#Hello metal husband-
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It’s May the 4th quick post GG
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hello future husband
#shinjiham#foolmoon#shinjiro aragaki#persona 3#mine#persona#sorry i'm replaying the game so. prepare for more of this shit#shinjiro posting#as usual#I hope y’all read this in the same tone as when Justin McElroy said ‘hello metal husband’ when referring to codsworth as the final pam
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have you seen the robot svarog from honkai star rail? cause damn he kinda…
Damn, he single?
#ask#anon#rantsinmuffin#otome hell#I know nothing about honkaonstar rail or genshin impact but hello giant metal husband
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Strika has Final Pam vibes. I don't think I can elaborate. But I can for sure see her shouting "I DO THIS" as a bunch of explosions go off around her.
#that and HELLO METAL HUSBAND#also holding her sparkling and just being like BABY IS TOO SMALL IS BROKEN#tfa#transformers animated#strika#my ramblings#final pam
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"Hello, husband!"
He pats your cheek.
He loves you lots.
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juice that makes you turn gay
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Promise?
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hello metal husband
three eye metal husband
(commissions are open!)
#my art#character design#monster#monsters#character#creature#knight#armor#teeth#tongue#weird#canine#werewolf#mimic
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Two Babies (dad!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader)
Word Count: 5.4k
Warnings: angst, mentions of smut, pregnancy
Summary: Y/N is pregnant again before she’s ready.
Author's Note: Hello! Please enjoy my first Rafe one shot. I would love to expand on this couple so if you have any requests or any blurbs you'd like me to explore, please send me a message! As always, likes and reblogs are much appreciated - it helps more than you know. Happy reading :)
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite tiny human,” the pediatrician chimed as she kicked the door to the small examination room shut with her sneaker.
“You must say that to all of the parents that you see,” Y/N blushed, unable to hide the smile that tugged on the corners of her lips.
“I do, but this is one of the rare times when I actually mean it. Those blonde curls! Are you freakin' kidding me?”
She padded over to the miniature exam table to get a better look at the infant that was lying contently on her back and chewing on her pudgy albeit still tiny fingers.
“Let’s take a look at how you’re doing, sweet pea.”
The doctor, Melanie, lifted the stethoscope that was looped around her neck and placed it into her ears. Listening to the baby’s heartbeat to check for any abnormalities, she couldn’t help but give a sympathetic frown when the tiny girl under her tensed up from the cool touch of the metal.
“Nurse’s notes say she’s put on quite a bit. She’s finally caught up to her age group in weight. I’m assuming breastfeeding is going better for you both now?”
Melanie lovingly squeezed the extra chub around the baby girl's thighs.
“Yeah. We don’t really use bottles anymore. Finally got her to latch on and now it seems like all she wants to do it eat,” Y/N chuckled.
“Good! That’s good. There’s nothing wrong with formula like we talked about, so don't overexert yourself if becomes too demanding. Breastfeeding is cheaper though," Melanie chucked, though in her head she was kicking herself. As if this family is in any need to save money. "Is she hitting the milestones? Rolling over? Propping her head up? Babbling a bit?” she continued.
“Babbling, definitely. She keeps us up sometimes because we can hear her talking to herself through the monitor at night,” Y/N poked her tongue out at her daughter in an attempt to get her to smile.
“Having a bit of trouble propping herself up though. She can only do it for a little bit and then she’ll give up. She’s got Rafe's big head, so I’m sure it’s a bit of a struggle.”
Melanie laughed loudly at the mention of her patient’s father, admiring Y/N's wittiness even in the absence of her husband. Given the reputation of the Cameron family, others might think the couple were all work and no play, but Melanie had the privilege of getting to know them behind closed doors. While they took doctor's visits seriously, always paying close attention to what the doctors and nurses had to say regarding the health of their firstborn, her experience with the Cameron's changed her outlook completely. Y/N and Rafe were warm, welcoming, and quite funny sometimes - always making jests at each other or sharing little tid-bits of what their life is like at home. She wished everyone could see them this way. Melanie really wasn't lying when she doted on the little girl, they were the best.
“She’ll get to it eventually. All babies are different. She seems to be coming along quite nicely, though. Nothing abnormal or anything to fuss about. A perfectly healthy six-month-old in my book.”
Y/N sighed in relief, though she knew there was nothing to worry over to begin with.
“How’s mum doing? You taking care of yourself, too? You’re just as important as baby.”
“When I can. Rafe's really good with her. He’ll take over when he sees me struggling, but it seems like she only wants me these days. Think I might be coming down with something, though. I’ve been feeling awful for a few weeks. Like I got hit by a train. I keep reminding myself to go get checked out, but I always get distracted taking care of her,” Y/N gestured to her daughter that was now drooling onto the parchment liner and staring up at the ceiling as if there was something ornately interesting about the popcorn texture that had been stippled onto it.
“When you say, ‘hit by a train,’ what do you mean? I can examine you here if you’d like. As long as it’s nothing serious, I can send you something off to the pharmacy.”
Melanie re-fastened the snaps on the infant’s onesie, making sure not to pinch her chunky legs and placed her back into her mother’s lap.
“Ummm,” Y/N began, “Just extra drained, I guess? Kinda nauseous. I’ve been getting migraines a lot and even when I do get a good night’s rest, I still feel like I could go back to bed for the rest of the day. Maybe I’m just exhausted, I don’t really know. But it just feels a bit different than being worn out like I have been before.”
She could see the wheels in Melanie's head turning, noting each of her symptoms and trying to align them in a path that would lead her to the root of the problem.
“Can I ask you something that might be a bit personal?”
Y/N nodded, rubbing her fingers absentmindedly along the bridge of her daughter’s socked foot.
“Have you and Rafe been intimate since she was born?”
She was taken aback by the question, not understanding where Melanie was going with this or why it was relevant.
“Umm,” Y/N stuttered, feeling a static-y surge of embarrassment travel up her neck and onto the sides of her face, “Yeah. We have.”
A whole fucking lot ever since I’ve been cleared for it, Y/N thought, but kept to herself.
“And can you tell me when your last menstrual cycle ended?”
Then it clicked. She genuinely couldn’t recall her most recent period and even the thought of what Melanie was alluding to made her stomach twist into thousands of tiny knots.
“I- I don’t know. I’ve been so busy with her I don’t even really think about what’s going on with me half of the time.”
Y/N tried to make excuses, anything to avoid the obvious, but judging from the quizzical look on her daughter’s pediatrician’s face, she knew exactly where this was going.
“There’s no way,” she whispered, “I can’t be.”
Melanie's face dropped, now tender and apologetic when she realized that this was news Y/N was not ecstatic to hear.
“I know I’m a pediatrician, so that’s obviously the first thing my mind goes to, but can we at least get you to take a blood test? That way we’ll know for sure?”
//
Rafe came home to a quiet house. It wasn’t unusual, but seeing as it was well after six o’clock in the evening and his wife wasn’t in the kitchen making the pasta dish she'd been dying for all week was. Their grocery store had been out of her favorite canned tomatoes for over a week and she’d nearly tackled Rafe to the ground out of excitement when he’d come home from the grocery store with them the night before. Had he not seen her car in the driveway, he probably wouldn’t have even suspected her to be home.
He checked the living room first, and it was desolate apart from the baby pink, quilted playmat on the floor that was littered with a few of his daughter’s favorite rattles and teethers. Y/N's coat and purse were abandoned haphazardly on the couch, almost as if she tossed it aside in a hurry to get somewhere.
“Baby?” Rafe called out.
Nothing.
His head peaked into the nursery, stealthily and quietly in preparation to walk in on his daughter taking her scheduled nap before her actual bedtime. He’d gotten good at hushing his footfalls to almost complete silence as to not wake her, having made that mistake more than a handful of times.
And he was right. There she was, sprawled out in her crib with her arms outstretched over her head like a tiny starfish. Her chubby cheeks were smushed against her bicep, drawing her lips open the tiniest bit so that Rafe could see the tops of her fleshy, pink gums and the barely-there nub of her first tooth peeking through. More than anything, he wanted to wake her up - lift her from the plush mattress and cuddle her close, shower her with kisses and tickle her with his scruff to hear those baby squeals he adored so much, but he needed to find Y/N first.
She had to be in their bedroom, he thought to himself. Maybe she was taking advantage of their baby girl napping to also get some rest. She had been rather exhausted lately. Maybe she’d had a rough day and was relaxing in the clawfoot, porcelain bathtub that had been the selling point of the home they now lived in. The houses on Figure Eight were lavish, but not all of the bathtubs were - at least that's what Y/N told Rafe. Who was he to question his bride?
Turns out he was right again. Like he had done with the nursery, he held the metal doorknob tightly in his grip to keep the hinges from creeking and pressed it open gently. The room was completely dark, but he could make out the lump underneath the duvet on their king-sized bed as his wife.
Good. She was sleeping.
He padded across the hardwood floor, still being as quiet as he could until he crossed the threshold of the bathroom. There, he rid himself of the uncomfortable clothes he’d been wearing all day. Curse these professional business meetings that forced him to dress nicely.
All throughout the meetings, he wanted nothing more than to be home with his wife and baby, cuddling the afternoon away and watching shitty reality television while his daughter cooed and grunted and gurgled in her baby voice that he loved so much and could listen to all day. He wasn't always this way - he used to love this shit, but something inside him changed indefinitely when his daughter was born. Rafe was a softy now and he wasn't afraid to admit it. Maybe it was the fact that he’d been having to partake in these boring work meetings a lot more lately, which caused him to miss even the smallest aspects of his everyday life like changing diapers or checking the baby monitor eight hundred times throughout the day to make sure his daughter was still breathing. Perhaps he’d just been getting sentimental because she was growing so much these days, but it was an unpleasant feeling nonetheless.
His thoughts were interrupted when he deposited his heavy watch into the dish he kept on the counter and he heard a quiet yet still prominent sniffle among the clattering of metal against the glass dish.
“Baby? You awake?” Rafe peaked his head out from beyond the bathroom door.
He saw her body shift under the covers, but she gave no response. So he called out again.
“You sick or something? Can hear you sniffling."
Nothing.
Pivoting back around to the inside of the bathroom, he quickly shut off the light and carried himself over to her side of the bed where he could see her properly. Her face was tucked into her chin and all that was visible to him was the top of her head.
“Hey,” Rafe cooed, petting what he could reach of her hair and speaking even gentler than he had been, “What’s wrong?”
And that’s when he heard it - an almost inaudible choking sound of Y/N trying to catch her breath that immediately let him know she wasn’t sick. She had been crying.
“Whoa, baby,” he was already pulling the covers back with force, honestly not caring whether or not she minded the intrusion.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
She was emotionless when he saw what little he could her face, her puffy, bloodshot eyes and swollen lips illuminated by the hallway light being the only indicator that she was upset. She didn’t even react to Rafe tugging her head out from where it had been buried in the covers, simply rolling onto her back to stare idly at the ceiling.
“Y/N,” he called for his wife again, this time much more stern, “You’ve got to talk to me.”
She took several deep breaths through her nose, allowing her lungs to fill to their maximum capacity before exhaling with a sigh. Rafe could have sworn she was sucking all of the oxygen out of the room along with his patience each time she did so.
After what felt like ages, she parted her lips to speak.
“I went to the doctor today.”
“Yeah? For the six-month check up, right?” Rafe asked, not seeing why that was important but his mind quickly went to the worst scenario possible despite having just seen his daughter sleeping peacefully in her crib. He cut his eyes towards the hallway in the direction of her nursery before looking back to Y/N.
“Is she alright?” his voice now demanding urgency in the delivery of her response.
“She’s fine,” she quickly dismissed him, internally kicking herself for making Rafe worry.
“I was telling Melanie about how sick I’ve been lately and she -,” Y/N gulped and rubbed her knuckles against her tired eyes, bracing herself for whatever events unfolded after she said what she was about to say.
“She, umm. She made me take a pregnancy test.”
Now it was Rafe turn to be speechless. He stared at her with furrowed brows and his mouth slightly agape. His palms suddenly felt clammy against the white sheets that they rested on and his stomach felt like it had turned in on itself from how badly it was churning. Of all of the things he had expected to be wrong with her, this was certainly the last on the list.
“And?” he asked after what felt like an eternity of staring at her and saying absolutely nothing, though he already knew the answer.
“Ten weeks.”
Silent tears now spilled over her eyes and down past her temples. She couldn’t even be bothered to wipe them, instead letting them dampen a small patch of hair on either side of her head. Pregnancies weren’t supposed to be sad, but somehow, she had barely been able to stop crying since she left the pediatrician’s office.
“How,” Rafe whispered, moreso to himself than to her.
“I think you know how babies are made, Rafe” Y/N quipped.
“That's not what I meant,” Rafe fired back just as quickly, “It’s just...She’s still so little.”
He thought of his daughter asleep in the next room. She was the most perfect thing he’s ever seen and on the day that she was born, he knew he wanted nothing more than to fill his and Y/N’s house with as many blonde, chubby babies as he could fit beds in each room. He just hadn’t expected that his only child’s first birthday present would be the gift of being a big sister.
It was all too sudden.
“I just don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. I mean,” Y/N raised her arms above her head before huffing and letting them fall to her sides, “I guess I was just so caught up with the baby that I hadn’t even had a second to think about what’s going on with me. It’s like I don’t even matter anymore and I-”
“Hey, hey now. Don't do that,” Rafe shushed her and curled up next to her frame as she began to sob.
He tucked her head into his neck, hugging her chest tightly as if he was trying to hold the pieces of her together before she shattered. His mind was running a mile per minute. It killed him to see her like this, killed him to be in this situation. The last time they had found out this news, there were happy tears - tears of shock and excitement about taking the next step in building a family. Never had he imagined that the next time they were presented with the very same news, that there would be tears of sadness.
Her voice was muffled against his now wrinkled button-down, but he could still make out what she was saying beneath her blubbers.
“I can’t do this.”
“What do you mean, honey? Of course you can. I can take more time off work like last time and let the boys handle everything for a bit. I know it's not ideal, but we’ll be alright,” he ran his hand up and down her arm in an attempt to soothe her.
“That’s the problem, Rafe.”
He lifted his chin from here it was resting on the top of her head to look down at her.
“What?”
“It's not ideal. You've only just now gotten back to work full time. You said everything almost fell apart while you were gone. It would fuck everything up. Plus, she's only six months old, Rafe. I can't go through that again so soon."
Rafe paused to break away from her and sit up straight against the headboard, “Are you serious? Of course I can take more time off work. You are more important than anything that could possibly be going on at the office.” He was a bit stunned by her words. She almost sounded annoyed, which didn't sit quite right with Rafe.
“But do you see what’s happening? Everything is fucked.”
His voice wasn’t so calm anymore.
“No, Y/N. I honestly don’t. I mean I know this is all happening much earlier than we expected, but what else is there to do? Will you please tell me what you're getting at, because I’m starting to get upset.”
Rafe's lips were pressed in a thin, straight line and his nostrils flared with every breath. Why was she being like this?
“I don’t know what I’m fucking getting at. I’m just overwhelmed."
“And you think I’m not? I'm trying my best to keep it together for your sake if you haven’t noticed,” it almost condescending the way the words rolled off his tongue.
“Oh, excuse me,” Y/N laughed sarcastically.
“Didn’t realize you were the one that's pregnant. Didn’t realize you’re the one that has to grow all big and gross and swollen and be in pain every fucking day to the point where walking to the bathroom feels like a fucking marathon. Didn’t realize you’re the one that has to feel like you're burning alive from the inside out for hours and then just have to lay there while a doctor you’ve never seen before stitches you up because it literally tore your insides apart. Didn’t realize you-”
“For fuck’s sake, I get it!” Rafe was yelling now. They hadn't argued like this since they were much younger, and he absolutely hated it.
“It’s not the same and I’m sorry for suggesting that it was. I'm not sure what you want me to say though. I’m sorry? Is that it? Sorry for getting you pregnant? Sorry for having a job that helps us get anything we want for ourselves and our family? Sorry that I do everything I possibly can to keep you and the baby and everyone else on the fucking planet happy?”
“You’re being an asshole, Rafe,” she was just as angry as he was, scowl evident on her face even in their dimly lit bedroom.
“And you’re not making any fucking sense! Are you telling me you don’t want to keep it? Because I never fucking said that you have to.”
The thought had crossed her mind on the drive home from the doctor’s office, but the feeling left as quickly as it approached. She’d taken one look at her daughter in her car seat through the rear view mirror happily sucking on her teether and knew without a doubt that she couldn’t.
She felt a tidal wave of fresh, salty tears peaking and about to crash over her.
“I don’t want - fuck,” she put her head in her hands.
“I just-,” and then she broke.
Sobs wracked her body, making her shoulders shake up and down. She wasn’t even sure how she had any more left to get out, but it just kept coming. Over and over and over again until it felt like she was being suffocated and that no one was going to save her. She felt Rafe's hands move to rest on her shoulder blades and heard gentle, cooing-like sounds coming out of his mouth, but she couldn’t make out what he had said over the sounds of her own wailing.
“Baby, it’s okay. Just breathe. It’s alri-”
His attempt at subduing her was cut short by shrill cries coming from the digital monitor that sat on their nightstand. Rafe peeked over his shoulder at the screen, seeing that their daughter had woken from her nap and was now demanding the attention of her parents. He couldn’t help but wince as he watched her socked feet flail around in the crib; it was without a doubt that the screaming match they’d just had that stirred her from her sleep, and that hurt him just as much as it did to see his wife crying right in front of him.
Y/N heard it too, somehow. Perhaps it was because she’d been trained to react to every minute sound that she made and could recognize her cries from a mile away in the paralyzing fear that something was wrong with her or maybe it was because she looking for any and every excuse to get Rafe's hands off of her so she could get away from him and escape the argument they’d just had without making the situation any worse than it already was. Regardless, she turned her own neck to peer at the monitor and sighed heavily.
“I’ll go, Y/N. Just stay here.”
“No. I got it. It’s after seven. She’s probably hungry.”
She shrugged Rafe's hands away from her shoulders like his touch physically pained her and climbed over his body and off the bed without another word, not even giving Rafe the chance to take her hand and help her over the edge of the mattress. He knew she wasn’t going anywhere but down the hall and into the nursery, but he couldn’t help but feel like she was walking away from everything.
//
Y/N stared her daughter while she nursed. She started from the top of her head that was riddled with sandy blonde curls and worked her way down to the tips of her toes that would occasionally flex themselves out of habit. Her hair? Undoubtedly Rafe's. Her eyes? A perfect, entrancing shade of blue akin to Rafe's. Her lips? The same almost inhuman shade of fleshy pink, just like Rafe's. Surprisingly, the only physical trait she’d inherited from her mother was her nose, which was funny considering that Y/N had always hated hers.
She was content, suckling away at Y/N’s breast - her cries of hunger long forgotten. The infant hadn’t even flinched when a few more of Y/N’s silent, cold tears spilled over and left small wet spots where her onesie rested over her belly. She had no idea that her parents were upset with each other and she had no idea that in a little more than six months time, she’d be a big sister and there would be two babies fighting for their attention. Y/N was also clueless, but only as to how she was going to take care of a newborn and a one-year-old simultaneously. She’d always thought she’d have more time than this - more time to spend with just her daughter and Rafe before they decided to have another, but just like her eyes, things always had a funny way of never working out in her favor.
Three soft knocks on the wall withdrew her from her thoughts and she was greeted by her husband idling in the doorway like he needed permission before entering a room in his own house. It was off seeing Rafe Cameron this way - being the one with his tail tucked beneath his legs. It was usually the opposite. He had changed out of his work clothes and was now clad in his favorite pair of sweats that were permanently stained with spit-up. Y/N had tried everything under the sun to get the spots out, but he’d been persistent on not throwing them out.
“Can I come in?”
His voice was barely above a whisper and much calmer than when he’d been yelling at her about twenty minutes ago. He still hesitated crossing the threshold even after Y/N had given him a skeptical nod, but allowed his bare feet to pad over the plush carpet as he joined her on the loveseat in the far corner of the nursery.
He watched their daughter just as Y/N had, taking in her tranquil state as her fingers brushed reflexively against the underside of Y/N’s breast. He’d never been able to pry his eyes away every time he watched her nurse. There were no ulterior motives behind it whatsoever. It amazed him each and every time, how Y/N was able to provide their child with everything that they needed to grow with only her body. At first, Y/N hated that Rafe loved sitting in on her feedings, feeling exposed and unattractive despite Rafe's continuous affirmations that it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever had the privilege of witnessing, but over time she’d grown fond of it.
“I'm sorry for yelling at you,” Rafe started.
“It was uncalled for,” she quipped.
Y/N sniffled, rubbing her swollen eyes with the back of her free hand that wasn’t supporting her daughter’s back as she held her.
“It’s okay. It was a lot to take in. I’m sorry for yelling at you too.”
She couldn’t quite look him in the eye just yet, but she was slowy but surely getting there.
“It's not okay, actually. You’re right. I’m not the one having the baby. It’s you that’s got to do all the hard stuff and I know how scary it was last time. I should've been more considerate before jumping the gun.”
He shifted towards her on the cushions, afraid to touch her just yet but still yearning to be closer to her.
The best Y/N could muster was a quiet, “Thank you,” before she busied herself by attempting to run her fingers through her baby’s hair and untangle the mess she’d created while she was sleeping.
“Can I hold you? Please?” his voice was quiet and pleading.
Now was when she turned to face him and she was met with eyes that were just as red-rimmed as hers. She had heard the bathroom sink running for an abnormally long amount of time and a hard, frustrated pounding against the wall shortly after she’d gone off in the nursery to feed the baby, which meant he must have been trying to muffle the sounds of his own crying when she left their bedroom.
Y/N didn’t say anything, only shifting her weight onto one side so Rafe could easily lift her onto his lap in one swift movement without disturbing their daughter. He tucked her shoulder into his neck and softly kissed her skin and his hands moved to mimic hers so they were both holding the baby that was nodding off again in their arms. She found herself relaxing into his loose grip, her head tilting to the side to rest against his.
“I love you so much. You know that? I’d drop everything for you if I had to. I don't care about any of it anymore.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she refuted, but there was no malice in her tone.
“I wouldn’t let you. You try to play it cool and I know that things are different now, but I also know that deep down you really like what you do.” The corner of Rafe's lips turned upwards, suppressing a chuckle at the fact that she really does know him that well.
“Well, just know that I would if you wanted me to. I’ve thought about it a thousand times. I want to be here for you. For her. Don’t want to miss anything. I finally got my shot at being normal when I met you and I hate myself sometimes when I think about all of the bullshit I've put you through.”
“Don’t,” Y/N paused to press a chaste kiss to Rafe's cheek.
“You’re a good person, Rafe's. A good dad. A good husband. Please don’t ever think that you’re not.”
She felt moisture pool in the dips of her collarbones where Rafe's chin lied, but she didn’t acknowledge it.
“I’ll be okay. Sorry if I freaked you out earlier. Think I just need some time to get used to it all. Just wasn’t expecting Melanie to drop the ball that I was pregnant when all I was expecting was for her to tell me that our kid is in the 99th percentile for weight and then send me on my way.”
This got a chuckle out of him, almost causing him to choke on his tears. He quickly rubbed the sleeves of his sweatshirt against his eyes to dry up any remaining wet spots on his face.
“She is pretty chunky, isn’t she?” Rafe jested while thumbing over his daughter’s rounded tummy.
After a moment of admiring their little chunk of a baby, with her milk-drunk eyes and puckered lips, Rafe spoke again.
“Two babies,” he huffed.
“Two babies,” she repeated.
His hands moved to caress Y/N’s stomach. She wasn’t showing yet considering that neither of them had even known Y/N was pregnant until today, but he still held her like her belly was the size of a watermelon and he was waiting anxiously to feel a hand or a foot press up against his palm.
“Might be kinda nice. They can share everything and we’ll only have to have one birthday party because they’ll be born around the same time. They’ll go to the same school and probably have the same friends. Kinda like twins.”
“Are you hearing yourself? Rafe Cameron? The party connoisseur? Suggesting his two precious babies share a birthday party?”
Rafe pursed his lips and blushed, recalling the fact that he'd already planned his daughter's first birthday in his head. Down to the tablecloth colors and dinnerware.
“Got me there,” Rafe chuckled.
Their banter was interrupted by a grueling rumbling sound coming from Y/N’s stomach that Rafe could feel throughout his entire body.
“Jesus, Y/N. You hungry too? When’s the last time you ate?”
“Uhh...this morning I think?” Y/N sighed.
“Couldn’t stomach anything when I got home.”
Rafe's heart dropped when he thought of how distraught she’d been all day while he was gone and with everything in him, he’d wished he would have postponed his meetings to go to check up with her and they could have found out together.
“Found those tomatoes at the store the other day, remember? Want me to make that pasta for you?”
“Ohh, yes please,” she immediately perked up at the thought.
“Starting to wonder if that was a craving now that I think about it. Didn’t we have it, what? Three nights in a row a while back?” she proposed.
Rafe giggled as he reluctantly removed Y/N from his lap and stood up from the sofa.
“Thought it was a bit weird that you wanted it so badly, but I know better than to question you.”
“She’s going back down. If you give me a minute, I’ll come downstairs and help you,” Y/N said, pulling up the straps of her tank top after realizing her daughter had long since forgotten about her breast and was conked out in her arms.
“I've got it, mama” Rafe quickly refuted. “Take a bath or something and I’ll bring it up when it’s done.”
“Okay.”
Y/N couldn’t fight the grin growing on her face at the nickname Rafe used that she still hadn’t gotten used to.
When she placed their daughter soundly in her crib, Y/N’s fingers stayed put from where they sat on the railing as she caught herself staring at the sleeping infant once more. Though she’d felt like her world was caving in on her just a handful of hours ago, the pieces were all coming back together now.
Of course, she wanted more children with Rafe. And now she was getting what she wanted. Just like he’d told her back in the bedroom, it wasn’t ideal, but they’d make it work. They always did.
With two babies.
#rafe cameron#rafe cameron x reader#dad!rafe#dad!rafe x reader#dad rafe#dad!rafe x pregnant!reader#dad!rafe x fem!reader#rafe x pregnant!reader#dad!rafe cameron#mine#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron one shot#drew starkey x reader
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Make it Fun, don't trust anyone- Erik Lehnsherr x Reader
“I can feel it.” He spoke, refusing to meet your eyes as he visibly failed to prevent his thoughts from spilling, “I could sense the metal as soon as we left the building; I could sense your necklace, the rims of your sunglasses, the iron in your blood, and that ring.” His words turned to venom at the procurement of the final item, you watched as he grit his teeth; smoothing a hand over his head as his jaw clenched. Anger bloomed at the pits of your stomach in response, anger at his audacity to attempt to stake such ownership over you, “You were gone, Erik.” You spat, turning to him, anger blazing in your eyes; as reflected by the shock upon his face, “What? Did you expect me to wait around like a child? Wait for you to come back on the slim chance that it would happen?”
A/N: Hello! If anyone sees this, I hope you enjoy! If not, this is entirely self sufficing and I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. Just to note, sorry if the scenes taken from the movie seem a little..rushed? If there's one thing I do not enjoy it's working out how to incorporate existing scenes into canon compliant fanfiction. The struggle.
Word Count: 6,692 / Read it on AO3!
If you'd like to see more from me about Erik- please feel free to send in any requests! :)
The Cuban sunlight had acted as the perfect antithesis to your situation; the gaping hole that had formed and taken a residual spot within your ribcage as you knelt beside Charles, screaming and crying at the lack of feeling in his legs.
But your eyes had not been upon him.
You had stared up at Erik, stomach collapsing at his stoic gaze; only remnants of his grief were prevalent to yourself, the person that had known him most in the world. That wretched helmet had sat upon his head, his eyes empty with the melancholy of his own steadfast determination.
“Join me.” He had whispered, his lower lip trembling as his eyes finally landed upon you; the first time since you had boarded the plane to Cuba. He had reached out then, his palm splayed towards you; hope swimming in his eyes as he beckoned you forward.
You had simply shaken your head, lips tight and breaths heaving as you held his gaze. You watched as his heart broke, as his eyes glistened and bloodied hands trembled. You watched as he nodded and as he turned away from you. Turned away from the love that you had shared, choosing his own foolish endeavours of revenge over you. Allowing grief to swallow you, you had ducked your head; unable to watch as he walked away, unable to face Charles, writhing in the pain of your lovers’ actions.
That had been it- you had returned to the school. Welcoming and accepting prospective students; working as an administrator and overseeing the school’s board. It had been good, amazing- supplying a necessary distraction to the heartbreak you had endured and a chance to improve your powers, learn from the experiences of others. There, in your reluctant state of happiness, you had met Adam.
Adam, the school’s mutant psychology teacher; specialising in mind-based and largely telekinetic powers. Your curiosity regarding Erik’s powers had led you to him, sitting beside his desk; asking question after question. Questions soon turned into conversations and you soon found yourself being courted. All the traditional romances that had never crossed your mind when with Erik had become your reality; constant flowers, gifts, candle-lit dinners as your heels caressed his leg beneath the table.
Your family had loved him, adored him. They had never met Erik, for obvious reasons, and whilst they were more supportive of your mutant gene than the average family; they had hoped that you would still be able to live the average life. Meaning, that you would acquire the average husband. Your family had practically demanded that you married him despite only being a year into the relationship, the pointed remarks about you being ‘unwedded at such an age’ a constant force at each gathering.
So, you had. You had adorned the white dress, the large diamond ring, and Charles had granted his blessings by allowing you to host the wedding on the school’s grounds. Everyone and anyone that could have possibly been there had been in attendance, a day simply to forget about the wrongdoings of the past, the present and the future.
On paper, everything was perfect.
“Do you ever think about him?” Charles had asked, the night before your wedding, the two of you nursing a glass of scotch each within his office.
You had exhaled through your nose, a lodge forming at the base of your throat, “No.” Despite the pronunciation of such a small, singular word; your voice had croaked, your chest trembling pathetically.
Charles had simply nodded, his eyes flickering; his powers catching your obvious lie. “He’s in prison now, you know?”
You nodded, humming affirmatively, your gut twisting at the reminder.
“Are you sure you want to go through with tomorrow?”
“I do.” You smirked, a failed attempt at humour as Charles had only looked back at you with sympathy, “I can’t sit here and say that Erik is never on my mind but… this is for the best.”
Charles had only nodded, his face twisting as hair fell before his eyes, “He will never bother us again, I will make sure of that.”
Whilst you had thanked him, smile wide and eyes crinkling as you both raised a glass; you couldn’t ignore the way your stomach had swooped in disappointment. The way your chest had heaved with unbridled pain, simply at the thought of never seeing Erik again. You would wrestle with it for the years to come- the guilt of constantly thinking of another man as you lay beside your husband.
Your love with Erik had, to simply put it, been enigmatic; fuelled by passion- both by the mission at hand and the way you felt for each other. There had been awful, screaming fights on the worst days and entangled limbs with scratches lining his spine on the best. You had loved him with every ounce of your being, cared for him, yearned for him when he wasn’t there. Whilst you had endured the worst pains of your life with him, you had also been at your happiest.
It had been toxic, ferocious, you had never known what would come next.
You missed it every day.
You passed the feeling off as pure delusion, your mutant gene playing cruel tricks on your mind as the years passed; as you grew bored. Bored of the same mundane life every day, bored of the simple forehead kisses, bored of that house. You and Adam remained within the dark confines of the manor instead of finding a place of your own following the fallout of the war in Vietnam; acting as support for Charles, who had steadfastly begun to dwindle in both his morality and his health. You had used this as an excuse every time Adam had attempted to introduce the necessary conversation of moving on, settling down. Children. You had deflected his attempts every time, claiming that you needed to be there for Charles, that you weren’t ready, that it wasn’t the right time.
You knew for a fact that the reality lay within your inability to let Erik go, your inability to potentially miss the opportunity to catch a taste of his mere presence again. As the breadth of time since he left and the distance with Adam widened, you thought of Erik more and more. His serrating blue eyes and wicked charm haunted every moment, both awake and unconscious. You yearned for him, worried for him, hated him. You hated him for giving you up so easily, your lack of support in that specific moment signifying the end of everything, defining the status of the rest of your life. Sometimes, during the darkest of nights, the ones where you felt so alone, the nights where the wind howled and the trees drew vines and branches upon the walls- you imagined what it would have been like to join him, to have clasped his hand against yours and allowed him to lead you into the darkness.
Secretly, you knew that following Magneto would have led to your early demise, sometimes you pondered on whether that could have been a better end to your time together than your reality.
But then, as Spring turned into Summer; as the grounds of the manour flourished in their unkempt state and the sun cast illuminations through the large windows- Logan arrived at your doorstep. A mission from the future, unbelievable if not for the pure conviction in his eyes. Unbelievable if not for the grief that haunted his strong features.
You had been completely unprepared when Logan had stood from the chair you had offered him, yourself having been perched on the edge of Charles’ crumpled couch; your legs crossed and hands clasped with worry as he had detailed the horrors he had experienced, the horrors that he was there to prevent. He had paced the length of the table, surveying each resident of the room; you hadn’t missed the way his eyes had flickered between you and Adam; his forehead scrunching before his brows raised in amusement.
“Ah…he warned me about this.” He grinned, flicking a finger between the two of you and scratching at the base of his head. “Kinda weird to see actually.”
“Sorry?” You smiled politely, head swarmed with confusion, you looked over at Adam only to see he bore a similar expression, “He?”
“We need to find Magneto,” Logan spoke determinedly, his gaze fierce, his voice taking a tone of finality. He was serious, conviction overtaking the air as the gravity of the situation dawned upon each resident.
You knew that he was right.
In that moment, you had been able to do nothing but stand and promptly leave the room; abandon the sound of Charles’ manic laughter that followed Logan’s words, Hank’s doubt that tended to suffocate a room. But most notably, you were abandoning your so-called husband’s silence.
Somehow, you found yourself curled beneath your bed covers, arms crossed over your knees like a small child; your form shrunken in your fear and heartbreak and doubt, tremors racking your shoulders. As you attempted to steady your breathing, a knock sounded at your bedroom door. Expecting it to be Adam, you promptly rose from your position; scrubbing furiously at your swollen eyelids.
But to your shock, Logan entered the room.
“I’m sorry to barge in like this,” He held his hands out placantingly, slowly approaching you as if you were a timid animal, “I know you don’t know me, but I know you, Y/N, very well and… I wanted to check you were okay.”
You nodded, crossing your arms and biting your lip as you mulled over the words he had spoken since his arrival, “It’s okay… I just- haven’t heard his name outside of my own head in a while.”
“Erik?”
You smiled, your heart blooming at his real name, the name you had known him by, “Yes… I’m assuming you know about us; I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve witnessed one of our messes for yourself,” He had smiled at that, his teeth glinting as he chuffed in amusement, though you could only stare at Logan, building the courage to ask what you desperately wanted to know, “When, you know, you were sent here… was Erik there?”
“Yes.” Logan nodded.
“Was I?”
Logan nodded once again, though opted to do so silently this time.
“What did he tell you about us?”
Logan laughed properly then, a smile finally breaking across his face, “He told me not to meddle, that your situation is especially… sensitive, at this point.” He scratched a hand across his chin, his expression filled with nothing but pure mirth as he spoke, “Which I can see, seeing as though he’s locked one hundred feet underground and you’re married.” He finished that with a pointed look at your ring finger.
You nodded, that you found yourself unable to match his amusement, unsure of exactly what it was he found funny, “I haven’t seen him in almost ten years.” You shrugged, “When I try to think about it, I don’t even know what he looks like anymore.”
“But you still think about him?”
You sighed, lowering your gaze to pick at the loose threads upon your old bed sheets; you had always been reluctant to get rid of them, the memories that they held with Erik remained too precious. Slowly and timidly, you spoke, “Every day.”
Logan could only nod, an exhale sounding from his nose, “Well, if I can trust anything from my time knowing you; it’s your ability to give that man hell.”
So, the following day; with an overly-energised, overly-excited teenage mutant in tow; Hank, Charles, and Logan had embarked en route for the Pentagon.
“Stay safe.” Adam had spoken as he leaned against the entrance to the house, having opted to stay behind; claiming that the house needed to be watched despite Logan being the first visitor in years. You had simply smiled at him, waving goodbye before turning towards the car; you didn’t miss the way the door had immediately slammed, Adam having chosen to waste no time in ensuring your safe departure. He had been quiet since Logan’s arrival, especially since the mention of Erik’s name and your obvious upset in response.
You feared that despite his promise to protect the house, he would not be there upon your return.
“I can’t believe you even married that guy.” Logan had mumbled, chuckling to himself and shaking his head as he slid into the car’s driver's seat; you could only manage a meager glare- your doubt regarding Adam had been clear even to yourself.
Whilst the others performed the monumental task of attempting to free Erik; you had been tasked with organising the transport from the Pentagon and away, far away. You knew that Charles had orchestrated this purposefully, giving you the chance to see Erik as little as possible if necessary. You had accepted without a fight, you feared that if faced with Erik in a dire situation; you would act impulsively, irrationally. You feared that if faced with Erik, you would be able to do nothing but throw yourself into his arms.
“Not appropriate.” You had mumbled to yourself at the thought, tapping a hand against the car’s wheel; dark aviators high upon your nose as you awaited. Your other hand hung from the drivers-side window, a dwindling cigarette balancing lazily between your fingers; it had been a nasty habit you had picked up in your adulthood, largely to Adam’s chagrin who had banned you from doing so indoors. You began to recognise that the stress of marriage had aged you significantly; the existence of service had overtaken your life in a way you hadn’t predicted.
Just as you had begun to dwell upon your own disappointing life decisions; a loud bustle of noise exploded from the doors exiting the building’s kitchen; you only had a second to rescue your cigarette and balance it between your teeth before the group rushed to the car. Peter immediately sped ahead and claimed the passenger seat, grinning at you cheekily as he slid beside you; though this was quickly diminished when Logan slammed the car door back open, promptly gathering the teenager by the lapels of his jacket and ejecting him from the seat. You could only guffaw as he promptly plucked the cigarette from between your teeth, taking a hasty drag as the rest of the group piled into the back.
You refused to glance at the rear mirror.
“Seriously Y/N?” Charles huffed exasperatedly from what you could assume was the seat directly behind you, the rustling of his jacket prevalent as he attempted to get comfortable in the tight squeeze of seats, “This may be a getaway car but it doesn’t mean you can abuse it to your will with your smoking.”
You gritted your teeth, slamming your foot upon the pedal and pulling out onto the road; en route to the airport. Erik’s presence behind you plagued your mind, causing your fingers to tighten upon the wheel and your toes to curl within your shoes, every hair upon your neck stood ramrock straight as you waited, yearning for him to acknowledge you.
This was what you had dreamed of, every night for years, and now you couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him.
A gleam caught your eyes as you drove, suddenly all too aware of your left hand rested on the steering wheel. Your wedding ring still adorned upon your finger, glistening obnoxiously in the afternoon sun. Risking a glance, you rose your eyes to the rearview mirror- only to immediately flick your eyes back to the road before you.
There, in the middle seat, sat Erik- his cheeks sunken, hollow; the effects of years in confinement were prevalent in his every feature. His skin was pale, almost ghastly; his haircut was shaggy, uncaring. But what shocked you the most, what made you pull your eyes away from the man you loved so suddenly- was the way his eyes, those hauntingly blue eyes, stared straight at you, straight at the ring upon your finger. You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from squeaking in response, the taste of blood plaguing your mouth as you willed yourself to focus on the road, focus on the mission at hand.
You knew that Logan had witnessed every moment of that encounter, his dark eyes sunk into the side of your face as you determinedly stared forward, refusing to acknowledge any of the people around you. Alongside the stench of smoke, the air in the car was thick with tension- the aura of unspoken words choking every passenger. Even Peter, the usual chatterbox and the one who had spoken your ears off the entire way to the Pentagon had opted to stay silent; instead staring out of the window, his lips twisted in his own display of tension.
As you drove in silence, you became all too aware of Erik’s presence; you found yourself pinpointing his specific breaths, the crinkle of his prisoner-assigned uniform, the shuffle of his legs against the side of your seat, the nervous tap of his finger against his knuckles.
It was a miracle you managed to reach the airport.
Upon saying goodbye to Peter, you determinedly pushed past the front-row seats of the private jet, opting to sit at the very rear of the plane alongside Logan, of which had simply raised an eyebrow and sighed as you lowered yourself before him, “You two are more pathetic than I expected.” He exhibited an air of nonchalance as he lit his cigar, despite the plane now very much being in the sky, and propped open a newspaper upon his lap- though it was prevalent that he found delight in watching the entire situation unfold.
You raised your eyebrows, shrugging your shoulders stubbornly and sliding back against the base of the chair, “There’s no ‘us two’,” To which you complimented with the use of air quotes, “I am married, Logan.”
Logan could only laugh at that, shaking his head, a habit he seemed to have picked up in his exasperation at what was unfolding before him, “You do realise I’m from the future right?”
Scowling, you crossed your arms and opted to sulk at the back of the plane; still determinedly refusing to look Erik’s way- who was now engaging in a heated argument with Charles.
“Do I at least age well?”
“Of course,” Logan smirked, holding his cigar up in a toast; though he was quickly interrupted by the creaking of metal as the foundations of the plane shook; Erik. Logan jumped forward and immediately threw the two of you to the ground- acting as a human shield as the plane began to tip sideways; Erik’s passion overtaking all rational thought as plates and glassware shattered beside you.
“You abandoned us all.” He spoke with finality, Charles lay splayed across multiple seats, his hair a tangled mess as he gaped at Erik. You could only pull yourself back into your seat as Charles left for the cockpit, both you and Logan gasping at each other as you attempted to regain your stolen breath.
“So,” Logan grunted, fetching a new cigar and lighting it, “You were always an asshole then.”
You could only scoff as Erik turned, facing you for the first time since boarding the plane; you noted the way his eyes landed upon anything, anywhere but you.
“I bet we’re best buds in the future,” Erik smirked sardonically, his voice rough with the sudden severity of his outburst.
Logan hummed, puffing on his cigar before offering you a puff, to which you politely declined, “Not like me and your old friend Y/N here are.”
At the mention of your name, his hands spasmed at his sides; his fingers convulsing in a bodily reaction at the mere recognition of your existence. You would have felt excitement, love; if it weren’t for the way his eyes told a different story- cold and piercing as they landed upon you, his cheekbones twitching as he allowed himself a second of eye contact before he abruptly turned, returning to his seat across the plane.
“Jesus,” Logan mumbled to himself, reclining in his seat and widening his eyes at you; you could only nod. Jesus.
With Erik and Charles opting to keep to themselves, the rest of the journey went swimmingly- immediately upon landing you wasted no time in departing from the suffocating air of the cabin; luxuriating in the deep breaths of fresh, evening air that greeted you.
“We need to find somewhere to rest.” Charles spoke from behind you, “The drive to the next spot is too long and we’re all exhausted.” He glared pointedly at Erik then, who simply sighed; as you allowed yourself a glance at him, it was prevalent that he too was plagued by fatigue. His cheeks were more sunken than before, his eyes drooping as he visibly struggled to hold himself up. You yearned to reach out, place a hand on his spine and simply hold him, aid him as he wrestled with the weight of the world upon his back. But then, as his eyes turned towards yours, the weight of the wedding ring upon your finger prevailed once again; you could only turn away.
Hank managed to find a group of last minute rooms at a nearby motel, though as he returned to the reception's waiting area, keys in hand, his nerves were ever-prevalent. “I only managed to get three rooms; two have two beds and another has one, I was thinking-”
“I’m taking the solo room,” Logan ordered, snatching the key from Hank’s hand and sauntering down the hallway, though not without sending a wink over his shoulder at you. Bastard.
“Oh-” Hank froze, the other keys dangling from his fingers- you could only watch as he winced, practically praying for you to forgive him with his eyes, “Charles, I doubt it would be safe for you to be with Erik, so I guess…”
You could only sigh, electing every ounce of confidence you could embody before standing, cutting Hank off once again before retrieving a key from his hand, without turning you spoke, “Well, come on then, Erik.”
You felt his presence behind you, each of you electing to say nothing as you unlocked the haggard wooden door; its hinges creaking as you pushed open the door. Before you stood two double beds, an only-just-comfortable distance between the two. Nodding to yourself, you entered the room, your fingers twirling the keys nervously as you surveyed the room; you felt the air thicken as the door slammed behind you- you felt like prey finally being cornered by the predator.
Erik cleared his throat behind you, the sound thick and grating, “I’ll take the bed beside the door; would you like to use the bathroom first?”
You turned towards him, shocked by his kindness; he could only stare back at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and exhaustion tinting his features. “I- Sure.” You could only croak, opting to briskly enter the bathroom; afraid of irrationality taking over your lovesick mind. Reaching behind the shower’s curtain, you turned on the water before stripping off your clothes, the sound of your ring clattering against the sink as you placed it down caused you to flinch, knowing that Erik would be all too aware of your every move from the other side of the door.
You took your time in the shower, breathing in the warm steam and collecting yourself after the events of the day, collecting yourself in preparation for the events of the night that was to come. You could do this, even if it meant a sleepless night whilst Erik lay only feet away; whilst the object of all of your nightmares lay only feet away. It reminded you of a night, a night a long time ago; in a motel room just like the one you were in, his skin against yours; his breath hot against the base of your throat as he had slowly stripped you of your clothes, as he had kissed every inch of you. It reminded you of his pants as he pushed into you, his groans as he buried his sweat-coated forehead into the skin of your shoulder, biting and licking and sucking there as you became one. The way that he had moaned his love for you into the skin there, your responsive moans loud and uncaring as you had clawed at the skin of his back, gripped at the hair upon the base of his head-
Stop; you shut off the hot water, stumbling from the shower as you panted, your cheeks and chest red with warmth as you desperately attempted to remove the memory from your mind. Gripping the porcelain of the sink, you eyed your pathetic reflection; willing, begging, yourself to let this go, let your silly daydreams go. This was reality, your reality. Getting through the night was the only necessity you needed to accomplish, then you could avoid Erik and promptly never see him again.
You could go back to your husband, back to your life.
Undeniably however, you couldn’t ignore the way Erik made you feel, the way his mere presence made you feel. Adam’s influence upon you paled entirely in comparison, your obligation to return to him simply one of duty, one to appease your family, one to live the ‘perfect’ life- be the perfect wife. But you craved more, you craved better; for years you had chased and yearned for the way Erik’s slightest touch had made you feel- the way that his love encompassed every molecule of your being; the way that he had branded you for life, rendered unable to ever feel the way you had felt with him again. Your thoughts of Erik made you all too aware of how long you had spent in the bathroom.
How long you had spent, very obviously, avoiding him.
You emerged from the bathroom in nothing but the oversized shirt you had packed hastily to sleep in; swiping it from the bed due to the short notice you had received in regards to this trip. You felt bare, naked suddenly as you left the bathroom to Erik’s piercing gaze. He sat, fully clothed, lounging against the headrest; allowing a pen to swirl around his fingers, dancing from pointer to thumb as his wrist spun. Entrapped, you could only stand there and stare; stare at the beauty of his powers, at the beauty of him.
“It feels good,” He spoke slowly, carefully, allowing the pen to drop onto the sheets beside him, “To use my powers again; to feel metal.”
You nodded, smiling politely, unsure of exactly what to say in response. You opted to stay silent, allowing yourself to walk past him and into your own bed, the crinkle of the duvet loud in the silent room, loud within the silence that was swelling between you.
“You aren’t wearing it,” Erik spoke suddenly, his voice slicing through the silence; to your shock. Once you recovered, you simply crooked an eyebrow at him, to which he spoke; swallowing his words audibly, “Your ring.”
“Oh,” You shook your head, staring down at your empty finger, remembering that you had placed it on the sink, “I usually-”
“I can feel it.” He spoke, refusing to meet your eyes as he failed to prevent his thoughts from spilling, “I could sense the metal as soon as we left the building; I could sense your necklace, the rims of your sunglasses, the iron in your blood, and that ring.”
His words turned to venom at the procurement of the final item, you watched as he grit his teeth; smoothing a hand over his head as his jaw clenched. Anger bloomed at the pits of your stomach in response, anger at his audacity to attempt to stake such ownership over you, “You were gone, Erik.” You spat, turning to him, anger blazing in your eyes; as reflected by the shock upon his face, “What? Did you expect me to wait around like a child? Wait for you to come back on the slim chance that it would happen?”
Slowly, at the pit of his lungs, he formed a laugh; his head shaking as his fingers trembled once again, “You think so lowly of me, Darling.”
“You left me!” You were yelling now, rising from the tangled bed sheets as your chest heaved with anger, heaved with the heartbreak and sadness that had plagued you for the consequent years following his departure, “You left me.”
“I gave you a choice, Y/N. You chose Charles, you were more than welcome to come with me.”
You shook your head, scoffing, “Well… if I had gone with you; I would be dead by now.” Your tone held a sense of finality, as supported by your return to the bed as you promptly turned your back to him, curling up under the duvet and refusing to face his reaction to your words. His response followed in the slam of the bathroom door as he promptly left the room; leaving behind the stale air of your own regret.
It felt like hours as you waited, wondered; hoped for him to come back. Hoped for the two of you to forget the words that had been said, to sleep comfortably in your separate beds and complete this mission as peacefully as possible; to go your separate ways and live your separate lives once again.
In the depths of these daunting thoughts, you fell asleep; the exhaustion of the day’s tensions taking hold as your eyes slipped closed. You woke, hours later, to the moon’s rays spanning throughout the room; a ghostly glow hanging in the air as you rubbed at your eyes, glancing to your side, Erik was fast asleep; his sharp edges and soft hair illuminated in the scant light- you allowed yourself a moment, just that moment, to take him in. Drink in the features you hadn’t faced in almost a decade, the features you longed to reach out towards; to trail a finger down his jaw or scratch a nail upon his hair. His hair was wavy, a slightly damp smell filtered throughout the room told you that he too had taken the opportunity to shower.
The thought of his broad shoulders and lean back illuminated by the spray of hot water did nothing to help the swarm of doubt swirling within your gut. Shaking your head, you reached into the bag beside your bed; fetching the box of cigarettes stashed within one of the inner pockets.
Then, barefoot and in just a shirt, you shouldered open the room’s door, balancing a cigarette upon your lip as you did so before promptly lighting it, traversing the motel’s corridors silently before reaching the fire escape. Hoisting yourself upwards, you climbed up the ladders before finally reaching the building’s roof. The night was clear, quiet; the only sounds emerging from the distant highway and subsequent traffic- you listened out for any signs of disruption as you lowered yourself to the roof, allowing your legs to dangle from the side of the building.
The silence of the night and the goosebumps prickling at your bare arms allowed the tears to emerge; it allowed them to pour down your cheeks, for snot to bubble at your nose and for your lips to tremble with unkempt sobs. You allowed for your hurt to take hold, for your hurt at Erik’s words and actions and simple presence to take hold. But then you allowed your hurt towards yourself to unfold; for allowing yourself to end up here, in this situation- living this life that you had manufactured for yourself.
You couldn’t go back to that motel room, but most notably you couldn’t go back home. You couldn’t bear it anymore; the stresses of being within that barron manor were becoming too much to bear. If you couldn’t be with Erik, then you would rather be alone; somewhere far away, far away from here. You stewed upon this thought for a long time, as you lit your second, third and fourth cigarettes; it prevailed.
Just as your fourth cigarette began to dwindle, the slam of a door sounded below you before hasty, alert footsteps lined the hallway. You rose, walking back towards the highest entrance of the fire exit before looking down; listening as the hurried steps continued, haggard breaths accompanying it. Opting to investigate, you lowered yourself onto the platform below before descending the stairs; entering the residential hallway of the hotel. There, at the end of the corridor stood Erik, the obvious source of the worried footsteps as his chest heaved; he was turning in place, visibly searching for something as he rushed down the hallway.
“What-” You mumbled, slowly walking towards him as he had not yet spotted you. Finally, you decided to catch his attention; concerned as to whether there was some form of danger, “Erik?” You called, a hand shielding your eyes as you peered down the dark hallway. You watched as he froze at the sound of your words, his head snapping towards you as he drank in your presence, your appearance.
“What the fuck-” He breathed, immediately shaking off his shock and advancing towards you, practically running as he reached you. Entirely unannounced, he swept you up into his arms; shaking as he lowered his head to your shoulder, practically breathing you in as he tightened his hold by the second.
“Erik, what-”
“What is your problem?” He pulled back almost as soon as it had begun, his breathing staggered as a blush covered his cheeks; he wore only the black tank top and sweatpants he had been asleep in, his hair a mess upon his head; as if he had just jumped from his bed, “I woke up and- and you were gone, your bed sheets were practically stale with how long you’ve been gone I-”
“I’m fine.” You assured, catching his hands between your own as an attempt to calm him down; the worry he had been feeling now prevalent within the staggering of his chest and the blush at his cheeks, “I just went to have a smoke I- let’s get you back to the room.”
He nodded, his glassy eyes immediately beginning to droop as he allowed you to use your grasp on his hand to pull him down the hallway. Upon depositing him into his own bed, as you left to enter your own, a tight grip latched upon your wrist; you turned, only to be met with those blue eyes swarming with desperation, “Stay?”
You sighed, nodding reluctantly before crawling in beside him; allowing him to drape an arm over your waist, allowing him to rest his head upon yours. Before your departure, before the decision would be set; you could allow yourself this one thing, this one night of unplagued sleep as his comfort would ward away the nightmares that tended to tinge your nights.
But, before you could fall asleep; Erik’s voice rumbled above you, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”
You could only shrug, pressing your nose to his chest as you listened to his heartbeat, “Me too, Erik.”
He moved backwards then, settling so that his face lay directly before yours; the tip of his nose rubbing against yours with each second breath. It seemed that he could only muster a whisper as he continued to speak, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes grew wet as he spoke, his head shaking slightly as he smiled sadly.
“Erik.” You whispered, your voice soft with contempt as you raised a hand to his cheek; brushing away the tears that had begun to fall there. Feeling him swallow against your wrist, you could only watch as his eyes flickered downwards, just as your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip. Before you could register, he had moved; his lips pressed to yours as your cheeks grew wet with his steadily falling tears. Your mind allowed nothing else but to kiss back, to shift your leg upwards and to caress his cheek with your thumb. He kissed you earnestly, slowly; as if approaching a terrified fawn, testing the waters as to what you would allow him. You could practically taste the desperation perspiring his tongue, as you assumed he could yours. You would take anything, trade any parts of your wretched souls if it meant that you could feel this forever; feel the warmth of his tongue sliding against yours for every waking moment that remained.
Erik pulled back then, only to lower himself; his mouth hot and needy against your throat, his hands trailing patterns against the skin of your stomach; becoming exposed as your shirt had rode upwards. His ministrations rendered you only able to lay there and pant; to bask in the feeling of being needed, wanted. Truly, ferociously.
As he began to paint a trail of kisses down your stomach, something changed; something shifted in his demeanour. His hands, beginning to pull your thighs upward, were shaking and whilst his lips were forming kisses, they were forming words too. As you raised yourself to rest against your elbows, you finally heard the words forming within his mouth, “Please don’t go back to him.” He was whispering, pairing the almost unspoken words with a gentle kiss to the nearest area of skin; he was crying again, his eyes glistening with fresh, unshed tears as he burrowed his face into your skin. It seemed as if he was afraid to let you go, practically burrowing himself into your being, with the hopes that you would stay.
“Erik, Erik wait-” You spoke urgently, lowering your hand to his chin before pushing him away; he stared up at you through his glassy eyes; his hair ruffled and cheeks rosy. Confusion graced his features at first, though he soon registered the concern in your eyes and realisation visibly dawned upon him.
He removed himself from you then, moving to sit at the end of the bed; the duvet splayed around his waist as he sat with his legs crossed. He seemed to take a moment to compose himself, wiping at his mouth and running a finger over his teary eyes, “I’m sorry Y/N, I- it’s not my place to tell you what to do.”
Instantly, you crawled towards him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and settling yourself into the space between his legs; you felt his cheeks crinkle as you pressed kiss after kiss to his face, but you could still sense his confusion, his doubt. “I knew I would be leaving him the moment Logan mentioned your name, whether you were coming with me or not.” You stroked his hair as you spoke, caressing your fingers through the thin tendrils of oaky brown hair that adorned your lover's head. Erik grinned then; his teeth shining as he practically mooned up at you, he kissed you again then; pulling you in and deeper into his lap.
Before you could push him onto his back, before you could lower yourself upon him and mobilise the groans that would fall from his mouth; he abruptly straightened up, untwining his hand from beneath your shirt and raising it in the air- your wedding ring flew towards the two of you, hanging in the air before Erik made a flicking motion with his fingers; you could only gape as the ring flew through the open window and into the darkness of the night.
“Erik!” You squealed, hitting at his chest as he laughed loudly, unabashedly. Despite being secretly pleased, you couldn’t allow him to know that. “That was expensive!”
“I can find you better,” Erik grumbled against your chest, burrowing his head into your shirt and inhaling unashamedly, “That one wasn’t you anyway, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that ghastly thing on your finger.”
The only response you could have mustered in that moment was to shove him back against the bed; silencing him with the warmth of your own mouth.
#this goes out to the 3 magneto fans that exist#magneto x reader#erik lehnsherr#x men#days of future past#michael fassbender#magneto#erik lehnsherr x y/n#erik lehnsherr x you#marvel#writing x men fic is so funny cause these people old af....LOL#erik lehnsherr x reader#erik lensherr x reader#erik lensherr
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F*(RFIUOREFIUGERIFEHFIERF*&ERFR*B @hate4buzi LOOK N !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
#im killing everyone im killing everyone im killing everyone im killing#im normal. normal. so. nor-#OOGHGHG MYYGY FUCUKKINGNGNGNG GOOOODODDDD OH MY GO OH MYG ODIG OH MY GOD OH#MY HUSBAND MY FUCKING HUSBAND#THE TEXTURING OH MY GOD#THE RENDERING THE COLORING THE TEXTURING#HIS METAL LOOKS LIKE METAL??????? AND THE POOF ON HIS JACKET kms#HE LOOKS LIKE AN ACTUAL ROBOT#new. favorite artist. hello.#crow's reblogs#crow's death sentences#ULTRA ULTRA FAV#URIFGYIRIGF&O$*&F*&(GGGREGFGEGFGEIGIFGI#I&@*#*O#*O&GF$#FIIG$#FGIGF$#*&F*&#$OF*#$*(GF&#$GF*&&G$*G#FGYUFGIREFGIREIFIGEGIUOGIURGIFOERGFEROGFIUGIUORGIGREOFGOIURGOEUEIGUOEOGO&#O#&*$FIUUGI#wife box#dies. badly#/VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVPOS OH MYG GOD#uzi kinnie. noises.
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saturn return | eddie munson
hello! I'm back :) will leave a little author note at the end of the fic for u. but in the meantime: enjoy this medieval slow burn fluffy smutty monster of a fic (which has not been proofread because I am so tired) <3
in short: you're from royalty, and the illicit crush you're harbouring on your sworn protector is threatened when your father, the king, reaches the end of his tether and finally begins the search for your husband.
medieval/fastasy au with knight!Eddie and fem!princess!reader, smut (18+ only, minors dni!), implied virgin!reader, (one attempted) assault, general fluff and angst and fun fantasy frolicking, mention/threat of arranged marriage (brief), enemies to lovers if you squint but mostly a bodyguard au but he wears armour and you live in a castle.
14k words (!!!)
-
You had only seen your knight without his cuffs and cloak once before in your life.
When you were nineteen, you had a fling with one of the boys who tends the horses in the stables. It had been a wet summer and against your father’s wishes you’d spent many evenings returning to the castle sodden and smiling. Your afternoons were adventurous - too much so for your age, your mother would say over dinner - and your escapades to the woodland beside the keep resulted in muddy fingerprints up the curve of your thighs and difficult-to-hide bruises blooming below your collarbone.
You may have been reckless, but you knew better than to show up to court with purpling bite marks where the collars of your dresses did not reach.
On one of the rare sunny evenings, you had stolen away after supper to the balcony that extended across the western wing of the castle. It stretched from your quarters around the side of the building, ending at the room that had belonged to your sister before she had been married to a man who lived across the sea. The sun was low and the air was thick and so in your nightgown you prowled the terrace, fingers dancing along the worn stone and up the wilting vines. As you rounded the corner there he was - your sworn protector, a man who could be barely a year your senior, hunched in an old chair over his armour. You stopped behind the wall with enough haste that he didn’t spot you - or if he had, he never let on - and while he was engrossed in the work of polishing the silver, you watched.
He’d done away with his undershirt, most likely because of the stubborn, close heat, and though he was side-on to you, his chair facing out towards the mountains in the distance, he was hunched to his left, leaving you with a view you much preferred to the vast one beyond the wall.
The muscles across his back rippled as his arm moved back and forth over the metal. In the quiet of the evening you could hear small grunts and sighs, and as your eyes adjusted to the light you spotted silvery marks of healed flesh across his side. His back was speckled with freckles and as he moved, you took notice of his mop of hair.
Though your father’s knights were never required to wear their helmets in the castle, the hair that now flowed freely was usually tightly bound at the nape of your knight’s neck. You had never realised how long it truly was - nor how unruly. Brown curls stood in what seemed like every direction, swaying back and forth in tandem with his shoulder, glowing a slight auburn in the setting sun.
You had watched him for a while, listening to the sounds of his efforts and drinking in the way the light made his skin gleam golden. It wasn’t until the sun had set that you had made your escape, bare feet padding silently across cool stone.
Ser Munson - Edmund, or Eddie as he preferred - was assigned as protector of the King’s first daughter when she came of age, at sixteen. You had been a moody teenager, belligerent and stubborn, determined you did not need protecting, even if the protector in question was broodingly handsome and a challenge to crack.
Thus, you lingered around the castle while your sisters sought husbands and new lives. Your father, though a cunning ruler, was soft when it came to his girls, and so no man was worthy of a single one of them unless he made her happy.
And no man ever had made you happy. The ones who put themselves forward as candidates for your hand were, in most cases, perfectly nice men. Mostly wealthy, often handsome, but always boring.
It was always the same: they believed you to be the most beautiful princess in the history of the realm, and they would be honoured to wed you. But as your father’s eldest daughter you knew one thing to be true: every one of them wanted the throne, and would marry you to get there.
So you sought fun in lowly servant boys, stealing kisses from cupbearers and kitchen porters, running wild in the vast gardens of the castle, just out of grasp of your grumbling mother. One day, you’d tell her when she chastised you over monstrously glutinous dinners. One day a man will come here and sweep me off my feet. Until then, I am content with my lot.
After that evening when you were nineteen, you had not looked at Eddie the same way. His job was to follow you everywhere - well, mostly everywhere, unless you were behind a tree with the stableboy again - so it was difficult to not look at him. But those aimless adventures became tiresome, and your daydreams became occupied instead by the man who tailed your every move. Stableboys were getting married, all your sisters were getting married, every eligible nobleman for a hundred miles was getting married - but you remained, as did Eddie.
“So it doesn’t hurt?”
“No, your highness.”
Eddie stares straight ahead, off into the distance, answering your childish questions through gritted teeth. You grin at him, elbow on the arm of your chaise and chin cupped by your hand, enjoying this latest instalment of your petty little game: you ask him silly questions, Eddie’s cheeks go pink, and you get a good giggle and a kick out of teasing him. It began as something lighthearted, a test of the waters after that late night wander changed your perspective, but that was two years ago and understandably, Ser Munson is getting increasingly tired of your games.
“Your highness, can I suggest that you get dressed? You’ll be late for-”
“No,” you yelp as he stands to move, sword clanking. “I’m sorry, I’ll bite my tongue. Don’t go.”
“But Miss-”
“Okay, okay, I’ll dress, just wait outside the door, will you?”
“I always do, your highness,” he says. “It is my duty.” You cannot see the smirk he sports as he turns his back to you; it is one he reserves only for himself, lest your ego get too big.
You deflate into your chair as he leaves, the heavy door swinging open. Three young maids are by your side as it slams shut, lifting you from your doze and tying you into a corset and skirt. Today you’re offered a deep navy gown, the colour of your family’s flag and perhaps the colour you look second best in.
At least it matches Eddie’s cloak.
You knock softly twice on your bedroom door, your handmaids tugging at the final details, and the guards who stand watch pull it open for you. You breathe in quick and deep, hands smoothing the satin across the top of your skirt, and step forward into the hall.
Eddie stands to one side, awaiting your direction. You follow your usual morning route, down the wide corridor to the stairs, which roll out into an even wider hall like dropped silk. Eddie’s cloak slinks across the stone floor behind you, and you yearn to make a joke, prod at him, get under his skin but you cannot, for many eyes are upon you now.
The Great Hall sits at the opposite end of the atrium to the staircase. The walls between yourself and the huge, towering doors are decorated for the brief return of your youngest sister, the most recent to wed - she is pregnant, and so there must be celebrations.
Floral garlands follow you as you make your way across the room, where, at the far end, your father stands in the doorway, watching, your mother by his side.
Peering glances follow you until other guests arrive and attentions are diverted. So you slow your step just slightly, enough that Eddie does not notice immediately and falls in line with you. Before he can correct himself, you lean in.
“Ed- er, Ser Munson,” you say, tone playful but slightly sinister, an indicator that you are brewing one of your schemes.
“Yes, your highness?” he responds neutrally.
“Ser Munson, would you please do me a favour?”
Long ago, Eddie learned to never respond to this query the way he is supposed to as your protector: Anything, your highness.
Instead, he asks: “What can I do for you?”
“You know that sword?” You twist slightly, tapping the hilt of his blade where one of his fists seems to permanently rest. “You’ve killed people with it, right?”
“Only when I have to, your highness.”
“How many, would you say?”
You hear him take a sharp breath in. You smile softly.
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen,” you repeat. “Care to make it nineteen? Do me a favour and slice through my guts so I don’t have to bear another one of these idiotic ceremonies?”
If you’d paid closer attention, rather than sharing your gaze between Eddie and your father, who was ever-nearing, you’d have seen that your dear knight almost broke. This would have been the closest you’ve come to getting a laugh out of him, your stoic, stone-faced hero.
“That’d be highly inappropriate, your grace,” he says, composed. “And I’d surely lose my head.”
“Oh, but that’s your job,” you whisper. “To die for me! And anyway, I can’t go to hell alone, you’ll need to keep me company. And protect me from the ghouls. So maybe make it twenty instead.”
This time, you do catch it. The corner of his mouth twitches and something in his eye, the way it dodges you, gives him away. In your peripheral vision you see him open his mouth - it’s close to your ear, you almost hear the beginning of a word - but you’ve reached the end of the hall, and your father awaits. Eddie falls back again, a step or two behind, as you drop your shoulders and brace yourself.
-
Being one of many sisters is a difficult life. Impossible to prevent yourself from comparing their hair to yours, their eyes, the slant of their shoulders, their waists, their hands, and worse is the bickering, the competition.
Being the only one of them not to be married is the worst.
Twenty minutes ago, you stole yourself away to a corner of the Hall with a too-full cup of wine and three slices of the best bread. Here you camp, munching on the final crust, eyeing up the table across the room. How do I get a refill without someone asking me to dance?
With your eyes squinted and shoulders hunched in, you scarcely notice your knight down the wall. He’s on guard, back straight with his hand on the hilt of his sword - watching, as he is supposed to. Only his attention is distracted, because in his peripheral vision is you, alone, as always.
It’s only when you hear the familiar clinking of sword sheath on armour that you turn to see that he’s beside you, and in a rare moment of peace, he’s leaning back, letting the wall take his weight.
“What’re you looking at?” You eye him suspiciously, swallowing the final sip of wine. “Come to ask for a dance for one of those snivelling Harrington boys?”
You hear him scoff, though he’s smiling just slightly. “No,” he says quietly. “Why, do you want to dance with Steven?”
You scoff. “Do I fuck.”
“Language, your highness.”
“Please stop calling me that when dad isn't around.”
He glances at you, smiling still, and rolls his eyes. “Why aren’t you with the other ladies?”
It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “The Buckleys aren’t here. It’s no fun without Robin.”
“And your sisters?”
“Oh yeah,” you drone. “I just love being reminded by all four of them how lucky a man would be to have me and how I must get married because, oh, weddings are so lovely!”
He turns to look at you properly, silver collar creaking, and reaches over to take your goblet. “How many of these have you had?”
You drop your hands behind your back, looking down at your slippers like a naughty child. “Three.”
To your surprise, you feel the damp rim of the cup meet your chin, pushing your face up. Eddie looks back at you and keeps the pressure under your head so you can’t divert your gaze. Your cheeks warm, heat blooming under his watch.
“Fine,” you sigh, eyes dropping closed in defeat. “Seven.”
You brace for a scolding, expecting a telling off from your faithful knight, but when you look at him in the silence, you find him grinning down at you.
“You’re going to feel awful in the morning,” he tells you.
You look back at him a little dumbfounded, because he’s very close to your face and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him in such detail before. There are creases by his eyes from smiling, and there’s an old, white scar across his nose, which is crooked, presumably from old punches.
“Will you take me to bed, then, please?” you ask softly, and he lowers the cup slowly, placing it on a nearby table without looking away from you. You look back at him, trying your hardest through the fog to give him your best pleading eyes, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. He’s close, still; time suspends as he nears even more and runs his thumb along the underside of your chin. It is the first time in your life that your knight has ever touched you.
You watch as he brings it to his mouth - it’s a deep, bruised pink, dyed by the wine from the rim of the cup where it had held your face up - and, taking his eyes off you, slides it between his lips.
It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been breathless around him, but it is the first time you’re face to face with him as the air leaves your lungs in a slow, desperate whine. It feels criminal, illicit, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, within reach of anyone who cares to look for you, watching Eddie lick wine off the pad of his thumb.
The festive music on the other side of the room ends and people around you cheer. Eddie’s smile drops and he straightens up as though kicked in the back, looking around like he just woke from a dream.
“Uh, yes- Your highness. I’ll escort you to your quarters.”
He steps back but holds his arm out for you to take. For a moment you just stare at him, incredulous, before wrapping your fingers around the cool leather covering his forearm and lifting yourself off the wall, your heart wilting as his guard rises again and your fun, playful protector is lost to duty once more.
-
The ceiling of your bed chamber hasn’t changed in fifteen years. You know because you’ve had many nights like this, staring at it forlornly, yearning for something you cannot and will not have.
When you were six, your father had the sleeping quarters across the whole castle redecorated, and you requested a fresco above your bed. Under the guise of education, telling your father that it would help you practise your knowledge of Arthurian legends, you asked for a depiction of the knights of the round table. Truthfully, you wanted to be able to look at Arthur every night before you slept.
Now, it makes you feel sick. It’s an ugly, truthless fairytale, spun to make little girls giggle and you despise every inch of it, regardless of how beautiful it may have appeared to you once.
In the dark, you can still make out Arthur’s faded features. He is plain, with cropped blonde hair and a silly chestplate, looking over the expanse of your ceiling to Guinevere, whose clasped hands by her cheek make the picture of a woman in love.
You turn over, frustrated, and cover your head with a spare cushion.
-
The stone of the balcony wall is cool beneath the palms of your clammy hands. In the courtyard, your sister’s carriage is leaving, followed by many horsemen from her husband’s house. They’ll return only when the baby is born, to christen him in the family chapel.
You sigh as she leaves the gates and lean your weight on your hands. It’s still hot out, too hot for so many layers under your dress and a corset so tight, and you’re too exhausted to carry the weight around. Your maids are nowhere to be seen because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you should be socialising, but you’re an adult. You can dress - and undress - yourself.
As you return indoors, you reach behind your back and tug at the knot at the base of your corset. After a couple of frustrated tries it finally gives, loosening so that you can hook your fingers under each stretch and pull it undone. You gasp for air, filling your lungs properly as your ribs expand, and use your shoulders to pull it loose enough for you to remove. You take care to place each layer gently over your chaise - corset, overdress, skirt. You’re left in your undergarments - a long, loose slip made of cotton - when you hear an unexpected knock and the door begins to open.
You jump, feeling suddenly exposed in so few layers. It’s unlike anyone to disturb you at this hour.
You tense even more when your knight, with his hair loose and his cheeks pink, pushes the doors wider. He stops in his tracks for a moment as he spots you across the room, flushed your own shade of mortified.
“Eddie,” you hiss. “Shut the fucking door.”
His eyes widen and he straightens up, knocked out of his daze. You expect him to retreat, but he moves inside and pushes the doors closed behind himself.
“I meant with you outside them, ideally,” you bite.
“I- Uh, sorry- My apologies, your highness, I-”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Sorry! Sorry, shit, I- It’s important, sorry.”
“So important that it requires you to see me indisposed?”
He looks at you blankly for a second. “I mean, technically I see you like this every morning when you interrogate m-”
“Oh, shut up,” you spit, eyes narrowing. Your arms are still crossed over your chest, even though you’re covered from neck to ankle. “You know that’s different. There’s no robe or slippers between us now, Ser Munson.”
His cheeks bloom at that, pink slipping into fiery red. He breathes impatiently through his nose, clearly irritated by your prodding, and steps closer.
“Your highness,” he says pointedly. You roll your eyes. “Your father- His Highness requests your presence. In the throne room.”
-
“I refuse.”
“Darling, I-”
“No!”
Your father stands at the other end of the table, his head hung and his hands on the wood in front of him. You are in the room in which he has his important meetings with his council. Over the years you’ve tried a hundred times to get in here during such meetings, to no avail, but now all you want is to get out.
“You are twenty-one,” he says after a breath. “I’ve given you time, five years of it. You can’t remain unmarried any longer.” This conversation has only been happening for maybe two and a half minutes, but it seems more like an age; you’re exhausted from yelling already, especially at him. But it feels like the walls are closing in, your entrapment in a loveless marriage with a stranger now a certainty rather than a possibility. It’s beyond your power to stop the tears falling.
“You can’t make me,” you say through the thickness of your throat. Your arms wrap around your waist, squeezing, breath hiccupping on its way out.
“I can,” he sighs. “But I really don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be horrible. Your sisters, they’re all happy, why-”
“I don’t care about them. I want to be-” You stop yourself, because this isn’t something to talk about here, with your father of all people; you’d barely even talk to your mother about this stuff. But he’s looking at you again over the expanse of mahogany and his eyes are sad, because he’s fighting with his first daughter, and you break. “I want to be in love, father. I don’t want to be sold off to the highest bidder because I’m the eldest. That can’t be my life.”
He sighs again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It is. There are fifteen houses coming here tomorrow, each with an eligible son. I’m letting you choose; it’s the most I can do.”
Your nose burns with betrayal and terror. Your cheeks are wet, tears falling into soft, wet spots on the front of your dress. Your arms squeeze your middle one last time before you turn, pushing past the Kingsguard who stand at the door, past the cupbearers and the maids, and past Eddie, who has been waiting for you outside. For the first time ever you don’t hear the familiar sound of armour following you, and for a moment you almost stop to turn and look for him, but you’re still crying and although it’s the middle of the afternoon, all you want to do is hide.
-
“It’s true,” Robin sighs. “I’ve been looking in our library, and I’ve counted at least three instances.”
You roll onto your back. Robin sits beside you on the plush of your bed, which has been remade by your maids so that there are no remnants of your painful, sleepless night. She strokes your hairline softly, looking down at you with sorry eyes.
“The most recent was eighty-three years ago,” she continues. “Lady Flora. She ran off with her knight, to be fair… But still!”
“I’m the eldest, Robin,” you tell her, trying your hardest to stop your words coming out in a hiccup; you only stopped crying this morning, and you’re in no mood to begin again now. “There’s too much expected of me. I can’t run off. I have to pick the right person.”
She takes in a breath. “Who says he isn’t the right one? Or that you’d have to run off?”
“Centuries of historical precedent,” you tell her flatly. When you meet her eye, though, you watch as she tries and fails to hold in a laugh.
“Since when have you ever cared about historical precedent?”
“Never, but that’s the problem.” You sit up quickly, knocking her affectionate hand back into her lap. “I can’t… This isn’t right. None of it is, but especially… Him.”
“But in the centuries of historical precedent,” Robin says, a poor imitation of you, “There were people like you.”
“And what happened to them?” you ask with a huff, standing to pace beside your bed. “Exiled, abandoned, cut off, ridiculed… I can’t live like that, Robin. But- But I can’t exist here while he’s always around, right behind my back. He’s like my fucking shadow. I can’t-” You hiccup, a wet sound that heralds the return of tears. “I can’t move on.”
Robin watches you with eyes laced with a pity that makes you furious. You want her to fix this; it’s entirely irrational, but you’re lost, and surely someone somewhere has to take responsibility for this, fix it so you don’t have to feel anything anymore. Remove Eddie, replace him with someone lifeless and unfunny and ugly, hand you a beautiful, attentive husband on a platter and, most of all, take the pain away.
But it doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t.
“Your Highness,” Eddie says in a raised voice from beyond your door. “It’s time.”
You look at Robin, who looks back at you, her eyes wide.
“I’ll be a minute,” you shout back hesitantly as she rises and rushes over. You let her help you adjust your dress and she dips a cloth left behind by a maid into the basin of cool water by your bedside, wiping it gently over your cheeks in an attempt to reduce the blotches there.
Neither of you say another word. She takes your hand firmly and squeezes.
-
You hate this.
Although you’re desperate for anything but a pre-arranged marriage pact, part of you had quite genuinely hoped for some kind of miracle, that one of your suitors would be The Guy. In your restlessness the evening prior, you’d even let yourself fantasise that one of them, strikingly handsome in your daydreams, would appear at the foot of the throne and you’d feel it in that instant: love.
But in every version of this delusion, The Guy was faceless, nameless, a blur of a person until he wasn’t. Until he was Eddie.
In reality, your knight is out of sight for once, and you’re nearing hour three in the gardens, where the court musicians entertain the countless guests and wine is flowing freely for everyone except you. (With your father at your elbow all afternoon, it’s impossible to get a second cup. Your mouth is dry and your boredom inflating.)
You know better than to assume Eddie’s left the gardens completely, but there are too many people for you to see him.
Suddenly, you feel a sharp elbow nudge your rib.
You turn to your father and find him wide-eyed and pink in the nose - a tell-tale sign of frustration - nodding to the man standing opposite the two of you.
“Hm?” you hum, painfully aware of how obvious it is to the both of them that you weren’t paying a lick of attention.
“Lord Carver was telling us about his hunts,” your father says through gritted teeth.
“Oh,” you sigh, turning to the stranger. “How… Interesting. What do you hunt?”
“Deer, mostly,” he responds, puffing out his chest. His cheeks are blotched with pink and the caramel blonde of his hair is unpleasant. The pleasure of your attention is clearly feeding his ego. “Started on pheasants when I was ten. They’re far too easy now; I’m heading out tomorrow to try for a stag. Say, care to join me?”
“Oh, I’m flattered,” you say with a saccharine giggle and hand to your chest that your father can certainly see straight through. “But I don’t hunt. Thank you, though, Lord Carver.”
Lord Carver seems to take this somewhat personally, despite your almost sincere attempt at a polite curtsy. He comes over stoney, steel-eyed as though you’ve wounded him.
“No matter. Your highness,” he says flatly, bowing quickly to your father before turning on his heels and marching away.
You barely listen as you are accosted by the king for being so blatantly rude. Lord Carver is far from your mind because across the heaving mass of strange bodies, you can see your knight, looking straight back at you.
Your father hisses your name but you do not listen.
“I’m taking a walk,” you tell him. “Sorry, father, I just need a break. And… A glass of water.”
It must have rained this morning. The grass is damp beneath your feet, soaking slowly through the velvet of your lilac slippers as you push your way between bodies as politely as you can manage.
With your focus on the ground you do not see Eddie’s eyes following your figure through the crowd; you also do not see Lord Carver six steps behind.
The latter reaches you first, by quite a margin, a moment after you’ve broken free of curious strangers and can finally breathe again. Everything happens very quickly. In the shadow of a high wall, the man reaches for your arm like a viper. His fingers coil and the fresh garden air is replaced by his coddling breath on your cheek. He spun you so quickly you feel momentarily winded, enough to catch you off guard as your face scrapes the old brickwork. Spit hits your cheek and mixes with fresh blooms of blood as his pink face looms, dominating your field of vision - like a bear in a trap you feel helpless, his fingers around your wrist so tight you fear he may break your bones. In a moment you’re frozen stiff and he takes his chance, his lips pushing angrily into the stretch of bare skin above the collar of your dress.
“You’re a bitch,” he says, muffled by the skin under your jaw. You writhe and whimper but you cannot scream. “You humiliated me. See what happens to cunts like- Ungh-”
The force of your knee between his legs is enough force to knock him back. Stumbling, he lurches forward again, only to meet your elbow, sharp and swift at his throat. The pathetic choking sound he makes mixes with the familiar sound of heavy boots; you turn to find Eddie, pink in the face, fist on the handle of his sword.
“Christ,” he pants, “Are you okay?”
Lord Carver coughs as he struggles to regain his balance.
“You-” Cough. “You bitch,” he spits, hand at his collar.
“Watch yourself,” Eddie growls, towering over the spluttering lord, his sword pulled only a few inches from its sheath - a warning: I will not hesitate. “I suggest you take your family home, Sir.”
Lord Carver looks up at him, red eyes watering and breath still catching. For a moment he seems to contemplate fighting back, but even you almost find yourself laughing at the possibility, until you look to Eddie and find a version of the man you’ve never seen before.
Your life, which Eddie tails endlessly from a few paces behind, always, is quiet. Mundane, boring, unadventurous; you rarely leave the castle grounds and when you do, it’s inside a carriage. Your bravest adventure since you were sixteen was taken barefoot, that evening after dinner, up on the balcony where you’d stumbled across your knight, bare-chested and panting.
You’ve teased Eddie before about how the lack of danger in your life must mean his own is boring. Though he never once gave into you, deep down you worry that it’s true.
Now, though, your knight is coloured a shade unknown to you. He’s come over like a shadow, eyes hard and brow set, and there’s a vein visible above the collar of his cape. Lord Carver seems to halve in size beneath his frame, and though he has never shown himself like this in front of you before, you’re sure of one thing.
Your pleading cry is too late, too weak - before you can intervene, Eddie’s fist makes contact with Lord Carver’s cheekbone. There’s a crack that, to you, is as loud as thunder, though the skies are as blue as they’ve ever been. As his back hits the floor, Lord Carver yelps like a wounded dog, and Eddie moves in on him.
“Eddie,” you plead, voice weaker still, your hands grasping his arm, “Leave him alone, I’m okay, please.”
In the commotion, you’d failed to notice your growing audience. You’re sure that if you let him, Eddie would give another punch, and another, but the man on the floor is bleeding from his nose and from a wide gash under his eye and your slippers are drenched through and so is the collar of your dress where your tears, unbeknownst to you, have been soaking the cotton.
“Please,” you hiccup, your hands squeezing, pulling Eddie backwards with as much strength as you can manage.
“Asshole!” Carver spits, his voice broken. Two men who resemble him are helping him up off the ground, the small crowd murmuring between themselves as they watch him stumble away. “You’ll regret this!”
It’s an empty threat. You barely hear it, in fact, because Eddie is finally turning to you, his shoulders dropping. His face softens the moment he looks at you.
“Are you okay? Did he- Where did he hurt you?” He asks again. People are dispersing but you pay them no mind because Eddie’s hands hold your face and it stings when he runs his gloved thumb over the gash on your cheek. You wince and his grip on you tightens, as though you might slip away if he lets you.
As his arms wind around your shoulders, you push your face into the embroidered crest that sits by his heart.
“You’re okay,” he tells you firmly, sweet words murmured into your hair. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Your father’s booming voice cuts through whispering strangers like a whip. Eddie moves away from you so quickly that you almost choke.
Tears mix with old blood and you want to scream. You want these strangers to leave your garden, you want Eddie to clean your wounds, you want to run away.
You cannot have what you want.
-
Two and a half weeks ago, your father replaced your knight via a letter.
Ser Munson has been reassigned.
After two nights of bed-rest in your chamber, wherein you were seen only by your mother and two alchemists, your new knight - an older man, as old as your father and then some - made himself known at your door. He informed you of his new appointment as your sworn protector. When you asked after Eddie, he closed the door.
Two lonely weeks entailed many downward spirals. One evening after countless days spent rotting, refusing the attendance of your mother or father, you find yourself staring blankly at your reflection in the glass beside the chest that houses your dresses. The girl looking back is gaunt and her eyes are bloodshot. There’s an old cut on her bottom lip, close to healing but you’re sure you’ll bite it open again soon enough, splitting the skin so that deep red plumes can burst through and begin the process again.
You think about Eddie. What would he say if he could see you now? Over the weeks you’ve spent more hours than you can count thinking about how he’d held you, the words spoken into your hair, low enough to avoid unwelcome ears. His hands had gripped you so firmly that you’d almost felt whole again after Lord Carver’s grubby paws had violated you so horribly. Now you’re hollow.
His reassignment was surely your punishment: how dare you let yourself be so distracted that you humiliate a noble Lord to the point of such anger? How dare you humiliate him such that he wants to hit you, bite you, kiss you, hurt you?
Meals delivered by your maids go uneaten. You do not speak to your new knight, only catching a glimpse when he opens the door for attendants.
At the dawn of a Thursday, your mother delivers the news that you are to stay behind while your parents visit your sister. You’re not sure which one of the four it is, but you do not care. With them gone, maybe you can go out; it’s early summer, after all, the weather is glorious, and you’re gasping for some sunlight and some respite from this stupidity.
-
When the sandbag splits, old hay spills onto the muddy ground.
Eddie’s sword is freshly sharpened and slices through the woven material like a hot knife through butter. He imagines Lord Carver’s face where the bag is tied together with string and watches it fall limply to the floor.
Outside in the courtyard, the sun is hot and shade is rare, and sweat beads on his forehead and drips to his chin. Other knights spar around Eddie, practising for nothing. His new position in the Kingsguard is, quite obviously, a downgrade, but only a few of his fellow knights have tried to get the why out of him: why have you stopped tailing the eldest daughter around? Why are you now forced to watch the southern walls in the dead of night? How did it happen? What did you do?
He chances a glance upwards, to the higher balcony along the wall, squinting under the sun. He doesn’t know if what he sees is you, standing in the shadow, or a trick of the light.
-
Your parents have been gone for two days, and the castle is like a ghost town. It’s never like this; even on late night escapades through the hallways, there are always maids at work, cleaning ladies and cupbearers. Guards on constant rotation, your father’s advisers wandering the halls having hushed conversations.
Tonight, though, there’s nothing. Your family’s absence is a moment of respite for the staff, who get a rare few evenings off to venture into town for some fun. You’re completely alone.
The long corridors look almost blue. The full moon is rising over the horizon and you’re enjoying an evening of freedom.
With most of the court staff out of the castle walls, you can’t be sure if you’ll find what you’re looking for tonight. He may have gone off with them, with his friends in the guard, down to a pub, getting drunk because he can, stumbling half-blind into a brothel like the rest of them do.
You shake the thought off because it turns your stomach, despite having no claim over the boy. It’s true that he may have gone but you’re searching anyway, because you’re driving yourself mad with guilt, and secretly you’ve missed him horribly.
You miss knowing he’s right outside your door, only ever a few paces away if you need him. You miss the blooming pink across his cheeks whenever you tease him, his stumbling answers and poor attempt at staying stony-faced and stoic. And you miss the smirk, though you’re sure he thinks he hides it well, that creeps across his face whenever you finish your teasing.
It’s your first time in this corner of the castle. Almost twenty-two years of living here, you’ve never had a reason to venture to where the knights stay. It’s a long way from your own wing - you’ve been walking for ten minutes and you’ve only just spotted a door. You’re treading softly in your favourite ruby slippers which, though you’d never admit it even to yourself, were surely chosen on purpose. You dressed yourself this evening, so there’s no use blaming your maids for the decision to drape you in scarlet.
As you come to a stop outside the room, you hold your breath and listen. You haven’t seen a single knight - not even your own new one - this whole time, but there’s somebody in there, and it sounds like they’re pacing.
Your hand reaches for the handle but just as you touch the iron, it twists on its own and the door flies open. You stumble forwards, losing your balance, but a familiar hand steadies you.
“Your highness?” He breathes, helping you back up. “What the- What are you doing here?”
You look at him. The man staring back at you is wide-eyed, those browns as pretty as ever but framed by new, dark circles. It’s difficult to see in the low light but he’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. And though he seems sleepy, he’s dressed up in most of his on-duty getup, without the cape and sword.
“Eddie?”
“I thought the- Aren’t you supposed to be seeing your sister?”
“No, I… I stayed behind,” you tell him. A half-lie.
He looks back at you blankly. “Well,” he sighs. “We should… I should escort you back to your chamber.”
“No,” you say firmly. He does not invite you inside but you step over the threshold anyway, pushing past him into what you assume must be his bedroom.
It’s a plain room. The bed is low with old sheets, and there’s one candle burning on a table by the window. On the wall above his bed, he has hammered what looks like a letter into the plaster. And to the left of that-
“Is that mine?” You point plainly to the embroidery hoop. Even in the near-darkness you cannot miss the rosy flush you ignite across his face.
He scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Yes.”
It’s a small hoop, one you must have done years ago. A deep red rose, your favourite.
You look at it for a moment, and then to him. “Where have you been?”
He drops his hand. “I was reassigned,” he tells you.
“Why?”
“I don’t-”
“Why?” you press. He sighs and leans in the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest.
“After the… Incident with Lord Carver, your father thought it best that I be moved.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he sighs, “I’m on the nightwatch.”
“The nightwatch?!” you parrot. Even you, with only superficial understanding of the mechanics of your father’s guard, know that that’s one of the worst jobs. “But you… Why would he punish you?”
“Ask him,” he says bitterly, and so quickly that you know he regrets it instantly. “Sorry,” he corrects, “That was out of order.”
“Don’t apologise,” you say back, stepping past him into the wide hallway. It’s a brighter blueish-grey now, the moon nearing its highest spot in the night sky. You stop, turning to look at Eddie, and there’s a beat of silence.
He’s watching you quietly, and it takes him a moment to realise that you wish him to follow you. Under the moonlight you’re effervescent, your skin almost sparkling. The soft glow of the moon reflects a million times in your eyes like tiny diamonds. You’re so pretty it’s difficult to look away.
Eventually he closes the door behind him and falls into a familiar step, just behind your left foot. You walk and talk as you meander through random hallways, clearly unsure where you’re going but he says nothing, silently grateful to see you again and willing to walk every hall of the castle if it means stretching out the time before he has to leave you again.
“Why do you say that?” he asks. You turn your head to look at him, lost. “You told me not to apologise.”
You huff, striding forward. “You don’t have to respect my father around me, Eddie. It’s not like he respects me, or anything.”
“I don’t understand,” he says quietly. You bristle, frustrated that you’ve allowed the conversation to move to you. You’d intended to find out where he’d gone, not tell him about this.
“He can quite easily forget about me,” you tell him over your shoulder bitterly. “I’m happy to forget about him for a few days.”
“I… I don’t understand,” he repeats, and it irritates you double.
“For God’s sake,” you spit, stopping so abruptly that he almost crashes into your back. You spin and stare him down. “I’m a disappointment, okay? They left for their trip, and they left me behind. I’m useless. No man likes me, not enough to marry me, only stupid stableboys have ever come close to me. Something went wrong somewhere and now I’m here, heir to the throne and without a husband. And it’s. Your. Fault.” You jab your index finger to his chest for emphasis, but it’s meagre because you can feel the tears returning and you want nothing less than to be seen crying by Ser Munson.
You cross the remainder of the hallways alone, Eddie left behind. Whether by choice or because of shock you don’t know, and frankly you don’t care. When you finally return to familiar halls, you push your way into your chambers and slam the heavy door as hard as you can behind you.
After a few minutes of pacing, having make-believe arguments with yourself in hushed tones, there’s a soft knock. So soft you almost miss it, but the eerie quiet of the castle has you jumpier than usual.
“Sweetheart,” you hear through the thick wood. “Let me in? Please?”
Maybe it’s your fear in the silence, or maybe it’s the way the rare sweetheart makes your stomach drop; either way you cave, rushing over and heaving the door open.
On the other side of the threshold, Eddie stands, hair unruly like he’s run his hands through it a few times. The curls stick out at odd angles and stand out dark against his alabaster skin.
Something in his eyes makes you break. The tears come thick and fast and before you can hide or apologise or close the door, arms wrap you up and his hand is on your back, smoothing patiently up and down.
It’s not the most comfortable hug; his armour is mostly leather and cloth but the toughness of it all makes it difficult to completely lean into him. As though he senses that, he pulls back, though his hand lingers on your arm where he gives you a squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, palms smudging wet tears across your face in an attempt to dry your eyes. “That was so mean of me, I’m sorry.”
“I just want to know what you mean,” he says, his eyes sadder than you’ve ever seen them. You dreaded this inevitability the moment you let the blame fall from your lips, but you owe him that much.
You sigh, look down at your feet, and resign yourself to truth.
“Father… He loves me, but he loves the throne just as much. And I’m the eldest, and I’m almost twenty-two, so…”
In your peripheral vision you see him sag, his shoulder dropping in premature realisation.
“He brought all those men here, and not one of them was even slightly as interesting to me as you.”
Eddie looks at you, at the tears that periodically drop from your cheeks to the floor, listens to you sniff and hiccup, and wonders how on Earth you exist, let alone how you’ve landed here, with feelings so profound for him of all people.
“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me,” he tells you honestly. You look up at him and the sight winds him: you’re crying, and it’s sad and stressful and difficult but you’re so beautiful.
You giggle and to him, it’s the ringing of a thousand bells by a thousand angels. It’s golden and brilliant. “I’m surprised,” you say, your smile lingering. “You’re really very lovely.”
He steps forward and reaches up, taking your chin in his gloved hand. You look back at him and sigh without meaning to as he moves his hand to cup your cheek and wipes stray tears away with his thumb. It takes your mind back to loud music, seven goblets, and a wine-stained thumb between his teeth.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells you quietly. There’s no one around but this still feels painfully scandalous, like glass that could - and will - shatter at any moment. No sudden movements.
You smile into his palm. “Stop it.”
“It’s true,” he says as his thumb moves across your skin, over the remnants of the cut across your cheekbone, over expanse of skin to your lips.
You watch him as he takes a deep breath in.
“I wasn’t reassigned,” he admits to you. You match him, breathing deep through your nose, preparing for the truth. “Well, I asked to be reassigned. I had to plead, really, because your father… He’s a good man.”
You roll your eyes without thinking and feel your bottom lip quivering again, the tears reemerging.
“He told me I’d never be able to see you again,” you tell him in a whisper.
“That’s my fault.”
“What?” You lift your head upright and he drops his hand, bringing it to his hair instead to run it through the curls again.
“I asked that I be kept away from you.”
“Why?! Why on earth would you… What could possibly possess you?”
“I couldn’t go through that again,” he says. “I couldn’t be near you. It was too… Too painful, and I let it get the better of me when I punched Lord Carver.”
“You were protecting me,” you say flatly. “That’s- That was your job.”
The emphasis hurts. “I know,” he sighs, “But… I wanted to kill him.”
“I don’t understand,” you tell him. You despise the whimper your words come out with, the way your jaw clenches to hold back more tears. What you can see of his neck above the collar of his thick tunic and under the cover of ringlets of tired hair is blotchy, coming up rosy in uneven patches. Is he stressed? Nervous? Both?
Your vision blurs with tears and your nose burns. He looks back at you softly, just like always, his eyes dark and inviting. Your lip wobbles again and you hear his breath hitch in the quiet.
“Let me show you,” he offers as he holds your cheek again. You cannot help but lean in, head tipping to the left to feel the expanse of leather over your cheek, his thumb dancing softly across your skin.
“No, I- You have to explain yourself, I don’t-”
“Please?” He looks at you with those fucking eyes of his and you want to kick him and kiss him all at once. “Do you trust me?”
The urge to kick him persists but you nod anyway. Perhaps the kicking is not a frustration aimed at him but at yourself instead: why can you not tell him how you feel? Why does the possibility of what he’s about to do scare you so much?
“I don’t know what to do,” you admit to him in a whisper. You feel naked before him, though there’s layers of thick velvet and scuffed leather between the two of you, a hundred barriers of material, an aching yawn of distance that you find yourself disliking immensely.
Can Eddie read your mind? It feels that way right now - you only uttered six words but he seems to understand you entirely at this moment. He drops his hand from your face, takes a step back, and as you watch him wordlessly unbuckle his armour, your stomach contracts and your soul becomes hollow in anticipation. He removes the belt that the sword usually sits on, and then his leather gauntlets, pulling each finger from the gloves and placing them, too, on the table. As he peels off each piece of his uniform, creating a growing pile on the wood and on your floor, you see, for the first time since that night when you were nineteen, the bloom of his flesh under his billowing undershirt. He’s paler now than he was then, though the moonlight seeping in through the cracks between heavy curtains over your windows is no match for the golden wash of colour he had once basked in. If you had any sense you’d laugh at the display before you: endless metal defences and leather covers come away from his body and pile noisily beside him. But you’re transfixed, fingers fidgeting, bottom lip absentmindedly between your teeth.
You do not notice him glance at you every so often. Between removing each greave, he looks up at you again, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the flurry of blood to his cheeks. He’s baring himself, and you’re looking at him like he’s edible; perhaps, to you, he is.
After many minutes filled only by the sounds of deconstructed armour, metal and leather, he’s free of it, and he stands before you in a loose shirt and cotton slacks. His pale chest is visible behind the deep, un-tied collar and your fingers itch, fidgeting still, yearning to know what it feels like.
“Talk to me,” he whispers. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”
“I saw you like this, once,” you say quickly, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. You’re looking at everything - his arms, his legs, neck, chest, hands - except his eyes.
He’s taken aback. “What?”
“Years ago. I was nineteen. You were outside-” You turn to look through the open balcony door behind you, at the bright white gleaming down on the stone beyond. “-polishing. It was so beautiful out there, but I remember watching you for ages.”
You turn back, eyes on his finally. As ever, they’re wide and deep brown and beautiful. “Sorry. I know that’s strange. And forbidden, I guess.”
“No,” he breathes, taking a step towards you. “No, it’s fine- It’s okay.”
The air is thick and between that and your corset, you can barely breathe. He’s inching closer and it’s difficult to know where to look.
Nobody has ever been this close to you before. Not truly; you kiss your father and mother on the cheek before heading to bed each evening, you give your sisters fleeting embraces, you've fooled around with stableboys and, of course, you once loved to lean into his space whenever you teased Eddie, but this is different. Someone electing to be so near, choosing to breathe your air and not flinching or pulling back, instead lingering just to let his eyes dance over yours once more - it’s new, and it’s addictive.
He’s breathing your air but you’re also breathing his. The hills of his cheeks are mere whispers from your own, and his nose, crooked at the bridge where it once broke, nudges yours so lightly that you ought not feel it. It takes your breath away anyway.
At the sound of your gasp he smiles, only slightly, but you’re so close you see it in his eyes. Crows' feet emerge, wrinkling happiness beside his temples, and you can’t help but return it. As you fight the urge to close your eyes you watch him as he watches you, bated breaths and whimpers. All of a sudden he meets your gaze and you stumble where your foot had been resting on your other ankle. The heel of your slipper slides across bare skin and your balance goes, but before you can panic or cry out, you are pulled in breathless by his strong arm around your back. There may be layers upon layers of fabric but you feel it anyway, the electric jolts up your spine where his palm presses firm into your waist. Whether he means to or not is unclear, but you’re chest-to-chest with him now, the firm bones of your corset pushed against his shirt.
Your fingers spread across the fabric of his shirt. Without meaning to, you venture upwards, fingertips meeting the small smattering of coarse hair there, under the cotton. You watch your hands like they’re moving on their own, until his finger, hooked beneath your chin, tilts you up to meet his eye again.
It’s happening, you think to yourself. But then his arm, still around your middle, tightens briefly and he’s gone.
You watch him cross your room, the few steps he takes to your bed suddenly a criminal distance, too far, far too far. He sits upright on the edge of it, legs parted.
“Come here,” he says, his voice a melodic tug at your core. You move to him, sliding each of your slippers off on the way, and stand hesitantly between his knees, holding your breath without thinking to.
You can’t look at him. You caught a glimpse of his eyes and the way they’re looking up at you and you can’t. It’ll surely kill you.
He thinks you’re perfect, standing here, towering over him, relenting. His tough palms smooth over the layers of deep red velvet that lie over your hips, and for a moment he allows himself to relish in the small noises of shock you’re making before he urges you to turn around.
“You know,” he begins as his deft fingers untie and release the intricate ribbons at your back. “It wasn’t your fault.”
You turn your head towards him, as far round as you can. “What?”
“The… What happened, that afternoon. The way he spoke to you…” Eddie’s fingers still for a moment and you hear him take a deep breath. “The way he touched you. I don’t know what your father- what His Majesty said about it, but it wasn’t your fault.”
His left hand begins pulling at the ribbons again, but his right rests safely on your waist, as though he’s demonstrating something: how you should be touched, the way you deserve, soft and kind and gentle and wanted.
You hum in agreement.
“And I truly am sorry I punched him,” he says. “It- If I’d just told him to back away, it never would have become such… Such a thing, a big deal.”
“Eddie,” you breathe, grateful that you can get a lung-full again. You turn back to him in his grasp and take his face in both hands. Your palms are warm but they’re nothing compared to the flames of his cheeks, which almost burn under your touch. “I’m not mad that you punched him. I wish I’d done it, truly. But I’m never mad that you want to protect me.”
Your hands on his face startle him. You both sense it in the moment, how unlike you this is, to touch him so willingly and so carefully.
“I don’t think you needed me to protect you,” he says quietly, a smile emerging though he tries his best to hold it back. “Your elbow seemed to do a good enough job of that.”
Ah! The sound of your feather-light laugh fills a yawning gap in his chest that appeared two and a half weeks ago. It sounds even more beautiful than before, a twinkling spark of a sound, just for him.
“You’re funny,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you, Ser Munson. Don’t worry about that.”
He looks up at you from his seat on the edge of your bed with eyes that sparkle like the sky outside. Perhaps it’s the reflection of the faded stars painted onto your ceiling, or perhaps it’s just the sight of you.
Both of his hands are on your waist, now, as you stand between his legs. There’s a lot of material in your skirt, though, and it feels too distant still, so you reach behind your back to pull the remainder of the ribbons keeping your corset on, and pull it over your head. Eddie helps where he can from such a low vantage point, and as soon as it’s off and disregarded on the floor, his eager fingers are pulling the velvet dress down and away from your body.
“Fucking hell,” he heaves, “How many things do you have on right now?”
“You’re one to talk,” you giggle. “It took you five whole minutes just to free your arms.”
“Okay, but that’s important. I don’t want to lose my arms. This must weigh a tonne, and… For what?”
You hold his cheek in your left hand again while he unties various laces and undoes buttons. Your skirt has fallen away, as has the underskirt and the other, thicker layers. You’re left in your underdress, a simple white cotton embroidered at the collar. It’s nicer than the one he caught you in all those weeks ago, moments before your life seemed to tilt and slip away beneath you.
Under the fabric, your nipples harden in the cold, jutting out and catching Eddie’s eye.
“Is this okay?” He asks, pulling you in anyways, standing you safely between his knees, his wide hands tentative on your hips. “We don’t have to-”
“Yes,” you say firmly. “Please, yes.”
His hands slide over the hills of your behind to the backs of your thighs. He’s still looking up at you, eyes drooping when your fingers dance through his hair.
“I meant it, though,” you say. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That’s okay,” he sighs, standing slowly. “I have all the time for you.”
The moonlight bleeds a sharp bluish hue but it doesn’t matter. Right now, as he says those lovely words, the boy is a golden ball of light, humming pinks and warm ochre. Your yearning arms wind over his shoulders as his breath mixes with yours once more, his nose nudges the swell of your cheek, his hands press firm into your waist. He’s slow with it, tantalising, keeping you whimpering and desperate, until he finally dips into you, lips on yours with a surprising urgency.
It’s magic, you are so sure of it. His mouth moves over yours with certainty: he wants to be here, he wants to kiss you. He’s wanted to kiss you.
All those fairytales that your wiry old school teacher told you were real, about spells and conjurings and spirits: it’s all real, surely, and it’s in this feeling. There’s no other way you can understand it, though in truth your brain isn’t entirely clear because his fingers are smoothing lower, bunching your dress in his fists to pull the fabric up over the stretch of your legs. All the while his kisses never cease; in fact, once you feel the cool air over the material of your underwear, you gasp and welcome his tongue with your own. Air is worthless to you now; all you want is Eddie.
Much to your dismay, he seems to disagree, pulling back from you to take a breath and lift your dress over your head. He whispers up and you raise your arms, letting him undress you quietly, and once he has, you daren’t open your eyes, instead winding your arms across your chest. You feel the nighttime breeze across the backs of your thighs and you tense knowing that you’re bare in front of him.
There’s a slow beat before you feel his hands again. You hear the dress discarded on the stone floor and then his rough fingers are gently, oh so gently, holding your waist. It’s like he thinks you could break.
“Can I touch you?” he whispers.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course you can.”
You expect more solid grabs of flesh, hands smoothing over the expanse of your stomach, maybe even venturing upwards, but you take in a surprised breath when you feel his mouth on your sternum.
His rough hands hold your lower back and he kisses, framing each of your breasts with rows of feather-light pecks, dancing blossoms of affection. You drop your hands to his hair as you let out a breath of satisfaction, tangling your fingers in the curls as his mouth rises.
The whine of your name that leaves your lips is met with his hands tightening, fingers almost curling into the flesh of your back. His kisses turn eager, frantic, crossing the mounds of each of your breasts. His hands leave you to pull his shirt over his head and it’s too much all at once: too much to see, feel, know. You can’t take it in before he’s kissing you again, less than kind as his arms pull your bare chests flush.
Your fingers explore new terrain, which is littered with freckles and white, years-old scars that stretch over his alabaster skin, each one a story that you hope he will tell you one day.
“Eddie,” you pant. He returns the sentiment, breathing your name over and over into your mouth as he sits back down and pulls you into his lap.
The rough of his slacks sends an unfamiliar jolt up your spine when your hips meet his. In the heat of the moment he’s pulling at you a little rough but your gasp draws him out.
“You good?”
“Just… Slow down,” you tell him, resting back on your heels with your hands on his broad, bare shoulders.
“Sorry,” he says. His face is flushed pink and his dark eyes are drooping. “Want to stop?”
“No,” you respond, too quickly to keep your cool. You shake your head. “No, I just- I’m scared I’ll go too fast. I like you too much.”
“I told you,” he says, moving in with his eyes on you. You nod, almost imperceptibly. He kisses your collarbone and then your shoulder. “I have all the time in the world for you.”
“What if someone catches us?”
He pulls back again and reaches up, moving hair from your face and putting it behind your ears. Tidying you up. Fussing over you. It’s nice.
“I promise that everybody who would even think to come anywhere near this room tonight is gone until at least tomorrow afternoon.” He kisses under your jaw, and it returns the shivers back down your spine. “They’re too busy getting drunk. Nobody’s thinking about us.”
“You promise?”
He kisses your chin. “I promise.”
A few years ago, your father entertained a visitor from one of the bigger cities. They had been on a ship for some years and they brought goods the likes of which you’d never seen before: round, vibrant, sharp fruits, powders that made food taste wildly different, and, your favourite, a small collection of fireworks.
In the light of a small bonfire, your father helped the visitor set the wooden tubes alight. They flew off into the air and sparkled, fizzed, popped. It was a display that you couldn’t help but gawk at, enjoying the sizzles and the colours in the deep January sky.
That’s what this feels like. His lips plotting a map across your bare neck, up over your jaw, until they reach your mouth, it feels like seeing fireworks. You keen into his mouth as he licks across your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth gently before letting go, meeting your tongue with his own. His hands at your back pull you in and that flush returns between your legs. He keeps you moving slowly, a lethargic push and pull across his crotch. The dips and folds of the tough fabric there, paired with the growing hardness beneath, give you a friction that you chase instinctively. It’s coupled with a litany of praises whispered into your skin between kisses, and the combination is clearing your head and sending you dizzy.
“That’s it, you’ve got it,” he coos, “Nice and slow for me, yeah? Just-”
Through drooping lids you watch him, his face scrunching in pleasure as you rock against him. It is not lost on you that this feels just as good for him, but you can tell he’s holding something back.
His face relaxes, and he meets your eye. “Hey.” He nudges your nose with his own and takes a deep breath. “You have to breathe, deep breaths. Doesn’t feel half as good if you stop breathing, promise.”
You let out a sigh and a twinkling giggle and he smiles, wide enough that you can see his dimples. He continues showering you with sweet praises, urging you towards oblivion. Look at you. I don’t even need to tell you what to do. You’re so beautiful.
“Fuck- My god.”
The pace quickens as you chase the abyss. His hands don’t move, keeping you anchored to him, moving you back and forth. It’s bliss like you’ve never felt; your own hand could never get you this far. The friction of his pants between your thighs is perfect and your need is ferocious as your stomach winds like a coil.
“C’mon,” he encourages, “You can do it. You’re doing such a good job, c’mon-”
You fall forwards and rest your forehead on his shoulder, whimpering something desperate into his neck as your stomach tenses and bends. Please, Eddie, please, please, please.
A white-hot light sears the darkness behind your eyelids as you come apart for him. He’s calling you all sorts of filthy things but you can barely hear him, brain too occupied by the burning in your belly and his hands, which are seemingly everywhere all at once.
“Good girl,” he whispers into your hairline. He scatters kisses there as you catch your breath.
“Thank you,” you sigh. “Thank you.”
He laughs and you feel it reverberate through his chest.
As you slouch into him, feeling returning to each limb, you feel a foreign yearning in your gut, a relentless feeling that prompts you to squirm. Wriggling, your restless hands paw at his arms and his back and they move lower, until you meet the waistband of his slacks.
You whine into his neck when he won’t move to accommodate your impatience. His hands lure you back from your resting place so he can look at you, with your kiss-swollen lips and happy eyes.
“I need to know that you want this,” he whispers. He rests your foreheads together, the tip of his nose nudging yours.
All you can do is whine. You’re too elated to care to form words, but Eddie’s not having it.
“I need to hear you say it,” he tells you sternly. His eyes do not betray him: they’re steely and suddenly darker than ever.
You dip your head to kiss his jaw, nosing at his cheek, lips and teeth dragging along his skin.
“I want you, Eddie,” you tell him. His fingers tighten at the nape of your neck and pull you back, gentle but firm, as he watches you speak through obsidian eyes. “Please.”
He says nothing as he gives you one more kiss, soft as anything to the pillows of your lips, before helping you off his lap and laying you between the pillows at the head of your bed. You curl up there, the breeze colder still against the wetness between your thighs, which you squeeze together as you watch him stand.
He’s all lean muscle and long limbs. You let yourself gawk for the first time since that night on the balcony; you usually have to ration your glances at him, and he’s always covered by so many layers, so you allow yourself this luxury.
He knows you’re watching, so he makes a little show of it, bending down to get rid of the slacks. Before he does, you notice that the brown has deepened around his crotch with the stains of your pleasure. Acknowledging this makes you shiver, and though you feel you should be disgusted, it’s oddly comforting instead.
When he looks over at you, finally bared and unflinching, he takes a moment to take you in.
You’re still glowing, perhaps more so than before. Some of your hair is stuck to your face, plastered there in the heat of your first orgasm, but the rest of it is laid out around your head like a halo. It’s unfair that you can be so casually magnificent. You’re also not looking at him - well, not meeting his eye, anyway. The tip of your index finger is between your teeth as you take in the sight before you, Eddie as hard as he’s ever been, just for you.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
You look up at his face and break out in a grin. “Absolutely.”
He’s slower than you want, leaning over you, his knees on the comforter beside you, mouth lazy as he gives you kisses. You take and take, happy under his touch.
His hands are everywhere again. Your skin is on fire, aflame from the praise and the affection and the attention. The sensation of being so close to another person while naked like this is achingly unfamiliar but learning it is nice, new, natural. Though it’s nothing like anything you’ve ever experienced before, you’re finding that you like it. You like smoothing your hands over his back, feeling the dips and peaks of his muscles there, or around to the slight pudge of his stomach, just above a thatch of hair similar to your own. You like the feeling of his palms on your shoulders, down your arms, across your waist. You like that when he kisses you, you feel the nudge of his nose beside yours. You like that he appears breathless to you, like your kisses are preferable to air, especially when he becomes restless and impatient.
Above you, his hand moves south, fingers burying their way between your legs. Without realising it, you’ve been squeezing them together, desperate for any relief you can find, but his fingers are certainly better. They push your knees apart so that he can climb into your space, his waist framed by your thighs, the weight of him crashing into you as he dips again to kiss you silly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull him in, enjoying the proximity rather than fleeing from it, and feeling desperate without shame.
One hand hooks under your thigh while the other plants firmly on the mattress beside your head.
“You ready?”
You nod. “Yes.”
“I’m going to go slow,” he tells you, his lips moving against yours lest he get too far away. “Just tell me if you want to stop, please?”
“Yes,” you pant, “Yes, of course, please-”
The hand beneath your thigh escapes and he holds himself as you wind your arms under his, around his chest, pulling him in tight.
It’s definitely slow. A slow, tantalising push between your thighs, filling that gaping yearning within your gut. He’s big, though it barely takes you by surprise because of course he is.
He’s panting, biting his lip above you. “Fuck-” he gasps, “Shit- You okay?”
You nod as fervently as you can because words are escaping you and all you can think about is him, hovering over you, pushing into you, breathing your air and nudging your cheek.
“You feel- You feel so good,” he breathes, pushing further. You nod in agreement and tug him closer still, until he’s in as far as he can go, filling you to the hilt.
The proximity dazzles you as you open your eyes and examine his face. The scrunch between his brows, the freckles across his crooked nose, his teeth biting firm into his lip. It feels only natural to lean up and plot a path of kisses across the hills of his face, bright, happy kisses that relax him until he can kiss you back. He lets the weight of his body fall into yours, keeping some pressure on his arm so as not to crush you entirely, but the feeling of closeness is too comfortable for him to forego.
He speaks into the flesh of your cheek when he says, “I’m going to start moving, okay?”
“Yes,” you pant, and he does, pulling slowly away before pushing back. The friction of the movement over your clit adds to the swelling feeling of fullness each time he returns to you, and the pleasure is almost overwhelming. You take heavy breaths until they become moans, matched by his own noises. Your head is empty and all you want to do is become him; being here, underneath him, is never quite enough. Instead you wish you could, in this moment, under the stars and the moon and wrapped in the night breeze, merge with your knight and stay here forever.
Your lazy daydreams are interrupted when he groans and mutters some kind of praise into your hairline: You’re doing so well. Fuck, so good. And then, to your surprise, you feel his free hand traverse the expanse of your body, between the two of you, over the hill of your stomach until the pads of his fingers find your clit.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Perhaps you haven’t melted together, but this somehow got even better. His cock moves just as quick as he draws lucid circles with his middle and ring fingers over you. He kindles the flame like an expert as his mouth drops kisses messily across your own lips. That’s it: everything is messy, lazy, desperate. He moves and kisses and whispers please, come on, come for me, are you okay? I know you can do it, you feel so good, you’re beautiful.
The hot wire returns. It burns as it coils, tighter and tighter around an abyss in your gut, tugging on each limb like you might implode and become a black hole right here in your bed.
“Eddie, oh my god-”
“Come on.”
“Unngh- It feels s- So good-”
“Come on, sweetheart.”
His movements never relent as you come, the wire burning out in a white-hot bang. You yelp, moaning his name, and he keeps going through it all, kissing you silly all over your face. It’s only when you start to squirm that he slows, brings his busy hand out from between the two of you and smiles. He allows himself a moment to watch you, face lax and mouth agape, sweaty brow and hair a mess, before he taps your hollow cheek with his knuckles.
You open heavy eyes to look back at him and watch as he smirks down at you and brings two messy fingers to his mouth. He’s still inside you and he feels it, the way you squeeze him just slightly as he tastes you on his tongue, making a little show of it for you. He hears you gasp, panting like a dog, and even the moan that leaves you when he pulls his fingers free and they glisten in the low light. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and he breaks out in a grin before he can stop himself. “Holy shit, Eddie.”
“Happy?” he asks.
“Happy? Fuck yeah, I’m happy.”
His laughter is deep and loud, a rumble from his chest that makes you grin back at him.
“What about you?” you ask, eyes drooping again, bringing the back of your hand to your forehead. It burns there, like you have a fever. You must look a state.
“I’m more than happy,” he says, smiling. “You up for a little more?
You look at him. “Hm?”
“I, uh… I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock,” he admits, flushing, “And you… You feel so good, and I’d like to… Y’know.”
He feels bad for a second when your eyes widen and you look down quickly. “Oh, Eddie, shit, did you not- Oh my god, I’m so selfish, are you okay?”
Your hands are everywhere all of a sudden, pawing at his arms and his chest, your fawning interrupted by another bellowing laugh. When you giggle back, he winces, feeling it in the way your body pulls him tighter.
“I’m fine,” he assures you, “But I want to try something.”
“Of course,” you say.
“You sure you’re okay to keep going?”
“Yes,” you sigh, “I want to help you, I want you to feel good too.”
“Hold on, then,” he says, threading an arm between your back and the sweat-damp mattress. You wind your arms back around his neck and yelp when he swings you around, all the while keeping his cock firmly inside your walls.
“Fuck,” you splutter, planting your hands either side of his head.
He likes this view. Your face hovering over his, your knees either side of his waist. He holds you by the hips, feeling the curves and dips, pushing impatient fingers into the flesh at the base of your back.
“God, you are gorgeous,” he says. He likes this view, too, watching you flush and bat your eyelashes, made nervous under his gaze and by his lovely, genuine words.
“Not too bad yourself,” you respond, smiling, lifting one hand to push curls from his warm face.
This feeling is new but it’s lovely. Gravity pulls you onto him and it feels as though he’s somehow even deeper than before. His hands at your ass fist at the flesh there and he tells you he’s going to help you, that you may be worn out and that’s okay, and as he helps you lift yourself upwards, you get the hang of it.
You plant your hands firmly on the expanse of his chest and drop yourself down before pushing yourself back up again. It helps to sit upright so you do, letting him hold you and watch you and god, his face is a picture.
He’s scrunching his nose again, eyes tight as he huffs each time you drop onto him. He’s droopy and blissful as you move up and down, circling your hips just a bit, letting him guide you. It burns after so long but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in your chest watching him near the edge. His stomach tenses, the muscles flexing between your thighs, as his breathing becomes more ragged. And suddenly his arms come up your back and pull you down flush and inside your walls, his cock sits as far in as he can push it. You feel him stiffen and shudder and the warmth as he comes inside, hugging you close, his forehead on your shoulder.
He warns you as he pulls out, and then you lie still, spent, limbs going soft together. The sky is a pale blue-green now, the sun soon to cross the horizon. You can hear birds, and the soft morning light coats your skin in a kind of effervescent glow.
Eddie’s breathing lulls you into a doze, but after a short while he stirs. The space between your core and his is sticky and damp and it’s uncomfortable for a short moment, until he tells you quietly that he’s going to get up and get a rag. He moves you softly onto your back and you sigh, a happy, contented sound, watching him move around your space so comfortably.
He returns from the water basin with a damp cloth, cleaning the remnants of your night from between your legs. You wince when he does, only because you’re tired and sore and the cloth is cold, but he apologises and kisses the inside of your knee.
“Eddie?”
He’s at the basin again, rinsing the rag. “Mhm?”
“Do you really think everyone will be gone until the afternoon?”
You catch him smiling at your question, like he knows what’s coming.
“If you want to play it safe, lets say noon.”
“And what time is it now?”
He looks over to the clock, which sits above your mantlepiece, ticking softly.
“Early,” is all he says. “Early enough.”
“Stay with me?”
He drops the rag over the side of the basin and pads over to you. The mattress dips as he rejoins you, this time lifting your sheets to bury the two of you beneath them.
“I told you,” he says quietly, kissing the peak of your shoulder and pulling you in, his arm around your waist, “I have all the time in the world for you.”
-
The castle is bustling. People rush here and there, carrying armfuls of floral arrangements, buckets of wine, heaving plates of food. Your home is lively and noisy and your mother is pacing, directing the placement of each bouquet and chair.
In your chamber, the noise seems far away. Your maids finish tying your corset and your shoe ribbons before filtering off to complete other tasks. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your fireplace. Red really is your colour.
There’s a resolute knock at your door. The maids stand to attention and move out of your way as your knight pushes the doors open and you step through to the hall.
“Thank you, Dustin,” you say to him.
Your new knight, a replacement both for Eddie and for the man who took his place all those months ago, bows kindly at your regards. He’s young, younger than yourself and Eddie, but keen and worthy and you’re more than happy.
And then he appears, your beacon, a gorgeous vision of handsome beauty.
Eddie, Ser Munson, your knight. Or, rather, your former knight. He’s been promoted to fiancé.
He stands at the top of the stairs, looking back at you like you hung the stars. To him, you may as well have. You are all he has eyes for now, especially now, after giving up his duties and telling your father: Your daughter is my true and only duty.
“My god,” he breathes. You step over to him, too giddy to maintain any air of grace or class. Your step is more like skipping, your love for him giving you far too much energy to merely walk to him.
He holds his arm for you and you take it, leaning up on tip-toes to give him a chaste kiss to the cheek.
“How do you do it?” he says in a low voice, dipping his head so you can hear him as the two of you descend the stairs, Dustin in step behind you.
You’re smiling while you cling to his arm. “Hm?”
“How do you keep getting more beautiful?”
“Just think, Munson,” you say in a whisper, “By the time we’re one hundred, think of how beautiful I’ll be by then.”
“I dread to think,” he says sarcastically, squeezing your arm with his. You look up at him and the noise and fervour of the castle falls away. He looks back down at you and smiles, and it’s truly the only thing that matters.
The engagement party, your sisters, your parents, your birthright - what is any of it for, what does any of it mean, when you have the one thing you ever wanted?
-
author’s note Hey! Thanks for reading (or scrolling all this way). It's been so long since I uploaded my last fic and I’ve been lurking ever since - I miss u all but there isn’t really any room in my life for writing anymore. I have loved doing this and thank you all so so much for reading everything! I’ll be about, so the blog will stay and you can read whatever you want whenever you want. I love ya, I’ll miss ya, see ya l8r!
#hi I love you all I miss u all please enjoy this#eddie munson#eddie munson fluff#stranger things#eddie x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson smut#eddie x you#eddie munson fic#eddie munson x reader fluff#eddie munson stranger things#eddie munson imagine#eddie imagine#eddie fanfic#eddie fic#eddie#medieval au#knight!eddie#princess!reader#fem!reader#eddie smut
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Hi love! I hope you are doing well ☺️
If possible could I request a Aemond X reader? Maybe something where he takes notice of a hobby reader likes and surprises them with something related to it?
Piece de Resistance
Pairing: Aemond x Wife Reader
Summary: Aemond stumbles upon your love for the arts, painting, drawing, sketching, and the like. <3
Warnings: none I don't think, Aemond being a cute and supportive husband. a good moment of domesticity :)
AN: Hello! I absolutely love this request! I hope I did it justice haha. Thank you so much for submitting it! The picture is from Pinterest! It's St Augustine by Philippe de Champaigne.
It wasn’t often you got a moment to yourself nowadays. With your husband acting as Prince Regent in his brother’s absence, you and he both were kept rather busy. Him with the Small Council and issues of the realm, you with the petty social gossipings and happenings of the Court. So rare moments of peace and quiet like this were highly coveted.
Your marital chambers echoed with emptiness as you entered and looked around. The curtains you had chosen fluttered in the breeze. Aemond had not wanted them, but ultimately he conceded, never being able to say no to you.
He must be in a Small Council meeting, you thought. Or perhaps training with Ser Criston, letting off some steam. Your husband seemed to have an ever-constant knot of stress in his shoulders and neck. You’d tried to massage it out many a time, but it never seemed to budge, or it ended in a much different sort of activity –
Under your armoire, lay a dusty, maroon-red box. You bent down, moving to pull it out of its little hiding spot. You had snuck it under there after you had moved into Aemond’s chambers. The day after your wedding. Aemond had insisted that you move to his quarters as soon as possible. He didn’t like being separated from you more than necessary. If he could, he would have you seated on his lap in Small Council meetings or even when he sat on the Iron Throne. But alas, that was a touch too far, and people would talk. As they always do –
Your husband was kind and dotting, if not overprotective and possessive of you. You had known one another since you were children. Your house and family coming to visit the Court, your mother and the dowager Queen had been friends since their youth. They had hoped that you and Aemond would get along well, and you did, famously so. When he had lost his eye, you had come to the Red Keep, to offer him comfort and company. You had never left after that.
Your fingertips graze over the top of the box, as you rest it on top of your bed sheets. Leaving an empty trail in their wake. The lock lay rusted and golden on the front, pulling a small key from the pocket of your skirt, you unlock it. A small, soft resounding click bounced off the walls. As you gingerly opened the lid, the stale smell of linseed oil filled your nostrils. Small metal tubes of colorful paint lay untouched in the box. Clean bristles and dirty brush handles scattered about, small rolls of blank canvas. All of which lay, unmoved, unbothered, from the last time you had used them.
When you were little, you had complained to your mother once about the bore of your lessons. For your tenth name day, she had brought in a painter from Highgarden to tutor you. He had taught you how to mix colors and paint the prettiest flowers. As you grew older, he taught you more complicated things, like ladies in bushy skirts, and golden dragons in the sky. An odd prophecy of your future.
Taking some basic colors, red, blue, yellow, and white, some brushes, and a small roll of canvas, you set up shop at your dressing table. For the time being, altering it into a makeshift desk. Deciding to paint what you knew best, you began to sketch out a dragon among roses, with some charcoal that you had borrowed from Aemond.
He wouldn’t miss it, you thought. He had a small goblet full of charcoal and quills, hiding amongst the piles of books and scrolls on the table. Which he used to plot his war games, or occasionally take dinner with you. When you both grew tired of his family and their bickering.
The dragon began to take form on the canvas, it looked slightly like Vhagar, large, old, and wrinkly. Her age showing in her face and eyes. Around her, you drew roses, peonies, daffodils, lavender, a great colorful bouquet. Once you had begun mixing the paints, on a makeshift pallet made of spare parchment paper. The other sounds of the world seemed to fade away, the monotony of the act being therapeutic. A much-desired mindless activity in the middle of the war you all found yourself in. You would never voice this to anyone, but it was silly to you. The hubris and hypocrisy of your husband's family was vast and great, and deadly at the worst. The blood of the dragon ran thick and hot, volatile and dangerous.
You had become so absorbed in your work that you hadn’t heard the door open, the faint call of your name. Lost on the wind perhaps. Aemond stood, leaning a shoulder against the door frame, a small smile playing at his lips, watching you, intently. He knew and had seen you become absorbed like this in a book or some piece of writing, but he had never seen you do this before. Paint.
The colorful oils stain your fingertips and wedge themselves beneath your nails. The same stale smell of the linseed oil met his nostrils.
An odd sort of smell, he thought. He crept a bit closer, as close as possible not yet wanting you to know he was there. He silently rested his sword on the bed, the sheets muffling any noise it may have made. You were humming softly to yourself. An old hymn your mother used to sing to you.
As he crept closer, Aemond could make out the picture you were working on. The colors came to life before his eyes, the eyes of his dragon staring back at him.
“Gevie (beautiful)” He muttered, under his breath.
Startled, you jumped a bit, smudging one of the petals on the peony you were working on. “Shit” you breathed out.
“Aemond, Husband, I had not heard you come in!” You stand, turning to face him, stepping in front of your work as if to hide it.
Aemond chuckled a bit, noticing the pink tinge to your cheeks, embarrassed at being caught. He lifted an eyebrow, and gestured to the painting behind you,
“May I see it?” He asked, his gaze meeting your own. After a slight pause, you stepped aside. Aemond walked past you, placing a loving hand on your waist, holding you to him slightly. Aemond has developed a habit of always having a hand on you, as if scared you were going to be snatched away, stolen from him.
Again, he muttered a “Gevie” under his breath. He turned to look at you, your face twisted in anticipation of what he may think. You had hidden the hobby from him not out of malice, but rather out of embarrassment. Other ladies and some lords of the court had mentioned that painting was a poor man's job and that someone of “noble blood” needn’t concern themselves with such silly things. You had been worried that he would have agreed with them, not liking it.
“I didn’t know you painted. This is lovely,” The hand on your waist moved to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind your ear, it had fallen loose from your braids.
“I was afraid you would disapprove –”
“Why on earth would I disapprove my love? This is beautiful, you have a talent”. Your cheeks turned impossibly more pink at his praise and approval.
“Actually, I would like it very much if you were to paint something on my sword. Vhagar perhaps –” He trailed off thinking, “Or maybe the seas or those flowers are quite lovely too–” You had placed a finger over his lips, laughing. Aemond stopped talking, kissing the digit instead.
“Yes husband, I would love nothing more,” Your smile matched Aemond’s from before.
“I would like to show it off–” He murmured against your finger, kissing it again. You moved your hand to his cheek, cupping it lovingly. This small moment of domestic bliss was needed, for the both of you.
“Well then, go and fetch it, and I shall get to work,” With the excitement of a little boy, your husband retrieved his sword from the bed, unsheathing it, placing it on the desk in front of you. The previous painting moved to the windowsill, to dry. Aemond pulled up a chair, sitting beside you.
He rested his elbow on the corner of the table, chin in palm. The only free spot on the table, not littered with paints and brushes. You began to work, and he watched you, with nothing but love and admiration in his eye. He could sit here, happily, forever, watching you work, with the setting sun twinkling on the ocean water outside of the windows. Your delicate hands painted the hard metal of his sword. He would let you paint the whole damn keep if it made you happy. And now, with the conqueror's crown resting upon his brow, maybe he would –
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Tom Riddle as Your Husband ♡
you’re his trophy wife, living in the golden cage
he doesn’t just want you, he owns you
in public, his charm is magnetic, his hand resting on your back, his smile perfectly in place. But behind closed doors, his gaze may turn cold and distanced
when he hurts you, he swears it’s the last time. he kneels, his lips brushing your hands with fervent, desperate kisses. but he never changes, not really
when you’re too kind to another man, his grip on your hand tightens, the metal of your wedding ring pressing painfully into your pale skin
every anniversary, he presents you with an extravagant bouquet of red roses
he can vanish from the manor for days, leaving no explanation behind. yet, he always have to know exactly where you are
what's strange is no matter how cold he’s been, when he sleeps, he pulls you close, with a need that edges on desperation
“I thought of you when I saw this.” - and then he places the finest, most elegant things in your hands
likes to hear you say his name
brushes his fingers along your cheek, his touch almost tender, but his eyes are dark
even when he’s not with you, his influence lingers—everyone knows whose wife you are
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
hello love, you can find more of my works about tom ♡here♡
#tom marvolo riddle#lord voldemort#tom riddle x reader#tom riddle husband#tom riddle imagine#tom riddle x you#toxic tom riddle#tom marvolo riddle imagine#tom riddle headcanon#tom riddle x y/n#tom riddle#voldemort
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Comfortable
Captain Marvel was a wonderful guy, friendly, caring, loyal to a fault and always cheery
Everyone loved him or at least respected him
The Justice League especially
So it's not a surprise when the Captain hasn't answered their calls and messages for a few days, they decided to visit him in his home city, Fawcett
Fawcett is a nice city, weird as hell and concerning at times but it had its own beauty
So in all honestly no one was shocked when a big piece of metal came hurling at the league the very second they stepped a foot in the borders of the city
Clark didn't have a chance to take off the ground before a woman in a silver helmet caught it, beside the helmet from which they could see her long Brown hair, she wore a red shirt, a blue belt, and gloves boots and a yellow bottom of a bodysuit that showed off her legs
She putted the piece of metal down on the ground and landed in front of them
“Hello, I’m Bulletgirl” the woman- Bulletgirl extended her hand for a handshake and Diana, who was the closest to her, accepted it
“Nice to meet another sister in arms, I’m Wonder Woman and this” she gestured at her friends “is the Justice League”
“Oh the Justice League, we heard so much about you” Bulletgirl smiled brightly “it's so nice to finally meet you properly, I apologise for the welcome you got but we’ve been having a bit of a problem for the last few day”
“Which includes flying pieces of metal?” Barry cocked his eyebrow, not that she could see
Bulletgirl didn't say anything, just pointed behind her
There was a gigantic robot walking through the city, it seemed to try and swat away whatever was flying around it, probably Captain
“Yeesh” that was Hal
“Yeah, Dr Sivanna started wreaking havoc in that robot a few days ago and we're trying to get him out without damaging the city and hurting people” Bulletgirl rubbed the back of her neck “we’re herding him to a less populated area and evacuating people from there to lessen the risks of anything happening”
Before anyone from the league could say anything, red blurr hitted the ground in front of them
“Ugh” the blur turned out the be a man
“Hi sweetheart” Bulletgirl waved at the man who was apparently her love “i see your ‘i can handle it’ is doing well”
“Oh yeah kick the lying one” the man managed to sit up with a grunt, he was wearing the same helmet as Bulletgirl
“I have the honor to introducing my dunce of a husband Bulletman” the woman said as she helped her husband stand up, his costume was very similar to his wifes, the only difference really were pants and a lack of gloves
“Nice to meet you” he turned to Bulletgirl “Do you have to call me that?” Bulletman grimaced a which made his wife laugh and kiss his cheek
“Now don't be dramatic dear i've called you far worse”
“True” Bulletman shrugged and dusted his clothes off “so, you're the infamous Justice League we’ve been hearing so much about”
“That's us” Clark smiled
“You do look like a bunch of well meaning people, even that shadow guy over there” he pointed at Bruce “dressed in black, cowl, long cape, gloomy demeanor, you must be Batman”
Batman just grunted in acknowledgament
“How are things going back there?” Bulletgirl asked her husband
“Oh, Voltage and Mary are evacuating people from a neighbourhood that Captain, Mr Scarlet and Ibis are herding Sivanna to”
“That's good” She patted his shoulder and turned back to the Justice League “so what brings you to Fawcett anyways?”
“Oh” Barry perked up “we wanted to see how Cap is doing since he hasn't been answering his comms for the past few days but we see why”
“Yeah” there was a silence for a moment “sooooo, do you guys want to help us out with that?”
Everyone agreed
Clark flew over to where the machine was and created a makeshift corridor from ice
Hal started herding the robot with his projections alongside Captain Marvel who waved at him and a man in a red turban
Shayera, Bulletgirl and Bulletman were flying around the robots head to try and confuse Sivana and IT seemed to work
Sivanas machine was slowly stepped towards a big, circular housing estate while Barry was quickly evacuating the last of civilians from the dangered area
When he was finally in a right position, Diana wrapped her lasso around the robots legs, Bruce did the same with his grappling hook
Shayera, Hal and Bullegirl started pushing at the shoulders of the robot while Captain Marvel and Bulletman were pulling them
The robot lost its footing and started to lose its balance. Clark made a giant ice wall to cushion the fall
The machines upper body fell on the ice and shattered it to about a half of it's height before stopping (Barry made sure to catch and put away the pieces of ice, before any of them landed on any building)
Bulletgirl opened the hatch of the machines head and took Sivana out, holding him by the scruff of his kilt while he was kicking and screaming, flailing his arms around
“I’ll take him to the police, Mister Scarlet is already with them making sure that there aren't any any injured or god forbid casualties” Bulletgirl said as she flew away from Sivana in her hand
The rest of the two groups gathered on the ground by the robot
“That was awesome guys” Barry smiled as he joined the group
“It sure was” Bulletman nodded his hand and putted his hands on his hips, seconds before he got tackled and putted in a one arm headlock by Marvel
“You guys were great!” Captain smiled in his typical fashion as he held the Bulletman
The man didn't seem too bothered by his current situation
“Do you have to do that every time?” The man in a red turban asked, tilting his head a bit
“You know I do, Ibis” Marvel grinned at the man, Ibis apparently “you guys were great too” Captain directed his attention to them, completely shifting his attitude
Before any of the League members could say anything else they got interrupted by two blurs, red and blue, flying straight into the Captain
The man didn't budge and just caught the two into his other arm
The red blur was a girl, looked almost identical to Captain, Mary Marvel
The blue blur was a guy, Voltage
Captain didn't say anything, just dropped them as they kept laughing and cheering
“Alright Cap, I think it's time for you to let go of Bulletman” Mr Scarlet said, leaning a bit on Ibis
Marvel sticked his tongue out at Mr Scarlet and eased his arm, letting the other man slip out of his grasp
Bulletman took advantage of his freedom and slapped Captain in the arm. Captain was about to slap back when Bulletgirl landed next to them
“Alright, Sivana is taken care of” she dusted her hands off and looked at the mess
“Yeah this is going to be a bitch to clean up” Ibis sighed
“Yeah, how about you guys start and I’ll escort our guests” Bulletgirl smiled
“Yeah yeah, you do you” Voltage rolled his eyes as he was already starting the clean-up
Bulletgirl motioned to the league to follow her, and they did
“Did Captain Marvel seem, different to you guys?” Clark his friends in a shushed voice as they walked trough the streets of the city
“He did seem much more relaxed around the other guys” Barry rubbed his chin
“He also called them by their names, without all these “Misses” and “Misters” he always uses when addressing one of us” Shayera pointed out
“Hmm” Bruce hummed, thinking
They arrived at the city borders and stopped in front of Bulletgirl
“It was really nice meeting all of you and thank you for your help” she smiled at them brightly
“It was nice meeting you and your friends too” Clark smiled back
“Uhh” Hal interjected “I got a question, you see, Captain Marvel seemed much more relaxed around you guys, how did you get him to let loose?”
Bulletgirl stared at Hal for a few moments
“Is he overly polite with you, is always respectful and seems like he would rather die than be mean to any of you?”
The League was left dumbfounded for a few seconds
“Uhh yeah” Barry nodded “how did you know?”
“Because he was the exact same way with us when he started out as a hero of Fawcett” Bulletgirl explained
“There is no way that's true” Hal shook his head
“Oh but it is, it took him about five years to finally let loose, you gotta give him some time. How long has he worked with you?”
“About a year and a half now” Diana answered
“Oh yeah, it’s much too soon for him” Bulletgirl laughed
“Maybe he does need time to get comfortable” Diana rubbed the back of her neck “how long have you been working together”
“Oh we’ve been fighting together since 1960”
“1960!?” Barrys eyes bulged out, same as the rest of the League really
“What do you mean 1960?” Clark asked in shock, he wasn't even on earth in 1960, he doubted that he was even in plans during that time
“Not to sound rude or anything but how old are you?” Hal asked
“Oh i’m 35” she answered, as if she’s not frying the justice leagues brains
“Wait, wait, wait” Shayera shook her head “ if you've been working with Cap since 1960, then how are you still 35?”
“That's because of the Suspendium” Bulletgirl said as if it explained anything. She must have noticed their confusion since she started talking again “Dr Sivana used a chemical he created, Suspendium, to trap Captain Marvel, Mary Marvel and Voltage in a force Field that would keep them suspended animation, something went wrong and instead of just capturing the three, the entire city got surrounded by the time bubble, as we call it, with Sivana in it. Captain managed to pop the bubble two years ago”
“Two years ago was when there were first sighting of Captain Marvel” Bruce pointed out
“Yes, the second the bubble popped, Captain started flying around the world”
“Wait” Clark shook his head “how come we never heard of something like that ever happening?”
“Oh” Bulletgirl rubbed the back of her neck “apparently everything and everyone that was trapped in the time bubble was completely erased from the maps and history books and only came back when the bubble was popped”
“That doesn't make any sense” Bruce sighed as he rubbed his temples
“Nothing makes sense, bat boy” Bulletgirl shrugged “now, as much as it's nice standing here and talking I really should help with cleaning” She said as she took of from the ground and bid them adieu
“God this is so weird” Barry sighed
“You're telling me?” Clark slumped a bit
“I think it's best if we don't think about it too much” Diana patted her friends shoulders
As they came back to the Watchtower they all agreed not to think too much about the whole Suspendium situation, it would only lead to a headache
They do like Captains friends tho, they seem nice and are good heroes
@puppetwoman17 @shazam-secret-santa
I hope you like it :D
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Lena didn’t have time for traffic. She looked up from her phone and glared at the back of her driver’s head.
“Frank, why is it taking so long?”
“I’m not Frank, Ma’am. He called out this morning.”
Lena sighed. “And your name?”
“Vincent, ma’am.”
“Vincent, why is this taking so long?”
He signed. “Traffic, ma’am. Sounds like there’s a few blocks downtown closed. Supergirl is fighting some monster or alien or something.”
Lena stopped herself from smiling softly. “Ah, well then. Anyway, might as well see if you can find us a way around. I just don’t like to stand still.”
The driver nodded.
“What do you think about Supergirl, ma’am?”
Lena sighed. “Forgive me, Vincent, but I do have some work to concentrate on, here. I’m not usually one for chitchat. I hope you don’t mind.”
She sank back into her seat and flicked to the next email. There were a lot of fires to put out. Upcoming product launches, grant applications, university partnerships, charity events, plus her own work. She was becoming so strained lately that she was seriously considering stepping down from the direct CEO role so she could spend more time in the lab, where her real passion was.
Sometimes she almost sympathized with Lex; the life of a CEO could easily drive someone insane. Lena would rather spend her days in a labcoat or doing charity work than listening to another entitled silver spoon-
“You’re going the wrong way,” Lena said, sharply.
“I’m finding a way around,” said the driver. “You know, you never answered my question, before. What do you think of Supergirl?”
Lena stuffed her phone in her pocket and thrust her hand in her jacket, freeing the concealed revolver she carried in a shoulder holster under her left arm. The partition was already going up, sealing her in.
“What are you doing?”
“Answer my question,” the driver said, through a speaker.
Lena swallowed hard. “I think she’s a hero but I don’t fully trust her. I work with her when I feel it will help people. That’s all.”
“That’s not what your mother thinks.”
“Isn’t it?” said Lena. “What does she think?”
“Are you fucking her?”
Lena barked out a laugh. “Are you serious? That’s her question?”
“Are you fucking her like you debased yourself with that little tart in boarding school?”
There was silent beat.
“She told me to say that. She made me practice saying ‘tart’.”
He sounded almost bored.
“Fuck you,” Lena snapped. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it.”
“Nothing personal,” said the driver.
Lena sighed, almost annoyed at the hiss as a thin, chemical smelling gas hissed into the car, rising around her. She forced herself to stay calm, stoic, even her pulse raced.
“I’m not afraid of you, or her,” said Lena.
She coughed twice as the world irises shut around her, dragging her down into a cold, dreamless sleep.
When she snapped awake, she was alone. The partition was open, but the gun was gone from her holster. She felt around for it, then decided to clamber into the front seat, rolling over the seats facing her. The driver was gone, of course. Heavy chains were padlocked around the car, pinning the front doors shut.
There was a tape recorder sitting on the front seat. Lena ignored it as she looked around. The car was surrounded by metal walls, and a creep sense of dread rose up Lena’s spine. She fought the panic down, dropping into the driver’s seat.
Placing the tape deck on the dash, she pushed the okay button.
“Hello, Lena,” Lilian said, in her smooth, posh tones. Lena could hear that smarmy smirk forming around her words.
“You’re probably expecting an ultimatum or an offer. There will be none. I’m through trying to bring my husband’s wayward bastard back into the fold. When you betrayed Lex again, you burned your last chance. It’s time to take out the trash, Lena. I wish I could have throttled you in the cradle, but I didn’t know about you and your mother until it was too late. It’s time to correct that. It’s too bad we won’t be there to watch.”
Watch what?
Lena sat and waited. Whoever was sent to murder her had no sense of dramatic timing. She began rifling through the car, trying to take stock of what she had, what she could use to effect an escape. Breaking the-
A sharp shriek of metal cut through her thoughts. The side walls inched forward with a screech of metal, and Lena froze, terror piercing through her like an icy spike.
Oh.
Oh God.
The walls moved slightly more, and the rear view mirrors on both sides of the car exploded. The mechanism pushing the walls strained and groaned, and that was the only mercy she had.
She was in a car crusher. In the car.
The armored structure of her town car was too heavy for the machine to simply crush, but she had minutes at most. Metal groaned in protest, shrieking around her, and the glass quivered in the doors.
Oh God. Oh God.
She wasn’t going to panic. She wasn’t going to panic. She ripped open every single compartment and cubby she could find, but found only monogrammed glassware and a bottle of champagne. There was nothing.
A random, forgotten Lexosuit would be really useful right about now.
With a sudden shriek, the car began to collapse. The bulletproof glass buckled and shattered, pelting the front seat as she rolled into the back, and the doors buckled in, tearing loose from their hinges as the floor and roof began to fold.
A sudden, ringing, frankly stupid thought came into her head, but it was her best play.
Lena Luthor filled her lungs. She took in the biggest, deepest breath of her life, a breath worthy of a championship deep diver, and screamed at the top of her lungs, until it hurt.
“SUPERGIRL!”
She had to scramble into the back seat as the engine began pushing through the dashboard, ripping apart plastic and leather, splintering buried wood. Lena ducked as the roof crumpled and dove in, like the roof of a dragon’s mouth crushing down to pulp her. She closed her eyes and curled in on herself, hoping it would at least be over fast.
A single ringing thought bit through the fear.
Oh God. Kara’s waiting for me at the restaurant.
Around her metal shrieked, and she heard the vast clang of rending machinery. The inexorable crushing stopped, the bucking limousine going still. Lena opened her eyes, peering through her fingers like a terrified child, and watched in awe as one of the crushed plates tore loose from its moorings and went flying off into the afternoon air.
Hands, strangely delicate, punched through armor plating as if it were cobwebs and ripped the broken shell of Lena’s limo apart, spreading it in every direction.
Lena had never seen Supergirl so panicked. Her eyes were too wide with abject terror, and she seized Lena in her arms, winding her cape around her, and rocketed loose from the car.
Lena’s words were lost to the wind. Supergirl was blasting into the air, flying incredibly fast- too fast. Helpless, she clung to the hero for dear life, feeling woozy as the blood drained from her skull.
She thought, oh, come on, as she passed out again.
When her eyes drifted open, Lena was lying on the ground. Groaning, she sat up slowly, feeling every movement, and realized she’d been lying on a spread red blanket with her suit jacket piled up under her head for a pillow, and she was in the woods. The sun had yielded to the sky, and someone had started a roaring fire a few feet away.
Grateful for the warmth, Lena edged closer. As she did, she realized that she was sitting not on a blanket but on Supergirl’s cape.
Blinking, she looked around.
Supergirl had her back to a tree, curled up on herself with her head hanging between her knees, arms wrapped around to cover her face, and she was sobbing quietly. Lena stared, open-mouthed.
“Supergirl?” she breathed.
Supergirl didn’t respond. Lena rose to her feet, wobbling, and discarded her heels before walking across a bed of soft leaves. She crouched in front of the weeping Kryptonian, stunned when the other woman flinched.
“Supergirl?”
“Lena?”
Her voice was small and soft, all the bravado and righteous authority gone. She sounded strangely human.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
“I think I am,” said Lena. “What about you? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she sniffed. “A Tauraxian hit me in the head with a greyhound bus. Tuesday afternoon at the office.”
Lena laughed softly, and sat down. “I’m sure. What just happened?”
Supergirl swallowed hard as she looked up. “I panicked. I saw what was happening and I lost control. I’m lucky I didn’t hurt you.”
Lena put a tentative hand in on her shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“More than you realize,” Supergirl sighed.
“I’m here,” said Lena.
She sat down. Supergirl looked away from her, staring I to the fire a few feet away. In starlight, with the firelight caressing her delicate features and sparkling in her blue eyes, it was impossible to miss how hauntingly beautiful she was… and how haunted herself. Supergirl looked older than her years, a deep sorrow in her eyes that Lena had never seen before.
“I’m claustrophobic,” Supergirl explained. “Not the kind of thing that you advertise.”
“We all have our fears. I have some of my own.”
Lena pushed down thoughts of a pale hand sliding beneath churning black water and shuddered.
With teary eyes, Supergirl looked at her.
“I can’t. I can’t have fears. I’m Supergirl. I have to be perfect, set an example, all that crap. I’m the perfect woman who came from the sky to do only good.”
The perfect woman, Lena thought, consuming the firelit beauty before her. No one would debate that.
Well, Lena would, maybe. There was someone more perfect, someone soft and kind with a devastating smile and laughing eyes tinged with strange sorrow. She hoped Kara wasn’t worrying about her.
It was funny how Lena always thought of Kara when Supergirl was around. Guilt, maybe. Foolish guilt; Kara was a far shore that Lena would never reach, even if she’d gladly sink in the attempt.
“Before I came to Earth, I drifted in the phantom zone in my pod. There were things outside. The pod was the size of a coffin, a tiny space to spend all that time. The phantoms would claw and slash at the canopy and the walls. I was awake for days hearing them trying to get in. Sometimes there were bigger things out there, wrapping arms around it and trying to crush their way in.”
Lena nodded. “That sounds beyond terrible. It’s okay for you to be scared after that.”
Supergirl nodded. “I can barely handle elevators sometimes.”
A jolt went through Lena, something familiar, like a word on the tip of her brain.
“I get scared when other people are enclosed, too,” said Supergirl. “When I saw something trying to crush you, I just lost it. It’s different when it’s you.”
Lena swallowed hard, trying to suppress the shiver that coursed through her body and made the small hairs on her arms stand on end.
“Back in high school, the other girls used to bully me,” said Supergirl. Once, they locked me in a closet in the locker room. I screamed and screamed until until someone let me out. Alex was furious, she…”
Supergirl went quiet, trailing off. Her eyes went wide and she jolted back.
Lena sat there for a second, unsure why…
Wait.
Alex?
High school? Supergirl went to high school?
With Alex? Alex Danvers?
Lena choked down a gasp, the wheels whirling in her head. She looked over and met Supergirl’s eyes, studying them. Her. The way the light played across her soft features, her honey hair, the little scar above her eye.
“Hi, Lena.”
“Hi, Kara,” Lena whispered.
Neither of them moved. Lena wondered briefly if Kara had ever planned to tell her, how she might have planned it. Probably not like this. Her throat bobbed.
Lena shifted closer, until they were hip to hip in a seated hug, Kara crying softly on Lena’s shoulder, powerful arms wrapped around her.
“I was scared,” said Lena. “I was afraid I was going to die and you’d be sitting at the table at the restaurant waiting for me.”
“Never,” said Kara. “I’ll always protect you.”
“And I’ll always protect you. Nobody is ever going to shove my Kara in a closet ever again.”
Kara let out a little gasp.
“Can we stay here for a while? Talk? Just you and me?”
Kara nodded. She stood and gathered up her cape as Lena moved close to the fire, and sat down, wrapping it around them both. Lena let her head fall on Kara’s shoulder.
“This makes a nice blanket.”
“It is a blanket. My cousin was swaddled in it when he came to Earth. Don’t worry, I washed it.”
Lena laughed softly, awkwardly trying to decide where to put her hands. She settled on being bold, and put her arm around Kara’s waist. Kara slipped her arms around her shoulder and pulled her in, and Lena hugged her back, tucking herself into Kara’s shoulder.
They sat for a while as the fire burned down low. It was full dark and the fire was nothing but coals.
“I was going to tell you. I wanted to.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Okay,” Kara sighed.
Lena swallowed hard, trying not to feel her blood rushing in her ears.
“You know,” she said. “You could kiss me right now, if you wanted. That seems like the kind of thing the hero does after saving the girl.”
“I could?” said Kara.
“You could.”
“Like this?”
Kara was trying to be smooth, and it made it hard for Lena not to giggle. She tipped Lena’s chin up with soft fingers and guided herself in, bringing their lips together. Kara kissed her softly, tentatively. Lena kissed her back just as softly, afraid this moment would shatter if she pressed too hard.
It was easy to shift herself into Kara’s lap, even before Kara lifted her there. Lena knew she was strong but not Kryptonian strong, and it it sent a thrill through her. She liked it.
She liked touching Kara, too. Liked feeling the bunching muscles flex under under hands, the softness of her hair, the way she gasped when she felt Lena’s lips on her throat.
“Never have I wished so badly for a tent and sleeping bags,” said Lena.
“And marshmallows to toast!” said Kara.
“Do you ever stop thinking about food?” Lena giggled.
Kara looked at her intently, and Lena shivered, not from the cold. She’d longed for Kara to see her like that, look at her like that.
“Sometimes,” Kara whispered. “Sometimes I think about other things.”
“We should probably go back,” said Lena. “We have people who are probably looking for us.”
Kara nodded.
“Do you want this to be… do you want us to be?”
“Kara,” said Lena, “I would have asked you out a year ago if I thought I had a chance. I thought you just wanted to be friends.”
Kara swallowed. “Are you saying you want to be my girlfriend?”
Lena smiled softly. “Yes.”
Kara rose and clasped her cape to her shoulders, then gently brought Lena to her feet and lifted her from the ground, holding her close.
“Not so fast this time, okay?”
“Okay,” said Kara, lifting them back into the sky.
#supercorp#supergirl fanfiction#supergirl#supercorp fanfic#lena luthor#kara danvers#kara x lena#karlena#supergirl fanfic#ficlet#campfire confession#accidental identity reveal#softcorp
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