faster than expected, and you didn’t want to be late for the hangout your friends had planned.

You spotted them right away—Baku, Gotak, Juntae, and—

Your heart gave a small, traitorous jump.

Sieun.

They were all leaning against the railing just outside the entrance, half lit by the warm glow spilling from the building, laughing at something Baku said. But Sieun wasn’t laughing. He was watching you.

He didn’t say anything at first when you approached. He just stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his usual cold expression in place. But the moment his eyes caught on your hair—his brows furrowed. A flash of something unreadable crossed his face. Concern? Confusion?

“You didn’t dry it?” he asked softly, once you were close enough.

You blinked, surprised by the quiet urgency in his tone. “There wasn’t time. I didn’t want to be late.”

He stared at you a second longer. Then, in a small, awkward movement, he reached up—hesitated—and gently tugged the edge of your hood up over your head.

“It’s cold,” he said, voice low. “You’ll get sick.”

Your breath caught a little, more from the gesture than the air. His fingers brushed your hair as he adjusted the hood, and something inside you pulled tight. His touch was soft—tentative—but filled with a kind of quiet care that made your chest ache.

“I’ll be fine.” You whispered, but your voice had softened. He didn’t answer, just looked at you for a beat longer before stepping back.

Baku clapped his hands, breaking the moment. “Let’s go, before we all freeze to death!”

The group started walking, laughter echoing into the night, but as you fell into step beside Sieun, you could feel the warmth of his gesture lingering—like the heat of a small flame, tucked quietly between you.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The small restaurant was tucked into a side street, glowing with warm yellow lights and the hum of quiet chatter. It wasn’t anything fancy—plastic menus, mismatched chairs, steam rising from bowls of noodles—but it was cozy, and it felt like your little corner of the world.

You slid into the booth beside Sieun. Baku and Juntae sat across from you, still bickering about something, while Gotak was at the counter ordering for the group.

“Okay, but,” Juntae said, readjusting his glasses, “You can’t seriously tell me that the main guy isn’t overpowered. He literally destroyed an entire demon clan in the first episode.”

“That’s the point!” Baku argued. “He’s cool. You’re just mad because you don’t understand peak character writing.”

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. The way Baku got so animated when talking about his favourite anime reminded you of a kid—unfiltered, excited, alive. You leaned your chin on your hand, watching him with amusement.

“You really like this one, huh?” you asked.

Baku beamed. “I love it. I even ordered the limited edition figurine. It’s coming next week.”

You giggled softly, and as your eyes flicked sideways, you caught Sieun’s profile beside you. He was facing forward, expression neutral, arms crossed over his chest—but there was a slight tension to his jaw. His eyes flicked to Baku, then to you. Then back to Baku again.

You didn’t notice. But Baku did. The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

Sieun shifted slightly, uncrossing and recrossing his arms, then sat rigidly, trying to look indifferent. But the faint crease between his brows gave him away.

The food arrived, and the table filled with warmth and scent—spicy broth, sizzling meat, bowls of rice. You reached for the side dishes, brushing your knee against Sieun’s by accident. He tensed but didn’t move away.

Baku leaned back, grinning to himself behind his chopsticks.

Sieun glanced at him warily—and Baku just shrugged, sipping his soup like he didn’t know exactly what was going on.

You were halfway through your bowl of noodles when Baku leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm as he looked at you with a grin too wide to be innocent.

“So,” he began, dragging out the word, “Y/N, when exactly are you planning on falling for me?”

You blinked, almost choking on your bite. “What?”

Gotak let out a loud laugh, nearly spitting out his drink. “Bro, give it a rest. She’s way out of your league.”

Baku raised his brows at him. “You wound me, Gotak. I thought we were on the same team.”

You rolled your eyes and smirked, swatting at Baku with your chopsticks. “You’re not my type.”

Baku clutched his chest dramatically. “Well, aren’t you harsh!? I’m hurt. You’re lying though—How could I not be everybody’s type?”

The table erupted again—Gotak practically howling, even Juntae was cracking a smile.

But Sieun stayed quiet.

The spoon in his hand paused midair, his jaw slightly clenched. He looked at Baku a little too long—expression serious, but the faintest twitch in his fingers betrayed him.

“Alright, alright,” Baku said, holding up his hands. “I’ll stop flirting. For now.”

“You’re assuming you ever started.” You replied with a grin, making Gotak wheeze into his drink.

“Burned!” Gotak laughed It made you smile, proud of yourself for the comeback.

You noticed Sieun staring down at his bowl, not eating anymore. Something about the way he was hunched slightly forward, made your smile dim.

But before you could say anything, Gotak launched into a chaotic retelling of a fight that broke out between first-years, instantly dragging the group’s attention back to the noise and laughter.

Everyone except Sieun.

He was still quiet. Still thinking.

And still stealing the occasional glance at you when he thought no one was watching.

But Baku saw everything.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The warmth of the restaurant still clung to your skin as the group spilled out onto the sidewalk, the night air crisp and buzzing with weekend energy. Gotak was the first to suggest it. “Bowling?” he asked, swinging his arms in excitement. “Come on, it’s Friday night.”

“Why do I feel like this could end badly?” Juntae mumbled, but he didn’t protest when Gotak threw an arm around his shoulder and started leading the way.

You walked beside Sieun, the neon glow of storefront signs lighting up the pavement ahead. His hands were in his pockets, as always, and his gaze was on the ground. But he walked just a little closer than usual.

The bowling alley was noisy and crowded, filled with flashing lights and the echoing crash of pins. Gotak was already trying to pick the heaviest ball he could lift, boasting that it would give him “maximum power,” while Baku filmed him for evidence in case he dropped it on his own foot.

You were laughing when you turned around—and stopped.

Sieun was gone.

You frowned and scanned the room, only to see him returning from the far end of the lanes. In his arms was a pale blue bowling ball. He walked over and wordlessly placed it on the return rack right in front of your lane.

“For you,” he said, not meeting your eyes.

You blinked. “You… got this ball for me?”

He gave a small nod. “Your hands are smaller. The others were too heavy.”

Something fluttered in your chest. You opened your mouth to thank him, but he was already turning away, pretending to adjust the score machine with Juntae.

Baku passed by behind you with a slight smirk, murmuring just loud enough for only you to hear, “He’s getting brave. I’m so proud.”

You bit your lip, heart racing just a little faster, as you stepped up to bowl your first turn. As you lined up your shot, you could feel it again—that soft, quiet gaze. Sieun watching you, just like always.

But this time, he wasn’t pretending he wasn’t.

No one expected much when Sieun stepped up for his turn. He looked as bored as ever, standing at the edge of the lane with a bowling ball in his hand. “Bet he drops it behind him,” Gotak snorted, elbowing Baku.

Baku grinned. “One thousand won says it’s a gutter.”

You shook your head. “Don’t count him out.”

Sieun didn’t respond to any of it. He just adjusted his grip on the ball, calculated the lane with a quick glance, then stepped forward with smooth, almost lazy movements—and released.

The ball rolled down the center of the lane with unnerving precision.

Crack.

A perfect strike.

The pins scattered like dominoes. The machine blinked its approval, the strike animation flashing across the screen.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then—

 “What the—”

 “No way.”

 “Did you see that?!”

Gotak’s jaw dropped, mouth wide open. Juntae looked like he forgot how to blink. Even Baku—who always had a comeback—was speechless, eyes darting between the pins and Sieun like he’d just witnessed sorcery.

Sieun turned around slowly, expression unreadable. “It’s just physics,” he said flatly, walking back toward the group as if he hadn’t just blown their minds.

You burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me? That was amazing!”

“Physics, my ass,” Gotak said, still frozen, almost scared.

Baku was the first to recover, squinting suspiciously. “You secretly compete on weekends, don’t you? Be honest.”

Sieun sat back down beside you, his shoulders relaxed. “I’ve never played before.”

You leaned closer, grinning. “Well, I’m officially naming you our secret weapon.”

He didn’t answer, but you saw it—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The faintest smirk.

“I’m scared to go next,” Juntae mumbled.

You giggled and nudged Sieun lightly. “Thanks for showing us all up.”

He didn’t look at you, just kept his eyes on the scoreboard. But his fingers were fidgeting slightly in his lap, and the soft glow in his eyes hadn’t faded. For once, he didn’t seem to mind the attention—especially not when it came from you.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

After the first match ended—with Sieun’s name glowing confidently at the top of the scoreboard—you slipped away while the others headed toward the bathrooms, still laughing over their defeat. You told them you’d be right back, then wandered to the vending machine tucked into the quietest corner of the alley, past the claw machines and blinking arcade games.

You stood in front of the machine but didn’t press anything. You weren’t really craving snacks—you just needed a breather.

You didn’t hear him approach, but you felt it.

The air shifted.

“How many days until the performance?”

Sieun’s voice was low, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether it would reach you.

You turned slightly, and there he was—hands in his pockets. “Next Friday,” you answered. “Seven days.”

He nodded once, slow. “Is it a solo?”

“One of them,” you said. “It’s just a showcase for the academy, but there’ll be scouts.”

Silence settled in again. Not awkward—just…

“I think you’ll do great,” he said quietly, almost under his breath. “Even though I’ve never seen you dance.”

Your chest tightened. You weren’t used to compliments like that from him. Especially not so simply given.

“Thanks.” You murmured. “It means a lot.”

His eyes flicked to you, just briefly. But that one glance held something warmer.

You shifted your weight slightly, your shoulder brushing his arm. He didn’t move. “You’re acting weird again today.” You said, a teasing edge to your voice, trying to ground yourself.

“I’m not,” He replied, just a touch too quick. Then, quieter: “Maybe I am.”

The air between you grew heavier.

You turned slightly to face him. “Are you okay?”

His gaze dropped. “I’m fine,” he said. Then after a pause, “Just...thinking too much.”

You waited, but he didn’t elaborate. You didn’t push right away. Instead, your hand instinctively reached toward his, covering it gently.

The contact was innocent, simple. But his reaction wasn’t. His fingers stiffened beneath yours, and you felt the slightest tremor in his breath.

“Sieun? Please, talk to me.”

“I’m okay,” he said again, more softly this time. “Y/N, I have been meaning to—”

But he didn’t get to finish his sentence.

“Hello.” A rough voice called, and you turned to see a group of three unfamiliar guys sauntering around the corner. They weren’t students from your school—definitely older, and their cocky grins made your stomach twist in discomfort.

One of them stepped forward. “You two... you’re friends with Baku, right?”

Before you could answer, Sieun moved in front of you, his body positioning itself between you and the group. His shoulders tensed, a dangerous kind of energy radiating from him. He wasn’t saying a word, but his body language was clear.

The group’s leader smirked, clearly amused by Sieun’s protective stance. “You don’t have to act tough, kid. We just want to know if you’re on his side.”

Sieun’s voice was calm, but it held a warning. “You should leave. Now.”

One of them stepped around a little bit, his eyes scanning you for a moment before speaking. “You’re pretty,” he said, his voice a mix of admiration and something else—something less than kind. “What’s your name?”

Sieun, calm as ever, kept his eyes locked on the guy. You couldn’t help but feel a little safer behind him. You noticed the slight tension in his jaw, the way his body was just a little bit more rigid than usual. He didn’t look away as he spoke, his voice flat but firm.

“Don’t talk to her.”

The tallest guy gave a slight chuckle, clearly unfazed.

After a split second, one of the other boy in the group spoke up. “Omg! Look at his eyes.” He laughed. The leader of the group chuckled as well. “C’mon, we’re just talkin’. No need for the psycho stare.”

Then the first guy tilted his head toward you again, ignoring Sieun’s warning. “Why don’t you answer instead, sweetheart? Pretty girls shouldn’t act so rude. Are you guys with Baku?”

You took another step back, hiding completely behind Sieun’s back now.

“Yo, what’s your problem? Can you move?” One of them directed at Sieun, starting to get irritated. “You’re her guard dog or somethin’?”

Then—Sieun pulled something from the pocket of his jacket.

A pen.

He clicked it once.

Twice.

The smirks started to falter.

One of the guys shifted on his feet. “Wait… I’ve heard about this—ain’t he the dude that stabbed people with a pen?”

Another face drained of color. “No way. That’s him?”

Sieun didn’t say a word. Just clicked the pen again. Slowly. Deliberately. His cold eyes locked with theirs, unflinching, unmoving.

The first guy tried to save face. “You really are messed up, bro. You got—like—crazy eyes for real.”

They were backing away now. One even bumped into the wall without realizing it.

“Just answer.” The leader asked, visibly unsettled. “You’re one of his guys? Baku?”

Sieun tilted his head slightly to the side. Not a nod. Not a denial.

Just enough to make them unsure.

Click.

The three of them turned and left without another word, muttering to themselves as they hurried off.

Your heart was still racing. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath until your chest started to ache. And then—slowly—you let it out. A quiet, shaky exhale.

Sieun stood there, unmoving, his back still to you. His presence was solid. Steady. Like a wall no one could pass through.

Without thinking, you stepped closer and gently leaned your forehead against his back. His jacket was warm, and you could feel the rise and fall of his breath beneath it.

You stayed there for a second, eyes closed.

“I didn’t like how they were looking at you,” he said, voice low, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t respond at first. You just let yourself stay there, your body pressed lightly to his. The warmth of him. The quiet protection. “Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.”

Sieun didn’t move, but you felt the slightest shift—his hand flexing at his side like he wanted to reach back

“I don’t know how I can repay you.” You whispered, your voice trembling with something deeper than just nerves. “You’ve saved me three times already.”

The words hung between you, fragile and warm like breath on cold glass.

Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his jacket as you leaned more into him, your cheek now resting against his back. You could hear his heartbeat through the layers of cloth—steady, but just a little too fast.

Then, softly—almost too soft to catch—he said. “You don’t have to repay me.”

“But I want to.” I answered back quietly, like a secret.

A few feet away, partially hidden behind a vending machine, someone watched with quiet interest. Their phone raised slowly. One photo. Crisp, clear. You and Sieun caught in the middle of something almost tender. The glow of the device lit up the stranger’s hand, thumb quickly tapping the screen, sending off the image with practiced ease.

[22:41] “Looks like Baku’s got new friends.”

A pause. Then another message:

[22:41] “Think we could use them?”

The response was curt.

[22:42] “Let’s keep a tab on them. They could be useful.”

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slaytheusurper · 10 months ago

Text

⭑ Redamancy ⭑

Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!reader

A/N: Based of scene in Domina if ykyk, also don't know if I like this one yet because it was written in the middle of the night :)

Warning: NSFW, 18+ mdni, making out, catching aegon getting sucked, oral (f receiving), vaginal and creampie (ofc).

Summary: During a brief walk at night you catch your eldest brother in a comprimising position with one of the servants. He obviously has to be a good brother and show you what that pleasure feels like.

Word count: 2K

It was a cold, breezy summer night. The temperature finally had dropped after such a scorching day. You twisted and turned in your bed, sleep didn’t come easily to you lately and it was affecting your daily duties. After a while you gave up, throwing the sheets of your body, your long silvery hair fell down your side. Your feet touched the cold stone floor beneath you and you walked over to your chaise, where your robe was draped over.

Maybe a walk would clear your mind. Now clad in your thin white nightgown and robe you slipped in some shoes and opened the door of your chamber. Your personal guard Ser Arryck immediately stood straight and asked where you were heading off to at such a late hour. You explained your insomnia and told him you’d go for a walk around the Red Keep. Nothing to worry about, you wouldn't go out or leave without guards. So you started your walk, shivering slightly at every breeze that flowed through the hallways.

Deep in thought you didn’t notice you had wandered close to your eldest brother’s quarters, your mind on if you should perhaps alert the maesters of your troubles. But you quickly snapped back to reality when you noticed there were no guards around. How could they possibly leave Aegon’s chambers unguarded at night? Maybe you should check up on him, usually he is quite the night owl and you often went to him when you couldn’t find sleep, sharing some wine and a laugh with him.

You always had a good relationship with your brother, you were the youngest daughter of the King and Queen and one year older than Aemond. He always told you you were his favourite despite his sister-wife Helaena. But you knew Helaena didn’t have much interest in Aegon either. But what you didn’t know was how much Aegon liked you. He always knew he shouldn’t act on his desires, instead taking them out on servant girls and whores at brothels but every time he finished with them it was your name he muttered as he came.Your name he moaned and whined as he fisted his cock at night.

Tonight was no different, it seemed his desire for you was worse in the summer, when you wore thinner, more exposing dresses to fight off the heat. As you approached his door with your fist raised, ready to knock you stopped at the sounds of soft moaning coming from his chamber. It didn’t sound like he was in trouble or pain but he was clearly awake. Curiosity took hold of you and you opened the door as silently as possible, you didn’t want him to know you were here just yet. Peeking inside you could see Aegon lying on his bed with a servant girl between his legs.

You could hear his soft moaning and groaning as well as the sucking noises of the servant girl. Clearly she was pleasing him, you could feel the jealousy as his panting became more frequent. You don’t know what came over you but you silently opened the door to fully reveal yourself. Aegon's eyes snapped to your barely clothed frame and made eye contact with you. Sitting up straighter his hand held the servant girl in place. The erotic sight of him, getting pleased while looking at you made you pant along with him. Your breath shortening as his mouth opened to speak, but he didn’t.

Only moans left his pretty lips and they grew louder the longer he looked at you. Your chest heaving as you could feel the pleasure yourself. Thighs becoming wet, pressing them together for relief. Never had you felt this way. Aegon started to almost choke on air as he gave out some final groans. Then stammered out your name as he finished inside the girl’s mouth.

You finally realised what was happening and turned on your heels to run back to your chamber. The amount of times your mother had warned you about the sins of pleasure whirling through your mind. When you had reached your chamber Ser Arryck bid you goodnight as you went to sleep that night with an ache between your thighs.

The next couple of days were filled with tension and shame. You felt like everyone knew what happened, what you had witnessed. Of course this wasn’t true but you were terrified of what Aegon was thinking. It also didn’t help that your mind uncontrollably went back to that night. The sounds he was making sounded so heavenly. And you couldn’t help but picture yourself in the servant's place.

Four days later it was another cool summer night. You were reading in bed with some candles still lit so you could make out what was written on the pages. You stopped mid sentence as you could hear chattering outside your door. Oh no, Aegon…and? Ser Arryk? This couldn’t go well. Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of some soft knocks on your door. “Come in.” You softly called out.

Aegon stepped inside your chamber, a chalice of wine in one hand and two cups in his other with of course a big grin on his face. Like he always had when wine was nearby. “What did you say to Ser Arryk?” You were too curious not to ask. “Nothing to worry about sister, just if he could leave us a private moment. For some well needed…sibling time.” Aegon smiled as he put the cups down on your side table and immediately filled them.

A content sigh leaving his lips as he brought a cup over to you. Grabbing his own as well, he joined you on your bed. Of course your mind instantly had to go back to that night. “Aegon I-” He cut you off before you could say more. “Don’t.” He looked hungrily at your chest. “You know what you saw- and heard. And I know what I saw, I saw how you looked at me, how it turned you on.” He smiled and took a big chug of his wine.

It encouraged you to drink some as well. Knowing that the alcohol would make this easier. It always seemed to be for Aegon. “However I would be willing to bet you don’t even know what that means. But you know what pleasure means, don't you sweet sister?” He put his cup on the side table and went to sit closer to you. Putting your wine cup aside yourself, you also closed the book laying in your lap. “I guess I do. But it is a sin, mother said so. Septa Luelle said so.”

You didn’t even look at him. Book now on the side table as well. “Did they now? And what would they know about us Targaryens? We don’t answer to gods nor men. We do whatever we want. So if we want to give each other pleasure, we will.” He pulled the covers of your legs and moved next to you. His hand grazing your lips as he made you look at him. Both of your breathing getting heavier.

Finally he gave in and forced his lips on yours. Both drunk on wine and desire. You tried to keep up with his movements but after a while you could feel his wet tongue sliding across your bottom lip. Not quite catching up on what he wanted, he caressed your breast through your thin nightgown. And as expected, you gasped which gave him a perfect excuse to entwine his tongue with yours.

With some time you got a better grip on how he wanted you to kiss him. How to mimic his movements and find your own rhythm. His hands were starting to wander more, getting more impatient by the minute. He parted his lips from yours, allowing the both of you to catch your breath. “Do you know how many times I had to pay extra to get a silver haired whore. Just so I could pretend I was fucking you? But now, you are finally mine to ruin.” He rasped.

He positioned you to lay down as he himself got on top of you. You could feel something hard poke your thighs. Aegon mouthed and nipped at your neck, desperate to touch every inch of you. “Let me show you exactly what it felt like, let me show you true pleasure.” He groaned in your neck, hands already busying themselves with hiking up your nightgown and removing your smallclothes.

Aegon's lips went down and as he got closer to your already slick cunt, the more you felt like you were about to explode. The effect this man had on you was beyond words. No man could ever make you feel this euphoric and he knew it too. He wasted no time in devouring your cunt, lapping and sucking at your core. Making you gasp in shock, this new sensation was so mind numbing and electric, that you couldn’t even think about who could hear you outside your door.

“Aeg- please- it feels so weird-” You panted out as Aegon had no intention of stopping. He flicked his tongue faster over your clit and you had to grip the sheets beneath you to feel some type of control. The only things coming out of your mouth now were chants of your brother's name and moans.

Mere moments later, he added a finger inside you. Your tight cunt sucking him in deliciously, making him groan at the thought of putting his cock inside you. With his expert finger and tongue he had you screaming his name in a final plea and made you see the heavens themselves.

You were trying to calm down, to process what just happened. But Aegon was ever impatient and removed his clothes as fast as he possibly could. When he had also removed his small clothes, you finally really laid your eyes upon him. His chest was a perfect mix of muscled with a little belly from all the wine. But what made your eyes widen was what hung between his legs- or rather stood.

“That is my cock, my love. And it will make you and me both feel so much pleasure.” Aegon grinned as he saw your lips curl into a smile. It was thick and veiny, precum dribbling from the tip. “Please Aegon, take me. I can’t wait any longer.” He captured your lips with his as he held his cock by the base so he could guide it inside you.

His tip sliding through your folds to find your entrance. He groaned at the sensation, his tip entering your tight hole. You grimaced at the feeling, it wasn’t extremely painful but wasn’t pleasant either. “It will feel better in a moment, I promise. I would never hurt you.” He kissed your lips at that and slowly slid deeper inside you. Not being able to control his own moans.

He stilled at the hilt and waited for your cunt to accustom to his thick size. He never stopped kissing and assuring you. For such a lust filled, drunken prince he was awfully kind to his favourite sister. Once he got the okay from you he started to slowly move, hissing at the feeling of your walls around him. He had never felt more blessed and happy in his life.

As your moans grew as well he started to lose composure, pounding into you faster and harder. Chanting your name while he buried his face in your neck. Your own arms wrapped around his back as your legs wrapped around his lower back and ass. Letting out stuttered moans and gasps yourself. “I’m not going to last long in your perfect cunt sister-” He groaned. The vibration of his voice against your neck adding to the sensation.

And he was right, mere moments after his movements faltered and he filled you with his cum with one last moan of your name. The white spend filling you up. He gave two more soft thrusts to really empty himself and then rolled off of you. Letting out a content sigh, he looked at you. Your silver hair splayed out, still a fucked out expression on your face. And he never thought you more beautiful.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd smut #aegon ii targaryen x fem reader smut #aegon ii targaryen x fem reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x fem reader smut #aegon targaryen x reader smut #aegon ii targaryen x reader smut #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen smut #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x sister smut

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drunk-person · 1 year ago

Text

Training Yard

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: One of Y/n's most common habits is admiring her husband's training every day. On a particularly hot day, the jealousy of the other ladies makes her achieve everything she has been dreaming of for a long time..

WARNING: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, swords being used inappropriately, jealousy sex, dom/sub tones if you squint, no description for reader.

Word cont: 2.800 k

Author's note: Okay, I think those gifs and images with a special focus on Aemond's sword changed the chemistry of my brain, and from that change this one short was born. English is not my first language so be kind if you can.

When Y/n was promised to Aemond and traveled with her family to Kings landing to meet him the first time she saw him was at the training camp. He was brandishing a sword and fighting like a demon. The look of concentration on his face, the way he moved fluidly, the sweat that dripped down his forehead, all of it caught Y/n's attention and made her thighs press together in a way she hadn't understood at the time.

Even in her homeland when the marriage was announced, everyone told her that Prince Aemond was a great warrior, but nothing had prepared her for that. It didn't take long for both of them to get married and gradually build their own daily routine. Y/n, just as her husband woke up very early, and they both had breakfast together, soon after Aemond left for the training yard. And Y/n couldn't even say when it became such a recurring habit to watch her husband training every morning. But she could definitely say that it was one of her favorite parts of the day.

Y/n now knew what that pressure between her thighs meant when she saw her husband in the training yard. She knew even better. And even after almost twelve moons of marriage, she still felt the same feeling whenever she saw him. Today in particular the day was particularly hot, as it was the middle of summer, and even though she was wearing a lighter dress Y/n could still feel the sweat running down between her breasts and down her back as she fanned herself with a fan.

She admired her husband's every move downstairs as he fought with Sir Criston, and she couldn't help but bite her lip gently as she watched him grip the hilt of his sword tightly. Y/n could see that Aemond was sweating wearing all those layers of clothes, his silver hair was damp with sweat, and it was to her great surprise that he had an attitude that she would never have expected. He took off his doublet and opened the thin shirt he was wearing underneath, she sighed when he saw the scene, but the contentment soon passed when she noticed that the other ladies of the court were looking at her husband like hungry dogs would look at a piece of meat.

Y/n gritted her teeth angrily as she held tightly to the wooden support of the balcony, as she thought about how lovely it would be to be able to throw one of them from above. And with her eyes sparkling, she barely waited for the fight to end before going down to the courtyard and approaching where Aemond was.

As soon as Aemond disarmed Sir Cole, causing his sword to be thrown a long distance, and placed his own sword against the older man's throat, the audience applauded happily. But no Y/n, she was smarter than doing something so trivial. And with that in mind she pretended to drop the green fan with gold embroidery that she used to fan herself and relieve the heat.

Aemond immediately bent down, picking up the fan from the floor and handing it into her hands, touching her skin in public even if quickly as he placed the fan back between Y/n's hands.

— Thank you very much husband. — She spoke softly, looking at him from beneath her long eyelashes, already opening the fan again, while she gently bit her lip.

—You're welcome wife. — He replied, looking lightly at the drops of sweat that fell down his wife's neckline, when she intelligently guided his gaze there using the fan. —I see that you are also feeling very hot.

—Well, I told you not to go out in such heavy clothes today, if you had listened to me maybe you wouldn't be walking around practically naked in public. — She spoke only for Aemond to hear, curving his eyebrows and wrinkling his nose, while he looked at her with that ironic smile that made her want to jump on him, to kill him or other things.

—I'm going to retire to our quarters, my prince, the weather is very hot. — And she turned around, closing the fan and walking away without even looking back, already knowing that it wouldn't be long before he would follow her to the bedroom. Aemond always got a little wild after training, with her teasing him he knew he would want her.

As she passed the court ladies, Y/n made a point of smiling arrogantly before heading inside the fortress. Aemond was her husband, only hers and no one else's. And still with her body tense with jealousy and desire, she entered the dark corridor to get to her own rooms faster. But before she could walk two meters she felt someone covering her mouth with their hand while pulling her firmly around the waist. Y/n screamed muffledly as she struggled, until the soft voice came in her ear.

—Easy, my princess.

Hearing Aemond's voice her whole body instantly relaxed, even as he dragged her into an even darker corner and pinned her firmly against the wall of a cramped alcove.

—What did you think you were doing? — He spoke with an irritated voice against her hair while holding her. — Looking at me like that in public, practice begging me to fuck you.

—Well, maybe I wanted to show some unsuspecting people that Prince Aemond has already been married for almost a year before they jump on you! —Y/n practically growled the words in annoyance, and it became even worse when she felt Aemond laughing against her neck.

—So that's what this is about? —He asked in a mocking voice. — Jealousy.

—I'm not jealous. — She replied grumpily, still pressed against the wall.

—Oh no, you are burning with. — He smiled at the realization.

—You know that my only eye is only for you, wife. — He said kissing her neck from behind. — Just for you.

—You think I don't see the way you look every morning when you watch me train. — He whispered, nibbling on her neck. — That I don't watch the way you bite your lip every time I grip the sword hilt. — He bit her earlobe as he said that while pressing himself against her clothed ass, making her gasp.

And without warning he pulled the strings of her dress violently while Y/n's eyes widened in shock as they were almost in the middle of a hallway. The flowing dress fell at her feet and Y/n felt herself blushing for being practically naked in that place.

—Aemond, what if someone shows up? —She spoke fearfully.

—Should you have thought about that before. —He said, pulling her small clothes down and stripping her completely naked while he trailed wet kisses down her back. Suddenly she felt Aemond turn her around and push her in the other direction, lifting her off the floor and sitting her on a small sideboard, knocking over a vase that was previously on top.

—Aemond! —She reprimanded him, but was interrupted when he pressed his lips to hers while holding her thighs, caressing them and keeping them open. He trailed kisses from her lips to her neck, and from her neck to her soft breasts where he feasted on licking and sucking like he knew Y/n liked. And little by little, the caresses that were on her thighs moved up towards her throbbing core, which panted in anticipation every time Aemond's fingers got closer to where she needed him most.

—Husband… —She whimpered when he rubbed two fingers against her wetness.

—So wet for me. — He said, looking down at her, still paying attention to her breasts.

—I need you inside me. — She begged with a needy voice while Aemond slowly massaged her pearl, and she saw the gleam of malice in his eyes as he shook his head.

—No, you don't deserve to get what you want. —Aemond gently pinched her pearl, making her moan and lightly bite her own hand to muffle the noise. — You were such a negligent wife, leaving in the middle of my training, making me have to drop everything and come to you.

—No, you deserve something else. — He said, pulling her and making her almost scream in surprise as he turned her around and leaned over the small sideboard.

Y/n listened as Aemond unbuckled his belt and raised her eyebrows in confusion, not understanding what he would do. But the realization came soon after when she felt something cold against her hot and wet intimacy, panting immediately afterwards.

—I noticed some time ago the way you always look at my sword when you think I'm not looking. — Aemond said while lightly brushing the handle of the sheathed sword against Y/n's intimacy, who pressed her eyes firmly while biting her lips in disbelief that this was really happening.

And without warning he penetrated the first part of the handle into her wet pussy, making her squirm with pleasure and bite her own arm to keep from moaning when she felt the cold metal against her hot skin. Aemond watched ecstatically as the rounded part of the handle was swallowed whole while Y/n moaned and panted with pleasure, he waited a few moments before pushing the rest in and no longer moving it letting her adapt to the size, while he smiled at the sight of his wife squirm, leaking more and more against the handle of the sword.

—Husband… —She begged, looking back with her face wet with tears and her lips red from biting them so much. — Husband, please. —Aemond smiled maliciously, but did not move the sword even an inch. —Aemond, I'm begging you. — She cried rubbing herself against the hilt of the sword.

—Look at you, my dear wife. —He said caressing her moist lips with his finger. —Begging like a real whore.

Y/n immediately nodded, leaning towards him for a kiss, which Aemond didn't have the courage to refuse. And in the middle of the wet and breathless kiss he moved the handle of the sword, thrusting firmly against Y/n's pussy, making her almost scream against his lips while digging her nails into her husband's neck. Aemond smiled against her lips and little by little he picked up speed, in a constant back and forth that made Y/n shiver with pleasure and lose control about one's own body.

She felt like she was going to collapse at any moment, the feeling of the metal filling her making her feel things she had never imagined before. The wet, filthy sound filling the air and the idea of anyone walking by and seeing Aemond doing this to her made her even wetter if that was possible. Heat flooded her entire body and the smell of sweat filled the small alcove at that moment. Y/n did her best to remain silent, but it was almost impossible not to moan her husband's name and beg him to give her more, feeling on the verge of climax.

—Maybe you want them all to listen. — Aemond spoke in a hoarse and low voice close to her ear while sucking her earlobe. —Let them all hear you moan like a little whore while I fuck you with the hilt of my sword.

Y/n couldn't take it anymore, it was like everything inside her broke at once and she came against the hilt of her husband's sword shaking and whimpering as she squirmed and tried to hold on to the small sideboard. Her legs were shaking like jelly and she could barely stand, the feeling of her husband pulling the sword hilt out of her almost made her scream from overstimulation.

Aemond smiled with satisfaction as he pulled the hilt of the sword from inside Y/n, seeing it covered in the white fluids and liquids that came from his wife's pleasure, he never failed to be impressed by the fact that she became even more beautiful destroyed with pleasure. And still smiling, admiring the mess between her legs, he untied the drawstrings of his pants and pulled his own dick out, stroking it a few times and then rubbing it against her moist folds.

Y/n thought she was going to faint from the feeling of being filled again, but now completely. She was so sensitive after her first orgasm that it was as if Aemond was everywhere, and she couldn't help but grind against him for more.

—Always so good and eager for me.— Aemond praised her as he fucked her harder and harder and caressed her hips and breasts. —Such a good and wet cunt.

—You don't need to be jealous, wife, the only one I live for is you, no one else. — He said, sucking her neck and leaving a kiss there while Y/n whimpered and agreed, looking for his lips anxiously.

The two kissed eagerly and Aemond gained even more strength in his thrusts, and when Y/n was on the verge of orgasm again, footsteps sounded in the hallway and Aemond stopped his movements while covering her mouth, signaling for his wife to stay quiet.

Aemond then took advantage of the pause by withdrawing from inside her and turning her to face him and when the steps were far enough away he kissed her again hungrily, and already penetrating her once again with force. Y/n in turn brought her hands to his face, pulling him more and more towards her, wanting to feel every little part of him against her, and she barely noticed when the eye patch fell to the floor, only noticing when they both separated from the kiss. and the shine of the sapphire was present in the dark alcove, making her sigh with contentment at the sight.

—Husband, I want you so much. — She sighed, pulling him into another kiss, feeling closer and closer to the edge with each thrust from Aemond, and feeling him accelerate, she came against his cock, crying and moaning while putting her head in the gap between his neck and shoulder.

—I love you husband, I love you so much. —She whimpered, leaving kisses on his neck, and hearing his wife say those words while feeling her pussy milking him, Aemond came deeply inside her, shuddering and calling his wife's name with his face contorted with pleasure.

Y/n made a point of lifting her head to see the scene before her, in her opinion there was nothing as beautiful in that world as Aemond's face, the only thing that could compare was Aemond's face after the climax.

She caressed his face gently while she felt him massaging her waist with his fingertips still inside her, both still panting, a few moments later Aemond came out of her and lovingly helped her get dressed.

—I'm going to retire to our quarters, husband. —Y/n said visibly tired, and at the same moment Aemond's look changed and he shook his head.

—Oh no you won't.—He said holding her face between his hands firmly looking her in the eyes while speaking in a slightly hoarse voice. — Now you're going to go back there, sit like the obedient and devoted wife you are with my seed running down your legs and watch the rest of the training, knowing that my sword is full of your cunt juice.

—But husband... — She said with wide eyes.

—As I've told you a few times, wife, we must think about the consequences before acting. —He said, replacing his eye patch and fixing his own clothes with a smile.

—If you're lucky, there will only be you up there at that time.

He then fastened the belt with the sword back around his waist and Y/n could see the hilt still glistening with her fluids, and felt her face burn with embarrassment.

—I will never need a tournament favor again as long as I carry this sword. —Aemond said mockingly, looking at her and Y/n rolled her eyes angrily, since her husband didn't even participate in tournaments.

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ruruumin · 6 days ago

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true rivals

₊˚ ☘︎ huntr/x! mira x fem! reader.

⤷ inspired by extraL by jennie

as the saja boys made themselves comfortable in their shared table with huntrix, mira’s glare was unwavering. resisting the urge to pull herself from this misery, she sucks up her frustrations and smiles wide for the audience. while the two men beside her chatter with superficial comments about her hair and face, a third voice breaks through the noise.

“didn’t know you were something to be shared, mira.” you say, tilting your cap upwards to expose part of your face. mira’s expression changes from annoyance to shock when she recognizes your smirk beneath the black mask. “i thought we had something special.”

standing in front of her was a very, very special guest. mira’s lips press tightly against each other, gaze hardening on your figure. had you debuted with huntrix, the world would have united in glorified cheers. instead, you parted from them during your trainee days, choosing to go solo with your agent.

mira didn’t believe it at first until she saw you walk out of the conference room. the expression on your face was dark and your agent trailed behind you like a puppy. the ceo was hot on your feet, begging for you to reconsider your choice and join the rest of the girls. you had a lot of potential, he kept saying. losing you would mean the entire program might sink under. regardless of his words, you left to create your own small company, one where you could have absolute reign over your debut.

the pink-haired idol thought that when you left, you took her heart with her. all those gentle gestures of affection, sharing water bottles and practicing difficult choreography late at night— she spent years shaking them off. when she closes her eyes, she still imagines your hot breath brushing up against the nape of her neck. she can feel the seething heat from beneath your finger tips as you guide her hips to the beat of the song.

back in the present, mira closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. to some extent, she hoped you could have joined her in this new group. you would have been good friends with both zoey and rumi. and maybe there could have been more between the two of you. the spark she saw in you was still there. but she has to admit, you looked better alone. at the very top of the music scene, you shined brighter when you were by yourself. being held down by other people wasn’t your cup of tea.

you wanted all the lines, the hardest dance moves, full control over the field. mira admired that most in you. this feeling of perfect authority that you wield. as long as you put your mind to it, you could do absolutely anything. you’ve done numerous collaborations that garnered both western and eastern attention. your stage presence was absolutely breathtaking when she got the chance to see you.

yet despite being at the height of your career, you’ve never once stopped teasing her. even now, you snuck through heaps of people to be in front of her. acting like one of her other fans, you gesture back to the poster.

her fingers are nervous and the palms of her hand was starting to grow clammy. a bead of sweat threatened to break through her foundation. underneath the gaze of the saja boys was tense, however, it was nothing compared to your sharp, almost calculating stare.

“haha. very funny,” mira replies, picking up one of her posters, “who am i making this out to then?”

you slowly tilt your head to the side. humming a familiar tune she recognizes as your latest release, mira’s body starts to shiver. “how about… your number one rival?”

she chuckles, signing the poster. subtly drawing a heart beside your name, she playfully rolls her eyes, “you got some real nerve showing up around here.”

mira doesn’t waste a second giving you the poster, the excitement in her veins being almost as palpable as her many fans here. the two saja boys sitting beside her don’t bother signing the poster. instead, they sit back in their seats, exchanging looks to each other. the tension as so thick, you couldn’t cut it even with the sharpest of knives.

“i couldn’t help it. i wanted to see my favorite girl.”

this mouthy response has mira at the edge of her seat, ears burning a brighter shade of pink than her hair.

“h-huh? what are you—?”

at this moment, the rest of the table is staring at her interaction with you. bobby is inching over with curious eyes. this level of attention has mira gripping onto the pen with a force strong enough to break the heavens. instead of entertaining the others at the table, both saja and huntrix, you think its a good time to leave.

“i better get going then. it was nice seeing you again, mira.” without wasting a breath, you straighten your back and start your departure. pulling your cap down to conceal your face, you weave through the crowd without looking back.

she doesn’t need to hear it from you. she’s sure that when you left, you promised to see her next show.

#₊˚ ᗢ ruruumin #kpop demon hunters x reader #KDH x reader #huntrix x reader #huntrix mira x reader #mira x reader #huntr/x mira x reader #huntr/x x reader

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wisteria-lodge · 2 months ago

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I was trying to pin-point the place where the narration switches from "Malfoy / Draco Malfoy" to just "Draco"

(because at some point it does, he's 'Draco' in the epilogue.)

And I found some interesting stuff.

~ The book consistently uses 'Draco' during scenes that feature Lucius, or sentences that mention both Draco and Lucius together. This makes sense - up until Book 7 Lucius is "Mr. Malfoy" or "Lucius Malfoy" in the narration... and you don't want a "Malfoy" and a "Mr. Malfoy" in the same scene, that's just confusing.

(this is also probably why Voldemort calls all his Death Eaters by their last names during the graveyard scene... except Lucius. We're still firmly in Children's Lit, and if Voldemort had started addressing one of his Death Eaters as 'Malfoy' ... somebody would have gotten confused and thought that Draco was somehow there.)

~ The first scene that really commits to "Draco" in the narration is the opening of Book 7, where Voldemort is holding court in the Malfoy dining room. It's told in third person omniscient, and even though Lucius isn't doing much... it's a scene about Voldemort taking his wand (and his power) away from him. So there's a fun mis-match between the detached /objective narrator, who calls him "Malfoy" or "Lucius Malfoy," and Voldemort... who calls him "Lucius." The way the scene is written is telling us that he's being disrespected.

Draco is called "Draco" in this scene so we don't confuse him with his father... but maybe there's also a little implication that "Draco" is the most neutral thing to call him, and he's only "Malfoy" through Harry's eyes (ie the "Harry filter.") Still, using his first name like this during such an emotionally charged scene does have the side effect of bringing us a little emotionally closer to the character - especially during Charity Burbage's death, which is a beat that doesn't have anything to do with Lucius.

“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he seemed unable to look at her anymore. (...) “Avada Kedavra.” The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which trembled and creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out of his onto the floor.

~ The bit where Draco tortures Rowle is the first time when Harry's narration uses "Draco" (in a scene that has nothing to do with Lucius.) We actually watch the switch happen:

A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed white face — with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes. (...) Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed branded on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.

~ He's "Draco" all through the scene in Malfoy Manor... and of course he is, Lucius Malfoy is massively important to that scene. But since by now we've had a little moment of "Draco" from Harry, and from the narration (and he's "Draco" during the whole bit with the prisoners in the cellar, which Lucius isn't there for...) I think that this writing choice (unintentionally?) implies... an emotional connection from Harry, that wouldn't be there if his narration stuck to "Malfoy." Like here are two sentences that I think would read very differently if Harry's narration used "Malfoy" instead of "Draco."

Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely: a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.

Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.

~ Harry calls the wand he uses to defeat Voldemort "the hawthorn wand" a couple of times... but MOSTLy he thinks of it as "Draco's Wand." Including at like, the moment he's actually defeating Voldemort:

Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: “Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus!”

I think the Doylist reason for this is to help the reader understand the (pretty confusing) chain of events that leads to Harry being the master of the Elder Wand.... but in the moment, that's a ton of emotional weight for Harry to be giving the name "Draco."

~ There is this interesting little moment where Harry calls Draco "Malfoy" out loud... but "Draco" in his head:

“Not [your wand] anymore,” panted Harry, tightening his grip on the hawthorn wand. “Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s lent you theirs?” “My mother,” said Draco.

So it seems we've got a little conflict going. Maybe Harry doesn't have the same relationship with Draco that he used too... but is a little uncomfortable letting Draco know that. Actually, the only time Harry just calls him "Draco" in dialogue is when... he's talking to Voldemort.

“I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago.”

(draco behind a pillar having an out-of-body experience because really potter? did you HAVE to phrase it like THAT?)

~ Interestingly, Harry's narration switches back to "Malfoy" during the Fiendfyre scene. This might be to make Draco more of an intentional pair with Crabbe and Goyle ('Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle' is a construction the books love.) Or maybe it's to reflect Ron and Hermione's perspective? Backpedal a bit on the implied Harry/Draco emotional closeness? Because... lemme just show you what this scene looks like if I swap out "Malfoy" with "Draco"

Draco saw him coming and raised one arm, but even as Harry grasped it he knew at once that it was no good. “Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Draco yelled at Crabbe and Goyle, who were both aiming at Harry [Ron] and Hermione dragged Goyle onto their broom and rose, rolling and pitching, into the air once more as Draco clambered up behind Harry. Draco was screaming and holding Harry so tightly it hurt.

~ And then, in their last real interaction, the names are all over the place:

Draco was on the upper landing, pleading with another masked Death Eater. Harry Stunned the Death Eater as they passed: Malfoy looked around, beaming, for his savior, and Ron punched him from under the Cloak. Malfoy fell backward on top of the Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused. “And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!” Ron yelled.

All I can think here is that it's "Draco" when the narration is focusing on Harry's experience... and "Malfoy" when it's focusing on Ron's.

#I guess i got more #drarry #as I went along #hp #name stuff #writing stuff #draco malfoy #harry potter #lucius malfoy #jkr critical #close reading

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 11 months ago

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OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. “You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.”

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king—no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

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twistedpink · 3 months ago

Note

Okay .... Here me out

Remember your actor AU and Leona and reader were CoWorkers ... I found the film that would be *chefs kiss* Did I spend hours pausing a film each time I saw a Leona moment? Yes, yes I did.

The film: The Prince & Me

Leona hates his role as the male lead. First time he gets recognition and he has to play a prince?! Until he reads the script and then, oh yeah 😏

He's a menace and claims he's method acting when he's just being a little...

Cue reader playing the female lead brought over from their days as extras and secondary screen time muses in other films or shows.

Leona who spends the whole time flirting bantering with you claiming you need the practice to get the chemistry just right.

Leona who starts each morning with a black tea from that shop you both used to rile up the tabloids at. He'd have coffee but he doesn't like how his tail twitches for hours after (and it ruins the scenes with you specifically). Who knew a lion had so little control over his tail?

Leona who plays the playboy angle devastatingly well. Each kiss with the acting extras was made for the camera to eat and his acting of a self absorbed princeling almost felt a bit too real at times.

Leona who enjoys each scene he gets to lay in bed a bit too much. Especially while food is being made for him. He could get used to that. Especially if you come in all spicy and rearing to spar with him. Let's just say the boxers and no shirt was his own idea that you hadn't known about beforehand.

Leona who literally learns to use a meat cutter on set with you. Those lines were real conversation, not scripted. His smirk at each possibly dirty turn of phrase was lethal. Especially when you both were using the slicer together, his bicep with his tattoo on display. He was a master strategist and knew just what to do to get such a ...leading conversation from your lips.

Leona who took one look at the cheesy Shakespeare lines for his character and scribbled them out in his script only to add lib while filming even better lines.

Leona who will growl at your "brothers" on set when it's their day to shoot with you and him. What siblings touched like that huh?

Leona who gets sprayed with milk by the cow's udder and looks so done with the bovine. But seeing you laugh off to the side is worth it.

Leona who drifts on a tractor like he was born for it, the wicked grin of a challenge showing up on his face. Though he looks funny hunched a bit cause he's so built.

Leona who lets you lead the kiss in the barn, but once he has you he doesn't let go the first few takes.

Leona who keeps surprising the director with too much chemistry between you both off set that he has to write it into the script so the tabloids are happy. That whole library scene was pure fan bait, but you weren't complaining, and neither was he. You'd been practicing for a while now right? Might as well give the people what they want. Steamy, half naked lion chemistry against a book shelf, hands caressing each other against his thigh....

Leona who plays the rain scene beneath the bridge like it's a sonnet. Every penny and grey hair spent to get him to act that morning for the tense scene of his characters lineage reveal was reimbursed for the raw power he displayed with an emotional outpouring no one had seen coming. Even you.

Leona who gets moody like the character when you're both arguing on set for the sake of the film. He's dragging you off to some corner as soon as the director is done for the day. Laying his head in your lap and napping.

Leona hates the character he's playing again as the scenes take on a desperate note of loneliness and being cut off from you. The chemistry lab scene where you and him give each other longing looks when the other isn't looking is devasting.

Leona who's emerald gaze was intense the day your character had her monologue of realization. That she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. He was sitting there perched like a predator waiting for the scene to end. He never pounced like you thought he would...

Leona who disappears from set for the days your filming the build up to remeeting. Your heart aching with each moment he's not there, making the desperation to get back to his character, to him, that much more real.

Weeks go by and soon your calling for him in a crowd of extras. It was thrilling but even your gut plummeted when he had to pretend to not see you. At least until the extras started chanting your name and a flutter began in your belly like never before. You spoke with eyes pleading for him to turn around as he played the scene out of being confused and then realization dawning on him.

Being reunited was like a welcome home. Everyone on set could feel it, see it, before their eyes. As you both stared at each other. Leona a top a horse and you standing in a crowd of hundreds. You didn't hesitate to take his hand when he pulled you up behind him before racing off back to the end position for the shot. Your hands around his waist, home again. When had he become home?

Leona who insists on taking you to that vendor on set that had started it all back when you were beginners to celebrate your characters reuniting. Pretending like he hadn't been absent for weeks as he pulled meat off the skewer and drinking a bottle of lemonade next to you as you both gazed at the stars.

Leona who kisses you passionately in a less filthy way than what he normally did between your moments of film and breaks. Something had changed. He was softer. Less aggressive.

Leona when his character proposes is a mess on set. He's angry and short, struggling to not snap at his make up artist, but the minute he has to do the scene its something else. The camera winding around you both as he kisses you with reckless abandon. His tail lashing behind him so they couldn't do a backing away shot cause...the lion couldn't control himself.

Leona who is an ass now as he rejects the teasing he gets on set. Purposefully being mean to you to tell off rumors. It was fine before but why now was it different?

Leona's behavior is the perfect catalyst for the distress your character needs to embrace on screen. Each moment building up till, just like your character, you popped. The director was living for the shots but was groaning as his stars fought between scenes. He never thought he'd miss you both just being handsy so much.

But oh how the tension remains between you too. It was disgusting how you both avoided each other but gave such eyes in the film. The crew was so done with both of you at this point. The ballroom scene was a rough one to shoot. The passion guarded and seemed so...uncomfortable but the moment hetook your hand and dragged you into the billiard room that beautiful passion was back. Everyone groaned when it had to be interrupted.

When the smashing of the heart came. You hadn't to recalled when reading it being so painful. The emotion was suffocating, and his face. Oh his face broke you.

After the combination speech that he gave, nation everything in passing but hidden with meaning deeper than comprehension, you stayed off set except when needed. The image of you walking away carved into his mind. And Leona...well he was a royal jerk to everyone.

At least till the end when he speaks Shakespeare loke it was written for him to pour onto you. It wasn't the characters talking anymore. Not with that face he made.

Immediately, he's choking when he speaks at the end. The lines pouring from his mouth as his tail lashes violently this time, ears pinned in earnest. The kiss is the pounce you'd been waiting months for. Arms catching what you should of each other and the stress of his moody behavior melting. Yeah that was all caught on camera lion boy. It's going in the final take too.

Leona and you... It sold as liquid gold.

Thx for getting my post in for me lolz🙏 Back to doomscrolling and niquilllll,,

#disney twst #twst yuu #twst #disney twisted wonderland #yuu twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst x reader #leona twst #leona twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar

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velvetvisionsaurora · 4 months ago

Text

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

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‼️if you have read chapter 7 already please go back and make sure you have read the reunion part with Ella/Yeosang! It’s after the flash back scene! Something happened with posting and it got removed‼️

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Masterlist

Chapter 7

Intersections

In their shared cabin on the ATEEZ's port side, Yunho sat cross-legged on his bunk, carefully fixing a torn sail section while Mingi cleaned his special tools at the small workbench beneath their single porthole. Neither spoke for several comfortable minutes, the silence between them built on years of shared understanding rather than awkward emptiness.

Finally, Yunho looked up from his stitching. "She knew the stars in Orion's belt before I even pointed them out."

Mingi nodded, continuing his careful work on the firing mechanism laid out in perfect order on his workbench. Unlike the nearly silent way he acted in group settings, here in their private room, his shoulders looked more relaxed, his movements less stiff, more natural.

"And she knew exactly where to find Canis Major," Yunho continued, his normally gentle voice showing a hint of doubt. "The same stars I taught y/n to spot during night watches on The Crimson Serpent."

"Important," Mingi replied, his voice fuller and more flowing than the short phrases others heard. With Yunho, words came more easily, the safe space of their shared cabin allowing him to express himself in ways he rarely showed elsewhere.

"But not proof," Yunho countered, setting aside his sail repair. "Seonghwa pointed out that anyone with basic star knowledge would recognize major constellations."

Mingi turned from his workbench, giving Yunho his full attention—something he did almost only for his roommate and oldest friend. "You doubt now?"

Yunho sighed, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of real frustration. "I don't know what to believe. Yesterday I was certain. Today..." He trailed off, the conflict clear in his usually calm expression.

"Seonghwa's reasons," Mingi observed, not a question but understanding.

"He makes good points," Yunho admitted. "Everything we see as her recognizing things could be explained other ways. Common behaviors, basic knowledge, chance preferences."

Mingi rose from his workbench and moved to sit beside Yunho on the bunk—a closeness that would have surprised anyone else aboard the ATEEZ. While the quiet gunner typically kept careful distance from others, with Yunho he allowed closeness built through years of shared hardship and looking out for each other.

"Found my maker's mark," Mingi said, his tone showing unusual certainty. "On the gun port housing. Hidden on purpose. She knew exactly where to look."

Yunho's expression brightened slightly. "You didn't mention that in the officers' meeting."

Mingi shrugged one shoulder, a small gesture carrying complex meaning. "Seonghwa would find an explanation. Coincidence. Good observation skills."

"And you don't believe that?" Yunho asked, watching his friend carefully.

"No." The single word carried absolute certainty, rare from the careful gunner who typically added qualifiers to his statements with careful precision.

Mingi reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a simple leather cord from which hung a small wooden compass rose, its five points carefully carved despite its tiny size. The navigation symbol that had become his maker's mark—appearing on every weapon he designed, every mechanism he created, every carving he left behind—was an exact copy of this original pendant.

"The compass I made for Mr. Hugs," he explained, holding the pendant where Yunho could see it. "Fell off during struggle at auction house. I kept the original design. Put it on everything since."

Yunho studied the wooden compass with new understanding. For fifteen years, he had seen this symbol on Mingi's creations without fully understanding its importance—not simply a maker's mark but a deliberate connection to the teddy bear's lost navigation guide, to the little girl who had called Mingi "Puppy" with innocent affection rather than mockery.

"I forgot you kept the original," Yunho said softly.

Mingi tucked the pendant back beneath his shirt, the private gesture showing how he carried both keepsake and mission against his heart. "Reminder of promise," he said simply.

He returned to his workbench, but instead of going back to tool cleaning, he opened a small drawer built into its side. From within, he took out a rolled piece of fabric, carefully unfolding it on the workspace to reveal dozens of tiny wooden animals, each small enough to fit in a child's palm, each bearing the special compass mark on its underside.

"Make one every port," Mingi explained, his voice softening with rare emotion. "Leave them where children might find. Markets. Docks. Public squares."

Yunho stared at the collection with growing realization. For fifteen years, he had sometimes noticed Mingi carving small animals during quiet moments, had sometimes seen him lagging behind when they left port cities, but had never connected these observations to their shared mission.

"You leave them as messages," Yunho realized. "In case y/n might find one and recognize your work."

Mingi nodded, his finger gently touching a small wooden rabbit, perfect despite its tiny size. "Fifteen years. Hundreds of carvings. Every port we've visited."

The revelation—delivered in Mingi's private voice rather than his public way of few words—carried emotional weight beyond its factual meaning. While the others had searched through official channels, tracking auction records and slave lists, Mingi had kept up his own parallel effort: creating tiny wooden messengers that might somehow find their way to a lost girl who had once treasured his carvings.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Yunho asked, moving to stand beside his friend at the workbench.

Mingi's expression shifted slightly, showing rare vulnerability. "Might seem foolish. Not practical."

"It's not foolish," Yunho countered immediately, his hand settling gently on Mingi's shoulder—one of the few touches the gunner accepted without tension. "It's... hopeful. Faith that connection might last through separation."

Mingi's posture relaxed slightly under Yunho's reassurance, the acceptance flowing between them without need for more validation. Unlike others who might have dismissed his silent fifteen-year ritual as superstition, Yunho understood the deeper idea: that connection sometimes followed paths logic couldn't predict, that effort kept up without guaranteed result still had value.

"You really believe Ella is y/n," Yunho observed, the statement carrying no judgment or pressure.

Mingi nodded once, certainty clear despite his usually careful expression. "Too many matches for coincidence. The way she moves. Watches. Protects herself. Knows things without saying she knows them."

"Seonghwa suggests those behaviors might come from fifteen years of captivity rather than specific connection to us," Yunho countered, though his tone suggested he welcomed Mingi's counterargument.

"True," Mingi acknowledged, his response more detailed in Yunho's presence than others ever witnessed. "But combined with specific knowledge—star patterns, maker's marks, food preferences—pattern becomes clear."

He selected a small wooden dolphin from his collection, its details remarkably precise despite its tiny size, and placed it in Yunho's palm. "Made this last night. For her."

Yunho examined the tiny carving, noting the compass rose carefully embedded in its underside. "You want me to give it to her?"

Mingi shook his head slightly. "Leave where she'll find it. Without obvious placement. Test whether she recognizes what it means."

The suggestion—smart yet respectful of Ella's choice—reflected Mingi's careful approach to all challenges. Unlike Wooyoung's desire for immediate confirmation or Seonghwa's careful skepticism, Mingi proposed subtle opportunity for recognition without pressure or manipulation.

"Her bedside table?" Yunho suggested. "When she's with the captain for afternoon briefing?"

Mingi nodded approval. "Natural discovery. Her choice to acknowledge or ignore."

The plan settled between them without need for further explanation, their years together creating shorthand communication that others aboard the ATEEZ marveled at but couldn't copy. Even Hongjoong, with his smart planning and leadership instinct, sometimes found himself excluded from the silent understanding that flowed between the ship's tallest officer and its most reserved.

"If she is y/n," Yunho said after a moment, his voice carrying the uncertainty Mingi's lacked, "why wouldn't she simply tell us? We've given her no reason to fear us."

Mingi considered this carefully, his expression thoughtful in ways he rarely showed outside their private quarters. "Fifteen years captive," he replied finally. "Trust becomes a tactic, not instinct. She weighs benefit against risk before sharing."

"And the risk of revealing herself to us?" Yunho prompted.

"Expectation," Mingi answered immediately, the insight flowing more freely in Yunho's presence. "We might expect y/n unchanged. The child we knew, not the woman survival created."

The observation showed emotional intelligence that would have surprised those who knew only Mingi's public persona—the silent gunner whose rare words addressed practical matters rather than people's feelings. Yet with Yunho, he revealed the depth of understanding that made him not just the ATEEZ's weapons specialist but one of its most insightful observers.

"You think she fears disappointing us," Yunho realized. "That we might reject who she's become in favor of who we remember."

"Possible," Mingi acknowledged. "Survival changes people. Needed adaptations might not match childhood memories."

He carefully rolled up the fabric containing his collection of carved animals, securing it with careful precision before returning it to its drawer. "We remember five-year-old child. She brings twenty-year-old survivor shaped by captivity."

"And if she's not y/n?" Yunho asked quietly, the question reflecting his lingering doubt despite Mingi's conviction.

Mingi paused in his careful organization, considering this possibility with typical thoroughness. "Then she remains valuable ally against Blackwell. Worthy of protection regardless of identity."

The simple statement reflected core principles that had guided their mission through fifteen years of increasingly dangerous operations: that their campaign against the slave trade went beyond personal revenge, that protection extended beyond specific connection to broader purpose.

"You're right," Yunho acknowledged, his expression clearing somewhat. "Whether she's y/n or not, she deserves freedom and safety after fifteen years of captivity."

"Exactly," Mingi confirmed, returning to his workbench with renewed focus. He resumed cleaning his special tools, each movement precise yet flowing with natural grace rather than forced control. In Yunho's presence, he kept to careful standards without the rigid tension that marked his public performance, the safety of their shared space allowing expression that others never witnessed.

Yunho watched his friend work for several quiet moments, appreciating Mingi's confident movements and focused attention—qualities that had saved their lives countless times during fifteen years of increasingly dangerous missions. Though Mingi spoke rarely in public and avoided casual contact, in their private sanctuary he revealed the person beneath carefully built protection—thoughtful, perceptive, and far more talkative than anyone beyond Yunho ever experienced.

"Thank you," Yunho said simply, the gratitude covering their current conversation and fifteen years of unwavering loyalty.

Mingi looked up briefly, a small but genuine smile softening his usually blank features—an expression reserved exclusively for Yunho. No verbal response followed, none being necessary between two who had survived childhood captivity, teenage rebellion, and adult warfare side by side.

Outside their cabin, the ATEEZ continued its steady progress through morning waters, feared throughout the maritime world as the Black Ship, the Compass Crew, the vessel whose appearance meant precise revenge rather than random destruction. Few who encountered its distinctive silhouette understood the vessel's true purpose—that its feared reputation came not from bloodthirst but from blood oath, from promise made by children and fulfilled by the men they became.

And within that black-sailed ship, the quietest officer continued creating tiny wooden messengers marked with five-pointed compass rose, carrying fifteen years' hope that connection might somehow last through separation, that paths cut by violence might eventually come together through persistence and determination.

*Blackwell's Estate - Seven Years Earlier*

Twelve-year-old y/n stood stiffly in Blackwell's formal study, her expression carefully blank despite her inner panic. The summons had come without explanation—guards appearing at her work station in the laundry, taking her directly to the master's private domain where staff entered only when specifically ordered.

Victor Blackwell sat behind his massive desk, fingers joined beneath his chin as he studied her with the same clinical detachment that had marked his ownership for seven years. Unlike most slave owners who barely told apart individual pieces of property, Blackwell kept detailed knowledge of each person he owned—their abilities, their connections, their vulnerabilities. This personal attention made him more dangerous rather than more humane, his understanding used for maximum control rather than compassion.

"Do you know why you're here, girl?" he asked, his cultured voice showing no particular emotion.

"No, sir," y/n replied, the response automatic after years of conditioning. Show no curiosity, no initiative, no independent thought—only prompt obedience and proper respect.

"Valuable property requires proper maintenance," Blackwell continued, as if explaining a basic concept to a slow student. "This includes not merely physical health but appropriate mental conditioning. Assets that form incorrect attachments develop divided loyalties, lowering their functional value."

Cold dread settled in y/n’s stomach as his meaning became clearer. Blackwell rarely spoke directly about specific wrongdoings; his preferred method involved philosophical explanations that forced the listener to recognize their own mistakes, confessing through realization rather than questioning.

"Individuals within my household serve specific functions according to their abilities," he continued, rising from his desk to pace with careful steps. "The doctor's assistant provides medical support to maintain collective health. You girl, are to become the perfect slave. Educated, hard working and pretty enough to fulfill any requirements a buyer might need. Neither role includes unauthorized socialization beyond what's needed."

Y/n kept her carefully blank expression despite the growing certainty that her friendship with Yeosang had been discovered—the shared moments of connection they had believed properly hidden, the small kindnesses exchanged out of sight of watchful eyes, the wooden carvings passed between them as comfort during hard times.

For seven years, they had kept their alliance through increasingly careful precautions, knowing that their growing connection was a vulnerability that Blackwell would exploit if discovered. Yet somehow, despite their precautions, their secret communication had been exposed—perhaps through carelessness, perhaps through deliberate betrayal by another household member seeking good treatment.

"I have invested considerable resources in medical training for the boy," Blackwell remarked, his tone suggesting discussion of weather rather than human lives. "Skills development represents significant value improvement for specialized property. Such investment should not be harmed through inappropriate distractions."

He turned to face her directly, his expression showing neither anger nor cruelty but merely calculated business assessment. "Correction is therefore needed to maintain optimal asset functionality."

Before y/n could interpret this clinical declaration, the study door opened to admit two guards escorting a third figure between them. Yeosang's usual composed expression had broken into barely contained fear, his fifteen-year-old frame appearing suddenly younger and more vulnerable between the towering guards.

"Ah, excellent timing," Blackwell noted with the same detachment he might use when discussing furniture delivery.

He gestured for the guards to position Yeosang before his desk, then resumed his seat with the casual confidence of absolute authority. From a drawer, he took out a leather portfolio containing documents arranged with characteristic precision.

"Medical training increases property value considerably," he observed, reviewing the contents with practiced efficiency. "Several captains have expressed interest in acquiring specialized personnel for extended voyages. Captain Severino has offered particularly favorable terms for a ship's doctor with your specific qualifications."

The meaning became terribly clear: Yeosang was being sold. Their punishment for unauthorized friendship wasn't merely separation within the household but permanent division through transfer of ownership. The realization hit y/n with physical force, her carefully maintained composure threatening to break despite years of practiced control.

"The transaction will be completed today," Blackwell continued, directing his comments to Yeosang now. "Captain Severino's ship leaves with evening tide. Your medical supplies have been packed according to inventory requirements, with appropriate checking of controlled substances."

Throughout this clinical explanation, he maintained the same detached tone he might use when discussing crop rotation or equipment maintenance—human life reduced to asset management and inventory control. Only the slight tension in Yeosang's shoulders showed his internal response, years of conditioning preventing visible reaction despite devastating impact.

"The girl will observe transfer of ownership," Blackwell added, his gaze shifting to y/n with sudden sharpness. "Visual demonstration provides more effective behavioral change than theoretical explanation."

The deliberate cruelty of this decision—forcing her to witness Yeosang's removal—revealed the careful calculation behind Blackwell's seemingly dispassionate management. He understood precisely how to maximize psychological impact while maintaining appearance of reasonable business operations.

"You are prohibited from direct communication before departure," he instructed, rising to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "Guards will escort the boy to preparing quarters and the girl to observation position at front entrance. Asset transfer will proceed at four o'clock precisely."

As the guards moved to separate them, y/n’s efforts to fight and maintain her neutral expression crumbled, she turned and with tears hugged Yeosang tightly. "Please don't!" She said.

Yeosang, although grateful for one last interaction, closed his eyes in sadness. That moment of weakness would transform already devastating punishment into something far worse—Blackwell's method always escalated when emotional vulnerability was displayed.

Blackwell's cold and dismissive behavior morphed into an almost delightful smirk at the girl's behavior.

"See to it she is punished for this outburst." Blackwell commanded the guard. "It seems more training is necessary to her daily lessons." He commented to no one in particular.

Yeosang stiffened, and before he could open his mouth to speak as the guards roughly dragged y/n out of the room, Blackwell interrupted him.

"I cannot punish your words or actions any longer, however," He looked at the boy smirking. "Since you and the girl are so close, I'm sure she wouldn't mind taking the punishment of your disobedience in your place."

Yeosang's eyes widened slightly and quickly closed his mouth obeying Blackwell. Years of treating y/n’s wounds, with or without permission, taught him how cruel and gruesome they were with punishing her.

Three hours later, positioned on the mansion's front steps where her supposed "observation" doubled as humiliation before the entire household staff, y/n watched stone-faced as Yeosang was escorted to the waiting carriage. His few possessions—medical reference texts and carefully maintained instruments—had been packed in a single trunk that represented seven years of dedicated study and practice.

Captain Severino, a weathered man with calculating eyes similar to Blackwell's, inspected his new acquisition with the same clinical assessment used for livestock or equipment. His cursory examination included checking Yeosang's teeth and reflexes, testing basic medical knowledge through rapid-fire questions, and verifying physical condition through demonstration of movement and strength.

Throughout this degrading process, Yeosang kept the careful composure that had protected him through years in Blackwell's household—present yet somehow removed, cooperating physically while preserving essential selfhood behind strong walls. Only y/n, who knew him better than anyone else in the world, could read the subtle signs of his internal devastation: the slight tremor in his left hand, the carefully controlled breathing pattern, the small delay before each response.

As final transaction details were completed between Blackwell and Severino, Yeosang was permitted to gather his trunk under guard supervision. In that brief moment, as he knelt to secure the latches, his hand moved with practiced sleight developed through years of passing secret messages within the household. Something small dropped into the ornamental grass bordering the front path—a movement so subtle that even watchful guards failed to notice.

Y/n noted the deliberate placement, memorizing its exact location without shifting her gaze directly toward it. Whatever Yeosang had left behind, he had risked severe punishment to ensure she would find it after his departure—a final communication despite Blackwell's explicit prohibition.

The actual moment of separation passed with anticlimactic efficiency—Yeosang boarding the carriage, Severino completing final documentation, the vehicle departing down the long drive toward Halazia's harbor where ship awaited. No opportunity for goodbye, no acknowledgment of connection being severed, no recognition of human cost behind business transaction.

Only after night fell and household activities quieted did y/n risk retrieving Yeosang's final message. With careful movements honed through years of navigating Blackwell's household undetected, she slipped from her dormitory to the front gardens, locating the exact position where Yeosang had knelt hours earlier.

Buried in the ornamental grass, her searching fingers found familiar shape—a wooden wolf with its distinctive compass marking, not the same shared treasure passed between them for six years whenever one needed comfort or strength, a different one. Perhaps Yeosang made another one? A replica? Or he found another one hidden. This final gift represented both farewell and promise: that connection lasted beyond physical separation, that memory remained despite deliberate division, that hope survived even systematic attempts to destroy it.

Clutched tightly in her twelve-year-old hand, the small carving represented Yeosang's final resistance against Blackwell's calculated control—solid proof that something belonging uniquely to them had survived despite their owner's deliberate intervention. Neither understood its deeper significance: that the compass marking connected them to five boys searching throughout maritime world for a lost girl, that the wooden animal was created by a quiet child named Mingi who continued carving similar messengers during fifteen years of searching.

For y/n, it simply represented proof that genuine connection had existed despite Blackwell's systematic isolation—tangible evidence of the one friendship that had sustained her through seven years of captivity. For three more years, she would keep it carefully hidden within Blackwell's household, until her transfer to his business associate necessitated new hiding strategies.

For eight years, Yeosang would carry the original wolf, a memory through multiple transfers between captains who valued his medical skills without recognizing his humanity, until fate and a black-sailed pirate vessel named ATEEZ stepped in to offer unexpected freedom.

Neither could have imagined that 7 years after their forced separation, they would reunite aboard that same pirate ship—or that its feared officers were the very boys who had once protected a small girl aboard The Crimson Serpent, their fearsome reputation built upon the foundation of childhood oath to find someone both they and Yeosang had deeply loved in different ways.

The ship's bell had just rung midnight watch when Ella jolted awake. The nightmare of one of the three worst days of her life jolting her awake. Ella slipped silently from her cabin. Years of moving through hostile environments after dark had honed her ability to move without sound—a skill developed initially for survival, now used for deliberate purpose rather than desperate necessity.

The ATEEZ ran with skeleton crew during night hours, most sailors sleeping in shifts while essential positions maintained minimal vigilance. Her exploration earlier that day had yielded thorough knowledge of watch patterns and patrol routes—information gathered out of habit despite her apparent freedom aboard ship.

She moved through the darkened hallways with practiced efficiency, avoiding the occasional crewman on night duty through timing rather than hiding. No one had forbidden her movement throughout the vessel; nevertheless, caution remained ingrained after fifteen years of restrictions.

The medical bay's location on the lower deck provided ideal seclusion—positioned away from sleeping quarters and primary operational areas, its specialized ventilation creating sound barriers that would contain conversation. As she approached the partially open door, soft light spilled into the corridor, suggesting Yeosang remained awake despite the late hour.

For a brief moment, Ella hesitated outside the threshold, an unexpected wave of uncertainty washing over her. The boy she had known—gentle hands treating injuries, whispered encouragement during dark moments, the quiet strength that had kept her going through seven years in Blackwell's household—had become a man she recognized yet didn't truly know. How much had fifteen years changed him? How much suffering had he endured after Blackwell separated them?

Taking a steadying breath, she pushed such questions aside and entered the medical bay without announcing herself, slipping through the doorway with the silent movement that had become second nature during captivity.

Yeosang sat at his small desk, back to the door, apparently absorbed in writing notes in a leather-bound journal. The small wooden trinket box she remembered from childhood sat open beside his inkwell, medical supplies arranged with the same careful precision she remembered from their shared past.

He spoke without turning, his keen awareness of surroundings showing training beyond medical practice. "I wondered when you would come."

The voice—deeper than the boy she remembered yet carrying the same measured pace—confirmed what his posture already suggested: he had been waiting for her, perhaps since the moment she had left his medical bay hours earlier.

"You knew I would," she replied, closing the door silently behind her.

At this, he finally turned to face her, the careful composure of their earlier meeting giving way to more genuine expression. The distinctive birthmark near his left eye crinkled slightly as emotion transformed his features from professional detachment to painful recognition.

"Y/n." He spoke her true name as if testing its reality on his tongue. "It really is you."

The sound of her name—her actual name, not the shortened "Ella" she had offered the ATEEZ officers—created strange feeling after years of deliberate anonymity. She found herself momentarily speechless, the planned greeting dissolving under the weight of genuine connection.

Yeosang rose slowly from his desk, keeping careful distance as if uncertain of appropriate boundaries after fifteen years' separation. His movements held the same deliberate grace she remembered, though his frame had matured from teenage slenderness to adult strength. A thin scar traced his jawline—evidence of violence experienced since their forced separation—while his eyes carried shadows of witnessed suffering that hadn't existed in the fifteen-year-old boy she had known.

"Angel," she whispered, the childhood nickname coming unbidden. "I never thought I'd see you again."

Something in his expression cracked at the sound of her private name for him—the one she had given when they'd first connected in Blackwell's household. His careful composure faltered momentarily before he regained control, professional discipline evidently ingrained through years of necessary survival.

"I looked for you," he said quietly. "After I gained my freedom. But Blackwell's records were deliberately hidden, and his associate who purchased you had disappeared from known trading routes."

The admission created conflicting emotion—gratitude that he had tried to find her, pain that neither of them had succeeded in finding the other until now. Ella found herself moving forward almost unconsciously, closing the physical distance that symbolized their years of separation.

"How did you end up here?" she asked, genuine curiosity momentarily overriding the flood of other questions demanding attention. "On this specific ship?"

"The ATEEZ raided the vessel where I was being transferred between captains," he explained, his voice steady despite the difficult subject. "Unlike other pirates who typically claim medical personnel as valuable assets, Hongjoong recognized I was captive rather than crew. He offered freedom without obligation, though I chose to stay as ship's doctor."

He gestured vaguely toward the well-equipped medical bay. "This is the first place I've practiced medicine by choice rather than being forced. The first place my skills have served healing rather than maintaining property value."

The bitterness in his final words revealed wounds that professional composure couldn't fully hide—scars from years serving masters who viewed his healing abilities as tools for profit rather than compassion. Ella recognized the underlying anger; it mirrored her own carefully contained rage at fifteen years of being treated as an object.

"They don't know," she realized suddenly, studying his expression. "The officers—they don't know about our connection."

Yeosang shook his head slightly. "I never speak of my years under Blackwell. The specifics of my captivity remain my own."

His gaze sharpened with sudden intensity. "But they know you. Somehow, they know you—or believe they do. The way Yunho was watching you, the way Wooyoung's mouth moves at a faster rate when he speaks about 'Ella'." Yeosang rolls his eyes with a smirk.

"I was disgusted and surprised at first when I learned the captain had purchased a slave, even more surprised when heard the amount he paid just to turn around and free you." He raised an eyebrow. "I can see there's more to it than that."

"The Crimson Serpent," Ella confirmed, the explanation forming connection between separate pieces. "Before Blackwell bought me at auction, I spent three months aboard that ship with five cabin boys who tried to protect me. They tried to rescue me during stop in Halazia but failed. I was sold while they were recaptured."

Understanding dawned in Yeosang's expression. "The blood oath," he murmured, almost to himself. "The reason they target Blackwell's operations with such specific focus."

He looked at her with renewed intensity. "Y/n, they've been searching for you for fifteen years. It's the foundation of everything they've built—the ATEEZ, their campaign against slave traders, their reputation for precise revenge. All of it began with a promise to find one little girl sold at auction."

The confirmation of Wooyoung's earlier claim—delivered now by someone who had no reason to manipulate her trust—created momentary confusion. The implications seemed too vast, too significant to fully understand immediately.

"You knew they were searching for someone," she realized, studying his expression. "But you didn't know it was me."

Yeosang nodded, his face reflecting the complexity of this revelation. "They speak occasionally of a girl they lost, a promise that drives their mission. But never specific details—not her name, not her connection to Blackwell. I assumed she was someone they met after building their reputation, not its very foundation."

He moved to a cabinet secured with small lock. With practiced motion, he retrieved a key from within his medical bag, opening the cabinet to reveal shelves of specialized equipment. From the bottom drawer, he took out a small wooden box similar to the one on his desk but larger, its surface distinguished by detailed carvings rather than simple utility.

"After joining the ATEEZ," he explained, placing the box on his examination table, "I noticed Mingi's habit of carving small wooden animals—leaving them in ports we visited, sometimes asking me to place them in specific locations when I went ashore for medical supplies."

He opened the box carefully, revealing interior compartments organized with careful precision. "I helped without understanding why—assumed it was some personal ritual or superstition. He never explained, and I never asked."

From a hidden compartment within the box's lid, he withdrew a small object wrapped in protective cloth. With gentle movements that spoke of treasured significance, he unwrapped the bundle to reveal the wooden wolf they had shared during their childhood—worn from years of handling but still recognizable, its compass marking visible on the underside.

"I kept it," he said softly. "Through eight years, four different captains, countless ports. The only thing I managed to take from Blackwell's household that day."

Ella stared at the carving, emotion welling despite her determined control. "I lost the one you left for me that night. When I was transferred to Blackwell's associate. The guards found it during the transfer, destroyed it along with everything else I'd managed to hide."

Yeosang shook his head slightly.

Understanding dawned as she connected memories previously separated. "A second wolf. You carved it for me? The one you left the night Blackwell sold you?"

"No," Yeosang corrected gently. "I never had the skill for such detailed work." He turned the wolf over, indicating the compass mark. "This is Mingi's craftsmanship. All those animals he leaves in ports—they all bear this same mark. He's been creating them for fifteen years, leaving them throughout the maritime world."

The revelation hit with unexpected force—that Mingi, the quietest of the five boys who had protected her aboard The Crimson Serpent, had continued creating tangible connection despite their separation. That the wooden wolf she and Yeosang had treasured during their years in Blackwell's household had been Mingi's creation all along, its compass mark his signature rather than mere decoration.

"He leaves them hoping you might find one and recognize his work," Yeosang continued, his voice softening with newfound understanding. "For two years, I've been helping him distribute these messages without realizing they were meant for you—that you were the lost girl they've searched for all this time."

Ella reached into her pocket and withdrew the small leather pouch she kept hidden on her person at all times. From within, she removed a tiny wooden figure—not a wolf but a sparrow with folded wings, small enough to hide completely within her closed fist.

"I found this in the garden after a storm knocked down part of the wall," she explained, holding it where Yeosang could see. "Two years after you were sold. I didn't realize it was connected to the wolf—thought it was just similar craftsmanship."

Yeosang studied the sparrow, recognition dawning in his expression. "Mingi's work again. The compass mark is identical." He looked up, newfound understanding in his eyes. "They've been closer than we realized all these years—their search and our survival running parallel without crossing until now."

The meeting of these separate paths—five boys who became feared pirates searching for a lost girl, two children who survived Blackwell's household supporting each other through secret connection—created meaning beyond chance. It seemed like more than chance that these paths crossed—five boys turned pirates looking for a lost girl, and two children who had helped each other survive Blackwell's house.

"Do you trust them?" she asked, the question showing vulnerability she rarely displayed.

Yeosang considered this carefully, his natural caution evident in measured response. "I trust their intentions," he said finally. "Their protection of the vulnerable is genuine rather than strategic. Their opposition to the slave trade comes from personal conviction rather than mere profit opportunity."

He studied her thoughtfully. "Seonghwa reminds me of you," she observed suddenly. "The way he organizes everything, his careful movements, how he keeps emotion behind careful thinking."

"He's nothing like me," Yeosang replied, an unusual edge entering his voice. "His control comes from natural preference for order. Mine was beaten into me through eight years serving masters who viewed showing emotion as a fault needing correction."

The raw honesty—expressing personal history he clearly revealed to few—created momentary silence between them. Ella recognized the pain beneath his words; it echoed her own experience of enforced compliance through systematic punishment.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean—"

"No," he interrupted, regret immediately replacing defensiveness. "You couldn't have known. I've never spoken of those years to anyone aboard the ATEEZ. Not even the captain knows the specifics of my captivity after Blackwell."

The admission—that he had shared his full history with no one else aboard ship—emphasized the importance of their reconnection. Like her, Yeosang had survived through careful compartmentalization, revealing only what circumstances required rather than complete truth.

"Will you tell them?" he asked after a moment, echoing the question from earlier with new context. "That you're y/n? That you remember them from The Crimson Serpent?"

She considered this carefully, weighing factors with careful assessment built through years of calculated survival. "Not yet," she decided. "I need to understand their expectations first. What they believe 'y/n' should be after fifteen years. What they want from her—from me—beyond keeping a childhood promise."

Yeosang nodded acceptance without judgment, his respect for her choice as clear now as it had been during their shared captivity. "Your identity remains yours to reveal or withhold," he affirmed. "I won't betray your trust."

The promise carried weight beyond its simple words—alliance without demand, support without expectation. Unlike potential pressure from others who might discover her secret, Yeosang offered protection for her choice rather than pushing for a particular outcome.

Ella placed the wooden sparrow beside the wolf on the examination table, the two carvings creating tangible evidence of connection kept despite fifteen years' separation. "Everything connects," she said softly. "Paths I thought completely cut somehow coming together against impossible odds."

"Not impossible," Yeosang corrected gently. "Unlikely, certainly. But we always knew connection lasted beyond separation. That's why we passed the wolf between us—solid proof that bonds survive despite deliberate division."

His words echoed their childhood understanding, the philosophy that had kept them going through Blackwell's systematic attempts to isolate and control. Even as children, they had recognized that genuine connection represented resistance against calculated dehumanization—that sharing the wooden wolf created meaning beyond mere comfort.

"I've missed you," Ella admitted, the simple truth emerging without tactical consideration. "Every day since Blackwell sold you. Even after I buried the memory to survive, something remained missing."

The unguarded confession—so different from her carefully measured responses since boarding the ATEEZ—reflected the unique safety Yeosang represented. With him alone, she could express vulnerability without fear of exploitation, reveal emotion without risk of manipulation.

"I searched for you," he responded, matching her honesty with his own. "After the ATEEZ freed me. When Hongjoong offered free movement at port calls, I used that freedom to track Blackwell's operations, hoping to find some record of where he had sent you."

The revelation—that his first use of newfound liberty had been searching for her—created unexpected emotion. After fifteen years believing herself forgotten or abandoned by everyone who had ever shown her kindness, discovering that both Yeosang and the ATEEZ officers had actively sought her challenged core assumptions that had guided her survival.

"But Blackwell erased the trail deliberately," Yeosang continued, frustration evident despite his controlled expression. "His records showed only that you had been transferred to a business associate, with no documentation of identity or location. By then, eight years had passed since our separation—the trail had grown cold before I even began searching."

"He sold me to a man named Calloway," Ella explained, the name still bitter on her tongue despite the years. "A trading partner who specialized in 'premium domestic personnel' for wealthy households. The transfer was deliberately kept from official records—private arrangement between business associates rather than formal sale."

Something darkened in Yeosang's expression at this information—recognition of deliberate concealment designed to prevent exactly the kind of search he had attempted. "Blackwell understood the value of strategic concealment even then," he observed, professional analysis masking deeper emotion. "His operation has only grown more sophisticated in recent years."

"The ATEEZ's campaign has forced adaptation," Ella noted, her own tactical assessment engaging with his. "Their systematic targeting of his ships created operational challenges that required improved security protocols. Blackwell speaks of them with genuine fear disguised as contempt—'The Compass Crew' who appear without warning and disappear before naval response can gather."

Yeosang's expression shifted slightly at this information—pride briefly visible beneath professional composure. "They've earned their reputation through careful precision rather than random violence," he acknowledged. "Each raid specifically designed to disrupt slave trading operations with minimal civilian damage."

"You admire them," Ella observed, studying his reaction carefully.

"I respect what they've built," he corrected, though the distinction seemed mostly semantic. "Their opposition to the slave trade goes beyond mere piracy—they target specific operations with tactical intelligence that military vessels lack. And they treat freed captives with dignity rather than simply alternative utility."

The assessment aligned with her own observations of the ATEEZ's unusual culture, yet hearing it from Yeosang—who had witnessed their operations from within for two years—carried additional weight. Unlike her necessarily limited perspective as recent arrival, his evaluation incorporated extended observation across multiple campaigns.

"And personally?" she prompted, seeking understanding beyond professional assessment. "Beyond their tactical approach and ethical stance?"

Yeosang considered this more carefully, weighing personal opinion against professional evaluation. "They're good men operating within a brutal world," he said finally. "Their methods reflect necessity rather than natural inclination. In another life, they might have been scholars, artists, builders—their intelligence and skills directed toward creation rather than strategic destruction."

The insight revealed deeper understanding than mere tactical alliance—genuine appreciation for the complexity underlying the ATEEZ officers' fearsome reputation. Unlike outsiders who saw only calculated violence, Yeosang recognized the fundamental principles guiding their operations.

"Hongjoong carries the heaviest burden," he continued, his voice softening slightly. "Each decision, each casualty, each compromise weighs on him even when necessity leaves no alternative. Yet he never passes that weight to others—maintains responsibility without giving up despite personal cost."

"And Seonghwa?" Ella asked, curious about his perception of the quartermaster whose controlled precision had reminded her of Yeosang himself.

"The foundation that enables Hongjoong's leadership," he replied without hesitation. "His careful analysis balances the captain's intuitive strategy, creating operational effectiveness that neither could achieve alone." He paused thoughtfully before adding, "Their partnership represents complementary strengths rather than competition—rare in any context, nearly unique among pirates."

"Wooyoung?" she prompted, continuing her exploration of his perspectives on the officers.

A small but genuine smile touched Yeosang's features—rare expression she remembered from their childhood, reserved for moments of authentic pleasure rather than strategic presentation. "Exactly as he appears," he said. "His theatrical energy isn't performance but genuine nature. Yet beneath the constant movement lies remarkable intelligence—he gathers information through casual conversation that formal questioning could never extract."

"Yunho, the heart of their operation," Yeosang answered immediately. "His natural kindness could be mistaken for weakness by those who don't understand its function. But his compassion creates bonds throughout the crew that tactical authority alone could never establish. The men follow Hongjoong's orders out of respect, but they'd die for Yunho out of genuine loyalty."

"And Mingi—" Yeosang stated finally.

Ella leaned forward particularly interested in his assessment of the quiet gunner whose wooden carvings had unknowingly connected all three of them across fifteen years.

Yeosang's expression grew more thoughtful, suggesting deeper consideration than previous responses required. "The most complex despite appearing simplest," he said carefully. "His quiet exterior hides remarkable perception and emotional intelligence. He observes relationships and interactions that others miss entirely, understands motivations beyond surface behavior."

This assessment aligned with Ella's own observations of Mingi's watchful presence, his rare words carrying weight out of proportion to their economy. Yet Yeosang's insight suggested deeper understanding than mere tactical evaluation—genuine appreciation for complexities others might overlook.

"Why did you stay with them?" she asked, the question addressing fundamental choice rather than mere circumstance. "When Hongjoong offered freedom without obligation, why remain aboard a pirate vessel rather than establishing independent practice?"

The question clearly struck deeper territory than previous exchange, Yeosang's expression shifting toward greater reserve before deliberately relaxing into unusual openness. "Because they offered genuine choice rather than merely alternative obligation," he said finally. "And because their mission against slave traders represented purpose beyond mere survival—opportunity to transform personal suffering into constructive resistance."

The explanation revealed philosophical alignment rather than merely practical arrangement—shared principles rather than simple convenience. Unlike her carefully calculated assessment of potential alliance aboard the ATEEZ, Yeosang had found authentic purpose that went beyond tactical advantage.

"And now?" she asked softly. "Knowing who I am—that I'm the girl they've searched for all these years?"

"The choice remains yours," he assured her immediately. "Whether you reveal your identity or maintain your current presentation, my loyalty extends to you directly rather than merely their mission. Whatever you decide, I'll support without qualification or condition."

The promise—alliance without demand, protection without expectation—created emotion beyond tactical assessment. For fifteen years, Ella had navigated captivity through careful calculation of advantage against vulnerability, protection against exploitation. Yeosang's unconditional support represented freedom beyond mere physical liberation—choice without strategic consequence.

"Thank you," she whispered, the simple gratitude encompassing far more than his current assurance.

Without conscious decision, she moved forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace that went beyond tactical consideration. The contact—initiated without calculation or strategic purpose—represented emotional truth rather than rational assessment, genuine connection rather than deliberate action.

For a moment, Yeosang remained perfectly still, his body tense with surprise at this unexpected physical closeness. Then, with careful movements that suggested both unfamiliarity and genuine desire, his arms encircled her in returned embrace—tentative at first, then firmer as emotional response overcame habitual caution.

It was the first genuine human contact either had experienced in fifteen years without tactical purpose or enforced compliance—chosen connection rather than calculated advantage or unwanted imposition. The simple act of embracing contained healing beyond words, tangible proof that something fundamental had survived fifteen years of deliberate dehumanization.

"We made it," she whispered against his shoulder, the words emerging from deep recognition rather than conscious thought. "Despite everything, we survived to find each other again."

His arms tightened briefly, the gesture conveying agreement beyond verbal confirmation. For several moments, they remained in this unexpected connection, neither willing to break physical proof of reunion after fifteen years believing the other forever lost. When they finally separated, Yeosang's carefully controlled expression had softened into genuine emotion—vulnerability he clearly revealed to no one else aboard the ATEEZ.

"I should return to my cabin," Ella said eventually, practical consideration overriding emotional need. "Extended absence might draw unwanted attention."

Yeosang nodded, understanding flowing between them without extensive explanation. "Dawn watch is quietest," he replied, the practical information conveyed in neutral tone that would appear unremarkable to potential observers. "Medical bay remains unoccupied until morning rounds begin."

The invitation for further private conversation registered clearly despite its indirect delivery—evidence that some habits formed under surveillance remained useful aboard pirate vessel despite apparent freedom. Ella nodded understanding, grateful for his continued respect for strategic communication.

"Rest well, Angel," she said softly, the childhood nickname carrying new meaning after fifteen years' separation. "Thank you for keeping our wolf safe all these years."

As she prepared to leave, Yeosang carefully rewrapped the wooden wolf and pressed it into her hands. "Take it," he said quietly. "It's always been meant for moments when either of us needed strength. Tonight, that's you."

The gesture—returning their shared treasure without qualification or condition—echoed their childhood exchanges, when the carved animal had passed between them during difficult periods. Unlike those earlier transfers, conducted through careful concealment to avoid Blackwell's notice, this exchange occurred through deliberate choice rather than desperate necessity.

"Until tomorrow," she promised, securing the wolf within her clothing with practiced movement that spoke of years hiding treasured possessions from hostile discovery.

As she slipped silently from the medical bay, moving through darkened corridors with habitual caution, Ella felt subtle shift in her carefully maintained reality. For fifteen years, survival had required calculated solitude—alliance temporary and limited, connection dangerous beyond immediate advantage. Now, against all probability, genuine recognition had appeared in the most unlikely location: aboard notorious pirate vessel, among men feared throughout maritime world for ruthless efficiency and precise vengeance.

The officers of the ATEEZ had built their fearsome reputation on the foundation of childhood oath to find one lost girl. And now that very girl moved through their ship's passages, carrying knowledge that could fulfill fifteen years' search or shatter carefully maintained alliance. The power of that knowledge—the choice to acknowledge or deny her true identity—represented freedom unlike any she had experienced since childhood.

For the first time in fifteen years, y/n held genuine choice rather than merely strategic options. The realization carried both excitement and terror as she returned to her cabin in the heart of the most feared pirate vessel on the seven seas, its black sails cutting through darkness like shadow given form, its reputation for merciless precision earned through years of calculated violence against slave traders who never understood the personal vendetta driving their destruction.

Clutching the wooden wolf Mingi had carved fifteen years earlier—the tangible connection that had unknowingly linked her to both her past aboard The Crimson Serpent and her seven years with Yeosang under Blackwell's control—she whispered her nightly ritual, the familiar names grounding her amid turbulent revelation: "Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy."

But tonight, she added the sixth name without hesitation, acknowledgment rather than discovery: "Angel."

Tomorrow would bring further navigation of this complex situation—continued assessment of the officers' expectations, strategic planning for potential outcomes, careful balancing of vulnerability against advantage. But tonight, for the first time since childhood, she allowed herself to think about possibility beyond mere survival—connection beyond calculated alliance, protection beyond temporary advantage.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki @lezleeferguson-120 @uniquecloudbread @miniverse-zen @symmieangela @monstacheol @ateezswonderland

#ateez fanfic #ateez pirate au #ateez x reader #hongjoong x reader #mingi x reader #seonghwa x reader #wooyoung x reader #ateez smut #hongjoong #jeong yunho #song mingi #jung wooyoung #park seonghwa #ateez angst

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chelseeebe · 10 months ago

Text

never leave (nevermind)

18+ mdni. canon compliant sorta kinda. takes place during the events of s4. violent scenes described. r and eddie are exes. reader gets vecna'd. lots of angst.

a/n: i've been writing this on and off for what feels like months and it's definitely noticeable in parts where my writing improves drastically. howeverrr, i've been wanting to write something s4 related for a while bc most of my fics are au's and as fun as they are, the canon material is also v fun (just very difficult to translate into a fic)

8.9k words.

being home for spring break meant one thing; avoiding eddie munson like the plague.

it wasn’t exactly easy what with being practically neighbours but you’d certainly tried to make yourself invisible around the trailer park.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you hadn’t seen him for eleven months, not even a trace of that wild hair until one friday night when his van screamed down the gravel road, music bleating loud enough for you to hear inside. you’d known it was d&d night, he still held the club at the high school and no doubt would still be in charge of it, even after he eventually graduates.

you shouldn’t have even looked. it’s not like you wanted to see him. just curious as to why he felt the need to make so much noise so late at night.

that’s when your eyes saw her, green hawkins high skirt and the fluffy ponytail to match, flouncing out of the van without a care in the world.

chrissy cunningham wasn’t exactly who you’d imagined eddie would go for. she was prim and proper, wasn’t into smoking weed and talking about ozzy osbourne but pom poms and cheer routines instead.

it shouldn’t even hurt.

you’d been broken up for the best part of a year, away to college, living what was supposed to be your best life.

but it does.

pangs through your chest in insurmountable waves, rushing to duck down beneath the window before either of them saw you peeking.

you don’t dare look out again, maybe it was the fear of being caught or more likely for fear of hurting yourself anymore.

eddie’s single, he can do what or whomever he likes.

slinking back into the couch, hoping the crackly tv would drown out any of the lingering thoughts.

a sharp, stabbing sensation rings through your head, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to shut it down.

only since you’d been back here, in hawkins had you felt it. people always whispered about how this town was cursed, perhaps it was you after all, bringing the bad luck to the innocent people of this shit hole.

you drag your feet along the corridor to your bedroom, deciding that being buried beneath your blanket was better than constantly punishing yourself with sly glances out the window.

a multitude of fists pummel at your door, sunlight just barely breaking through the clouds as your eyes open.

nothing in this world could be so important to cause this reaction, especially not at this time of the day.

you slink to the door, grumbling your way through the trailer.

the door swings open, revealing a very out of breath dustin henderson and max mayfield, looking frantic as they pant on your doorstep.

“what the hell? it’s nine am,” you grunt, wondering how the two even knew you were home.

being with eddie had meant you’d come to adopt the gaggle of kids he played d&d with, driving them to and from games, offering a place to stay when their parents thought they were at each others houses while they were actually fighting monsters.

the usual.

the monster stuff was secondary, getting thrown into the deep end last summer after what was supposed to be a shitty mall job to save up for college, had turned into slimy monsters trying to kill you.

eddie had only really seen the aftermath, the piles of what remained of starcourt on the floor and the cuts that littered your limbs. you had told him that night what had actually happened, terrified that the government were listening at your door, ready and waiting to throw you in jail for speaking about what you’d seen.

dustin had made it very clear that you had to be careful not to talk too openly about it, delving into the whole world that rumbled beneath your town.

you weren’t exactly eager to relive that night in the mall, a haze of slobbering monsters and telekinetic little girls. putting it to the back of your mind as some weird fever dream, a symptom of living in hawkins.

“eddie’s in trouble,” dustin frowns, “is your mom here?” forcing himself into the trailer, max at his heels.

“no she’s not-” closing the door behind the rude tweens, “i’m sorry- what’d you say?” hoping you’d misheard him.

he peers down the hall, lousily checking the perimeter, “eddie’s in trouble,” completely serious.

“and what does that have to do with me?” putting your hands on your hips, hoping to display some sort of authority, though it rendered useless against their stubborn attitudes.

“remember the mall?” he deadpans, grabbing the phone from your wall as max pulls out a list of numbers.

“yeah? i’m still not.. why’re you here? you can’t help him at his trailer?”

dustin sighs, long and exaggerated, “he’s not at his trailer. we don’t know where he is,” aggressively punching in numbers, “and why didn’t you tell me you were back? i thought we were friends!” ever the sarcastic little dweeb you’d always had a soft spot for.

“i didn’t tell anyone,” shrugging as you slink into the kitchen, deciding that if they were going to stay, you were at least going to need coffee, “i still don’t understand what’s going on!”

“we’ll explain later,” max yells, fumbling around in her backpack.

you tut, relieved that the pounding in your head had subsided at least.

you’re somehow roped into driving the two to family video, receiving the details on the drive over.

cops had swarmed the trailer park by the time you were ready, piling into wayne’s trailer, talking in hushed voices and yelling at anyone that dared to leave their own homes.

wayne had come back from work this morning to find chrissy cunningham’s body on his floor. limbs broken and her eyes weeping with blood.

any sane human would assume it was eddie’s doing. he didn’t exactly hold the best reputation in this damned town, but you knew murder wasn’t anything he was capable of.

“that monster, from the mall,” dustin continues, leaning over the centre console, “that has something to do with this, i know it,” speaking with such confidence that you had no choice but to believe him.

“how do you know that?” you question wearily, pulling into the parking lot, “i’m not saying i don’t believe you, but how do you know for sure?”

“well,” he buffers, “i don’t, but i’m 99.9 percent certain,” hopping out of the car before you can get another word in.

you contemplate just waiting in the car for them to be done with whatever the fuck it is they’re even doing. not keen on seeing more people you really didn’t want to.

you follow them in either way, ducking your head in some half-assed disguise.

“-dustin!” robin squeals, reaching out to grab his arm, “those are my returns, you dweeb!”

she and steve turn to you, perfectly in-sync, “when the hell did you get back?” speaking in unison. it’d be unsettling if you hadn’t spent the entirety of last summer with them both.

you shake your head, “uh..” regretting your decision not to just wait in the car, “a few days ago.”

“and you didn’t tell me?” robin huffs, thankfully distracted with the mess dustin was inflicting upon her store to chastise you too badly.

“sorry,” you say meekly, picking up the fallen tapes from the floor as a shitty kind of apology.

she smiles gently at you, before turning back to dustin with a seeding hatred in her eyes, “what are you little nerds even doing here? do you not have anyone else to piss off on a saturday morning?”

“eddie’s in trouble,” dustin repeats for what is probably the thousandth time today, holding the receiver up to his ear.

“oh eddie?” steve quips, “what’d he do this time?”

dustin holds his finger up to shush him, unloading his rehearsed spiel down the phone to whoever.

steve looks over to you for some clarity but you just shrug, not really any wiser on what was actually going than he was.

this goes on for what feels like hours, listening to dustin and max inquire about eddie to each and every person on their call list, just to end up with a dejected frown when absolutely nobody has heard from him.

“rick,” dustin nods, drumming his fingers against the desk, “rick! he said he was going to meet rick today! d’you know where reefer rick lives?” swivelling in his chair to glare at you.

“reefer rick?” robin repeats with such disdain, it’d honestly have been nicer if she’d just laughed in his face.

you shrug, “i don’t know.. maybe?” offering absolutely zero insight whatsoever.

“you know, you were only together for four years,” he snarls, doing nothing to help his cause.

“oh i’m so sorry that i can’t remember every single place we went together,” you hiss back.

dustin eyes the empty computer and you can almost see the lightbulb go off above his head. tapping into the family video system as if he had any right to be here.

“you’re not supposed to be on that!” robin hollers, reaching for the mouse though his hands are quicker.

“stop it!” he screeches, typing rapidly into the computer, “jesus christ, how many rick’s are there?” scrolling the plethora of rick names that had appeared.

he figures it out pretty quickly.

realising that reefer rick probably wasn’t using the local video rental store to watch sixteen candles or risky business.

“you know where that is?” he asks steve, tapping the address on screen.

“uh.. i think so,” steve wavers, squinting his eyes.

“great,” dustin shoots up, grabbing his backpack without a second thought, “you drive,” pointing at steve, “you follow,” turning to you, giving zero alternative or chance to protest before he’s out the door, tugging at the handle of steve’s car.

you do as he says, obviously. fearing that if he were to be left alone with robin for too long, she might just wring his neck.

eddie’s nowhere to be found, the house looks empty and his van isn’t here leaving you back at square one.

“he has to be here,” dustin frets, pointing at the large shed on the other side of the yard, “let’s just have a look.. you wanna find him don’t you?” turning to you specifically.

a few years ago you would’ve said yes with zero hesitation but now you’re not sure if you even care. the thought of seeing eddie again makes you a little nauseous. not even owing to the fact that he was a potential murder suspect.

“why’re you looking at me?” you scowl, “i think we should just leave this to the police.”

“no!” stopping dead in his tracks, “they’ll kill him and you know that,” his eyes sharp as everyone falls into silence.

he was right, as he often is. which makes this all the more irritating.

you nod, gesturing for him to continue to the rundown shack behind the house.

there’s nothing in there, at least no signs of one eddie munson.

it all just seems useless. if eddie had used the neglected brain in his head, he’d be far away

from hawkins by now. he was nifty enough to survive on his own, you were sure about that.

steve jabs at the tarpaulin as you peer out of the door and into the quickly darkening night sky, spinning rapidly as the tarp crinkles and something comes flying out.

eddie.

with his hands now pinning steve back against the wall, chest heaving with sheer, seething anger.

only dropping his hold on him when it registers who it actually is, eyes wide and startled.

a million and one feelings rush through your veins. you hadn’t prepared to actually see him again, to now be stilled by the sight of him locking eyes with you.

the slow realisation dawns on him, quickly forgetting that he was a wanted man, all encompassed by your presence in this suddenly stifling shed.

steve gasps for air, breaking the tension and pulling the attention back to him. robin’s quick to soothe his arm while dustin launches into a quick scolding for eddie.

it’s not long before he moves onto the next phase of his master plan, dragging max to the corner to loudly discuss what they should do.

“when’d you get back?” eddie asks, leaning against the dusty wood panelling, “i haven’t seen you..” his voice cracks but he’s unwavering.

good, you thought. though really it was all useless now.

“couple’a days ago..” picking at the wood splinter on the wall, “when’d you start murdering teenagers?” hoping it wasn’t too harsh of a dig.

“ha ha,” he deadpans, running his hand over his face, “you don’t think i did it, do you?” worry seeping through his tone.

you shake your head no, choosing to meet his eyes, a little reassurance that even if you did think he was a loser, you definitely didn’t think he was a murderer too.

he nods, sighing into his palm, “fuck,” deflated, exhausted by the day he had endured, “they’re gonna kill me,” shrunken into himself, resembling a dejected little puppy.

“they’re not gonna kill you,” but your voice shakes a little, not unnoticed by eddie.

“you don’t sound so sure,” he chuckles, turning his gaze to the rotting floorboards. he looked horrible, to put it nicely. the bags under his eyes were dark and his hair an even wilder mess than usual.

“i’m not really,” refusing to lie to him, even now.

he looks up again, unwavering melancholy in his eye, “how’d you find me?”

you glance over at dustin’s busybody, passionately explaining the next steps to an exhausted looking steve, his hands gesturing for a fight. “he tracked down rick’s address from family video and then wouldn’t let us leave until we found you.”

eddie grin grows, finding the motivation to get himself off of the dirty floor, “yeah.. sounds about right.”

you’re too close for comfort now that you’re eye to eye, uncomfortably close while your relationship was still so fragile.

he breaks away first, striding over to dustin, “what’s the plan? i really need you to save my ass, dude.”

dustin nods, vowing to keep eddie alive, no matter what it takes.

dustin doesn’t hang around.

the minute the suns risen, he’s pounding on the bedroom door, waking the sleeping pile of limbs you’d collapsed in.

“i’m gonna kill him.. i’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” robin grumbles, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, staring daggers at the door.

“eddie’s not answering!” he hollers, busting through the door, “we have to go back to rick’s! now!” pulling at nancy’s arm, presuming that steve had told him no to driving him around this early.

you rouse just enough to really see the panicked look on his face, swinging your legs off of the bed to grab his shoulders, “what happened? we can go i just need five minutes.”

“he’s not answering,” panting between his words, “i told him to check in at six! it’s nearly six thirty.. something’s wrong.”

“okay,” you nod, trying to wake yourself up, “okay.. let me get dressed,” finding your discarded pants and practically jumping into them.

dustin’s in the passenger seat before you can even run a brush through your hair, only just able to brush your teeth before he’s got his fist on the horn.

“jesus christ dude,” you exclaim, shoving the keys into the ignition and speeding off before he has the chance to chastise you again.

you’re grateful that it’s still early and the chances of getting a ticket are slim because you most definitely had broken some kind of speed limit, but truthfully it was mostly to get dustin to shut the hell up.

knowing eddie meant that you knew he was probably fast asleep, ignoring the cracklings of the walkie for the sake of a couple extra minutes of shuteye.

you turn down the long wooded drive, wondering if rick was back yet and just how he’d react to eddie’s ex-girlfriend and some random kid showing up on his doorstep at seven in the morning.

you’re forced to slam on the breaks, almost sending dustin through the windscreen as eddie’s face appears before you, his hands slam the hood, screaming something nonsensical.

“ohmygodohmygod,” he rushes, throwing himself into the backseat of your car, “you need to drive!”

“what the hell happened?” dustin probes as you turn around, only now seeing the barrage of cars parked outside of the house.

“jason..” he gasps, “those fucking meatheads he hangs around with.. they just showed up,” sliding down into the footwell just as jason rounds the corner of the house, yelling something about your car as you hightail the fuck out of there.

“they.. they- they think i’m the devil or some shit,” eddie gasps, his petrified face appearing in the gap between your seats, “they’re fucking crazy man.. fuck!”

your fingers tighten around the steering wheel, hoping to speed away before they got wise enough to follow you.

jason wasn’t much but his lackeys would have zero issue beating the shit out of eddie, or you for that matter.

you instinctively go to the first place you can think of, which in hindsight seems like a mistake now the gravel is crunching beneath your wheels.

forest hills was still crawling with cops trying to determine who or what had killed chrissy, though thankfully at daybreak their presence seemed to have dwindled a little.

“we should be okay here for a while.. stay in the car until i get the door open,” flashing him a harsh glare to make sure he really understands.

the three of you barrel into your trailer, grateful for the silence, unsure of how you’d ever explain this entire situation to your mom.

“shit man,” eddie marvels the walls, mouth hung open, “haven’t seen the inside of this thing for.. a while,” a sadness to his tone.

“yup,” choosing to ignore his glum cadence in favour of keeping the peace, “you can sleep in my bed,” tossing your keys into the bowl.

“you sure?” eddie asks, though he’s already making his way up the hall, all too familiar with your trailer.

“knock yourself out,” collapsing onto the couch to resume your own interrupted slumber. in a time not so long ago, you’d have relished crawling up next to eddie in bed, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to tuck you up under his armpit.

you brush off the glum feeling, wrapping your own arms around your body instead.

dustin gets to alerting the wheeler residence, informing them all that eddie’s okay and you were going to hang out here until he came up with some plan.

it’s almost noon before eddie rises again, asking if he can take a shower before dustin unleashes his plan.

that horrid buzzing niggles it’s way back into your brain. a dull pain that quickly becomes sharp, stabbing at the sides of your head.

“are you okay?” dustin questions nervously, ditching his notebook to step closer with caution.

your fingers clutch your temple, unable to form a coherent sentence as the pain throbs through your frontal lobe. features screwed up in searing pain.

“eddie!” he screeches, his fists pummelling against the bathroom door.

eddie emerges, towel slung around his waist, barely able to turn the water on yet, “what? what the hell is going on?” quickly shutting up when he sees your sorry state. “are you okay? what happened?” rushing over without a second thought.

dustin stands in horror just behind, watching as eddie’s thumb swipes the underside of your nose, coming back an unexpected shade of maroon.

“she just dropped! i-i don’t.. i’ve never seen this before!”

“you’re bleeding,” eddie fuses, “dustin.. tissue now,” tilting your chin upwards.

the pain subsides slightly, allowing your eyes to reopen and meet his, “there’s.. tylenol in the drawer,” letting him keep your chin between his fingers.

dustin speeds around the room, collecting supplies as your laboured breaths become easier, the ache dissipating as quickly as it came on.

eddie dabs at your nose until it’s clean, shaking out two of the pills onto his palm for you to take. “what the hell was that?” nagging yet concerned all rolled into one.

“i dunno, i’ve been getting these.. headaches, since i’ve been back,” looking between dustin’s horrified face and eddie’s distressed one. “it’s probably nothing.”

“that didn’t look like nothing,” dustin adds, still wary of your state. with all of the supernatural happenings at the moment, he had right to be.

“it’s fine,” shrugging them both off before the questions got too much. “what’s the plan dustin?”

he and eddie share another glance, pretending that you weren’t right there in front of them. “uh..” erring the line of caution before jumping right into it, “okay so we need to go down.. down there.”

it’s stupid, reckless even.

but what other choice do you have when the world is caving in and your ex-boyfriend is on the run from the police?

eddie climbs through the window of the rv, pulling your eyes away with a quickness as his shirt rises up to reveal his lower back.

the door swings open some moments later, gesturing for you all to climb inside as he gets to hot-wiring the gargantuan vehicle.

you pile into the back, ducking below the windows while his fingers fiddle with the live wires.

“do you even know what you’re doing?” nancy asks, her eyebrow raised in quiet concern.

“nancy please,” eddie huffs, “while your dad was teaching you how to ride a bike, my dad was teaching me how to hot-wire a car.. i know what i’m doing.”

she hums, settling into the passenger seat without another word.

it shouldn’t be attractive. you should think it’s utterly reprehensible to steal and engage with such criminal behaviour.

but you can’t.

not with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth like that, his hands whirring away as robin looks on with a screwed up face.

the engine roars loud, alerting the entire trailer park to your existence. eddie hightails it into the back, choosing the empty spot next to you as he yells for steve to drive.

this all so ridiculous, flying about the back of the rv as steve speeds out of town. finding somewhere solitary for you all to prepare.

everyone seems to be in cahoots about something, scarpering from the rv the second you walk inside. leaving you and eddie to navigate through the uncomfortable tension alone.

you take a seat anyway, picking up the discarded knife on the table, running your finger along the dull blade with a sigh.

you’d never imagined that the two of you could ever be so awkward together, having been close for the entirety of your lives, it felt awful to not even want to look at him now.

“i’m sorry.. about chrissy,” you swallow, still sharpening the knife, hoping he won’t say something to make you drive it into his throat.

the rest of the group ‘prepare’ loudly outside. dustin screeching at the top of his lungs for steve to put him down while robin tuts in annoyance.

eddie looks up, a little glum, “yeah.. she was a good girl, she didn’t deserve that,” dropping his own knife on the table in front of you with a clatter.

“i didn’t realise you two were.. together or whatever,” the look on his face immediately forces you to regret your words, hoping the ground would just swallow you whole.

he scoffs, “together?” knocking his knee into yours softly, “you thought we were together?”

oh my god. it’s worse than you could’ve ever imagined. cheeks burning as your eyes meet his, “oh! i thought.. someone said.. i don’t- i don’t know,” clinging onto the knife with sweaty palms, deciding whether to slice your own mouth off so nothing else could fall out of it.

“she was buying weed,” he laughs quietly, “pretty girl but.. not really my type, you know?”

you nod, looking back at the table in hopes that he’d just drop it now. so much for being the nonchalant, cool ex. all you’d done is solidify your psycho status.

“i haven’t really..” he begins again, never knowing when to leave well enough alone, “i haven’t moved on, i guess,” shrugging as his own gaze slips.

if you were going to live through the end of the world, you hoped it’d come soon. the tension in this cramped rv was enough to make whatever was happening with the underworld seem like a dream.

“oh!” is all you can conjure up. unsure of what response he was expecting from you. the breakup had been amicable.. sort of. to you, it made sense to breakup. you were away to college and he was repeating senior year again. you had almost died in the town you grew up in, he hadn’t.

it was a multitude of happenings that forced you apart. grief and it’s intertwining webs of despair had proved too much for your relationship. too much for you to handle on your own.

eddie hadn’t agreed.

he couldn’t understand it, why you needed out of hawkins so bad. but he wasn’t there, hadn’t seen the things you had.

the guilt had wrecked you for the first few months, afraid that you’d abandoned him in that very town for a new life after promising for so long that you wouldn’t.

“sorry, i shouldn’t have said that- i didn’t mean anything by it,” he fumbles, pulling on his bottom lip, “well i did! just.. not the time or place, you get me?” digging himself further into his hole.

your eyes meet his again, gnawing at the skin on your bottom lip, “it’s okay.. you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“i think what i meant to say was that i missed you.. i’m glad you’re back,” eddie coughs, un-jumbling his words at last.

it’s simple enough and really shouldn’t make your heart swell the way it does. you weren’t together. he wasn’t yours. that was that.

but maybe there’s something about experiencing the end of the world with someone that makes you a little reminiscent.

“i missed you too,” you smile, hoping that the overwhelming feeling of adrenaline is just from the interdimensional monster that lay beneath you and absolutely nothing to do with his doe eyes and plump lips.

his eyes flicker, trailing from your eyes to your lips. the air seems to shift around you, leaving the room at an expedient rate.

“you missed me?” eddie growls, looking back into your eyes, “then why’d you leave me here?” a deep set frown forming on his lips that wasn’t there a minute earlier.

“what?” you question, taken aback by his sudden change in demeanour.

“you left me. you left me here to die after you told me you wouldn’t,” he snarls, leaning closer.

his eyes are glossy now, glazed over with what looks like tears.

“i didn’t.. no,” backing away from him, “you were supposed to come with me.. you.. you..” shaking your head.

eddie’s eyes change completely now, pupils turning a slick grey. a dark cloud fills the room, overflowing out of the tiny window, covering the furniture and your body with the thick smog.

“it’s your fault,” the voice rumbles, no longer bearing any semblance to eddie’s, the walls decay in front of your eyes, wallpaper rotting as they crack and crumble.

“it’s your fault,” it repeats, louder this time, “he’s going to die,” it cackles, filling the room with the booming voice.

“no,” you scream into the void, thrashing around to find the source, “take me! take me instead!” yelling as loud as your throat would allow, but it’s futile.

there’s no one here.

eddie had gone. crumbled into a pile of ash on the floor, left on your own in some barren wasteland, the blood-curdling screams of menacing creatures travel through your body.

“you can’t save yourself,” the voice booms, pulling your eyes to the horrific humanoid figure stood amongst the ruins.

“what do you want?” you scream, stepping backwards over the rubble.

the man.. thing just smiles, “i’ve been watching you for some time, you shouldn’t have come back here,” walking towards your cowering frame.

“w-why? who are you?” fingers trembling as you attempt to grab onto something, anything to bring you back to earth.

everything you grasp crumbles into ashes, disappearing before your eyes as you struggle to breathe. wheezing through the dark clouds, not an inch of relief.

“we’ve met before,” completely ominous, “you don’t remember me?” tilting his head to the side.

it feels like you’ve seen it before, somewhere in a far away dreamland.

that’s when it clicks.

the bad dreams you’d been having, there had always been something there, a presence you couldn’t ever see clearly.

but now it makes sense.

“h-how did you do that? how did you get into my dreams?” the rubble beneath your feet disappeared with every step.

his head shakes and the landscape rumbles, a clattering of stones fall to the ground, jolting your body backwards.

“you let me in,” he rumbles, stepping closer, “you’re the reason any of this is happening.. it’s time for you to pay.”

his spindly fingers reach out, forcing you further and further back until your foot catches against a stone, sending you flying backwards into a sudden abyss.

you awaken with a harsh gasp, eyes opening to find eddie towering above, his brows threaded together in fear as the others screech around you.

“she’s awake! are you okay?” eddie rushes, holding your face between his palms, “oh my god,” as white as a sheet, shock rippling through his body.

you nod, blinking in the sudden bright light, exhausted from doing nothing at all. nothing felt real except eddie’s fingers brushing over your worn skin.

too tired for tears, too afraid to speak. your eyes shut on their own, trying to ground yourself back in this reality.

you relax into his hold, your breathing falling into line with his as their voices turn into humming background noise, focusing on the path of eddie’s fingertips instead.

eddie hadn’t dared to leave your side, following you around like a lost puppy, watchful eyes widening every time you moved or breathed too loud.

it would’ve felt suffocating if you weren’t scared to death. instead, it was a welcome comfort. a sense of familiarity in the most awful time.

you felt immense guilt, knowing that the end of the world had to happen for you to speak to him again. the man you’d gotten married to a thousand times in your head, the man you’d had a plethora of baby names with. it was all so insane.

dustin hadn’t exactly instilled much confidence in you. with news of fred benson and patrick mckinney’s deaths, he had figured out the pattern of attack.

they’d all died the same way, eyes burst and their limbs snapped one by one.

eddie had recalled how chrissy went into a similar trance, her eyes glossed over, completely unresponsive. though the moment he’d said it, his heart sank, realising that chrissy wasn’t the only one he’d witnessed like that.

logically, that meant that you were next.

dustin had uncovered what was essentially a countdown to your death. nobody wanted to say it, or even acknowledge it, but you weren’t stupid.

that meant that whatever plan he had, he had to perfect tonight, ready to attack tomorrow.

before it’s too late.

he’d said the quiet part out loud. a shared grimace encompassing the room, pitiful glances in your direction.

despite the fact that your demise was quickly approaching, you had felt a strange sense of peace. perhaps actually knowing your fate was better than not knowing.

there would be an end to all of this.

steve had offered his house for you all, his parents away on some trip for the next week meaning eddie could hide out in peace. a much better arrangement than the wheeler’s house again, ted had started to despise the groups of teenagers in his basement.

sleeping bags and blankets strewn across his gigantic living room, sleeping bodies filling every spare inch of carpet. none of you wanted to be apart for more than five minutes. sleeping on top one another was the ultimate comfort.

eddie had volunteered for first watch, keeping his eye steady on you from the corner of the room.

it’s a little difficult to fall asleep knowing that he was watching you like a hawk, surveying every tiny change and movement.

dustin was supposed to take over at some point in the early hours, but judging by the sounds of his rumbling snore, that wouldn’t be happening.

you sit up, shuffling over to eddie’s perch, avoiding your sleeping friends on the ground.

his eyes dart to the floor, as if he hadn’t been staring intensely at you for the last hour.

“d’you have a cigarette?” you whisper, knocking your knee into his.

he nods, raising his brow, “you don’t smoke?” baffled by your question.

you shrug, smiling into the darkness, “how would you know?” hoping it didn’t come across as snappy as it seemed.

he doesn’t reply, just shuffles around in his pocket, producing the scuffed up box with his lighter.

you nod towards the door, getting up from the floor with a small groan. limbs still aching and weary from your run in with death earlier.

he follows behind, glancing at the room of sleeping teens before slipping out onto the porch with you.

steve’s house was secluded, the massive back yard and the trees that surrounded it made sure that no one would find him here.

you perch on one of the lounge chairs, gesturing for eddie to join you, watching the steam from the pool dissipate into the chilly march night air. despite being in the same tiny town, his house was worlds apart from the trailer park you two grew up on.

he places a cigarette in your palm before sliding one between his own lips, passing you the lighter first.

it’s a silent exchange, unsure if you could talk about anything without crying, though it’s meaningful. eddie had been selfish plenty of times during your relationship but at his core, he’d put you before himself each and every time.

you light the cigarette, gazing off into the distance. hoping to god that he wouldn’t bring what had happened earlier up.

“when’d you start smoking?” he asks, keeping a respectable distance between you though he wishes that wasn’t something he had to worry about.

“when i found out that i was dying tomorrow,” exhaling slow, trying not to let your voice wobble.

he sighs, “you’re not gonna die,” with less conviction than you’d have liked, “you can’t die,” shaking his head at such a ridiculous thought, “you won’t.. you won’t,” mostly for his own sake.

your eyes squeeze shut, heart aching, squeezing your chest tight. last week you’d been terrified about your literature final and now none of it even mattered.

“what if i do?” you ask earnestly, finally meeting his eyes, “everyone else has? we don’t know if dustin’s right.. if we can beat him,” shrugging helplessly.

chrissy had died, patrick had died, fred had died. that meant you were next.

his jaw clenches, wishing you’d stop, “you’re not,” throwing his cigarette butt to the side, “i won’t let you, okay?”

you nod, albeit not believing a word he said. it was difficult to be so optimistic when the only evidence you had, said otherwise.

“this vecna..” eddie begins again, “he doesn’t know what’s about to hit him,” sounding slightly more confident than before, “we’re gonna kill him and you’re.. you’re gonna live and graduate and do all that great shit you still have to do.”

you don’t mistake the pain in his voice, the knowing that he should be there for all of that and that it had been his own fault for now being a footnote in the story of your life.

“i really do miss you,” you clarify, “i’m not sure how much of our conversation earlier was a vision or not..”

eddie chuckles, breath shaky and unstable, “no.. you said that before, you know- before you got possessed,” bumping his shoulder into yours, thankfully injecting his fucked up humour into the otherwise dark conversation.

“was it scary?”

he scoffs, almost offended that you’d even ask, “i shit my pants,” smiling with the side of his mouth, not fully committed, “reminded me of that stupid movie you made me watch.”

he had never liked horror movies, this tough guy exterior that exclusively listened to metal was all a guise. he’d watched the film through his fingers, clinging onto your arm.

“you were very brave though,” letting your cigarette fall to the floor, sure to be lectured by steve in the morning.

he shies away, looking down for a brief second, “i’m not gonna let what happened to chrissy happen to you too..” meeting your gaze once more, “i promise.”

“i don’t think you can promise that,” sharing a meaningful glance.

“i can and i will.”

you nod hesitantly. his words, as much as you’d like to believe them, meant nothing when the supernatural was at play.

his eyes flicker down to your lips, just like they used to so many months ago. but you don’t pull back, only leaning in further.

if you lived past tomorrow, you’d no doubt regret this but as that wasn’t looking at all likely, what was a kiss between traumatised exes?

eddie makes the first real move, his palm coming to cradle your cheek. you hope to god this isn’t another vision, that he won’t be cruelly torn away from you this time.

“is this real?” you can’t stop yourself from asking, sighing as you do.

“this is real,” he assures, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “d’you want to stop?”

“no,” closing the already dwindling space between you, placing your hand on his in such earnest intimacy, a sensation you’d missed so deeply for an entire year.

your lips touch, your eyes falling shut as his breaths start to steady, humming into your mouth in satisfaction.

it didn’t feel so bad now, nothing could be so utterly terrifying while you’re touching him like this.

eddie breaks away first, only a few inches of distance, just to gaze into your starry eyes, “i never thought i’d be able to do that again,” with utmost sincerity.

“you weren’t supposed to,” shaking your head. if things had gone according to your plan, you’d have never seen him again.

but it doesn’t work that way.

fate had other plans for you.

his lips twitch into a small smile, thumb drawing over your tired cheeks, “can i do it again?”

“please.”

connecting your lips once more, the cold tip of his nose bumping softly against yours. it was impossible not to notice how well you fit together, moving in synchronicity and with such tenderly care.

inside, dustin wakes up in a cold sweat. looking over at the empty spot on the floor where you should be, but now we’re not.

“shitshitshit,” he panics, whispering loudly to himself as he crashes around the house, stepping over the sleeping bodies.

dustin’s panicked face shoots up from the window, gawping at the barely visible sight, straining to make out what the fuck he was even seeing.

it only dawns on him when your lips leave eddie’s, foreheads resting together that it would be in his best interest to not interject and end up with his ass beat.

you come back in some twenty minutes later, after a plethora of shared kisses and soothing words. deciding to settle in the same empty spot on the floor, his hand only comfortable enough to grace your waist, under the blanket.

now wasn’t the time for questions or prying eyes judging your decision. you weren’t even too sure yourself.

it’s the only time you’ve felt comfortable enough to sleep tonight, watching his chest rise and fall, knowing that he was here, alive and that for right now, you were too.

the carnage pulls you from your sleep, people yelling over pancakes and glass clattering as max’s shrill voice scolds lucas for being too loud.

you look around at the mess of blankets and empty sleeping bags, the door to the living room was closed though it made no difference.

you’d have preferred to stay in the empty room, unwilling to address the situation with eddie last night but your stomach rumbles, pulling you out of the room and into the bright, bustling hallway.

robin swings out of the kitchen at the sound of your presence. she’d clearly tried to help with the breakfast efforts, though unsuccessfully, emerging with flour down her shirt, jeans and somehow in her hair. she smiles gently at your weary eyes, “we didn’t wanna wake you.. you were knocked out.”

“thanks rob,” even though their incessant arguing and yelling did eventually rouse you from your sleep.

in the kitchen, dustin sits with his feet swinging off the tall stool, a too-wide, toothy grin growing on his face the second he spots you, “well good morning! how’d you sleep?” a sarcastic little quip that you know holds something deeper.

“great thanks, you?” narrowing your eyes as you fill a mug with coffee.

he waits for steve to exit the room, turning back to you with the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable, “yeah, really good,” he twists his body to peer out of the door, ensuring no one could hear, “so you and eddie huh?”

“me and eddie what?” refusing to entertain his cryptic questions.

“i saw you two last night, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” wiggling his stupid brows as he shovels yet another pancake into his uncontrollable, jabbering mouth.

“and i saw you wet the bed last year, do you want to go there?” flinging his taunting right back at him.

dustin’s mouth falls open, “you can be a real bitch, you know that?” taking his heaped plate back into the living room.

steve strolls back in, staring down dustin’s scowl before his eyes trail to you, “what’s wrong with him?”

you smile, tight-lipped and fully loaded as you pour a cup of coffee, “oh nothing,” looking over the food with slight disgust. the hunger hadn’t really hit you yet, too occupied with trying not to die to care about pancakes.

eddie interrupts your noisy brain, cackling as he comes into the kitchen, “maybe you should stop being such a smart-ass then,” immediately quietening down when he spots you.

you don’t speak, instead communicating with a shared look before you focus on the cup of coffee in your hand.

steve looks slowly between the two of you, “you good?”

“yeah.”

“yup.”

you both simultaneously reply, refusing to acknowledge the tension in the empty kitchen.

“o-kay,” steve whistles, deciding that sitting with dustin and his terrible attitude would be far better than whatever this was.

it’s not supposed to be awkward.

it was just a kiss. or multiple.

a few kisses between exes during the end of the world. that’s all.

“d’you sleep okay?” he dares to ask, feeling comfortable enough to make eye contact now that steve had left.

“yeah.. thank you, for looking after me,” smiling gently at the bleary eyed boy.

“i told you i would,” he reaffirms, “you’re not doing this on your own.”

“i know,” you nod, swallowing the growing lump, “but i’m scared eds.. i don’t want you to die because of me.”

eddie tuts, rounding the counter to place his hand on your arm, “that’s not-,”

dustin hollers, falling through the kitchen door, giving away the groups prying position, “ow shithead!” shoving lucas backwards as they materialise one by one.

dustin, lucas, max, erica.

in that order.

“are you fucking serious?” you screech, throwing your arms into the air.

this was low even for dustin.

“sorry! sorry! go back to confessing your love or whatever the hell was happening!” scurrying off to finish his pancakes and no doubt inform robin and steve what they’d witnessed.

“i can’t believe him,” you frown, turning to eddie who’s stifling his laugh. “it’s not funny,” but your lips twitch anyway.

“it’s kinda funny,” his hand still lingering on your arm, his smile reaching his eyes, “you don’t care if they know.. do you?”

you shrug, perhaps you did care a little bit. you were the one who’d broken up with him, deserted him for college. maybe you didn’t deserve a second chance.

“it’s okay..” he nods, as understanding as always, “this is weird, i get it," as understanding as he was, he wasn't able to conceal the dejected puppy gleam in his eye.

"it's not that," pathetically reaching for his hand, "i'm just.. i'm supposed to die today, i don't want to.. lead you on, or get your hopes up or whatever," putting your finger up to stop eddie from interrupting, "i don't need you to tell me that i'm not. just let me spiral about this," smiling as you speak, truly a means to soothe yourself, not just eddie.

"o..okay," his whole speech shut down, leaving him with nothing. his eyes flit over to the mountains of food steve had whipped up, "you should eat.. you've got a busy day of not dying to get through," smirking right through your snide glare.

something feels off, a nervous twisting in your stomach that makes you want to call the entire thing off.

you could go down there and fight this with them. screw whatever prophetic visions you’d had.

eddie hadn’t even wanted to go, desperate to stay in the attic with you, watching over in fear of losing you again.

“what if.. what if something happens and they don’t know how to fix it? they’re kids.” he’d pleaded, sat on the porch outside of the large house in your final moments of peace.

“dustin can’t do this on his own,” you cooed, only slightly wishing that he could execute this plan on his own. “you have to go. i’ll be okay..okay?” not entirely certain about the truthfulness of your words.

he takes a sharp intake of breath, fingers forming a weak fist, “you better be,” the moon reflecting off of his caramel iris’, capturing the entire universe in two tiny orbs, “i don’t want to lose you again.”

your head dips, quickly losing the ability to look him in the eye, overwhelmed with guilt and the reminder that you had been the one to end things.

“it’s okay,” grabbing your hand to place on his bouncing knee, “i’m not.. mad about it, or upset and you shouldn’t be either,” squeezing your fingers in a bid to draw your eyes back to him.

“i don’t-,” huffing a frustrated sigh, unable to form a coherent thought when the impending battle loomed over your heads. “everything is so fucked and i don’t know if we’re gonna make it this time.”

eddie’s fingers lace between yours, holding your hand tighter, “we’re gonna be fine.. okay? everyone is gonna be fine,” inching closer in the thick of the night, “i’m gonna be right back here, as soon as that bastard is dead.. i promise.”

this time, you punctuate his sentence for him, springing forward to latch your lips to his, using your free hand to cradle his stubbly cheek.

you long to kiss him forever, never escaping this embrace, knowing that there’s a chance it won’t happen again. his lips soft, desperate to stay attached to you, too.

“oh! shit! uhm-,” robin stutters, clattering out of the door.

you break apart, containing the low groan of disappointment, “sorry rob.. ‘s everything okay?” eddie’s as bashful as ever, his cheeks flushing a deep scarlet, even in the darkness.

“yeah! uh.. nancy told me to tell you that we’ve gotta go now or it’ll be too late,” swinging from the door as she speaks.

he glances at you again, longing for just one more minute of this peace. one more second of your touch.

but it doesn’t come.

they leave in a hurry, cycling maniacally away to the trailer park, leaving you, lucas, max and erica to conduct the rest of the plan. only fragments of hope left as you watch them disappear over the hill, praying for someone, anyone to just keep him safe.

everything is eerily calm, far too silent for the situation at hand.

you sit cross-legged in the attic, looking between lucas and max who had taken it upon themselves to converse through a notepad.

they reminded you of you and eddie once upon a time, giggling teenagers trying to navigate love together.

it’s sweet, full of the same adolescent innocence you were desperately trying to regain.

eventually they break apart, lucas traipsing over the creaky floorboards to check on you, equally confused by the serenity.

he turns to walk away, almost frozen as his brows furrow and his pupils dilate, “you killed them.”

your mouth falls open, immediately hushing him so as to not screw up nancy and dustin’s carefully thought out plan.

“you killed them all,” he parrots, a sinister air surrounding him. “eddie trusted you and you killed him.. you’re a murderer,” the venom flying off of his tongue, severing your heart in two.

the plan had worked. you were back in wherever it was you were taken before, confirmed by the sudden darkness, the wallpaper splintering and putrid stench that had filled your nose.

lucas isn’t lucas at all.

a mimic to the higher power cursing your town, only a small part of his master plan to destroy hawkins.

your surroundings melt away, lucas nor max no longer appearing before you. instead, you’re faced with a flash of red, and a maniacal cackle.

henry, as you’d since learnt he was called, begins his tirade, just as you’d planned.

“why didn’t you stop them?” he booms, appearing in the corner, “you let them go after everything i showed you.”

he didn’t scare you, not anymore. when the time was right, lucas would slide max’s walkman over your ears and pull you right out of this hellscape.

“they’re going to kill you,” standing stoic, resistant under his thumb. “you can’t hurt anybody else.. not anymore,” gritting your teeth, such determination to have him hear you.

his burnt frame disappears right before your eyes, a loud, blaring laugh appears from behind.

once again turning to darkness, only this time it’s accompanied by a chorus of screeching. feral creatures and familiar voices circle around your head.

his torment is ruthless, voices, namely eddie’s rattle around your brain, wailing and screaming, loud enough to make your ears ring and your head ache.

your eyes open to your trailer, watching yourself argue and cry at eddie.

the day you broke up.

“you’re just gonna leave me?” he despairs, just as feeble as the first time he’d said it.

“i can’t stay here eddie! you don’t get it! i nearly died.. i can’t do that again,” and yet, here you are.

a shrill, shrieking sound fills the room before the scene crumbles before your eyes leaving you to the decaying scene you bore witness to before. remnants of the creel house float through the scarlet sky, threatening to crash into each other.

“maybe i can’t hurt you, but you can hurt yourself,” vecna’s voice squawks, flashing forward to a scene you’ve never seen before.

eddie, with his back against a door, you can only assume he’s trying to keep something out. a grotesque mix of blood, sweat and tears seep down his cheeks, the door beginning to thump from the pressure of whatever was on the other side.

“this all could’ve been so easy,” rapidly wiping the imagine from your view, only to appear mere inches away, decrepit hand rising above your face. “don’t you wish you had just listened? don’t you wish that you had just come with me?” now mocking with his tone, condescending even though he’d gotten you exactly where you’d wanted.

“no.. no no no,” arms suddenly restricted by a slimy tendril, forcing your face to meet his, “you’re not real.. you’re not-“ a sudden, awful constriction wraps around your lungs, squeezing the air from your body.

“i’m not.. real?” he mocks, the corners of his mouth creep upwards, “i didn’t want this to happen this way but you’ve left me no choice.”

you gasp loudly for breath, struggling within his grasp for a means out of it. where was lucas? or max? what happened to the plan?

over the last few days, you’d become quite comfortable with the idea of dying. it became fact, an inevitable consequence of getting yourself tangled up in this entire thing.

but now, as it looms over your head, you want out.

you want to be with eddie. you want a dozen kids and a quaint house on the corner of maple. maybe a dog or a cat that he’d picked up on the side of the road. slow dancing in the kitchen after a day of warm sun.

you want to live.

his fist closes, leaving your lips blue and begging for oxygen. “this is what had to happen.. your time-“ his rambling cut off by a ground shattering boom, the tendril dropping your body at once.

he stumbles backwards, grabbing onto his chest. your vision too blurry to coherently make out what was happening, a mixture of colours that swirls away quickly.

your aching bones thump to the floor, gasping for air as the familiarity of the creel’s attic fills your peripheral.

max and lucas swarm your body, muttering over one another, their small hands shaking in fear as your head is placed on max’s lap.

“what the fuck? what the fuck do we do? lucas!” she hollers at lucas, as if either of them had any idea.

they shouldn’t have to be concerned with any of this, nor tasked with the pressure of keeping you alive. your breathing steadies though your chest still heaves, leaving the comfort of her hold to scan the room. making sure that this was real, that you were home.

four pairs of feet appear before you and not one of them the dusty pair of reebok’s you were waiting to see.

collapsing once again, in a crumpled heap on the dusty floorboards, your voice cracks, broken as you speak. still reeling from the onslaught of abuse you’d endured.

“where’s eddie?”

#eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader

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pepsiboyy · 1 year ago

Text

HEALING HEARTS.

pairing: chris sturniolo x fem!reader summary: where chris has been distant and loses his temper. warnings: angstttt (resolved), use of y/n, cursing a/n: felt angsty yayyy love you guys <3

"chris, you can't keep shutting me out like this!" i shouted, my fists balled up as i stood in front of him.

for the last three weeks, chris has given me little to no response when i would ask him questions, ask how his game is going, or even if i asked what's been bothering him.

chris let out an agitated sigh as he peeled off his headset and spun in his gaming chair, turning to me with an irritated expression. "i'm not shutting you out, y/n, i just need space sometimes."

"space?" i questioned, my voice raising a bit as i spoke. "you've been distance for weeks now, i feel like i'm walking on eggshells around you." i stated firmly, my arms coming up to cross tightly.

chris let out an angry groan as he stood up form his chair. "here you fuckin' go, with your yappin' and shit."

"yapping!?" i brought a hand to my chest, genuinely shocked at his tone.

"maybe if you gave me some space to breathe, we wouldn't be in this argument." he stated, having taken a few steps towards me.

"i just want to understand what's going on with you, chris. we're supposed to be a team here." i stated softly, my head clenching.

chris turned his head to the side as he reciprocated the arm cross, his bangs covering his eyes. "doesn't feel like a team when all you do is question me. and everything i do. i mean come on."

i felt tears begin to well up in my eyes as i stared at chris. "i'm not.. i'm not trying to question you, i'm just worried about us.. i feel like i'm losing what i love most, i feel like i'm losing you."

chris's eyes remained on the wall. while it seemed like his expression softened for a moment, his frustrated expression quickly returned. "maybe you are, y/n. maybe this isn't working."

his words hung in the air. heavy and painful. i felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me. "is that.. is that how you really feel?" i questioned, my voice trembling as it was just barely above a whisper.

chris's eyes remained to the side. "i don't know. i just can't keep doing this."

the silence that followed was deafening. with a soft wipe of a tear, i took a deep breath. "right. if that's how you feel, then i'll go." i stated, disbelief evident in my voice as i collected my hoodie and car keys.

chris seemed to take a shaky breath with some hesitation, his heart torn. but his anger and confusion seemed to get the better of him as he stood and watched me with an emotionless expression.

without another word, i stepped out of chris's room, the door slamming on my way out.

two days had gone by since that conversation, and i couldn't help but think about it every given moment. the scene repeated in my head.

my eyes remained glued to the ceiling, my body trembling from the cold. but i didn't have the energy to reach over and grip my blanket to pull over myself.

clank.

my eyes opened, but my body didn't move.

clank.

i slowly lifted my head and turned to the window that the sound had come from, flinching slightly when it had occurred a third time.

clank.

i shakily slid out of bed, finally gaining the energy to grab my blanket and wrap around myself.

the floorboard beneath me creaked as i took a few shaky steps, gently taking the thin curtain between my fingertips. i gently pulled it away and looked outside, flinching at the fourth rock that had come in contact with my window.

with a shaky grunt, i pulled open the window and looked outside.

my eyes met with a pair of bright blue ones, his brunette hair shaggy and his body covered in a black hoodie and blue jeans with air forces.

i stared at him in disbelief before i let out a deep sigh. "chris."

"can we please talk?" chris questioned.

i narrowed my eyes at him before i stepped back and shut my window, making my way down the stairs quickly and to the door.

when i opened the door, chris was already standing there.

i stared up into his eyes, which were red and brimmed with tears, probably similar to how mine looked.

"what are you doing here?" i questioned, my voice firm yet soft, as i hadn't really spoken much the last two days.

"i needed to see you," he said, his voice cracking slightly, "please, can i come in?"

with a soft nod, i stepped to the side and allowed him to make his way inside, shutting the door behind him.

we made our way to the kitchen, where i opened the fridge to shakily offer him a pepsi.

chris stared at it for a moment. he seemed to think about it. i furrowed my eyebrows, but they quickly returned to their original place as chris took the pepsi and smiled softly. "thanks."

we stood there for a moment, chris having yet to open his pepsi.

after a few moments, chris let out a deep sigh and set the pepsi down on the counter beside him. "y/n, i'm sorry." he began, his voice heavy with remorse. "i shouldn't have said what i said. i overreacted, and.. i was angry. and hurt. but that's no excuse."

i stared at him for a moment as i brought my arms up to cross over my chest.

"i know i've been pushing you away. i've been scared. scared of losing you, scared of getting hurt. but i realize now that pushing you away is the worst thing i could do."

tears welled up in my eyes as he spoke. "chris.."

chris very cautiously took a step closer to me. "i love you y/n, more than anything. and i'm willing to do what it takes to make this right. please, let me make this right. i want us to work. i want to be better for you."

i looked at him, searching his eyes for sincerity. i saw the pain and regret in them, but also a glimmer of hope. with a deep breath, i felt my own resolve wavering.

"chris, i need to know that you're serious. i need to know that you're not just doing this because you're afraid to lose me."

chis reached out, gently taking my hand. "i am serious, y/n. i've been doing a lot of thinking, and i realize that i need to face my fears and insecurities head-on. i want to work through them, with you. i want us to build a future together.

i felt my heart soften at his words. i had missed him so much. missed the warmth of his embrace and the way he made me feel safe. but i had to be sure.

"chris, if we're going to do this, we need to communicate better. we need to be honest with each other, even when it's hard."

chris nodded, his grip on my hand tightening. "i promise, y/n. no more hiding, no more running away. we'll face everything together."

i took a deep breath feeling a flicker of hope in my chest. i squeezed his hand gently, offering a small smile. "okay, let's try." i smiled and nodded reassuringly.

chris smiled brightly at me. "i'm willing to put in the effort. i just want to be with you."

we stood there, holding each other's gaze. in this moment, we both knew that we had a long road ahead, but we're willing to walk it together. the love we've shared is worth fighting for, and i know that we're ready to face whatever challenges come our way.

chris pulled me into a gentle embrace, his heart swelling with gratitude. "thank you, y/n. for giving us another chance."

i rested my head against chris's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heartbeat. "thank you for coming back for me. for us."

we stood there, wrapped in each other's arms. inside, we know we have a lot to work through, but i know we're ready to face it together. one step at a time. and with the glimmer of hope that we both feel, i can't wait for the brighter future built on love, trust, and understanding.

taglist;; @sturnsxplr-25 @vampiree-555 @wh0resstuff @jetaimevous @sturnioloshacker

#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader #chris x reader #chris #angst #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo angst

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justvalkyrie · 10 months ago

Text

Equal, Opposite Reaction

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Summary: It's time Matt gets what he deserves.

Warnings: 18+!! MDNI!!, No plot only smut, Whiney!Matt, Submissive!Matt, oral m!receiving, swearing, bad writing, probably things I've missed!

Note: Hello all! This is my first time ever posting anything I've written, and it's also the first time I have ever written smut. I know I still have a lot of improving to do, so please bear with me! I'd like to thank the Tuna Team for their continued encouragement! Without them, this fic would never have existed. Thank you for taking the time to read my writing!

“Every action has its equal and opposite reaction.” The third law of motion, and the divine rule of karma. This scene was inevitable.

Matt had been on his knees at your altar for weeks, sending you into the heavens and making you holy. Night after night, hour after hour, he would spend his free time at your center, giving you everything you could possibly take. He had been saving up his good karma, and it was time he got what was coming to him.

After a long day of teasing him, he was consumed by you. He was completely, lustfully enamored by you. His senses were either haywire or completely subdued, he couldn’t tell. The only thing he could focus on was you. The way your pretty mouth felt against him, the way your scent crowded his senses and caused his mind to feel hazy, and the slightly elevated yet steady beat of your heart all caused him to melt into the mattress beneath him. He was putty in your hands, a mess for you to clean up, and you were more than willing to oblige.

“God, Baby,” he praised. You had only just begun to trail kisses down his beautiful, toned abdomen, but he couldn’t focus on anything else except for the way you felt on top of him. You were straddling his thighs, and your body was pressed against his as you showed him just how much he truly deserved to feel good. He could feel the fire in your skin against his bare upper body and through the thin fabric of his black boxer-briefs. With soft, barely-there touches, your fingers grazed over his sides, slowly making languid paths from his hips up to his chest and back down again. Your eyes were shut, and you covered his body in kisses that burned into his skin even after you moved onto undiscovered patches of the scarred tapestry. He sucked in a sharp breath as you began to kiss and lick slowly down his exposed v-line.

“You make such pretty sounds, Matty,” you mumbled against his skin, “been waiting to hear them, been waiting to make you feel good.” You gently nipped at his skin, and he let out a beautiful high-pitched whine. The euphonious sound caused you to smirk into the kisses you were leaving at the top of the waistline of the only pesky piece of fabric shielding his center from you. You ran your fingers along the elastic, ever-so-slightly grazing his skin with the tops of your fingers. Every time they made contact, he let out quiet but persistent whimpers. You could feel his dick twitch against you as you hooked your fingers into his underwear. You paused and let out a sigh that fanned over Matt’s bare torso. When you looked up at his face, it was scrunched up with need. His brows were knit together, and his eyes were closed tightly. His jaw was partially slack, and he let out a choked whimper.

“No, Sweetheart,” he begged urgently. His voice was breathy, pitched-up and needy, a stark contrast to his usual deep, collected tone, “Please… please take them off.” A chill ran up your spine, and all your hair straightened up to attention. A low rumble sounded in your throat, and you couldn’t help but honor his request. The action was slow and calculated. You shifted down the mattress as you carefully removed the garment, and your fingers left trails of heat in their wake. He let out a sharp moan as his cock sprang free. You smiled at its stature; you couldn’t wait to put it where it belonged.

When you finally made your way down his legs, you pulled the lousy piece of fabric off of him and threw it to the side. His hands gripped the sheets as you crawled back over him on all fours. You made a home for yourself between his thighs, and he whined as you smoothed your hands over them. You let your breath fan out over his left one and he twitched underneath you. The uncontrollable movement caused you to chuckle under your breath. A smirk widened over your lips. You tested the waters by leaving a gentle kiss where your breath had just been, and the prettiest low, rumble of a reaction hummed out of him. Hearing it was like taking a cold sip of water after waking up in a sweat; It made you clench around nothing. He could hear the way your muscles tightened, and it only drove him closer to insanity. A bead of pre-cum leaked from his tip and down the length of his shaft.

You trailed up his left thigh with your lips, kissing and nipping slightly as you went along. When you reached the top of the leg, you left a longer kiss right next to his length. He moaned out our name in a low, and elongated manner. It turned into a sharp gasp-whine when you firmly pressed your lips to his tip, just for a moment, before moving onto his right thigh. His hips rocked up into you when you didn’t go any further; he felt an immense need for your touch. You swear he almost let out a frustrated sob. His hands released their grip on the silk sheets and instead found a home in your hair. He tangled his fingers into the strands and pulled, a futile effort to get you to go where he wanted you to go, where he needed you to go. You ignored his whimper of protest to bite down on the muscle of his right thigh. You soothed the partially pierced skin with your tongue, and a feral, desperate growl rumbled in his chest, reverberating throughout the room.

“Please,” he beseeched. The plea was so airy that it was almost inaudible, “need you.” His hips bucked again, and you brought your left arm to rest along his stomach in an effort to keep him where he was. You adjusted your position, so you were able to have full access to him. A strained whine ruptured out of the back of his throat as you placed a feather-light kiss to the base of him.

“Tell me what you need, Matty,” Your lips brushed against him as you spoke, and he strengthened his grip in your hair. He tried to speak, but stuttered as you continued the light affections on his cock. You kissed a line up and down the length of his shaft.

“Ah! God! Need…” his words came out between strangled gasps, “I need your mouth, Sweetheart. Please- “

He wasn’t able to finish his plea. You licked a long thick stripe from the base of his dick to the tip. He sucked in a gasp of air, and it caught in his chest. You could feel how tense his muscles were underneath the palms you were pressing into his skin. His caught breath turned into a long moan as you swirled your tongue around his tip. He instinctually tried to press your head down onto himself, but you resisted the force. You raised your head to look at him, but his head was thrown back into the pillow beneath it.

“Relax, baby,” you told him in a sweet tone, “Lie back and enjoy this. You’ve earned it.” You felt him relax underneath you as he processed the words, and an unintentional sound akin to a whiney sob reverberated from his throat as he released more air that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in.

You finally took him into your mouth and used your right hand to grip whatever wouldn’t fit; your left hand still kept its place atop his abs. He couldn’t force himself to choke out any sound. It was almost as if he had forgotten everything else. All he knew in this current moment was the feeling of your mouth wrapped so sweetly around his cock. You moaned around him as you flattened your tongue against the back of him. You couldn’t get enough of him. The subtle taste of his skin, the weight of his length against your tongue, the way he gripped at your hair, the intoxicating noises he made. You felt a great appreciation that you were graced with the privilege of being the one to please him.

You started moving then, skillfully bobbing, licking, and stroking him in every way you knew he craved. You started out at a slow pace, wanting to savor this moment and commit it to memory. The room was filled with the noises he made; they varied between breathy whimpers of your name and long vowels that didn’t quite form words. His reactions encouraged you to gradually speed up your actions. Occasionally, he choked out a “yes” or a “shit.” He moved on instinct, without thinking when he dug his heels into the mattress to leverage his hips into you. The action caused a pleasantly surprised moan to escape you, and he cried out at the feeling it gave him. You released him from your mouth with a pop and matched your rhythm with strokes of your hand. You smirked at him.

“Feel good, Matty?” you asked him, already knowing what his answer would be. He groaned at the loss of contact. Your hand felt amazing, but it was still nothing compared to the wet, warm, bliss that was your mouth.

“Ah, shit!” He choked out, his voice strained and breathy, “don’t fucking stop. Mouth feels so… so good… Fuck! Please…” Who were you to deny him when he looked and sounded so pretty?

You follow his command, returning your mouth to its rightful position. He is falling apart in your embrace. With every lick, he sighs, with every movement, a strained swear. Every touch, every stroke, every flick, every squeeze released whimpers from him. He was a whiney mess, his usual unwavering stoic demeanor thrown completely out the window, and it was all by your hands. As you continued, his receptivity only grew louder and higher in pitch. You could feel him getting closer and closer to his climax. He choked out your name.

“I… I’m gonna,” he spat out his warning between gasps, and you groaned around him to let him know that you wanted him to. You could feel the twitching and squirming of his lower abdomen from where your left arm rested along his bare stomach. The way his hands gripped and pulled at your hair and the uncontrollable gasps and sharp intakes of air only encouraged you to keep going. You stayed consistent in your rhythm. His hips jutted up once more, and he let out a strangled cry.

With a final flattening of your tongue against him, a string of high-pitched gasps, and an impossibly tight grip of your hair, Matt finally found his release. His sounds became more elongated as he spilled into your mouth, and you moaned as the familiar warm liquid filled your mouth, graciously swallowing every last drop. His breathing was ragged, but you felt all the tension being released from his muscles. His grip in your hair loosened, and his arms fell down to his sides. He let out a long, low hum of satisfaction and a breath of relief as he came down from his high.

You gave him another moment to compose himself before releasing him from your warm embrace. He whined at the loss of contact, already missing the pleasure he had just experienced. You pushed yourself up off of the mattress enough to make your way to his side. He was already saddling up to you as you made yourself comfortable beside him. You smiled brightly and pulled him into your side, running a comforting hand through his locks once he made himself comfortable. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride wash over you as you saw the blissed-out look written across his features.

“So, are we even now?” he asked, nuzzling into your chest. He inhaled deeply through his nose and let your scent relax him. The exhaustion hit him like a truck, and he closed his eyes and leaned into you. Your heartbeat was already lulling him to sleep. You continued to comfortingly pet his hair as he fell.

“Not even close.”

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #daredevil #matt murdock #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #matt murdock smut #daredevil smut

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