#and it felt like I was witnessing real grief | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gliphyartfan · 10 months

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@yanderelinkeduniverse @stars-for-thought @imprisioned-in-the-hole @screaming-until-god-hears-me @crestfallenmermaidan @ice-cream-writes-stuff @linked-heroes @eternadreeblissa

heeheeee....(I haven't slept yet) (Buut i will now!)

Legend made me write too much!

---

----

Link was no stranger to nightmares.

At this point, they happened like clockwork as his subconscious weaved and re-weaved each moment for his mind to relive.

And at the end of every nightmare, whether he woke in a cold sweat or with his old wounds aching, Link always felt bitter about how real those dreams felt to him. At the time, the places and faces that haunted him felt perfectly captured and the fatigue and pain within them were so genuine to his memories.

Ha! If only he could see just how much of a shoddy job those nightmares had done.

Because, even if that traumatic moment would always be a core memory to him, the truth is that years had past and Link had grown up; that wound had scabbed over and scarred, he didn’t need to carry the bleeding pain everywhere anymore.

And as such, those night terrors turned out to be quite the vague recollection in the long run.

There was always crucial details that would eventually be left out.

Because in those dreams, Link couldn’t feel the weight of his Uncle’s sword in his too small hands, couldn’t feel the way they wouldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t feel the stinging pain of his bare knees digging into the stone ground and scraping them. And he couldn’t feel the traces of wet blood that lingered on the hilt.

But this, this was all too real.

The gods could only be this cruel, to make him relive this pain.

----

Occasionally he wonders what his uncle, a former knight, would think of him?

Would he look at him with anger? Shame? Or with horror, covered in the blood of Hyrule's 'noble' knights.

Some knights his uncle no doubt once served alongside.

He recalled the stories his uncle once told him, the acts of bravery and courage that the knights preformed. How could he forget when his uncle would happily tell it to him whenever he asked?

Yet when he was staring down at the bodies of those knights, his tunic splattered with their blood. Men who's only crime was being brainwashed to serve Agahnim. He felt nothing.

How would his uncle react to him? To witness him staring down at the cooling bodies without a single trace of grief or guilt.

Would he recognize him as his nephew? Or think him an impostor?

It was irrelevant in the end, he could speculate on that for years and still never come to a conclusion.

He was numb to it.

(...Even though a part of him feared the answer all the same..)

---

"While I can't tell you what to do Mr. Hero, I can assure you that having something to eat would help put some life in that body of yours all the same."

"...I'm not hungry."

"Please...All you've had was a bowl of broth two days ago..."

"..." Ravio wrung his hands anxiously, staring at the young hero seated in the corner of the room next to a window where the sun could shine it's days over him.

Eyes stared blankly at nothing in particular, staying utterly silent unless Ravio urged an answer out of him.

It was rare for to see him stay in one place for long, normally Ravio would only catch sight of him when he came to restock his supplies, only to swiftly leave as silently as he came.

If it wasn't for the fact that it would mean never seeing him period, Ravio would have preemptively prepared his usual stock of items and set them aside for him to grab at his leisure.

He always left after restocking, gone for days at a time before returning for an hour or two at most. Looking more haggard each visit.

But this time, it's been a week since his most recent return, and he has stayed put since.

The only benefit to his recent return was now Ravio could actually check on his injuries, with him bruised and wounded whenever he came by.

It always scared Ravio, that every return could very well be his last.

Yet, no matter the injuries, he never showed signs he was in pain.

Never much of a said a word. Just eyes staring blankly from a pale bruised face.

Ravio knew on the rare occasion he caught him, his eyes were red and puffy, as if he had finished crying. But no tear stains were ever seen.

He didn't dare ask for the cause of his state.

(In a way, it looked like he was mourning. He couldn't imagine the level of loss needed to send someone like Link into such a state.)

Ravio felt so utterly helpless, yes he provided Link with items and weapons. But now he feared doing so would lead to his death.

Because that's how it looked to him, like he was purposefully walking to his death.

But to think that wouldn't imply that Link wanted death.

and the young hero who silently accepted to help him did not seem to have even the slightest sense of purpose to even have an urge for death.

A enjoy shell that simply did what was needed and if it died...

...Well he may as well be half way dead with the way he rarely took care of himself.

That was why he always tried to get Link talking, tried to ground him in the present, even if it was a failing effort.

He wanted to offer help, yet he feared any wrong word could be the final thing that tipped the hero over the edge.

What could he tell him that didn't sound strange? That didn't make him look like a fool?

He didn't know, and he refused to risk it, so he played it safe.

"Alright...could you at least drink some broth?" He asked, reaching to the tray of food he placed on the nearby table and grabbed the small bowl of broth.

An exhale escaped from the Hero's lips. "No...Maybe later.."

"Please, just a little bit, it'll settle your stomach." Ravio insisted, holding the bowl out, "I know it must be unhappy with the lack of food you've had lately."

For a while there was silence between them.

But before Ravio could pull the bowl back, Link finally gave in, and slowly took it from his hands and brought it to his lips.

The room was silent, save for quiet gulps as he drank the warm liquid. After a few gulps, he set it on his lap, staring down at it.

"Thank you."

Ravio blinked in surprise, "For what?"

Another sigh. "...Being kind." Link finally spoke up again, his voice soft and quiet as if he was speaking to himself.

"...Well...you're welcome." A shaky smile twitched on Ravio's face.

Legend nodded but didn't look back up.

Ravio frowned slightly, then decided to change the topic.

"Do you think you'll be able to get some sleep tonight?" He ventured, looking away from the hero to look at the sky outside the open window.

He didn't expect an answer, nor was he disappointed at all when he got none.

Instead of asking questions further, he turned and moved towards the door, softly saying, "Please at least finish the broth." before closing it behind him.

Eyes followed him until he vanished behind the door.

—

If Legend had the energy, he would have felt bad for stressing the Lorulian, yet the pressure the weighed down his body left him much too tired.

He didn't want to deal with the things that surrounded his life right now, he really didn't.

So instead he simply sat there and allowed his mind to wander, hoping he could just cease to be, for just a moment.

It was difficult, considering the amount of thoughts bombarding his brain.

If Ravio had asked him about any of his previous journeys, he would have answered with full honesty.

He barely recalled any of it.

Just pain.

So much pain it made him utterly sick.

Enemies that should have easily been slain with a simple swing of his sword left his utterly breathless with exertion.

His endurance, his strength, every pain filled experience that earned him the skills he had accumulated over the years.

All of it, reduced to nothing.

He had scars in areas that shouldn't be scarred.

He had unscarred skin in areas that should have been scarred.

He had memories he wished he hadn't, things which he did not wish to dwell in the slightest.

(To realize it may have all been one beautiful dream-No...no he couldn't dwell on it. Not for one second. It would break him.)

And despite this, despite everything that he'd gone through, he remained the hero he always was forced to be.

Had there truly been a point in time where he felt any pride for his title? (Had it truly existed at some point?)

Had there been a time where fighting for the sake of the kingdom, even when he thought he was about to collapse from the constant battles, was worth it?

If he had a chance to recall any such moment visually, he certainly couldn't recall it emotionally.

Couldn't even pull up a scrap of the pride he may have once felt. There was none left. (Because it may as well not have-stop right there.)

He was just...so tired.

...What was the point of going on.

—

Link left the next morning.

The empty bowl of broth next to the tray of cold food the only indication he had been there. (At least he finished the bowl.)

Ravio sighed at the sight of the empty chair, turning his gaze down to the letter in his hands.

It was a strange request he received a while back. (Very strange, He was a merchant, not a postman.)

Deliver this to the Hero, Link. That was what he had to do.

He could have refused, but his curiosity (and self-preservation) got the better of him.

It seemed rather personal, and although Ravio found it suspicious he felt compelled to follow through, because it could very well be something important.

He didn't need to know what exactly was written inside this mysterious envelope, just deliver it and be done with it.

But with the state Link was in. He was uncertain when was a good time to hand it over.

He had decided to swallow his anxiety and simply give it to him. But it seems he waited too long to make his decision.

Now he doesn't know when he'll will return.

Perhaps Mr. Hero won't return for several more weeks.

Ravio sighed, shoving the letter into his pouch, heading back towards his room.

----

His limbs hurt.

The Gibdo continued to approach.

He had been too focused on eliminating them, so much so he had forgotten the white Bari.

Electricity had coursed through him, leaving him stunned long enough for the Gibdo to strike him.

It was all he could do to block each attack aimed at him, blocking and dodging even as he grew weaker by the second.

Each hit that landed (hits that shouldn't have landed, he should have been better than this.) it landed hard, making his head ring and his vision become blurry.

With his strength spent, with his body weakening by the second due to exhaustion. it took all he could give to finally defeat them.

He allowed himself to collapse on the floor. Even as his body protested the sudden movement.

He gasped, closing his eyes for a moment.

The pain he felt in every inch of his body pulsed strongly. He felt dizzy...sick...heavy...

How utterly laughable. He genuinely would have chuckled if he had the energy to do so in this state.

He couldn't even handle such weak enemies, even when he knew their weakness and strengths.

He should be able to handle this better. What did it matter if he was bleeding from several cuts. He should be able to fight longer, fight more fiercely.

Why couldn't he fight like he once did?

What was the utter point of these memories, (they were real, they had to-stop, just stop. It'll break you.)

"Why..." he rasped out, hand weakly clenching the handle of his sword as a large shadow covered him.

"Why can't I just let myself give up..?"

The Wallmaster descended on him, he didn't bother to struggle, and the Wallmaster did not hesitate to pull him into it's grasps.

"I want to give up." he continued to speak, his raspy voice echoing into the dungeon room as he was pulled from the ground.

"I want to give up..."

He repeated over and over again, tears falling from his eyes as his eyelids fell heavy with weariness and exhaustion.

All he wanted to do was give up, because this wasn't just a nightmare. A nightmare he could wake from. This was crueler than any nightmare.

This was actually happening. This was real.

Everything that was supposed to be true had become false. (No one was where they should be. Nothing was as it should be. It was all so very wrong.)

And yet, he couldn't give up.

He wanted to give up, yet he kept going.

There was no point in giving up. Just as there was no point in going forward. He wouldn't get to return to where he wanted to be even if he did.

Return to everyone.

Was he still going forward because a part of him believed there was still a chance?

That if he continued on, he'd see everyone again?

He never learned from his foolishness did he?

The world around him faded to black as the Wallmaster carried him away in it's grasp

and he let it. It’s not like it was going to hurt him.

He simply didn't want to think right now.

-----

He's dying.

If not physically, than certainly mentally.

Ravio didn't know how to feel, staring at the unconscious form lying in the bed.

He wasn't going to even try to understand how Link managed to return in such an injured state. No healing items in his pouch, his weapons and shield in terrible conditions.

If Sheerow hadn't brought his attention to the weak rise and fall of his chest. Ravio would have considered the collapsed body a corpse.

The thin trail of blood indicated he brought himself here. (hopefully the dark clouds in the sky meant rain, blood trails were bad for business.)

Yet here he was, alive.

He looked so broken, so exhausted. He was paler than ever and looked as though he hadn't eaten for days even if the lack of food in his pouch indicated he had eaten something.

He had bags under his eyes that spoke volumes of his lack of sleep and he was shaking, breathing uneven and irregular breaths causing Ravio's stomach to turn in response. (a fever?)

What kind of land was Hyrule if it allowed it's hero to become like this?

A land that didn't seem to care about it's hero who had suffered for its sake.

(Even after everything he seemed to have done for this place..)

"You really are a useless one..." He said to himself. His smile was fragile, his tone harsh.

All he could do was offer Link items and minor assistance. He doubted his companionship was worth much right now.

But it was all he could give.

"...I'm sorry..."

---

He didn't know how long he sat there. His head down in his knees, arms wrapped around his legs.

The sound of waves almost soothing in a cruel way. The sand beneath him, a gentle cool feeling that briefly distracted him from the ache he was experiencing.

He knew without looking that the moon was large and full, that the stars were plentiful in the island's sky.

It was peaceful. Peaceful and familiar and he hated it.

He didn't have to open his eyes to know it wasn't real. That this was a dream and eventually he would awaken, find himself in bed being watched over by Ravio most likely.

(He never slept well anymore. When was the last time he felt rested? He never knew if it was a blessing or curse that he could when he was dreaming. Everything he remembered always ended with cruel realizations.)

So he simply sat there with his head buried in his knees, forced to listen to the waves and waiting to awaken once more.

He ignored the scent of sea salt floating along the breeze, the touch of mist from the ocean spray tickling his skin.

And he did everything to ignore the (false Not real) presence next to him.

Because if he acknowledged that presence, then he would be forced to endure the pain that came with it, and he did not need to relive those memories again. He had lived with that trauma far too often.

But the presence next to him remained. And still he tried to ignore it.

But it didn't work. It never worked.

"Are you going to keep pretending I'm not here?"

His heart jumped at the voice.

"I'm afraid so." (He didn't mean to answer, didn't mean to react, but he could never deny her when she spike so kindly to him.)

Soft laughter was his answer, and he could feel his traitorous heart quicken with joy.

He didn't want to acknowledge that someone was there beside him. (That she was there.)

That it was the person that could bring him peace when he needed it most.

Just as he didn't want to acknowledge the feeling he felt whenever she spoke to him, that warmth in his heart. The joy he felt whenever she laughed joyfully at him.

The happiness he felt every time he was around her.

"I guess we're stuck together, aren't we?"

She moved closer. He could hear her. He tried to tell himself she wasn't there. He tried to tell himself he was hallucinating. He tried to remind himself he was dreaming. Yet his breath quickened. He swallowed heavily against the lump forming in his throat.

But he could never refuse to acknowledge it.

He knew it wasn't possible. And he knew it was a dangerous thing to admit to himself but still he couldn't help it.

"Don't tell me you are truly mad at me for being here?"

She teased him lightly. (She had a wonderful laugh, he wanted to hear it more.)

"I could never be mad at you." He answered honestly, never daring to make her think he felt anything less than affection for her.

Because he couldn't dare imagine spending a life without seeing her smile. Hearing the genuine laugh that escaped her lips. Seeing her eyes sparkle with happiness when he told her funny stories.

It was unfair. All the things he remembered. All the happy moments they had shared together. He wanted to forget.

Because they were nothing but a dream he had been forced to wake from.

They could never be real just because he wanted them to be true.

They weren't real. She wasn't real. (How that thought hurt)

Everything here was fake. Everything he was experiencing right now, was all a lie, a dream.

(Nothing here is real.)

Everything was an illusion. There was no hope for it to be real.

A dream of which tore itself from him when he finally gave in to it's sweet allure.

"Then why does your face look so upset?"

"Do I appear upset? Do I have something to be concerned about?" He replied. (because he couldn't let her ever believe he was upset with her. He couldn't bare to handle the hurt that would cross her face.)

"Yes. You don't sound pleased to see me."

"...I will always be happy to see you." (Never a lie)

"...Then why don't you lift your head up?"

He was tired, but he didn't care about any fatigue. He just wanted her to go away. (No, he wanted her to stay. To never leave. she should never leave. He needed her here. Hecouldn'tloseheragain-)

"Please..leave me alone." (Why did he say that? He didn't want her to leave? Please, she mustn't leave-)

"Why?"

"I can't stand the sight of you right now..." (Shut up. Why won't he shut up? Why was he saying those things to her when he didn't want to let her go?)

"Is that what is making you upset?"

"Yes." (No)

"Then why won't you look at me?"

"..Because.." (He was terrified.)

"You should look at me."

But he couldn't.

He wasn't strong enough.

(Why was he always unable to resist temptation?)

"So you don't want to see?"

"See what? I'm sorry."

"I'm asking if you don't want to see my face?"

She was close now, he could hear her breathing. Could almost feel her next to him.

A part of him prayed she would close the distance, reach out and pull him towards her so he could be wrapped her warmth.

(To have her lift his head up to gaze at her, caressed his face, run her fingers through his hair...)

When he thought about her it made his whole body shiver. And there was nothing that could calm him down, save the simple fact that it was her presence that filled his entire world.

"Link-"

"Just go!" He could feel the tears gathering in his eyes as he raised his voice at her. (Don't say his name. Don't say it. It's too much. It'll weaken him further. He'll give in. He'll give in if she says his name and give her what she wants.) He refused to allow those tears free rein.

(It was stupid and selfish of him, but he didn't think he'd resist it if they fell.)

"Just leave..." He rasped out, hugging his knees tighter. "Just leave me."

(Please...please, I beg you…don't leave. I'll have nothing else left. Don't leave me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.)

"I'm not leaving you Link, not while I'm right here." He flinched as her hand touched the top of his head.

(Warmwarmwarmwarmsowarmsoutterlywarm) Her fingertips running across the top of his skull.

"Please look at me?" She whispered.

"Leave me.. please…"

Her fingers continued to brush his scalp.

(He didn't want her to stop. He didn't want her to leave. Pleasedon'tleaveme.)

Slowly, she moved her hand down, he shivered as her touch left a trail of wondrous fire in its wake. Slowly and gently, she pulled her hand away from his head, and he nearly whimpered.

He could hardly breathe as she placed the palm of her hand on the side of his face, sliding it under his chin and gently pulling his head up.

"There you are," Her voice soft and gentle.

He felt a tear slip down his cheek, yet he was unable to look aware from her.

Not when she looked at him with such a loving gaze.

Her thumb wiped the tear away and it burned where her skin met his skin. A small sigh escaping his lips as her gaze traveled over his face. His eyes closed and he leaned into her hand as it cupped his cheek and allowed himself to get lost in the love he felt.

It was like the world disappeared around him. Nothing mattered anymore. He only cared about the warmth of her hand against his cold skin.

"Why do you keep crying over me?" She chuckled. Her thumb rubbing his cheek softly. She didn't know how much he loved when she did that.

(He couldn't answer her. He couldn't bear to hear her response.)

His eyes opened, and he found her smiling. It lit up her beautiful features perfectly. Her eyes twinkled with kindness.

He wanted to stare at her forever.

He reached out and took her hand in his, interlocking their fingers as he intertwined his fingers between hers, squeezing tightly.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that." He breathed.

She nodded. "Why?"

"Because then you'll realize what kind of a selfish fool I am."

"What makes you think that?"

He sighed heavily, trying to find the words to describe everything, but he was exhausted and it didn't take long until the tears started falling again.

"I hurt you..." He whispered to her.

She stayed silent.

"I hurt you and cared for only my own wants...and you suffered because of it."

"..You must really feel guilt over that, don't you?" She commented softly. He didn't answer her question out loud. She didn't need a response.

(Yes...Yes I do...I never stopped regretting)

He tightened his grip on her hand. He was trying so hard not to cry. To push back the emotions that threatened to engulf him and show her how much he truly regretted the pain he put her through.

He squeezed her hand and he leaned forward. Her forehead was resting against his, both of their breaths mingling together. Her hand holding his tightly as well. It was a comforting gesture, one that he craved.

"I hate myself for what I did to you."

"We all hate ourselves sometimes." she smiled, brushing the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. "We're human after all."

"What matters is what you do afterwards." She looked at him kindly.

"So what do you plan to do, Link?"

He couldn't speak for a moment, but her gaze never wavered from his face. Her eyes were filled with nothing but understanding.

"Whatever it takes to make it up to you, I will." He answered honestly. He wouldn't hesitate in doing anything to make her happy. Anything to prove to her that he still had a heart inside. "Anything I must."

"Then don't worry about it right now." She said. She slowly brushed his tears away and she rested her forehead against his once more.

"Just relax and take a deep breath. The outside world can wait for a moment." She spoke reassuringly.

He shook his head, still trembling.

"If you keep shaking like this I might just think that you're mad at me." She laughed.

The laughter of a woman who was willing to give him another chance.

(How can she be so kind to him?)

"And then I'd start getting worried again." She laughed softly. He couldn't help but laugh as well. She pulled away from him, moving to sit pressed next to his side.

Her arm snaking around his waist to pull him closer.

He was able to relax and lean against her.

His heart was beating faster than it should be. He knew that he shouldn't, but he still couldn't bring himself to move away from her touch.

Her fingers began stroking through his hair. It felt nice.

They remained sitting in silence, watching the waves, simply enjoying each other's company.

"...I don't want to wake up..." He murmured quietly, "I want to stay here, with you." finally admitting his true feelings out loud.

(He didn't want to return to a world where she wasn't there. It hurt. It hurt every second he was awake and away from this peace.)

"We all have to wake up from our dreams eventually." She answered, smiling as he relaxed into her embrace. "Even the ones we enjoy."

"But I'm not ready for that." (I don't think I'll ever be...)

"You're wrong." He twitched, realizing he had spoken that aloud, "You deserve everything good in life. You don't deserve to trap yourself in a dream. You deserve to be happy."

She gave his hair an affectionate stroke.

"And I'd be very happy if you gave yourself a chance."

(I can't...not after what I did...)

The tears were streaming down his cheeks. He felt a lump in his throat, as the tears threatened to choke him.

"...Close your eyes Link." She whispered softly.

"I..." He hesitated but soon relented. (He could never deny her when she asked him so gently.)

He did as she asked, and she held him close.

He leaned his head onto her shoulder, her scent calming him as he tried to control his sobs.

"Just drift away now, you shouldn't stay here forever you know." She said, pressing her lips to his forehead.

(She was warm and smelled good. Comforting. Like finally returning home.)

But how could this be? She was never meant for someone like him. She deserves someone

better. Anyone better. But he was selfish, he could never let her go.)

"I wish I could." He sobbed.

"But you can't." She replied, "You'll see...you'll see...everything will work out."

He didn't reply; he just held her closer. He buried his nose into her neck, shoulders shaking, inhaling her fragrance deeply.

"Link?"

"...Yes?"

"...Good Night..."

He sniffled and tried to burn every part of this moment into his memory. Even as a heaviness slowly pulled at him away from it all.

"Good night...(y/n)..."

And then, he was gone.

----

"I...um...I have this letter for you." The spoonful of stew paused it's trip into his mouth as he looked at Ravio.

He blinked, "...Is that so?" and set his spoon down when Ravio nodded.

It had been two months since he had woken from that dream. A month since he stopped Yuga. It had taken him time to recover from both it and the injuries he had sustained.

He had been letting himself recover slowly, mostly at Ravio’s insistence; going about life as best as he could after the last battle.

Yuga was slain, Ganon defeated once more, Lorule was restored, and Hyrule was at peace for the time being.

Ravio had eventually returned a few weeks after everything was settled. Using the excuse that business was better in Hyrule than back home.

(He threw a spare key at his head and told him to clean up after himself.)

He never had that same dream again. A part of him felt angered that the only source of happiness he had received in so long was ripped from him once more.

Yet another part of him felt both numb, yet somewhat accepting about it.

(She did say he couldn't stay there forever. Even as a dream, (y/n) was always watching out for him.)

He watched as his friend fiddled with the surface of the small envelope in his hand before handing it over to him.

He stared down at it, wondering what kind of letter it contained. He flipped it around, but the outside of the letter was blank.

"Who gave you this?" He asked, placing the letter on his lap for the moment.

Ravio fidgeted.

"Nobody! I-I mean, no one in particular...Not to say it's not not anyone in particular...i" He laughed nervously, "P-Perhaps the contents of the letter can answer your question? It's a really weird story."

Link nodded, he doubted Ravio would hand him a dangerous letter.

"I-I um...haven't looked through it yet."

...Or maybe he would. At this point he wasn't sure anymore.

"Trying to get rid of me after I did your job for you?" He bluntly commented.

Ravio sputtered and tried to defend himself but Link simply handed him his nearly empty bowl.

"I'd like some more please."

Ravio blinked and tried to decided between reacting to the now clear teasing or to immediately get him another bowl of stew.

But his desire to see him eat more trumped his desire to complain.

"...I'll make sure to heat it up." He said as he grabbed the bowl and left with a small huff.

He relaxed against his pillow for a moment before he picked up the letter again when Ravio left, and stared at it. Something about this letter didn't feel quite right. But it didn't feel wrong enough.

He eventually decided to open it.

Peeking within, he saw several folded pictures. He could see images of the sky in many of them. Pulling them out, a small slip of paper slipped away and fell on his lap.

Looking down, he noticed writing on it. It took him a moment to register what dialect it was written in, and only then did his heart begin to race at top speed.

It shouldn't exist here. This dialect shouldn't exist in this era.

How-

Legend looked at the door. As if Ravio would come in at that very second. But the merchant didn't.

Looking back down at the slip of paper, he swallowed.

'To the Hero of Legend.'

He wasn't called that yet. In this moment in time, he was just the Hero of Hyrule.

His title came later.

A shaky exhale left him as his hand trembled a bit harder holding onto the note tightly.

Looking at the folded pictures on his trembling hand, he slowly unfolded it, the contents within revealing-

...Captain..? There was no doubt who was in the picture. No other person could possibly come to mind.

He re-folded the photograph, as if to take a moment to gather his wits.

(Was it real?) His mind whispered, (was it truly?)

His breathing quickened. His stomach felt like a knot. Every nerve in his body was on edge as his heart was ready to burst.

Slowly...he unfolded the picture again, gazing at the calm face of the Hero of Warriors staring back at him.

It...It was him.

There was no mistaking who it was. No mistaking the sword only a Hero could wield.

(Could it actually be true?)

He looked through the next picture and a lump formed in his throat.

The sailor, a bit younger than he last remembered (a bit thinner as well), but still so easily recognizable. (The captain must have used his Picto box)

Even young and without his markings, Legend could easily recognize the old man. (He looked as tired as Legend felt. Yet there was a sense of peace in his gaze that could only have come from being near his most trusted.)

A genuine smile appeared on his face, the first one in...so long that he couldn't truly remember.

Legend's breath caught in his throat. (It was him. It was actually him.)

His vision became blurry, and before he even realized it, tears were running down his face, his body shaking.

He quickly brought a hand up, swiping his eyes to try and regain composure.

He kept shifting through the pictures. Eyes devouring each and every new image that he saw next.

Warriors. Time. Wind. He even saw Ravio. (And he suspected he could figure out how this letter came into the merchant's hands.)

Each image sent his heart soaring. (It was new. new new new new and real)

There was Zora Princess Ruto and the Goron Chief Darunia from the Old man's era. The Sage of Earth and the king of red lions from the sailor's.

People he shouldn't recognize but did. it set his mind spinning.

But it was the last picture that made him pause.

The last one that left him breathless.

Her smile, her blue dress, the Hibiscus in her red hair.

"M...Marin.." He choked out.

It was impossible...she shouldn't exist...she had been a dream.

But to deny her image in this picture would mean to deny the images of all the others.

And he simply couldn't handle that possibility.

It was her. It was truly her.

"(y/n)..." He whispered, he stopped trying to fight the tears that continued to fall. "You were right."

She had once told him of a possibility.

'If there are parallel worlds that even you've been to. Wouldn't that mean Koholint was just a world that fell into the Windfish's dream like you did?'

He had considered that possibility many times. But it never went far. because how would he prove it? By the time he met (y/n) and the others, Koholint was years behind.

He had considered, but never truly believed.

Because how would he go about finding evidence?

...With a picture it seemed. A picture that showed her happy and healthy and alive.

The realization shook him to his core.

All this time, he thought he mourned a life he had believed was forever lost.

All those times he wondered why he had been burdened with that weight, even if it was a weight he carried by his own choice.

The nightmares that haunted him for years.

But this one image...It left him dizzy with joy. She hadn't disappeared.

She was alive.

He took in each picture over and over, trying to absorb every little detail he could.

If Marin was alive... His brothers remembered...than that meant...that meant (y/n)....

Legend covered his mouth, unable to control the sobs escaping. He could hardly breath as he struggled to hold back the cries.

(Y/n) was alive.

All that he went through hadn't been for nothing.

Marin was alive. Most likely back home now that the war was certainly finished. (Not gone. Not a mere memory.)

His sword brothers, they were all out there, waiting just like he was.

Waiting to be reunited once more.

It made him so utterly happy.

"Mr. Hero?" Legend looked up at Ravio who nervously stood by the door with the tray of food.

"Are...you okay?" He asked, slowly approaching, scanning Legend to see if he wasn't injured again.

His eyes settled on the pictures that had fallen from his grasp and onto the bed, surprise crossing his face as he registered what the pictures contained.

"I.." Legend breathed, a smile stretched across his face. "am more than okay."

That's what mattered, after everything he had to go through. It was all real.

Everything that mattered to him was real.

All he could do was cry from the joy of that simple fact.

#linked universe #yandere linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #loz #linked universe x reader #lu legend #ttau #ttau rewrite #rewrite #gliphy writes #(y/n)

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vinestaffery · 4 months

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On pleasing demand, I am here once more to deliver more angst. Since I love it so much and so does everyone else. some bits are written from medkit's and broker's point of view at the start, but it will slowly shift to yours!! enjoy!!!

cw/tw: character death, signs of potential abuse/neglect(?), mentions of injury from another proceed with caution and care!

Scythe wasn't taking anything okay anymore, and she's gotten rougher around Medkit and Broker.

Broker would struggle handling her tempers at points where he didn't know what to do.

Medkit suggested taking a break for Scythe.

Good grief. It was a bad take and ended up bad for Medkit.

Thrown out because he suggested it, it ended up with him now staying with Sword more than with the other three.

Broker ended up leaving himself and staying with Zuka for a bit before finding a proper area to take shelter in.

Scythe was becoming more... explosive, dangerous

She was taken out of the gang! Matches a few times because she had nearly harmed Boombox to the point of recognition.

"I'm too tired to fight anymore,"

"Broker."

"We can't do anything to help her, look at her!"

"You wouldn't understand how it's like to have someone walk out on you,"

"But it just… I just can't handle it. She's gotten more worse and we are sitting here and watching."

Broker and Medkit would have long talks with eachother at nights

Their worried, really worried

Your not there anymore to help support Scythe anymore

So what's the point?

You were the light in her world, and you walked out on it.

When Vine Staff told you about the serious injury she had gotten from Scythe

You panicked.

Was she actively looking for you?

Was she trying to harm people you loved and cherished?

Vine Staff reassured you it was nothing like that at all

Infact, it was because she was upset that you had disappeared

"Dearie, you know how much Scythe appreciates you, maybe you should try approach her this time?"

You were surprised!! To see her again?

"Are you joking?"

"[…]…"

"There is barely a person in her anymore, Vine Staff."

You were deny any chances of seeing her again, but it wasn't too long till Medkit was invited over.

God was he relieved to see you

It ended up being more of a nicer talk with him rather than a forceful one

Turns out he found it understanding and that it was okay for you to leave for your own sake

But leaving out of nowhere was a no-go, specifically for Scythe

"It wasn't suppose to go this far."

"You know how she is, especially with news such as that,"

When Vine Staff had come home that one day, with a large wound, you really wished it didn't go this far to hurting a companion

"I'm too tired of this,"

"So am I, just like how I am with Subspace's worthless attempts at capturing me and taking out 'revenge,' but we can't have everything we want."

His blunt attitude always felt like home.

"She can't keep doing this, she just can't."

"Then come home, and then maybe this all can end."

You took that hope, even though you were at your wits end.

The rough sound of sizzling coming from the home was pushed over with clashing. The tension in the air was palpable as you made your way back to the source of the conflict.

The smell of burnt food wafted through the air, adding to the chaos of the situation. You knew you had to intervene before things escalated further. As you entered the kitchen, you saw the source of the conflict - a pot left unattended on the stove, billowing smoke.

"Scythe?" You called out, hoping to get their attention before the situation got any worse. The sound of footsteps approaching indicated that they had heard you, giving you a sense of relief that the situation might be resolved before any real damage was done.

"What." Scythe turned to face you, their expression a mix of annoyance and surprise. "I just got distracted; I didn't mean for this to happen," they explained, gesturing towards the smoking pot. You could see the tension in their shoulders ease as you reassured them that everything was under control.

It had looked like she had completely forgotten who you were; did she not find your presence familiar? The sound of her tail-shaker sensed an obvious threat and danger towards you. She spat with venom in her words. Her hostility grew ever more.

"Scythe, it's me," you muttered. But she continued to glare at you, suspicion evident in her eyes. It was clear that something had changed in her demeanor towards you, and you couldn't help but wonder what had caused it.

"What do you want? I thought you wanted to never see me again." Her words cut deep, leaving you feeling bewildered and hurt. The distance between you seemed to grow wider with each passing moment. You looked away in disdain.

"What? You just going to stand 'der like a lost puppy?" There was nothing familiar about this Scythe at all. She was cold—not the kind-hearted woman you used to know before. You realized that the warmth and familiarity you once shared with her had vanished. She was replaced by a sense of hostility and indifference. It was a painful realization that left you feeling lost and alone in her presence. "Scythe? What happened to you?" Your words were hard for her to comprehend. Scythe's eyes hardened, a flicker of recognition passing through them before being replaced by a steely resolve. "I've changed," She said it simply, her voice devoid of emotion. It was clear that the person you once knew was gone, replaced by someone unrecognizable and distant.

"I've changed, and I'm not even sure who I am anymore. Broker left; Medkit left. Everyone left." She placed a cold cup of alcohol down. Taking a deep breath, you tried to find the right words to reach the person who seemed like a stranger now. But as you looked into her eyes, you realized that this was a battle she was fighting alone, and all you could do was stand by and watch.

You sat next to her on the dusty bar stool. Feeling helpless, you silently offered your support, knowing that sometimes all someone needs is a listening ear. The silence between you spoke volumes as you both navigated the uncharted territory of change and loss together. "We've both changed."

"I harmed you; I broke your promise, Angel Eyes. I broke everything." Her tone spoke of long, restless nights. "We can't change the past, but we can move forward together," you whispered softly, reaching out to hold her hand. "I forgive you, and I'm here for you now." The weight of her burdens seemed to lift slightly as she squeezed your hand in return, a glimmer of hope shining in her tear-filled eyes.

"Ya, promise? Angel Eyes?" Scythe gleamed.

"Promise, Scythe. I'll never leave your side," you vowed, feeling a sense of peace settle between you both. The bond of trust and understanding between you spoke volumes as you both navigated the uncharted territory of change and loss together.

But that was only nights ago. Scythe stared at her bloodied blade as she let out somber tears. The weight of her burdens seemed to return, heavier than before; she had killed you. All because you had decided to protect the flower demon that you considered family. Something she wished you considered her.

"Angel Eyes, oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, my angel eyes." Scythe's voice trembled as she whispered your name, regret and sorrow evident in her every word. The bond you once shared is now shattered, leaving only heartache and a painful realization of irreversible consequences.

RUNS AWAAYYYY

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heal-the-ashes · 22 days

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i'm thinking about pl and—like always—i get emotional after anything regarding this series. these stories. the ebb and flow of cherished laughs and pained expressions, the give and take of funny dialogues and heartbreaking reveals. when the end credits songs just wash over the entire experience with additional thoughts (usually angst-y in my case). when you've realized the story you just witnessed and the story that you felt apart of will stay with you for times that seem ephemerally immemorial...

[Slight Miracle Mask and Unwound Future Spoilers near the end]

these games don't show happiness and sadness. they don't show the positives and negatives of how a scene should flow. they don't just have dialogue and action and tone and intonations.

they have perseverance amidst tragedy, the rose within the thorn, the sun within the bleak clouds. they show that everyone in this series is human. they somehow made me feel—and not in some type of pity way—for those npcs who were stuck on what i thought was the easiest puzzle in the world. there was no humiliation, no real sense of judgement. there was respect and patience and... and there was disappointment, only in one's self. there was no invalidity of emotions. yes, there were invalid actions, but i don't have a single memory of anyone saying another character was stupid for feeling a certain way. there was passive acceptance all around and across the series, there was no stuck-up sounding laughter; no one (to my memory) ever called another stupid for messing up.

and hershel layton is one of the most human characters i have ever seen.

i saw a fanart that consisted of hershel in different stages of life. it made me emotional, because:

in each stage of his life that was depicted there… it wasn't growing up. it wasn't milestones of age, it wasn't certain accomplishments in his character. it showed each time he has lost someone. and god does it break my heart to see and realize that he. is still. here. the amount of pain PL characters have gone through just breaks my heart.

and i am so glad and so honestly inspired to know that. and i feel so awful for thinking my problems are bad when i look at the greatest person to ever exist in media ever, who was shaped by traumas far beyond my own. and that is not an understatement: i genuinely believe professor hershel layton is my favorite character in any media. because he and his games tell you that there is more to life than pain. and it is a lesson that i am so glad that i can finally see someone else tell.

miracle mask and unwound future are two of my favorite games because they're the games that tell the audience that he is human. it reveals how he despises—he loathes, he hates—… not emotions. no, not sadness, not regret, not remorse, not disappointment, not pain. no, none of that.

he hates certain parts of himself. he hates how he dealt with grief. he hates it when he's shown with "proof" that he's gone and done the very thing he swore not to ever do. he doesn't even hate anyone else even though he has so much right to. he should've cussed out bronev off screen. he should've yelled at bill hawks. he shouldn't of saved clive but god what did he do. he saved clive. he saved randall.

oh, how love is a weapon. this is it. this is one of the greatest examples of how love is a weapon in storytelling. it's not even platonic love between the characters, its the love the audience has for the characters. stories like these twist this and they do it well. but, anyway—

when i was younger, i thought hershel layton was foolish. i thought he was stupid. i used to think: "what is he doing? someone hurts him, why doesn't he want to hurt them back? what's wrong with him that he doesn't want revenge?"

i couldn't of been more... wrong about how he sees the world.

no, he's the one of the greatest persons i've ever seen in media. i've learned so much from him and the PL series as a whole. i've learned something from each and every character. [what i learned from bronev and bill hawks is just to not be them.]

layton is the kindest person i've seen. there is no earned malice anywhere near him. he doesn't purposefully aggravate others. he isn't mean, he's not one you'd call angry. he's patient and understanding, and he was made from pain.

if every person was at least a little bit like him, i think the world would be a better place. a place where no one has to be made from pain.

#sorry i'm rambling #heal's ramblings #parts of this were typed in discord and i'm just pasting them here so others can see it #and so my one friend who reads it all doesn't have to be alone #professor layton #hershel layton #miracle mask spoilers #unwound future spoilers #lost future spoilers

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captainofthetidesbreath · 2 years

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The way I see it, how things played out in the episode indicated that Beau, Caleb, and honestly even Keyleth were never in any danger of dying.

Beau and Caleb roll so poorly, and they're captured completely unharmed, then largely ignored by the villains for the rest of the scene. Yes, Ludinus says he wants them to witness their failure, but that's just the story excuse. The classic Bond villain traps him instead of the smarter move of killing him because Bond has plot armor—and so it is with Beau and Caleb. Ludinus harmlessly traps them and then leaves them alone instead of killing them immediately and permanently remove them as threats because he actually isn't allowed to kill them by the meta concerns.

Keyleth gets wrecked, yes. She isn't protected from being harmed, but she was never in danger of dying. The narrative surrounding her for that moment is that Vax will appear to protect her from Otohan and prevent her death—whether that's at the end of the turn or, I imagine and feel, at any moment that would've knocked her out or killed her. The story itself RELIES on preventing Keyleth's death, so while it's A Lot, from a narrative mechanics perspective, she was never actually at risk of death because there is a narrative trigger to stop it from happening.

Vax, well, he's already dead and can't get much deader. Don't really understand what precisely happened to him and what it means for his personal status, but he is well established to be in the territory of "you can't kill me in any way that matters".

These failsafe and mechanics don't protect these characters from setbacks, general harm, pain physical and emotional, failure, grief (and it would be weird if they weren't allowed to experience these things anymore), but it does protect them from death. It's a harrowing series of events, but there was no real threat of death from a narrative perspective. The former PCs who are susceptible to death were always going to survive this scenario because table etiquette and respect around the cast demands it. The way everything unfolded really felt like it highlighted the (well executed) mechanics of the story in place to guarantee that they did.

And, going forward, I'm sure they'll continue to be fine in the end.

#Critical Role #Beauregard Lionett #Caleb Widogast #Keyleth #Vax'ildan #CR spoilers #Critical Role things #CR meta

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surrogate-fawn · 7 months

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The Purple Butterfly

((Drabble/Short story based on the backstory of a rp with @mittysins of Fawn's second surrogacy.))

{This drabble is Part 3 in a series of drabbles based on the story Mitty and I co-authored. This story will not make sense without reading the ones that come before it.}

[ Part 1 - The First Goodbye ]

[ Part 2 - Quartz and Sea Glass ]

[ Part 3 - Here! ]

Author's Note: A real-world initiative is mentioned in this story called The Purple Butterfly Project.

TW: Miscarriage, infertility, mentions of cancer, mentions of past abuse, pregnancy complications, past stillbirth/infant loss, grief and heavy emotional trauma.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Living with the Tariqs, I got to experience what it was like to be around a baby after it was born -- and every pounding headache that came with it.

Suri was a little spitfire as soon as she hit the atmosphere, and if she was unhappy the whole house would know it. The farmhouse wasn't all that big, and the guest room where I slept ended up sharing a wall with the nursery. So, you can bet I got woken up each time her parents did.

Those first couple nights, I would lay there in bed until Ray or Tess could stumble their way down the hall and quiet things down. Yeah, I wasn't very useful. I didn't have much of a choice, though. It was a miracle I could walk myself to the bathroom with how sore I was after Suri squirmed her way out of me.

It wasn't just soreness from the waist-down, either.

Being around a constantly crying newborn had an . . . unexpected effect on my body. After the birth of my son, aside from a little bit of colostrum, I had never produced breastmilk. I guess hearing Suri cry to be fed every few hours triggered something, because I suddenly had a full milk supply with nowhere to go.

Luckily, the Tariqs had a home remedy for everything. A couple of wet washcloths over upturned bowls in the freezer made some conveniently-shaped ice packs. Without those puppies, it felt like my breasts were filled with molten lead. So, my hands were occupied most of the day.

I felt guilty, watching either Ray or Tess get up from the couch to tend to their daughter while I was able to sit there with my hands on my boobs and continue watching TV.

I wasn't Suri's parent, but the fact I was the one who got her there made me feel like I had to help out.

Once I started to recover, that's exactly what I did. On a night when Suri refused to stop crying, I got up and poked my head through the cracked nursery door.

Tess was there, looking exhausted and defeated as she held Suri on her shoulder. That baby had been screaming in her ear for at least half an hour. She jumped when she turned and saw me in the doorway.

"Hi, Tess," I said with a sympathetic smile.

"Hey, doll," Tess sighed, continuing to bounce Suri up and down while she paced the room. She spoke a little louder than she needed to, likely 'cause she couldn't hear herself think. "I'm sorry she woke 'ya. I got no idea what 'ta do."

She sounded like she'd given up. This was how she was spending her night, and she'd resigned herself to it.

I thought about waking Ray, but his paternity leave ended in the morning. He had to be up in a few hours for his civil engineering job. Even with what little I knew about salary work, I knew eight weeks of unpaid leave for a brand-new baby was bullshit. Ray would've taken the full twelve weeks, but the city was jumping down his throat about finishing the blueprints for an overpass project on-time. Tess was about to be left alone with a two-month-old for the sake of ten fewer minutes of traffic. That wasn't fair.

"Tess, lemmie take her for a while," I said, walking into the room. "You need a break."

"It's fine," Tess insisted. "She'll calm down . . . eventually."

I held out my arms. "Tess. Give 'er."

The purple bags under Tess's eyes made her look twice her age, and her pale yellow hair was a rat's nest hanging down her back. She was at her wit's end. "Okay."

Suri weighed almost nothing as I settled her against my shoulder. It still amazed me how small babies were. They seemed so much smaller when you actually got to hold them.

"Hey, what's wrong?" I asked Suri. My ear started to ring as she wailed into it, her cries high-pitched and distressed. I started patting her back like I'd seen her parents do. "What's wrong, baby girl? What's got you so upset?"

Tess collapsed into the glider in the corner of the nursery, her hands rubbing circles into her temples. "I've changed her. I've fed her. I've prayed over her. I've got no idea what my own baby needs!"

"Well, I've got no idea, either," I shrugged, my toes digging into the soft sherpa rug by the crib. I continued patting Suri's back. Her feet were pressing against my chest, as if she were trying to pull herself upright.

"But I'm supposed 'ta know!" Tess whimpered. She ran her fingers through the knots in her hair. "I'm her mama! Mamas are supposed 'ta know what 'ta do, but I can't even calm her down!"

"You're not a bad mama, Tess," I said, offering her a smile -- despite the continued screaming in my ear. "Trust me, I know what a-."

The screaming was cut short with a small 'gurk', and I froze when a wet glob of spit-up slithered down my back.

". . . think I figured it out . . ." I said, my smile now pinched.

Suri grumbled, and I carefully held her out in front of me. Her face was still red, but her expression was pure baby bliss -- milky spittle on her chin and all.

"Did you have a tummy ache, baby girl?" I asked. "Is that what was wrong?"

Tess shot up from the glider, sending it bumping into the wall. "Oh, Fawn, I am so sorry!" she said, taking her daughter out of my hands. She took the burp cloth off her shoulder, as if suddenly remembering it was there, and handed it to me. "Here, clean 'yaself up."

"S'alright," I chuckled, cringing as I wiped up the gobby mess. "I've got other shirts. At least I got her to stop crying."

Tess looked down at the baby in the crook of her arm, and then back up at me. "Wanna try a hand at gettin' her 'ta sleep?"

Long story short, that's how I found my new job as the Tariq's live-in babysitter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wasn't expecting to do surrogacy again, at least not for a long while. The Tariqs were paying me a decent wage for domestic work and were kind enough to not charge me rent -- so long as I was saving a certain amount of the money each week. The last post I ever made on the surrogate agency's forums was an announcement celebrating Suri's successful home birth. After that, I let my profile go dark.

Not only did hiring me allow the Tariqs to keep their promise of helping me on my feet, it also gave them an extra set of hands around the house while Ray was at work. Tess and I worked out a system where I would work on smaller tasks while she took care of the most pressing matters. If she was feeding Suri, I was cleaning the kitchen. If she was cooking dinner, I was changing a diaper. If she had to do yardwork, I was keeping Suri entertained.

I learned to prepare formula, wash bottles, change diapers, and play peek-a-boo like a pro in no time.

Bath time was always a tag-team effort, though. Suri was a splasher, and her favorite bath toy was a rubber turtle called "Squirta Turta", so we usually ended up as soaked as she was.

When Suri was being weaned off formula, we made homemade baby food with the vegetables in the garden. Turns out, placenta makes a great fertilizer. I wondered if Mom had ever used it in her flower beds -- she'd had five of them to work with by the time all of us kids were born. I wished I could ask her. I wished I could ask her about a lot of things. I also wished Suri could eat her mashed squash without trying to wear the bowl as a hat, but I didn't get that wish, either.

This was my life for two wonderfully chaos-filled years, and I was mostly content with it.

Mostly.

I wanted to go to college. That was always my plan for after high school, but . . . plans had obviously changed. My grades hadn't been anything to brag about, so I knew from the start I'd have to pay my own way through. I had two years' worth of savings, but I didn't want to dip into it, yet. That money was meant to be the down payment on a house someday. What would be the point of spending all my money on school if I'd be right back to square one afterward? That wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to get my degree and start my life over -- I'd been waiting long enough.

After sitting down with Ray and breaking down the costs of school, I realized I barely had enough to pay for one term. There were some small scholarships I could apply for here and there, but I wasn't about to rely on winning them. There were hundreds of smarter students out there vying for the same pile of money. What chance did I have?

I mulled it over for several days without saying a word to anyone, but eventually I made up my mind. When I did, Tess was the first person I told:

"I'm gonna get pregnant again."

I announced it out of the blue as I was helping Tess with the after-dinner dishes. She was at the kitchen sink, washing. I was at the counter, drying.

The steel wool in her hand scraped to a halt. "Pardon?"

I hunched my shoulders a bit as I toweled off a plate. "I'm gonna find another couple that needs to 'rent a room'. It'll be able to pay for my degree. In full. All four years."

Tess continued washing, but she didn't acknowledge what I'd said at all.

"So . . . what do you think?" I prodded, setting stacks of dishes in the cabinet.

Tess grimaced into the soapy water, concentrating way too much on the pan she was scrubbing. "Shug, I dunno," she said. "Do 'ya really wanna do that 'ta 'yaself so soon?"

"Whatd'ya mean 'so soon'?" I scoffed. "Suri's up toddling around the house. Isn't that when most moms get pregnant again?"

"'Ya ain't a mom, yet, Fawn," Tess said, her tone lovingly blunt -- the tone that can only be learned by disciplining a toddler.

I flinched a little, but I crossed my arms over my chest to hide it. All she'd done was state a fact, but it still bit.

"I'd like to be," I mumbled. I gazed out the kitchen window and saw Ray out in the backyard with Suri. He was blowing bubbles, and she was reaching up to grab them with high-pitched screams of laughter. She chased them as they swooped lower to the ground, and then stomped on them with her tiny flip-flops when they touched the grass. "Someday."

"I know, doll. That's why I'm concerned." Tess set the pan on the drying rack. "Pregnancies are risky. Wouldn't 'ya rather have as few of 'em as possible?"

"I've had two and they went just fine," I said with a shrug. "I'm young, Tess! Isn't now the best time to use what I got? I can charge more, now that I've got experience. No student debt and money left over to save for a house! Trade nine months in exchange for the rest of my life? How could I pass that up?!"

Tess didn't say anything for a long time, she just dunked a chili pot in the dishwater and started scrubbing. I stood there in uncomfortable silence until she said:

"School can wait, 'ya know."

"No, it can't!" I protested.

"Ray and I can pay what 'ya need for classes when we start tryin' again," Tess said. "What on Earth's the point?"

"Point is," I huffed, leaning my hip against the counter, arms still crossed over my chest, "I'm almost twenty-four and I've got nothin' to show for it!"

"Fawn, 'ya gotta think about-."

"I'll still be able to help you guys out, Tess," I added. "Don't worry about that."

"It's not us I'm worryin' about," was her deadpan response.

It was frustrating as hell, but I wasn't too angry at her. I knew why she wasn't a fan of the idea.

The three of us had recently discussed growing their family in the future. The Tariqs wanted to wait until Suri was a little more independent before welcoming a second baby, so that plan was at least two more years out.

Following that conversation, we'd decided not to return to the surrogate agency we used the first time. The agency was helpful with the fine print and legal stuff, but the Tariqs had not been too thrilled to learn that a desperate, homeless, childless young woman had been allowed to become a surrogate of theirs.

"I can do it independently," I said, pleading my case. "I know how to be careful."

Tess turned to lock eyes with me. "Fawn . . . I just need 'ta know you're doin' it for the right reasons. I don't like the idea of 'ya going through all that for nothing but a stack'a cash."

"It's not just for money" I insisted. "I wouldn't go through it again for anyone, not even you guys, if I didn't find it meaningful."

Tess didn't seem any more at ease with my promises. "I just don't want 'ya health 'ta suffer. If 'ya do this, you're choosin' 'ta put 'ya body through a lot in such a short time."

I didn't argue. She was right. "I know."

Tess turned back to the sink, sighing while she rinsed out the pot. My toes curled inside my shoes.

"I want to help another couple while I still have the chance," I said, trying to justify my decision -- partially to myself. I could sense how strong Tess's disapproval was, and it was giving me serious second thoughts. "If I can't be a parent right now, I want to make it possible for other people to be parents. It makes the wait feel . . . less long."

Tess dried her hands on her long bohemian skirt and turned to gently hold my shoulders. "Doll, it's 'ya own choice. Ray and I can't stop 'ya from doin' whatever it is 'ya wanna do."

I nodded, my eyes cast down. I didn't need their permission, nor had I been asking for it, but some support would've been -- .

"Just know that we'll be here 'ta help 'ya," Tess continued. "Anything 'ya need, just ask. If you're gonna do this, I want 'ya as healthy and happy as possible."

I nodded again, this time with a smile on my face. "I'd appreciate that."

Tess wrapped me in a hug. "But please, shug," she added, patting my back, "don't put 'yaself through too much."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Easy there, doll. I've got'cha."

Tess held my curls back as I wretched into a blue emesis bag. I'd started growing my hair out in the months it took for this surrogacy to be arranged. I hadn't been thinking ahead.

I'd thought I was in the clear after I had to have Tess pull over on the highway so I could vomit up breakfast, but the antiseptic smell of the hospital kicked up my nausea again. I'd made it through the halls, but by the time I'd sat on the exam table my stomach had enough.

I choked on thick saliva and spit a mouthful of colorless bile into the bag. "Okay . . . okay, I'm good now," I spluttered as I lifted my head. I cinched the bag and handed it to the technician without looking them in the eye. "Sorry."

"Don't be," the tech laughed, "morning sickness is par for the course in here. I'll be right back, just make yourself comfortable." They dragged the privacy curtain closed behind them as they left the room.

Tess wet a paper towel in the hand sink for me. My skin was clammy and cold even before I wiped the towel across my face -- so I wasn't left feeling any better. My hands had a tremor so deep inside the tendons it registered as numbness. I raked my front teeth over my tongue to scrape away the acidic taste.

I hadn't really needed that blood test. I'd known the IVF had worked when I woke up clinging for dear life against the Earth's rotation. My head hadn't stopped spinning since, and it was two damn weeks later. The doctor overseeing my IVF had sent me in for a six-week ultrasound -- which was earlier than I'd ever had one done before -- because my hormone levels were "suspiciously high" this time around. Whatever that meant.

I'd been pumped full of fertility drugs like a chicken with GMOs for a solid four months by that point. No shit my hormones were off the charts, especially now that I was pregnant.

"It's never been this bad," I groaned, coughing on the burn in my throat.

"Yeah, that's why the doctor wants 'ya in here," Tess said with a chuckle.

"I hate it," I scowled. "I want the old morning sickness back."

"Each time is different," Tess said. "I had it once or twice before, but when I was pregnant with Ravi it never really went away." Any time Tess mentioned her angel baby, a little bit of the light left her eyes -- and I saw it happen again right there in that ultrasound room.

Tess helped me pull off my jeans and tucked my discarded underwear inside the back pocket for me. I covered my hips with the paper blanket just before the tech came back into the room.

"Looks like we're ready to start!" they chirped, taking their seat between me and the rolling ultrasound cart.

"Hang on a sec," I said, pulling up the FaceTime app on my phone. "The parents really wanna see the first ultrasound."

"Ah," the tech said with an understanding nod, "is this a surrogate situation?"

"My second time," I said with a proud grin. I pointed at Tess, who was folding my pants over the back of a chair. "I carried her baby first. Most amazing thing I've ever done."

Tess beamed at me. She was smiling, but the shadows on her face were a bit deeper than normal.

"Really now!" The tech exclaimed, keeping their peppy tone as they typed my info into the computer. "It's rare I see surrogate mothers as young as you. Bless your heart!"

"She's a trooper, that's for damn sure," Tess said, "but, God love 'er, she's been so sick."

"I'm sure your care provider can prescribe something for that at your follow-up ," the tech told me. "It won't feel this bad for much longer, sweetheart."

"It's worth it, though," I said. My phone bubbled with the ringtone of an outgoing video call. "These guys will be amazing dads."

The tech smiled at me. "I have such respect for traditional surrogates. That's a lot of sacrifice."

"Oh, no," I corrected them with a small hand wave. "This isn't traditional. These are the bio parents."

I hadn't willy-nilly accepted the first eager couple I'd found online. I'd put half a year's worth of thought into carrying this pregnancy. The Tariqs always gave me my birthday off, and I'd spent that entire day talking to prospective parents. I wanted to prove to them that I was taking this seriously; if I was doing this just for the money, I wouldn't have cared whose baby I carried. I wanted to vet my options and choose a couple that I well and truly felt honored in helping -- and the Gillespies were exactly that.

My phone screen flashed with a mixture of bright pixels before the video came into focus. An odd pair of men sat beside each other in what appeared to be either a kitchen or a dining room -- perhaps it served as both, they lived in a small condo. One was a tall, tanned athlete with a dark stubbly beard and a sculpted figure rippling beneath his loose-fitting tank top. That was Silas. The other was a willowy, ramen-haired man with thick blue octagon frames on his glasses and the quote, "It's only a passing thing, this shadow" from The Two Towers tattooed on his forearm. That was Owen.

"Hey, guys!" I said, holding my phone up and giving them a wave.

There was a slightly-too-long pause due to lag, but both guys lit up with smiles and greeted me in unison. I saw the tech looking at the screen from the corner of my eye. I could see the math trying to play out in their head.

"You don't mind if we record this, right?" Silas asked. They must've been watching from a tablet, because he reached his finger under the camera and swiped a few times as if he were checking a separate app. As he lifted his arm, a crescent of silvery scar tissue became visible from under his shirt.

I saw the tech look back to their computer with a subtle nod of their head. God love 'em, they must've been too nervous to ask.

"Go ahead! It's a special occasion," I said. "I'm gonna hand you over to Tess. We're about to start."

"Yay, Tess!" Owen said with a clap of excitement. He waved as I passed my phone over. "Hi, Tess! Where's Ray?"

"Hi, boys," Tess said with a soft grin. She adjusted herself to be closer to my side. "Ray's workin' from home today so he can watch our 'lil darlin'."

Of course the Tariqs had wanted to meet my new clients. They said it was because they wanted to vouch for me as a caring and capable surrogate; but I think it was mostly to judge the couple for themselves. The Gillespies had both Tess and Ray's number as my emergency contacts, which came in handy when they needed help with some legal paperwork.

Silas and Owen were my age, both of them twenty-four. They'd poured all their savings into the process of hiring a surrogate and had none left over for a lawyer. At the Tariq's behest, all three of us had stayed up late on a call to talk the Gillespies through the steps of writing a surrogacy contract. Silas and Owen seemed to hold a lot of respect for the Tariqs after that.

While Tess had the camera on her, I reclined on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. The paper blanket gave plenty of privacy -- which was good, because I didn't want my clients to see the long plastic wand the tech was prepping while it was in there doin' its thing. I'd never had a transvaginal ultrasound before, but apparently it was the only way to get a view of the Gillespies' baby so early.

I couldn't help but tense as I felt the rounded tip of the wand slip inside me like butter, aided by the warm jelly I was used to having on my belly. I could feel the blood flooding my face as the curved device slid under my public bone and pressed against a part of my anatomy that hadn't been reached in years -- though not for lack of trying, I had short fingers.

"Relax a little more, please," the tech said.

"Sorry . . . not used to this."

Don't judge me. I was living with my employers. The idea of one of them finding an adult toy in my room -- or worse, their daughter finding it -- made me shrivel.

I felt a subtle buzz inside my tissues when the device turned on. I bit the inside of my cheek.

"Okay, let's have a look at that baby," the tech said as they began angling the wand.

Tess flipped the phone around so the dads could see the action. I saw Owen grip his husband's bicep and pull him closer. The room was silent for a moment while the technician moved the wand around my pelvis.

"Can we listen to the heartbeat?" Owen asked, hugging Silas's arm.

"Not yet," the tech said, eyes glued to the screen. "Their little heart is only a few cells big right now. It's too quiet to pick up, but we'll hear it in a few weeks."

Owen and Silas shared a grin. I could see their story written on their faces and in the way they looked at each other. They'd been dating since high school, the odd-ball pairing of bookworm and athlete. After graduation, a preemptive doctor's appointment before Silas started testosterone saved his life:

Cervical cancer, stage two. The doctors had no choice but to take everything, but Silas chose to freeze a few of his eggs before the surgery. He'd gotten into non-competitive bodybuilding to deal with the effects of chemo, and it'd been his favorite hobby since. Luckily, Silas had been cancer-free for years -- Owen had gotten his first and only tattoo in celebration.

Now that they were newlyweds, the Gillespies were choosing to start their family right away -- knowing the frozen eggs wouldn't last forever. We'd lost a lot of hope when most of the eggs didn't thaw right, meaning we only had one shot at this. The Gillespies were more than open to adoption, but . . . having a baby together was something they'd hoped for since before Silas's diagnosis.

I'd known I wanted to step up to the plate as soon as I heard their story. I was proud to be helping such a sweet pair of guys have their much-wanted family. When I saw the way they looked at each other in that moment -- the excitement and love of a dream finally coming true -- I secretly hoped doing this for them would grant me some sort of karmatic favor.

I hoped one day I'd share that same ecstatic smile with someone, for the same happy reason.

The tech hadn't said anything for a while. They kept moving the wand from side-to-side between my hips and squinting at the screen. They took several images, judging by how often they hit the same loud button on their keyboard. They hadn't even turned the screen around, yet. I couldn't wrap my head around the baby being so hard to find -- not with the ultrasound wand jammed so far up.

"Are they hiding from 'ya?" I asked with a joking lilt. Something was starting to sink inside my chest.

"No, I see them," the tech said. They squinted harder at the screen. "Just taking their picture for the doctor."

"That's a lot of pictures," Silas commented from my phone speaker.

"Well, I . . . just want to make sure," the tech said. Their keyboard clacked as they took another image.

It felt like I'd swallowed lead. "Sure of what?"

The tech finally tilted the screen so the rest of the room could see it. In the grey-and-white fuzz on the monitor, a round dark void was highlighted in a bright yellow square. Resting in the void was a blurry white bean with a small flutter in the curve of its shape.

"So, here's the gestational sac," the tech said, outlining the yellow square with their cursor. They circled the cursor over the fluttering movement. "That's baby's nice strong heartbeat right there."

"Silas, oh my god!" I heard Owen cry. "Look! We made that!"

The tech turned the wand slightly and the image on the screen rolled to the left. The same black void and white bean slid into view, except now it was upside-down. The tech once again circled their cursor around the flutter. "And this is another nice strong heartbeat."

"They have two hearts?!" I gasped in panic. I realized how stupid I sounded after it was too late. "Or is it . . . ?"

The tech flicked the wand from side-to-side, and each time they did a little black void with a bean remained on the screen. It took a few back-and-forths for me to realize those weren't two different angles of the same image.

"Holy shit . . ." I wheezed. My hand covered my throat, as if that would loosen the strangling tightness that was setting in. "Holy shit . . ."

“What? What’s wrong?” I heard Silas ask, his voice glitched and laggy.

“Boys, can ‘ya see?” Tess asked, holding my phone closer to the screen. “Can ‘ya see that?”

I wanted to turn my head and see the parents’ reaction, but I could not move my eyes from the ultrasound. The Gillespies were quiet for a minute as the tech continued to swivel the image from side-to-side.

“How many embryos did you transfer?” the tech asked.

“There were only two that made it,” Silas answered. I could sense the moment reality washed over him. “Wait . . . wait, are they both there?!”

“Yep,” Tess said. I have no idea what emotion was in her tone, but it had a glaze of forced excitement. “They both took root.”

“I can’t quite get an image of both of them,” the tech said. “I’m trying, but it looks like they’re on opposite walls of the uterus. That flipped one is way up there, too. They’re hanging onto the roof like a bat.”

“A bat bean,” Owen said. His voice was flat, like the quip was a reflex.

“So . . . twins, right?” Silas asked. “We’re having twins?”

“Congratulations!” the tech chirped.

My pulse was pounding under my hand. That lump of lead was sitting hard in my guts, right alongside those two tiny beans. Two. Two beans. Holy shit. Two.

Tess turned the phone towards me and I saw the moon-eyed shock on the Gillespies’ faces. “Fawn, honey?” Tess prodded. “Wanna say something? What’dya think?”

“I . . .” My saliva felt thick and hot in my mouth. My tongue fell numb and it nearly flopped down my throat as I shot up on the table, my legs still up in the stirrups. “I think I’m gonna be sick!”

Tess jumped for a trash can. She aimed the camera at her face while I loudly wretched in the background of my clients’ first family video.

“This explains a lot,” Tess told the fathers with a sheepish grin. “Two times the baby, two times the morning sickness.”

The Gillespeies were quiet for a while, an awkward pause with only the sounds of my suffering to fill the void.

“We’re having twins, Owen,” Silas finally said, just as I was pulling my face from the trash.

“Yeah . . . wow,” Owen’s voice answered.

I heard a subtle thumping from their end, like one of them was bouncing their leg. The tempo was frantic.

“What’s wrong, Owen?” Tess asked. She held the phone to be more level with her face.

All I heard was a harsh sniffle.

“C’mere, you big softie,” I heard Silas say.

“Don’t cry, honeybun,” Tess said. “It's a blessing!"

“I’m happy!” Owen insisted over the phone. “I’m so happy!” His voice was muffled, like he was hiding his face in his husband’s shoulder. “This is . . . whew! This is overwhelming!”

“No kidding,” Silas said with a laugh.

“No fucking kidding,” I said with my head in the trash.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took a few days for the shock to wear off. The anti-nausea pills cleared my head so I felt less like I was walking in a fever dream. Once that edge was taken off, it made reality slip in a little smoother. I was pregnant with twins. There were two little jellybeans inside me that would be two full-sized babies in eight months. That was fine. Yeah, that was fine. That had to be fine. If it wasn’t fine, I was going to start losing my mind! So, it was fine.

I mailed the printouts of the ultrasounds to the parents. They had the digital pictures I took, but those physical copies were what really mattered to them. The three of us had never met in person. They lived hundreds of miles away, in Michigan. They wouldn’t be flying down to Tennessee until it was nearing my due date, so any physical memento of their babies I could send to them was much appreciated.

I wanted the Gillespies to feel included in my pregnancy as much as possible, even if they couldn’t be with me in-person. Each week I’d take a picture of myself turned sideways in the bathroom mirror and sent it to them. I basically sent them the same picture four times in a row. There was nothing much to show except for the tummy flab I’d collected my first two times around the block. By week ten, though, I could feel that familiar little lump starting to form below my navel. I had slightly too much of a pooch for there to be any trace of a bump, though.

Almost three months in, I was surprised by how normal my pregnancy was – aside from the intense bouts of nausea I relied on my medicine for. I’d thought having twins inside me would up the difficulty level, but up to that point my life had changed very little. I still got up every day to housekeep and nanny for my allotted shift, and I did so with the same ease I did before. The only change was how much of an eye Tess kept on me. It was very annoying.

“Fawn, no!” Tess trotted up beside me and took hold of my hips. “‘Ya don’t need ‘ta be up there.”

“Stop it!” I gasped as the stack of plates in my hand jittered. “Don’t grab me like that if you don’t want me to fall!”

Tess gently pulled me down from the stepstool I’d been using to reach the cabinet. “I can take care of those,” she said, taking the stack of dishes.

“Jesus, you’d think these were your babies,” I muttered.

“It’s easy now, doll, but you’re not far off from those little ‘uns hittin’ a growth spurt.” Tess climbed the stepstool and I rolled my eyes behind her back at the oh-so-dangerous foot and a half of height she stood above. “I can go ahead and take over the chores ‘ya need help with.”

I shrugged, lifting my hands and then letting them slap down onto my thighs. “Alright. Want me to take over Suri while you handle the dishes?”

“Yes, and I’ll be wiping down the countertops and stove with bleach. So, I don’t want either of ‘ya in here until I say so.”

“Right. Grabbing snacks.”

Arms full of Cheerios, applesauce pouches and beef jerky, I joined Surinder in the living room. She was watching one of her preschooler shows on TV from inside her pop-up play tent. Her toys were strewn all over the floor – the living room had become her territory and she marked it with Duplo blocks and miniature plastic food.

I bent over to start picking up and I grunted when the ligaments around my waist pulled tight. Tess was right about the babies, I hadn’t gotten round ligament pain so early before.

It wasn’t long before Suri crawled out of her tent and patted my leg to get my attention. “Fa! Fa!” she called my name until I turned around and acknowledged her.

“What is it, baby girl?”

“Go! . . . Go potty!”

“You gotta go potty? Okay, let’s go-oh!” I winced as I stooped to pick her up, my hands flying to my sides. There was that ligament pain again. I rubbed my hands into my lower belly, trying to work out the tension in my stretching muscles. “Let’s walk to the potty.”

I kept feeling that growing pain. I got a charlie horse in my back as I was helping Suri in the bathroom. That nerve-deep pain flared up in a ring around my hips as I sat down for dinner, but a slight adjustment in my posture made it nothing more than an annoyance. I went to bed that night safe in the knowledge I would wake up to another day of normalcy.

I woke up to my alarm, bright and early as always. I woke up to that ring of pain around my hips as I stretched out under the covers. I woke up to the sensation of wet fabric, something sticky plastered against the curve of my rear and up my lower back. I woke up to blood, both crusty brown and damp red, on my pajamas and sheets.

I woke up wanting to scream. Instead, I tip-toed past Suri’s nursery and padded down the hall to her parents’ room. I knocked once before opening the door. I was like a child needing to be comforted from a nightmare, appearing in the Tariq’s doorway and softly whispering their names until they stirred.

“Ray? Tess?” I leaned a little harder against the doorframe as I watched their silhouettes sit up in bed. “Can one of you drive me?”

Tess yawned. “Where, doll?”

“The ER.”

With the yank of a chain, Ray’s bedside lamp clicked to life. I didn’t need to scream. Tess did it for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ray held my hand while we waited in the emergency room. I’d cleaned up and changed clothes – Ray had lent me a pair of his sweatpants, just in case I bled through my pad. All that remained of my pregnancy was sealed in a sandwich box on my lap. Tess suggested I take the large clump of blood and tissue I’d found in my underwear with me for the doctor to look at, but I hated holding that box knowing someone’s lost dream was inside.

Tess hadn’t come to the hospital with us. She stayed at the house until her parents arrived to take Suri for the day and then met us in the waiting room. I sat between them, resting my head on Tess’s shoulder while both of them wrapped an arm around me. We waited like that for over an hour.

Most of that day is a scrambled signal in my memory. There was a lot of waiting. A lot of fluorescent lights and white-beige walls. We watched TV together in the room they put me in, but I don’t remember what we watched. Only one memory of that ER visit is clear:

A nurse came in and confirmed what we already knew. They’d found the stringy prototype of a placenta in the tissue I’d passed, along with one of the gestational sacs. That was concerning, though. One. They’d only found one of the twins. There was a possibility I needed surgery, so they had to go in and see what was left. The Tariqs weren’t allowed to follow me as I was wheeled down to radiology.

The ultrasound room was dark and warm, the only light coming from the idle monitor of the computer. It was easy to close my eyes and drift into a trance as the tech smeared gel over my lower belly. I’d been scheduled for my next ultrasound in two weeks. I didn’t think I could handle seeing how empty I was.

“Did everything clear?” I asked, resting my hands over my sternum. Even if I didn’t want to see it, I still wanted to know if they were gonna have to scrape me out.

“I can’t say for certain until the doctor has a chance to look at these,” the tech said. “I’m just here to take pictures.”

I wished this was the same tech from my first ultrasound. I could’ve used their friendliness.

“I stopped cramping a while ago,” I said, “so hopefully it’s over.”

The tech rolled the wand up from my groin and I felt it press on the solid lump in the front of my hips. They were pressing hard – trying to get a good image, I assume – but eased off as they moved the wand just below my navel.

“Ope, no. Wait,” the tech said, “there’s the other one. Gosh, that one is way up there.”

Bat Bean. That’s what the Gillespies and I had been calling Baby B. We’d been calling Baby A “Jellybean”. I wondered what their real names would’ve been. My throat closed up and I had to stop wondering.

“Oh . . . my . . .” the tech said, nearly in a whisper. Then, much louder: “Well, hello there, little guy!”

“What?” I asked, opening one eye in hesitation.

I saw their face in the light of the monitor, saw the crescent moon of a smile below their reflective glasses. “It’s kicking!”

“What?!”

My neck arched and suddenly I was staring at the high-def image of a grey gummy bear on the screen. Nubby limbs twitched as the oval-shaped body curled and uncurled, swimming around its bubble of fluid like a tiny fish. The bulbous head turned and I watched in utter amazement as Baby B’s whole body flipped over in a summersault.

The tech hit a key and a steady whop-whopa-whop-whopa played as a line of white peaks and valleys appeared below the image. “And we have a heartbeat!” they announced, all monotone gone from their demeanor.

I must’ve been in a state of shock, because my memory after that moment is almost entirely blank. I have a vague recollection of signing some paperwork and a surgeon standing over my bed, listing off possible side effects. I remember a needle going into my arm, and then my memory is a void.

My memory restarts at the point I woke up in the recovery ward. Please understand that before this point, I had never had any kind of knock-out juice. I’d never had surgery before. So, please don’t make fun of me when I admit that I woke up crying. My vision was blurry, my head was in a vice, my anti-nausea medication had worn off, and it felt like I had a cactus in my vagina.

I saw a silhouette at my bedside, a woman’s silhouette with a ponytail of dirty-blonde hair. For a second, I thought my mom had forgiven me – I thought that someone, somehow, had reached her. I thought she cared enough to be worried about me. I reached out to her, craving to feel her hold me again. I felt horrible. I wanted my Mama to make it all better.

“M-om?” I mewled, my mouth slow and dry.

I touched the woman’s arm, causing her to turn towards me. She wasn’t my mom – just a nurse who styled her hair the same way. “No, sorry. I’m not Mom,” she said softly. “She’s probably waiting for you outside.”

I knew she wasn’t. I felt more tears trail down my neck.

“Just lay back and try to wake up a little more,” the nurse told me, “then we’ll let your family come back and see you.”

I dipped in and out of a fugue state, gradually returning to reality as the drugs wore off. Although I couldn’t remember much before surgery, I was inately aware that my cervix had been sewn shut. There was no telling what had caused me to lose Baby A, but Baby B was still considered at-risk. Sealing the exit shut was the best bet to keep ‘em in there. The fact I was still pregnant at all after so much blood loss and cramping was miraculous. Just to be safe, they hooked my IV up to something that would stop my uterus from contracting.

When I was awake enough to feel hungry and ask for food, the Tariqs were allowed to come sit with me in my cubicle of curtains. Tess sat on the side of my bed while Ray tried to nap in his chair. It’d been nearly twelve hours since we arrived at the hospital and we were all exhausted. I barely had the energy to lift spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup to my mouth. After I’d gotten some broth and crackers down my throat, and Tess and I had run out of small talk, Tess leaned in and wrapped her arms around me.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered into my ear. “I know what you’re feelin’, and it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

They weren’t empty words – far from it. Tess had been where I was time, after time, after time. Only, for her, it was worse – those lost children were her own. Then . . . there had been Ravi. I didn’t want to imagine how his loss had felt. Well . . . perhaps I could make a light comparison, but I at least knew my son was alive and well somewhere. I wrapped my arms around Tess in return, blinking back tears.

“No, Tess,” I said, my face covered by her long flaxen hair. It smelled like her mint shampoo. “I’m sorry you went through this so many times.”

Tess held me tighter.

“Have you told them?” I asked.

“No. We wanted ‘ta hear what the doctor said first,” Tess said. “Everything’s lookin’ okay with the baby right now, but he wants ‘ya on bedrest.”

“Can you . . . please call them for me? I don’t want to hear them . . .”

“I will,” Tess said, patting my back. “I’ll go outside and let them know.”

“If they ask which one it was . . .” I sniffled and choked back a small sob. “. . . tell them we lost Jellybean.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I continued to send the Gillespies bumpdates every week. I never missed a single one. I continued mailing them printouts of their baby’s ultrasounds. We never talked or chatted about what happened, nor did we discuss medical updates about Bat Bean. For those, the Gillespies waited for either Ray or Tess to contact them. I didn’t want them to associate me – the woman carrying their one and only child – with talk of heartbreak and loss. I wanted Silas and Owen to be excited when they saw an email from me, not dread clicking on it. Ray and Tess stepped up to be the bearers of heavy news for us. My doctor had me going in for ultrasounds every two weeks, which meant a lot of baby pictures from me and a lot of medical updates from the Tariqs.

My stomach remained flat for quite a while, with just the slightest bump in my lower belly for weeks. But one morning, around fifteen weeks in, I swear I woke up looking like I’d swallowed a cantaloupe. I guess the baby had finally hit that growth spurt Tess had predicted.

His name was Milo Bennet Gillespie. Silas and Owen named him shortly after we discovered he was going to be a boy. Owen was a fan of classic books who worked at Barnes & Noble, so I had no doubt he was the one to choose the middle name. Sometimes we playfully referred to Milo as “Bat Bean”, but that nickname faded out in favor of his real name. I worried over him – a lot. I bought a home doppler online so I could check if his heart was beating. Whenever I noticed he hadn’t moved for a while, I would pull up my shirt and rub the doppler on my bump until I heard the whoosh of his pulse. The doctors kept saying everything was looking good with him, but I worried.

I was essentially given leave of my housekeeper duties until Milo was done cooking. The doctor wanted me off my feet, so I spent most of my days on the couch watching cartoons with Suri. She was observant enough to ask about my big belly in her two-word-sentence manner. Unsure how to explain the situation, I told her there was a small person living in my stomach and that his name was Milo. I even took her tiny hand and let her feel where Milo was wiggling around. She didn’t like that very much, it freaked her out and she ran to her mother. I didn’t want her to get excited for a baby that wouldn’t be coming home with me. That wouldn’t be fair to her . . . or to me.

It wasn’t the best experience, being pregnant without the baby’s parents there. When I was growing Suri, her parents were there with me at every doctor’s visit. They took me on day trips just for fun and to make sure I had enough to eat. They were able to put their hands on my belly to feel their daughter kick, and put their lips close to my skin so she could hear their voices. Milo didn’t have that. His daddies were hundreds of miles away. They’d never felt him squirm around, only I had. He’d never heard their voices close-up, just over the phone . . . maybe. The clearest voice he’d ever heard was mine . . . and my voice wasn’t going to follow him home.

Although I had the Tariqs there to support me and love me, I felt alone in my pregnancy. Milo was just a little visitor in the household – we had no toys or bedding or bottles for him, all of that was with his fathers. After he was born, no one would mention him – his future didn’t involve us at all. I was the closest thing to a mother Milo would ever have . . . and I wasn’t going to be a part of his life.

It was an experience I’d had before, with the last baby boy I’d held under my heart.

It took a toll. It really took a toll.

Before I knew it, I’d blown up big as a barn. I no longer had a lap when I sat down, my belly nearly reaching my knees. Milo was a big boy – the doctor estimated he was around nine pounds – and he was squishing all the fluid in my body into my lower half. My legs were hot and heavy and my feet were too swollen for my shoes, so I shuffled between the bathroom, kitchen and couch in flip-flops. God, I hated being on my feet. I spent my days either dicking around on my laptop – using my belly as a desk – or watching TV while sprawled out on the couch.

Surinder got really upset with me one day, when I refused to play tag with her. Ray and Tess were very mindful of how much Suri “bothered” me, but I never considered it bothersome. I loved Suri, she was practically my niece. I was sure to let her know that I wanted to play with her, but my “belly buddy” was making me too tired. I made up for it with lots of hugs and kisses, and I promised that once I was feeling better we’d play tag as much as she wanted.

As soon as I hit thirty-seven weeks, I was on high alert. I’d warned my doctor that I delivered before my due date at least once before, but he wanted to keep Milo in there until he was full-term. So, he refused to remove my stitches. As miserable as I was, I agreed. I wanted Milo to bulk up as much as he could, even if it added to my discomfort. If I could give Silas and Owen a perfect, healthy baby . . . maybe it would make up for what happened.

My body had failed one of their babies – and so help me God I was gonna force it to nurture the other! I was determined! I would make it to forty weeks!

Yet, I would not.

I pulled myself off the couch one afternoon to grab a snack and my knees almost folded. I leaned against the arm of the couch as a deep downward motion slid over my organs. My lungs were slowly relieved of their crushing burden and they eagerly filled to their maximum. I lifted the weight of my belly with one desperate hand because I had a blaring instinct about what was happening.

“Milo, don’t you dare!” I muttered under my breath.

Like a Duplo block clicking into place, Milo’s head slipped into my hips. My belly visibly dropped, I felt it shift to hit heavier in my hand. Almost immediately, I felt the baby’s heft sitting directly on my sutured cervix. I groaned and pressed my thighs together. The pain throbbed between my legs, sharper than I’d ever felt.

“Hey, Ray?” I called, knowing he was upstairs in his office.

“Yeah?” his distant voice rumbled through the ceiling.

“Can you bring me my phone?” I called. “I need to call the doctor.”

A few minutes later, Ray thumped down the creaky stairs with my cellphone. He paused when he saw me leaning over the back of the sofa, kneeling with my thighs apart. “You okay?” he asked, handing me my phone.

“I need to call the doctor and tell him I need my stitches out, like . . . tomorrow,” I said, unlocking the screen. “Milo’s in my hips, he’s not gonna wait another two weeks.”

Ray rubbed my lower back, scratching his goatee in thought. “Is he going to wait until tomorrow? You’ve been having cramps, right?”

“Yeah, but they’re irregular as hell,” I said, putting the phone up to my ear. “I’ll be in labor soon, but not that soon.”

I was wrong. I was so wrong. I was so horribly wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Silas? Hi. Yeah, it’s Ray.”

“Fuck! Oh, fuck!”

“We have a situation. Fawn’s having contractions and you boys need to get on a plane right now.” Ray ground his knuckles into my back while I wailed face-down on my bed.

I gripped a bag of frozen peach slices in a towel between my thighs. My arms hugged all my pillows to my chest beneath me, and I buried my head between them to yell my way through this latest contraction. My belly was squeezed into a perfect sphere, peeking out from under my shirt as it hung down to my mattress. The contractions were actually pretty mild, all things considered. They didn’t hurt that bad at all.

However! My body was forcing Milo down hard against my cervix. That pain was far, far worse than the contractions. His head was grinding against a closed exit, but the sheer force was spreading that exit open anyway. The baby was a battering ram and my cervix was a fortress door, splitting apart around its locks and bars with every slam.

“Fuck, I want these stitches out!” I cried into my pillows. “I want them out!”

“Yeah . . . yeah, you can get a refund on the tickets you already bought,” Ray continued on the phone, and on my back. “I’ll book a room for you, don’t worry about that. Just focus on getting here. Bring an overnight bag for each of you and some basics for the baby. I’ll pick you up from the airport, don’t bother with an Uber.”

Tess walked into the room, a large duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hair thrown into a messy bun. “Everything’s in the car,” she said. Her hand squeezed my shoulder until my posture relaxed and I lifted my head from the pillows. “You ready to go have a baby, ‘shug?”

I nodded. Tess helped me to my feet and I waddled down to the car doubled over and holding my belly up. Even without a contraction, the pry and pull on the strings holding my cervix closed was constant. My seam was literally about to pop. I had to recline the passenger seat as far as it could go so I could somewhat lie on my side. My contractions were regular, but very far apart; so, thank god, I didn’t have to deal with any while cramped in the car.

My chest tightened when we pulled into the hospital parking lot. I knew I’d be having the baby here. I’d prepared for it, but thinking about it was so different from doing it. Because of the complications with this pregnancy, I had no choice but to deliver in the same maternity ward I’d walked into years ago. I . . . didn’t like thinking about what I went through in that ward.

Tess came around to my door to help haul me out, but I didn’t move. I stayed on my side, staring at the clouds hovering above the cars – they were painted with the summer sunset.

“‘Ya want me ‘ta get a wheelchair?” Tess asked, leaning on the open car door.

“Yeah,” I sighed, resting my cheek on my hand. “Tess, I don’t wanna go in there. I wanna do this at home.”

Tess looked over her shoulder, scanning the hundreds of windows looming ten stories over us. “Me neither,” she said, then turned and hustled toward the hospital entrance.

At eleven-thirty that night, I found myself sitting on a birthing ball in a stagnant delivery room. The only light was the yellow wall lamp mounted over my bed – anything brighter and my head would pound. A monitor belt was pulled snug around my belly, leashing me to a gaggle of machines beside the bed. An IV bag of pitocin hung from a hooked pole beside me, the tubes trailing down to a needle taped in place on the back of my hand.

I bounced on the ball, my hands braced on Tess’s knees while she sat on the side of the bed in front of me. I felt my torso squeeze and held my breath. The monitor beeped, registering a contraction.

“Blow the pain out,” Tess crooned, ghosting her fingertips up and down my arms.

I grabbed her knees and rotated my hips on the ball. A small “Ack!” bubbled up from my throat before I sucked air in through my nose and forced it out through pursed lips. I blew hard until my lungs went flat, then filled them again and continued the process. Salty water leaked from my shut eyelids and slid in thick droplets down my neck and back. I blew so I wouldn’t scream. I knew I could scream, but I didn’t want to come unglued only a few hours into active labor. Hell, my water hadn’t even broken yet.

I could still be in control of myself, even if this birth was not going according to plan.

I was hoping labor would be smoother after the stitches were out, but they’d only caused more complications. I’d dilated quickly regardless of the sutures, already three centimeters open when the doctor snipped the strings. He’d gotten to me too late, though. The stitches had ripped small tears in my cervix as Milo’s head pulled them apart. The swelling was immense – within minutes I was sealed shut again and my labor stalled. Hence, the pitocin.

The pitocin hijacked my body, forcing it to crush inward on itself like a soda can in a hydraulic press – at a strength and speed beyond what felt natural. I had never felt labor this intensely! I would desperately cling to any self-control I had in that beige nightmare of a room.

“Mmmmh,” I hummed through my nose, my hip swivel morphing back into a bounce as the contraction eased.

“Good job,” Tess grinned at me. “You’re doin’ so good, Fawn.”

I moaned and leaned back, bracing my hands on my hips as I rode that birthing ball like a rodeo star. “Have they landed yet?”

“Doll, they ain’t on the plane yet,” Tess said. “The only direct flight they could book on such short notice leaves at one-fifteen. Ray’ll call us when they take off and when they land.”

“God,” I huffed, my chin falling onto my chest. “They gotta be here. They can’t miss this!”

“Everyone’s doin’ their best and that’s the only thing they can,” Tess said. “It’s only an hour flight. They’ll be here in time, don’tcha worry.”

My hair had grown past my shoulders during my pregnancy, and it was suffocating me. I lifted my auburn curls off my flushed neck to cool down. Tess watched me for a moment before pulling the elastic band from her hair. A cascade of blonde fell down her back, sun-bleached highlights vibrant even in the low light. Without a word she came ‘round and gathered my frizz into her hands. A few flicks of the wrist and she had my hair up in a damp, poofy bun.

Tess kneaded the back of my neck for a while. I rested against her, letting her work my muscles like dough. Milo kicked, causing a dull ‘thump’ on the doppler.

“Fawn,” Tess broke the silence, “there’s nothin’ wrong with askin’ for pain relief.”

“Don’t want it.”

“Doll, I can tell it’s hurtin’ like hell. You’re hooked up ‘ta stuff that could rocket a foal out’a ‘ya.”

“I’m. Fine.”

“Just ‘cause ‘ya managed before doesn’t mean-.”

“I don’t wanna be stuck in that bed!” I cried. “I don’t wanna lay there like a lame horse ‘til they strap me up in stirrups! I’m NOT doing that again!”

I pulled away, using the bed’s railing to lift myself to my feet. My hand wrapped around to support my lower spine, exposed by the untied loops of my hospital gown. Tess picked up the absorbent pad on the birthing ball, folding it over to hide the bright spot of blood where I’d been sitting. I saw it, but it didn’t scare me – I knew it was from all the swelling. She retrieved the pink water cup from the table and let me drink from its straw.

“I had my baby here, too,” she finally spoke. She sat back down on the bed and smoothed her hand over the starchy sheets. “The beds feel the same.”

“Ravi was born here?” I rocked myself from foot-to-foot, holding onto the railing to keep steady. “I didn’t know that.”

“Four years ago as of January,” Tess said with a nod. “I was in here a few months before ‘ya, ‘shug. Who knows? Maybe they had us in the same room.”

God. Had it been four years already? I had a four-year-old somewhere out there and he had never seen my face. What toys did he like to play with? Did he watch the same preschooler shows that Suri and I watched together? What were his favorite foods? I wanted to know all of that. I wanted to know him! I wanted to know the sound of his voice, the color of his eyes, the texture of his hair . . . or his name.

A scar somewhere in my chest ripped open and I swear I could feel a black void pouring over my ribs like paint. I held my breath. Tears dripped from the tip of my nose and onto my belly. I was in so much pain, but not from labor. My soul was bleeding – the wound as raw as the day it was carved.

In my mind's eye, I saw myself reaching for my son as the doctor held him up. I saw my arms cradling his little naked body against my chest while he took his first breaths. I saw my lips pressing kisses into his bald, wrinkly scalp while my eyes cried phantom tears onto his skin.

None of that had happened at all – but it should have! I should have been given the chance to say goodbye – to look into his eyes and tell him how much I would always love him, even if he couldn’t see me. No, not even that. He should have stayed my baby! I should have gotten pregnant by a different man – a good man. I should have been on the pill instead of relying on his father’s cheap, oversized condoms that were probably expired. I should have fucked up my life less. I should have made a thousand better choices, so he could have stayed my baby!

I screamed along with the frantic beeping of the monitor, but all physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional. I’d cried through my heartbreak once before, but being back in that damn ward, in an identical room, brought all my grief pouring back out. Tears and liquid snot flowed down my face as I white-knuckled the bed’s railing to keep me upright. I gulped full lungs of air, only to wail and scream and sob until they were empty.

I think Tess knew my tears were from deeper down than they seemed. She leaned close and gently took hold of my contracting sides. Her palms rubbed large, soothing circles into my hardened womb. Her sympathetic eyes never left my face.

“Good girl,” she crooned. My eyes were blurry with salt water, but I thought the skin around her eyes looked red. “Scream it all out.”

“I want my baby, Tess!” I cried. “I . . .” my shoulders jerked with a sob, my diaphragm spasming from lack of air. “I n-never got to ho-hold him!” Another hiccup. “H-He’s going to think I . . . think I didn’t w-want him! But I . . . I wanted h-him so much!”

“Hushhh,” Tess shushed me. She wiped my face with the scratchy hospital blanket. “Hush now, doll. Calm ‘yaself down and get some air in.”

“Okay,” I nodded, still choking on sobs and panting for breath. “Okay . . . okay . . .” The awareness of the contraction began creeping into my brain. “Ohh . . . ohh . . . oh, shit!”

Blinded with tears, I threw my arm out to grab onto Tess. I balled her shirt collar in my hand and restarted my “blow the pain out” technique.

Tess continued massaging the sides of my belly, waiting to speak until she felt my muscles start to uncoil. “Are ‘ya sure you don’t want somethin’? I can call the nurse.”

I sniffled and wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Able to see again, I realized I hadn’t been wrong. Tess had been crying. My hand released her shirt, and my arm snaked around her shoulders to pull her into a hug.

“Tess . . . I just want you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three-thirty in the morning. We hadn’t heard anything from Ray, and even less from the Gillespies.

A nurse had been in to check me twice in the last hour. Milo was still in his comfy water balloon and that seemed to be cushioning him from the extra-strength contractions. I nearly started crying again when they told me his heart rate was fine and I could continue to labor on my own. With how damaged my cervix was – and how many liters of pitocin they’d given me – I’d been terrified of an emergency C-section.

By then I’d lost the use of my legs, but I refused to stay on the bed for more than a few minutes – usually just long enough to pull my knees back and let a nurse stick her fingers inside me. With the help of an orderly who’d come to swap out my IV bag, Tess had taken the mattress off the bed so I could have something soft to lie down on without feeling trapped.

I’d taken to half-lying on the floor with my arms and upper body resting on the birth ball. I couldn’t keep myself quiet during contractions any longer. Making low, rumbling noises like a cow in a ball gag was a must. It was how I was surviving. Between those moments, I was just tired. It was a relief that I couldn’t feel my cervix anymore, but that was likely because it had effaced. My eyes were heavy and full of grit, but the sixty-something seconds I had between contractions didn’t allow me to sleep.

At that point, I was beyond the mental capacity to worry about Silas and Owen. Milo and Tess were the only other people who existed in the world as transition’s brutal hand crushed me in its fist.

In hindsight, I think that’s why I didn’t panic when the pressure set in.

Tess was kneeling on pillows on the other side of the birthing ball, humming a lullaby to relax me between contractions. Her tune tapered to a halt when I shifted my hips, one leg pulling up to my side. “What’cha need, ‘shug?”

“I feel him.” I stated it like a bland fact.

My eyes were closed, but I felt Tess’s hand touch my shoulder. We’d already decided what we’d do if this happened before the Gillespies arrived.

“Alright, doll. It’s alright,” she crooned. “Lemmie come around.”

I heard the soft ‘pap pap pap’ of Tess’s socks traveling in an arch around me on the faux wood floor. Her weight settled on the mattress by my feet.

“Promise I won’t touch,” she said. “I’m just eyes.”

I grunted and rolled my leg outward to open my hips. Oh, I knew that pressure so well by that point. I knew better than to doubt my body. More pitocin mixed with my blood, drip-by-drip, through the needle in my hand. I wasn’t sure if someone should’ve removed it by then, but whatever. I was gonna use it to my advantage.

The monitor around my belly beeped. I pressed my toes down and pushed before I truly felt the pain. Milo kicked the doppler again, like he realized he was finally being evicted. After a solid ten seconds, I relaxed with a nasally whine.

“He’s coming, Tess.”

“I know, doll.” Tess gently nudged my foot to a more grounded position. “Soon as I see ‘im, I’ll call a nurse. Ain’t no one gonna put ‘ya in that bed, I’ll make sure’a that.”

I scooted up more into a half-squat, one arm draped over the ball and the other wrapping around my knee. Chin-to-chest, I used the rest of the contraction to bear down against the familiar sensation of a baby sliding down my passage. I took frequent breaths between my efforts so I wouldn’t get dizzy, panting a small “Uh . . . Uh . . . Uh” with each exhale.

I didn’t need to throw my all into pushing, the contractions were doing most of the work. Maybe that pitocin was a blessing in disguise – I don’t know if I had the energy to make progress without it. Five pushes in, and I felt my inner walls stretch around the baby. My quiet whines and grunts escalated into growls as the pain grew sharper, and I flowered open wider.

“Damn, he’s huge!” I moaned as I eased off my most recent push. Forget “Bat Bean”, the fucking Chicago Bean was coming out of me!

“Remember, you’re pushin’ out the sac, too,” Tess said.

I hugged my hiked-up leg closer to my side, teeth gnashing in my skull as my face turned purple with effort. “Ugh!” I released a small bark of pain during a brief pause, then spent the rest of the push with a low growl in my chest.

My labia brushed the crease of my thigh, the skin bowing out and preparing to stretch. I felt the inner structure of my clit get crushed as the mass of the baby pressed its way down. It was something I’d felt before in the past during childbirth – but never to the extent that it fired electric shocks of nerve pain down both legs. My toes curled as a ghostly, stabbing pain assaulted the arches of my feet.

I relaxed against the ball with a loud huff of air. “Tess, rub the bottoms of my feet,” I begged, my head falling back against inflated rubber. Thank god she did it without question, I was too embarrassed to explain.

Two contractions later, I was mid-push when a gout of hot water splashed onto the mattress. My focus was broken by the release of pressure, and I leaned forward to peer over my belly. A saw an expanding area of wet sheets between my thighs, darkening the color of the mattress as more amniotic fluid drained from me.

“He’s makin’ his way out, doll!” Tess grabbed the blanket and bunched it up around my rear to soak up some of the mess. “You’re openin’ up!”

“Ahh!” The arm holding my knee in place flew down to pry open my leg, fingers pulling at the skin where my thigh met my groin. My body pushed for me and my perineum thinned out and spread over the head as it dropped past my tailbone.

“Fuck, Tess!” I whined, vocal chords straining. “Fuck, he’s hurting me!”

“Take it slow,” Tess said, patting my thigh. “Let it stretch.”

I arched back against the ball as my lips bulged outward with the size of Milo’s head. The arm draped over the ball was numb, but it was the only thing keeping me upright. The room reverberated with a roar I didn’t realize was mine as I felt that all-too-familiar fire blaze to life. My entire world shrank down to that inferno between my legs. The only thought in my head was to push down into it. My fingertips migrated beneath me, pressing against the hellfire in my perineum as the flesh pulled dangerously tight. I was aware Tess got up from the floor, but I was blind and deaf to the world.

The ringing in my ears muffled the sound of the door bursting open. My eyes flew open in surprise as a gloved hand gently nudged my fingers aside and cupped my perineum. A scrubbed nurse knelt in front of me, a mask covering her face from the nose-down – but even then, her eyes smiled at me.

“Good job, Fawn!” the nurse praised me. “Baby’s crowning. You’re nearly done!”

I flinched when someone else took my leg and hiked it up to my side. It was Tess. I finally understood she must’ve run and got help. I thought I heard a cell phone ringing, but no one else reacted to it. I accepted the fact I was hallucinating.

I threw my arm around Tess’s waist, unaware my fingers were coated in blood, and held tight as I pushed again. I gasped deep and screamed as I felt myself make quick progress once the top of his head breached the air.

“Don’t stop, doll. He’s comin’,” Tess said, her lips brushing my scalp.

Sweat stung my eyes, so I kept them squeezed shut. My whole body trembled, my nerves going haywire as Milo surged forward with a massive, unstoppable push. I felt the little bump of his nose traveling through the pouch of my perineum. The nurse palmed the crown of his head, trying to let me stretch easily over his brow.

A loud slam caused everyone to jump, and the bright light of the hallway sent a migraine through my skull. The nurse turned to scold the two men scrambling into the room, but Tess saved the day:

“They’re the parents!” she cried. “They’re stayin’!”

I couldn’t pay attention to anything going on around me. With a roar of effort, I bore down until I heard the wet little ‘shlip’ of Milo’s head pushing free into the nurse’s hand.

“Owen! Silas! Here, now!” Tess ordered.

I heard two more bodies thump to the ground beside the floor bed.

“We’re so sorry, Fawn!” I heard a familiar voice yell – a voice that belonged to a man I’d only ever heard through the static of a screen.

“Later, Owen!” Tess snapped. “Focus on your baby right now! Do not miss this!”

I didn’t care about anything – I knew this baby was on his way out right then and there! Nothing else in my mind or body would function until he’d made his journey earth-side! I clung to Tess, who pressed my leg back wider as Milo’s thick shoulders started to press out of me.

“Push, doll. Push on ‘im hard,” she encouraged me softly, her voice like warm honey.

The nurse began pulling down on the baby, forcing his shoulder to pry my public bone out of place to come through. I don’t quite know what the sound I made was, but it didn’t sound human. The nurse pulled upward, and . . .

“And we have a baby!” the nurse cheered as Milo’s body gushed out onto the mattress. A small trickle of leftover fluid followed his feet.

“Holy shit.“ My whole body relaxed as soon as that relief came.

My eyelids slid open when I heard that little guy make the sweetest newborn cries I’d ever heard. For a big baby, he had a small voice. Thin, blonde baby down was plastered to his scalp, and even while he was all squished and blotchy I could tell he looked like Owen.

“Oh, look how sweet!” the nurse sing-songed while she toweled Milo dry. “Isn’t he a perfect little man?”

A second nurse mysteriously appeared in the background. I peeked around Tess and saw the extra nurse fanning Silas with a laminated paper while he sat slumped against the wall, looking dazed. Owen kept looking at his husband over his shoulder, but his attention was constantly pulled back to his son.

“Oh . . . hey, guys.” I sleepily waved to the fathers. “When did you get here?”

Owen glanced back at Silas, who was rubbing his forehead and seemed to be coming around. “Just in time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I flipped through the pictures in my phone while I rode home with Tess. Milo and I had stayed in the hospital for a few days for observation. I’d needed a few internal stitches (wow, real shocker there) and they just wanted to keep an eye on Milo because of his troublesome gestation. At first, there was a little bit of concern because of how lethargic he was – but his bloodwork was fine, so I guess he was just a sleepy lad. He wasn’t awake in any of the pictures the Gillespies and I had taken.

There were countless photos of Milo being snuggled by all of us. Ray and Suri had popped in to see me the morning after I gave birth – mostly for Suri’s sake, she’d woken up crying over not being able to find me at home. I had a picture from that morning of Tess holding Milo in the room’s armchair while Ray held Suri up so she could see what my “belly buddy” looked like. Suri somehow looked confused, disgusted and amazed all at once. My favorite picture was the one Tess had taken of me and the family together. I was sitting up in bed and holding Milo while Silas and Owen sat on either side of me. All of us – except Milo, who was asleep with a binky in his mouth – were smiling wide at the camera.

One of the first pictures in my album was of Milo swaddled like a burrito a few hours after he was born, fast asleep in the baby cot beside my bed. His name, weight and time of birth were written on a card taped above his head. Beside that card was the paper cutout of a purple butterfly.

In Silas’s first picture with his miracle baby, he was pale as death but still smiling. He’d needed to sit down for a while after passing out, but he’d held his little boy nearly every minute in that chair. He’d held Milo while they performed his medical tests, only allowing the nurses to take him away for his first bath. In the picture I’d taken after that, Silas was gazing at Milo with all the love in his eyes that a father could give – and Milo was wrapped in a fresh blanket with an embroidered purple butterfly on the corner. The Gillespies had brought that blanket with them.

At first I’d thought the purple butterfly cutout was just a decoration choice the hospital had made; but when Milo’s first gift from his parents had the same image, I’d asked why it was showing up so often. Turns out, that hospital had adopted The Purple Butterfly Project – an initiative that offered support for patients who had lost a child in a set of multiples. The cutout on Milo’s cot was meant to celebrate the life of his “flown-away” twin, as well as make staff members and visitors aware that he was the wingless half of a pair. It took on the burden of explanation, so Silas and Owen could bond with their son without worry.

My phone buzzed with a new message from my clients. It was a selfie Owen had taken of himself and Silas at the airport, with Milo snug in a sling around Silas’s chest. The picture came with the message: “Thank you for blessing us so deeply! We hope the joy you’ve given us will be repaid – with interest! Milo is going to be showered with love every day of his life. You’re more than welcome to keep in touch with our family, Fawn. We’re happy to let you watch Milo grow up with us. Love, Owen and Silas.”

I locked my phone and sat it face-down in my lap. “Hey, Tess?” I asked, watching the road unfurl beyond the windshield as we traveled the rural roads. “When will it be my turn?”

Tess glanced at me. “For what?”

“Being happy,” I deadpanned. “I’ve made three different families happy. You and Ray, the Gillespies . . . and my son’s parents. I just wanna know when my turn is.”

The rest of the car ride passed in total silence. When we parked in front of the farmhouse, Tess turned to look at me while she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Doll, there’s somethin’ I want ‘ya ‘ta see.”

Going upstairs was a herculean task with how stiff and full-body sore I was, but Tess held my hand and walked with me step-by-step. She brought me into the master bedroom and sat me down on her side of the bed. Tess opened her bedside drawer and pulled out a wooden box that was roughly the size of a checkerboard. She plopped down beside me and stared at the box in her lap for a moment before saying:

“I haven’t opened this since we brought it home. I couldn’t. But . . . I think now’s the time.”

I watched as Tess lifted the lid of the box, revealing a carefully folded fleece blanket with pastel stars printed on it.

“What is it?” I asked.

Tess lovingly took the small blanket in her hands and began unfolding it. Beneath the layers of fabric was a blue crystalline teddy bear sculpture holding a silver heart between its paws. Tess picked up the bear and held it in her palm – that’s how small it was.

“This is Ravi,” she said.

Once light hit the silver heart at a different angle, I saw the engraving on it: “Ravi Idris Tariq”, with a single date underneath. Tess turned the bear over in her hands so I could see the second engraving on its back: “I carried you every second of your life.”

“I wrapped ‘im in his blanket,” Tess said, her thumb stroking the bear urn’s head. “It made it feel more like I was puttin’ him down ‘ta sleep instead’a . . . y’know.”

I was too stunned to speak.

Tess set the baby blanket in the box and – tiny urn still in-hand – got up and walked to her closet. A quick rummage, and she returned with a different fleece blanket. This one was pastel rainbow colored and was covered in white stars, an inverse of the other.

“These came as a set,” Tess said. “We donated everythin’ he never got to use, except for this. This one’s special.” She rubbed the blanket on her cheek. “I prayed over this one. I asked Mother Gaia ‘ta allow my baby’s spirit ‘ta be linked to this earthly object, so that I could hold it and it would be the same as holdin’ him.”

Tess re-joined me on the side of the bed, clutching Ravi’s urn to her heart while she cuddled and kissed the rainbow blanket. “I still miss ‘im. I miss ‘im a lot,” she said. “Having this connection to him helps.”

After a minute, Tess set both blankets and the urn inside the wooden box. Then, she took my hands into her own.

“Neither of us got ‘ta hold our little boys,” she said. “Mine was already in the arms of Mother Gaia, and yours was in the arms of his mama before you had the chance. That’s what’cha told us, right?”

I nodded, silent and enraptured. Tess smiled at me.

“Well, when you’re feelin’ more ‘yaself, I’ll teach ‘ya how to use my sewin’ machine,” she said, giving my hands a gentle squeeze. “You’ll pick out the fabric and you’ll make a baby blanket. That’ll be his baby blanket, ain’t no one else’s. I’ll ask Mother Gaia ‘ta bless it for ‘ya. When you feel all that love buildin’ up with nowhere to go, hold it. Hold your baby. He’ll be able to feel it, no matter where he is.”

I returned her smile, but my throat was almost too tight for me to speak. “I’d like that.”

We made a small shrine for Ravi’s urn on the mantle that night. Ray and Tess had Suri help set it up, explaining the existence of her elder brother to her in a way she would understand:

“Mama had a baby in her belly just like Fawn did,” Ray said, lifting Suri up so she could drop a few cut flowers from the garden beside the tiny blue bear. “That was before you were born. You were just a twinkle in Mama’s eye back then.”

“Where the baby?” Suri asked as her father plopped her back down.

“This is the baby,” Tess said, tapping on the silver heart between the bear’s paws. “He had ‘ta go back ‘ta Mother Gaia while he was still in my belly. This is where his body sleeps.”

I lit a few jarred candles and placed them on the mantle. From my back pocket, I pulled out the laminated purple butterfly cutout that had been taped to Milo’ cot at the hospital. I placed it upright against the mantle wall, so that two purple wings appeared to be sprouting from Ravi’s bear.

It wasn’t my turn to be happy, yet. I had a long way to go before I could start making my own dreams come true. Maybe school could wait a while. Maybe the money I’d earned throughout my surrogacy could be put to better use.

Maybe I was sick of staying on the path my own stupid choices had led me down. Maybe it was time I started making the choices I’d wished I’d made earlier.

I was tired of living in the shadow of grief Alexander had cast over my life. I’d lost everything because of him . . .

. . . but I was ready to start taking it back.

~ END ~

#Fawn Drabbles #birth kink #labor kink #mittysins #RP Drabble

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theartsynebulawhodoodles · 2 months

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Ink Sans’s Soul Torn; a practice writing I did. [TW: Suicidal Tendencies]

This is a practice writing I did of Ink’s backstory (well, a fragment of it)! I hope you all like it!

Ink didn’t remember who we was before. Those memories were buried behind in his forgetful mind. Yet, memories never leave one’s mind.

Even if those memories are forgotten.

Piles and piles of papers stacked on a determined and burnt out creator’s desk, stress and struggle clearly expressed on their facial expression as they quickly scribbled sketches after sketches. Over and over again. Ink slowly watched from one of the papers dangling slightly off the desk, curiosity in his eyes watching his creator. He was filled with hope. Thoughts filled his mind of what his AU would be.

Yet, after hundreds of sheets of papers were drawn on, the creator gave up. The creation became a chore for them. They eventually put down their pen, and left the unfinished art buried away behind other art. Ink stood in the blank papers, looking at the white surroundings. The surroundings of nothingness felt disappointing for the draft skeleton.

Yet, the odd feeling of determination fueled his hope, making him desperate to find something. Anything. He began running through the hundreds of papers, looking around for anything. All he saw was sketches of surroundings, monsters, and even himself.

It felt dead. None of it felt real to Ink. He couldn’t believe it. Collapsing to the ground, he sat on his knees with his hands covering his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw all the monsters.

They stared at him with nothingness. Yet it brought a sense of sadness to Ink. Seeing the ones he was supposed to live along with and see everyday in his life miserable felt odd; like it wasn’t normal. Ink desperately tried to make jokes to cheer up the sketches of the monsters. Nothing except a blank expression were on their faces hearing those jokes.

Days after days of Ink desperately trying to find something, there was nothing. His hope drove him insane knowing it wouldn’t be fulfilled. He isolated himself away from everything, sitting in a blank piece of paper. For the first time, he began to cry. The clear tears slowly dropped to Ink’s lap and the floor, his hands clenching his lap.

After days, months, years even, he didn’t know. All he knew that he was giving up. After everything,

He couldn’t take the emptiness anymore.

He reached deeply into his chest, slowly bringing out his soul into his hand. Looking at the white soul with a soft rainbow light around it felt sorrowful. Watching the pulse of the soul as it beat was the last thing Ink saw of his soul before he began to tear it apart. His fingernails dug deep into the soul, clenching it tightly as the soul beat even faster. A grunt came from his mouth as tears dripped down his face.

After getting a good grip, he began to pull the soul apart. The soul made noises of agony, like it was screaming in pain. Ink kept crying in pain. It felt so unbearable. His consciousness begged him to just end it completely.

After the few moments of agony, the soul was torn apart. Black smoke emerged from the soul, curling around Ink’s skeleton. Ink felt relieved, watching as his soul dusted away in his hands. He wanted it all to end; he couldn’t handle being conscious in an unconscious area permanently. He felt so happy the deed was done.

He kept himself isolated in that single piece of paper for days.

No matter how long Ink waited, he never dusted away. He never witnessed himself dust away. He didn’t feel the pain of dusting away. He didn’t feel the sadness thinking he was dusting. He didn’t even think about the sadness and grief of his loved ones knowing about his death.

He couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t feel pain. He couldn’t feel emotions. There was nothing left.

He stayed isolated for days, just staring at the ground with blank eyes. His arms were hugging his knees as he sat in his own area of nothingness. However, he began to hear drops. He looked up, seeing a bright color of yellow slowly falling onto him. A loud splash came from the watercolor dropping onto him.

He was stunned, looking at his now yellow covered self. The color began to pulse through his skeleton, coating it in the watery color. Yet he began to feel. He felt..happiness. Joy.

He couldn’t remember the last time he even felt something. He didn’t even think he would remember what the word was.

He eagerly watched as more and more colors dropped down upon him, craving each new emotion like it was water during a dehydration. It felt..heavenly.

(Ink Sans belongs to Comyet)

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mjsdiana · 13 days

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𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚎

*Requested*

1988

New York City

Word Count: 13.5k

It had been four agonizing days since you'd last spoken to him, since you'd even allowed yourself to think of him. His presence, once so comforting, now felt like a jagged wound. Each memory of him was another shard of glass piercing through you. The betrayal, the heartbreak—it felt like your chest had been crushed, shattered into a million tiny fragments, impossible to piece back together. He had called you "My Girl," made you believe you were his everything, but after that night, everything was tainted. What once felt like a dream was now an unrelenting nightmare, one that played on repeat in your mind, tormenting you with every passing moment.

That night was plastered everywhere—on television screens, across newspaper headlines, whispered about in conversations you couldn't escape. That kiss, her kiss, replayed over and over in your mind, like a cruel loop. The sight of her lips on his still burned into your vision, making you nauseous with every flash of recollection.

Why did she kiss him? And why did he just stand there, unmoving, as if her lips on his meant nothing? A thousand questions raced through your mind, all of them worse than the last. Had he been cheating on you this whole time? Was every sweet word, every whispered promise, a lie? Had the love you thought was so real never even existed at all?

Now, you sat stiffly at the dinner in his honor, your presence at the event feeling like a punishment. It was being hosted by the United Negro College Fund, an evening meant to celebrate his success, but for you, it felt like your heart was being laid bare before a crowd. His mother, Katherine, had insisted you attend, had even personally invited you. She held your hand now, her fingers warm and gentle, silently acknowledging the depth of your pain. She knew. She understood what it felt like to see the man you loved kiss someone else in front of thousands of people at Madison Square Garden, to have that image seared into your memory. It was unbearable.

Every second in that room felt suffocating. It was as if his eyes were always on you, watching, piercing through you with a burning intensity that made you sick. You could feel your pulse racing, the bile rising in your throat as you fought back the urge to scream, to cry, to demand answers from the man who had shattered your heart. The weight of your grief was suffocating, and it sat heavy on your chest, trapping you in place.

You hadn't spoken to him since that night. You couldn't. The moment the scene had unfolded in front of you—her lips pressed against his, his frozen reaction—you'd fled. Your heart pounding, your vision blurred with tears, you'd rushed back to the hotel, barely registering your surroundings as you packed your bags with shaking hands. The ache in your chest was unbearable, suffocating, and the thought of being near him, breathing the same air as him, felt like it would destroy you. So you ran, found another hotel, anywhere that offered an escape from the tormenting replay of that kiss.

But no matter how far you went, no matter how many doors you closed between you and him, the truth clung to you like a shadow. You had once believed—truly believed—that he loved you, that you were his everything. Now, that belief felt shattered, crumbled into dust by the cold reality of what you had witnessed. The love you had trusted in so completely now seemed like nothing more than a cruel illusion.

"Relax, hun," Katherine's soft voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. Her hand, warm and steady, gave yours a reassuring squeeze.

You swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape. The knot in your throat tightened as you forced out, "I'm trying... it's just... looking at him, being here... I don't know if I can do this."

Katherine turned slightly in her seat, her eyes soft but searching as they met yours. "Have the both of you talked?" she asked gently, her voice filled with concern.

You shook your head, unable to find the words. The weight of everything unsaid pressed down on you as you glanced up, only to see Michael standing at the front of the room, now wearing a cap and gown—a doctorate cap and gown. He had earned this moment, a recognition of his achievements, but the sight of him—his eyes locking with yours, that familiar smile beginning to spread across his face—made your heart lurch painfully in your chest. You quickly looked away, focusing on the folds of your dress, anything but him.

Katherine's voice was patient but firm as she spoke again. "Sweetheart, you both need to talk. Holding it in won't help. It'll only eat you up inside."

Your throat tightened, and you turned to her, your voice trembling as you admitted, "If I talk to him, I might cry the whole time... I don't know if I can do it."

Katherine's eyes softened with understanding. "And it's okay to cry. Let it out if you need to. Michael didn't mean any of what happened that night. The girl only did it to get under your skin, to make you angry. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she got what she wanted. Michael fired her that same night—he wanted to tell you, but when he came back to the hotel, you were already gone."

You could feel your heart clenching, torn between hope and doubt. "What if he's lying to you?" you whispered, barely able to get the words out. "What if... what if he's seeing her? What if there's something going on between them, and I'm just too blind to see it?"

Katherine shook her head with conviction, her grip on your hand tightening just slightly. "I know my son," she said softly but with a quiet strength. "When I looked into his eyes that night, I knew. He wasn't lying to me. He was devastated, sweetheart. He made a mistake by not stopping it fast enough, but he's not seeing her. I can promise you that."

Her words offered a glimmer of reassurance, but the doubt still gnawed at you. The memory of that kiss, of the crowd, of the betrayal—it was all so fresh, the wound still too raw. Could you trust him again? Could you even bear to hear his side of the story, knowing that it might break you even more? The thought of facing him, of letting him see your tears, felt too overwhelming to contemplate.

But somewhere deep inside, you knew Katherine was right. Holding everything inside would only deepen the hurt. If you didn't talk to him, the questions would never stop, the pain would never heal.

"I can't believe I'm nervous," Michael's voice reverberated through the speakers, deep and familiar, sending a shiver down your spine. It was a sound you had been avoiding, a voice that used to be your comfort, now stirring a mixture of longing and pain within you as if you hadn't heard it in years.

The crowd laughed softly, charmed by his humility, and even Katherine smiled, her hand still wrapped securely around yours, her thumb grazing the delicate skin of your knuckles. Her touch was gentle, but it tethered you, grounding you amidst the swirling emotions threatening to pull you under.

Michael cleared his throat, his voice softer this time, almost vulnerable. "But I really am embarrassed. I appreciate everyone coming tonight... all these great friends, the people who've supported me through thick and thin. My dear mother and father, who are here in the audience."

Applause erupted as Michael gestured toward Katherine and Joe. The room seemed to collectively turn their attention to them, but his eyes—they were locked on you, unyielding, even as he smiled for the crowd. "Stand up," he encouraged, his voice echoing with a certain pride that you couldn't bear to acknowledge.

Katherine gently rose, her hand never leaving yours, as if she knew that if she let go, you might crumble. Joe stood as well, a grin spreading across his face as they soaked in the crowd's cheers. But you remained seated, stiff, still staring at the ground. It felt as though if you met his gaze, even for a second, you'd break apart, and you couldn't afford that—not here, not in front of all these people.

Katherine squeezed your hand tightly as she sat back down, her fingers still clutching yours, protective, like a mother shielding her child from the storm. You clung to that gesture, feeling like something small and fragile, lost and unsure.

You tried to focus on anything but him, but even as you lowered your gaze, you couldn't escape the memories flooding your mind. You stared down at your dress, the one he had picked out for you, his exact words echoing in your head: "I know you'll love this." It had been perfect—he had known your taste so well, had known you so well. But now, that once-beautiful gown felt like a weight, something forbidden, a painful reminder of the intimacy you had shared, the deep connection that had once defined your relationship.

Michael continued to speak, his voice rising and falling as he delivered what must have been a carefully crafted speech. But you didn't hear the words. You couldn't. They blurred together in the background, distant and meaningless, drowned out by the roar of your thoughts.

You tried to remember, tried to grasp at the fragments of what you had once shared. The way he'd make you laugh with just a look, the secret touches under the dinner table, the nights where your heart felt like it would burst with the intensity of your love for him. The connection, the trust, the bond that had seemed unbreakable. But now... it all felt so far away, like a faded memory, an echo of something that once was. The love that had once filled your heart felt hollow now, emptied by doubt, by betrayal, by the haunting image of her lips on his.

What had once been so vibrant between you—so pure and unbreakable—now felt tarnished, a cracked reflection of everything you thought you knew. As Michael's voice echoed through the room, each word from his speech felt like a weight, pressing down on you, making it harder to breathe. The ground beneath you seemed to shift, unstable, leaving you with nothing solid to cling to. Every memory, every smile, every promise hung in the air like fragile glass, threatening to shatter at any moment.

Once the speeches ended, there was a collective sigh of relief from the audience, but for you, the tension only mounted. Michael made his way to his parents, his smile warm and effortless as he embraced them. Katherine's hand slipped from yours as she stood to greet him, and that single moment of separation hit you with a force you hadn't expected. It was as if the last tether holding you together had snapped, and reality crashed down like a tidal wave, merciless and cold.

The tears you had fought so hard to contain finally escaped, hot streaks running down your cheeks, betraying the calm façade you'd tried to maintain all evening. You hastily grabbed a napkin, dabbing at the moisture before anyone else could notice, but it felt futile. The ache inside you wasn't something you could wipe away.

And then, there he was. Kneeling before you, Michael's presence consumed the space, suffocating in its intensity. His hand reached out, gripping yours firmly, as if trying to anchor you back to him, to that version of you that had once believed in him so completely. The warmth of his touch was like fire against your skin, burning through the layers of hurt you had tried to bury. It ignited something deep inside, a rush of emotions you weren't ready for.

You pulled away quickly, instinctively, like his touch was too much, too overwhelming. But it was already too late. Just that brief contact had opened the floodgates. The dam holding back your tears collapsed, and the pain you had suppressed came rushing to the surface. The weight of it all was unbearable, the heartbreak, the betrayal—it all came spilling out in an uncontrollable torrent.

Without a word, you stood abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor as you pushed back from the table. You could feel eyes on you as you moved, but you didn't care. The only thing you could focus on was escape. Each step you took felt heavy, your heels clicking against the cold marble floor like a drumbeat in your chest. Faster and faster, you walked, your breaths growing shallow, desperate, until you found sanctuary in the women's restroom.

The door swung shut behind you with a dull thud, and for a moment, the silence felt deafening. You stumbled over to the sink, gripping the cool porcelain edge for support as you turned on the faucet. The sound of rushing water filled the space, drowning out the quiet sobs that had begun to escape your throat. You stared at your reflection, but the tears blurred your vision until all you could see was a distorted image of yourself—lost, broken, and heart-wrenchingly alone.

The pain was suffocating, wrapping around your chest like a vise. Every breath felt labored, your heart pounding erratically in your ribcage, a wild, desperate beat that matched the chaos inside your mind. Why had you come? The question looped over and over, each repetition deepening your regret. It felt like a cruel trap—an elaborate game you had been pulled into without ever realizing the rules.

The bathroom door creaked open, and the soft sound of it locking echoed through the room. You froze, your tears momentarily pausing as dread pooled in your stomach. You looked up at the mirror, but your eyes were still too blurred with emotion to see clearly. All you could make out was a figure, the deep red of their clothing catching your attention.

The figure approached, each step deliberate, but you couldn't move. You stood there, helpless, until they reached forward and turned off the water with a quiet click. It wasn't until you felt the familiar warmth of his hand brushing against your cheek, wiping away the tears, that you realized—it was Michael.

His touch was gentle, tender, as he carefully dried your eyes with a paper towel, his gaze never leaving yours. For a moment, the world around you seemed to still, the storm of emotions paused as you stood there, facing the man who had caused so much of your heartache. His presence was overwhelming, filling every inch of the room, and despite everything, a part of you still ached for him, for the connection you had lost.

Michael's large, warm hands cupped your face, his fingers spreading over your cheeks with that familiar tenderness that once made you feel safe. His touch was a comfort you had longed for in your sleepless nights, yet it now felt like a betrayal. You wanted to melt into it, to give in to the sensation of being cared for, but something inside you resisted—an ache too deep to ignore. You pushed him away, your hands trembling as they met his chest.

"Leave," you whispered, but even your voice betrayed you, cracking with the pain you had tried so hard to conceal.

Michael's brow furrowed, his expression softening as he took a step back. "Can we talk, please?" His voice, so pleading, felt like a dagger. He moved toward you again, cautiously, as if afraid you might shatter. "All I need is five minutes."

Your tears blurred the edges of his figure, but the hurt inside you was sharp and clear. You wiped at your eyes furiously, your hands shaking. "Just five? Just five minutes?" You laughed bitterly, though it was choked with emotion. "All you need is five minutes to fix what you messed up? Five minutes to fix a six-year relationship?"

"Baby, listen, I—" he started, his tone desperate, but it only fueled your rage.

"Don't 'baby' me, Michael!" Your voice echoed in the small space, each word laced with the bitterness of betrayal. "I'm not your baby after you kissed that... that girl on stage, in front of everyone—your fans, the world." Your voice wavered as the images you had tried to block out resurfaced, haunting you. "I have to see it every day, Michael. Her lips on yours, pulling you in close, like she was claiming you, owning you. Why? Was I not enough for you? Was I not the one you wanted, the one you needed?"

Your voice cracked with the weight of those questions, and the tears that you had tried so hard to hold back began to fall in earnest, hot and relentless. You could barely breathe through the sobs that wracked your body, each one pulling you deeper into the pain. Before you could step away, Michael was already moving toward you, wrapping his arms around you in a way that was both protective and suffocating. He held you close, his hand gently caressing your back in soothing circles as you broke down completely.

"Let it out," he whispered, his voice low and soft, like a lullaby meant to calm a storm. He didn't try to explain himself just yet, knowing that words would only make things worse in that fragile moment. He simply held you, absorbing the tremors of your sobs, allowing you to cling to him like he was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

You buried your face in his chest, the fabric of his red blazer damp with your tears. The scent of him filled your senses—familiar, intoxicating—pulling you back into memories of better days. Days when his presence alone was enough to silence all your fears, to make the world feel right. But now, even with him so close, that feeling of security was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of loss.

Michael lifted your chin gently, his thumb grazing your skin as he tilted your face up to meet his eyes. There was a softness there, an apology unspoken but clear in the way he looked at you. "Give me an hour," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "But we can't talk here. Come with me back to the hotel. Please."

"An hour?" you asked, your voice hoarse from crying. You weren't sure you had the strength to relive everything, to open the floodgates again, but something in his voice, in the way he held you, made you pause.

Michael nodded, his expression resolute. "Maybe all night if that's what it takes," he added, his voice soft but firm, as if he had already resigned himself to whatever consequences might come from this conversation.

You hesitated, every muscle in your body screaming for you to run, but instead, you found yourself nodding. "Okay," you whispered.

Michael's hands moved with care as he grabbed another paper towel, gently drying the tears that still clung to your skin. His touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something fragile and precious. He wiped away the last traces of your tears, even brushing softly over your lips, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

"Don't cry," he said softly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness. "I promise I'll explain everything to you."

You didn't respond, your throat too tight, your heart too numb. The words he spoke felt distant, as though they belonged to someone else, someone who hadn't been hurt like you had. You weren't sure if you could believe him anymore.

You followed Michael out of the bathroom, your hand limp in his as he unlocked the door and guided you into the dimly lit hallway. The cool night air hit your skin as you stepped outside, the gentle breeze doing little to ease the storm inside your chest. His limo sat waiting at the back exit, a sleek, black vessel that felt like a temporary escape from the emotions swirling in your mind. The driver, ever the professional, opened the door wordlessly, giving you a brief, respectful nod.

Michael let go of your hand, his touch lingering in the empty space between you, before he gestured for you to step inside. You hesitated, just for a moment, your mind racing with second thoughts, but the exhaustion from your emotions made the decision for you. You slipped into the cool leather seat, the familiar scent of luxury filling your senses. Michael slid in beside you, and the door was quietly closed behind him, sealing you both inside the small, intimate space.

Without a word, he reached over and pulled the privacy screen shut, his long fingers steady and deliberate. It was something he had always been particular about—privacy, especially when it came to you. He didn't want the world prying into moments like these, moments that felt too raw, too personal for anyone else to witness.

For a few beats, silence hung in the air, thick and heavy between you. The hum of the car's engine barely registered in the back of your mind, drowned out by the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. The weight of everything—the betrayal, the hurt, the confusion—sat like a stone in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You stared out the window, watching the city lights blur as the car began to move, but even the distraction of the outside world couldn't quiet the ache inside you.

Michael shifted beside you, his gaze burning into the side of your face, but you refused to meet his eyes. You weren't ready, not yet. The thought of confronting everything he had done—everything he had ruined—was too much. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the way his body tensed as if he wanted to reach out to you, to fix what had been broken, but he held back. He knew better than to push you right now.

Finally, the silence broke, his voice soft, almost pleading. "I know you're hurting," he said, his tone careful, measured, as if afraid to say the wrong thing. "And I know I'm the one who caused it. But if you give me a chance... just one chance... I'll explain everything. I owe you that much."

You didn't say anything, your mind racing with a thousand different thoughts, none of them offering any clarity. A part of you wanted to scream, to tell him that no explanation could fix what he had done. But another part, a smaller, quieter part, still yearned for the Michael you had once known—the Michael who made you feel loved, cherished, like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

He reached for your hand again, his fingers brushing against yours with a tentative touch, but this time, you pulled away, folding your arms tightly across your chest as if trying to protect yourself from the vulnerability that came with being near him.

The limo continued to glide through the streets, its quiet hum the only sound between you. Minutes stretched on, and the weight of everything unsaid felt suffocating. Finally, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. "Why did you do it, Michael?" You didn't look at him, your eyes still fixed on the window. "Why wasn't I enough?"

Michael's hand reached out, gentle yet insistent, turning your face toward him. His touch was familiar, tender, and his gaze was pleading. "You are enough," he whispered, his voice soft but filled with an intensity that cut through the silence. "Every bit of you is enough. Enough for me."

For a moment, your eyes met his, and in that brief exchange, you saw the sincerity—the regret—etched into his features. But it wasn't enough. You pushed his hand away, your gaze falling back to the cityscape outside the window, the lights blurring into streaks of color. "I don't feel like it," you murmured, barely loud enough to be heard. "If I was enough, you wouldn't have kissed her."

His breath hitched, and you could hear the quiet shake in his voice as he responded, "She kissed me. It wasn't meant to happen. She didn't stick to the script. I only went along with it because... because I didn't want to embarrass her. But deep down, I wanted to push her away. I should have pushed her away."

You turned further from him, the weight of his words doing little to ease the ache inside your chest. "You should have," you whispered, the bitterness of it lingering on your tongue. The image of him with her, of their lips meeting, replayed in your mind, a loop that wouldn't stop. How could he not see the damage it had done?

"Baby, I wasn't going to embarrass her," he said, his voice growing more desperate as he reached out again, this time resting his hand gently on your thigh. The touch sent a shockwave through you—his warmth seeping through the thin, delicate fabric of the red satin dress he had chosen for you. "But I knew I messed up the moment you walked out that night."

You didn't respond. Your silence spoke louder than words. The flood of emotions that had been brewing within you—rage, hurt, betrayal—clashed violently with the part of you that still ached for him, that still longed for the man sitting beside you.

Michael withdrew his hand from your thigh, his fingers curling into a fist as he turned his gaze away, his expression one of defeat. You could sense his guilt, the deep regret that radiated from him. He was lost in the silence, unsure of how to make things right.

But then, without fully understanding why, you reached out, your hand hovering for a moment before gently covering his. The warmth of his skin beneath yours was a reminder of everything you had shared—the love, the intimacy, the trust. It wasn't a solution, not yet, but it was something.

Michael's head turned slowly toward you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find hope. When he saw your hand resting over his, his gaze softened. He didn't say anything, didn't dare break the fragile peace that seemed to settle between you. Instead, he turned his hand over, his fingers intertwining with yours, holding you tightly, as though afraid to let go.

In that moment, it wasn't forgiveness—not yet. But it was a step. One small step toward something that felt like it could be mended, if only you could both find the strength to rebuild what had been broken.

The limo coasted to a stop in front of the Helmsley Hotel, a place that once held memories of fleeting happiness and painful betrayal. The hotel's grand entrance loomed before you, a reminder of the night you had fled, desperate to escape the life you thought you'd be leaving behind. Yet, here you were again, back in the same place, back with the same man who refused to let you go. Michael wasn't going to let you slip away—not this time.

The door opened, and Michael stepped out first, his hand extending toward you. His grip was firm yet gentle, pulling you close to him as you both walked toward the hotel's towering doors. Inside, the rich red and gold decor filled the lobby, the marble floors gleaming beneath the soft lighting. Each step echoed in the space around you, the weight of the moment heavy on your shoulders.

Michael's hand remained on the small of your back as you approached the elevator. He pressed the button with a deliberate touch, the soft light glowing beneath his finger, a subtle reminder of the path ahead. You glanced down at your feet, the polished tips of your heels reflecting the tension you felt building inside. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small gesture meant to comfort you, but it only reminded you of the ache still lodged deep in your chest.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, the polished interior welcoming you inside. Michael stepped back, letting you enter first before following closely behind. He pressed the button for the top floor—the floor where his suite awaited—and the doors closed, sealing the two of you in together. The only sound that filled the space was the low hum of sensual jazz, its smooth notes creating an intimate backdrop for the tension that lingered between you.

Without a word, Michael moved closer, his arms encircling your waist from behind, pulling you against his chest. His hands rested gently on your front, holding you as though afraid to let you drift too far. You felt the warmth of his breath against your neck, his steady breathing grounding you in the moment.

You glanced down at his hands, resting atop yours. His thumb grazed over your engagement ring, the one you had nearly taken off that night—the night you'd left him. It felt heavy now, a symbol of something you weren't sure you could still hold onto. Yet, in his touch, there was familiarity, a longing that whispered of the connection you both shared despite the pain.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing the hallway to his suite. Michael loosened his hold on you but kept your hand firmly in his as you both stepped out, walking in silence down the plush carpeted hall. His grip tightened just slightly, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your palm as you reached the door. He pulled the key card from his pocket and slid it into the lock, the soft click echoing in the quiet corridor. The door opened, and he let you step inside first, flipping the switch to bathe the suite in a soft, dim glow.

He followed behind, closing the door with a soft thud, the sound of the lock turning a subtle reminder of the privacy now surrounding you both. You walked across the room, your heels sinking into the plush carpet as you approached the tall glass windows. Outside, the city of New York stretched before you, the night alive with lights and movement, a stark contrast to the stillness you felt inside.

Michael stood back, watching you. He didn't want to disturb the fragile peace, his gaze lingering on your silhouette as you stared out at the city. You heard his soft footsteps retreat, but the tension between you remained thick, unspoken.

"Michael..." your voice was barely a whisper, the sound cutting through the stillness.

He stopped, turning back toward you, his eyes searching yours. "Yes?"

"I—" You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. You glanced back out at the city lights, the answer to your question lost somewhere in the blur of emotions. "Never mind," you murmured, turning away from him again.

Michael's sigh was heavy, weighted with regret and weariness as he took a step toward you. Each movement felt deliberate, as if he feared that closing the physical space between you might shatter the fragile calm. The soft rustle of his clothes brushed against the silence of the room, but it couldn't bridge the emotional chasm that now lay between you both—vast, like an ocean neither of you knew how to cross.

"You can talk to me," he murmured, his voice low and earnest, as if he was trying to coax out the words you were holding back. "You can say anything you need. I know you're mad. Frustrated. Angry. Upset. You have every right to be." His hand hovered for a moment before it gently brushed against yours, tentative, like he was afraid you'd pull away.

When your eyes finally met his, the tears that had welled up moments before threatened to spill over. His eyes softened, dark and pained, pleading in a way that unsettled you. It wasn't just the guilt—it was the rawness, the fragility you weren't used to seeing in him. And for a second, it almost cracked the walls you'd built.

"I mean it, deep down with everything I have, I swear to you—" His voice wavered as if the truth was burning him from the inside out. "I didn't want to kiss her. It wasn't supposed to happen. She didn't stick to the script. I had to fire her. She's off the tour, I made sure of it." His voice held the weight of a promise, but you weren't sure if you believed it anymore. Could promises still matter when trust had been shattered?

You looked at him, your gaze trying to pierce through the layers of his words, searching his face, his eyes, for something—anything—to tell you if he was telling the truth. His eyes, wide and glistening, held that familiar warmth, the warmth that once made you feel safe, but now felt distant, like a memory you couldn't quite grasp.

You let out a sigh, heavy and exhausted, your gaze drifting back to the window. The city lights blurred behind your tears, a mess of color and light reflecting the turmoil inside you. Michael stood there for a moment longer, watching you, before he reached out again—this time, his hand found your chin, the touch tender yet firm as he turned your face back to his.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice was quieter now, more fragile, as though he was treading on dangerous ground.

You swallowed hard, feeling the tension in your throat as you tried to suppress the anger that threatened to spill over. "What?" Your voice came out sharper than you intended, but you couldn't help it. The weight of your hurt clung to every word.

He held your gaze, not backing down. "Do you trust me?"

Silence. The question hung in the air between you, thick and suffocating. You didn't answer, couldn't answer. Trust? How could he ask that now, after everything?

He stepped back slightly, his voice even softer now. "If you don't, I'll leave you be. But I need to know... do you trust me?"

The words stung. Part of you wanted to scream that you didn't, that he'd lost that right when he let her lips touch his. But something inside, something small and wounded, still wanted to believe him. "I trust you," you whispered, the words feeling both true and false all at once.

Michael took a small breath, relief flickering in his eyes, but you weren't done. "Look at me," he said, his tone a little firmer now, pulling you out of your thoughts. His hand, still on your chin, tilted your face just enough so your eyes met his fully.

"Do you still love me?" His voice cracked ever so slightly, and you saw the tears begin to well up in his eyes, though he fought to keep them from falling. His vulnerability was heartbreaking, but the question cut too deep.

Your hand fell from his, your body going cold as the gravity of his question hit you. It wasn't just about trust—it was about everything. Love, broken promises, the future you once saw together, now clouded with doubt.

Michael blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears that threatened to spill over. "Please don't do this," he whispered, his voice shaky and desperate. "Tell me you still love me. Tell me you still want to be my wife." His words came out in a rush, like he was afraid if he stopped speaking, the silence would swallow him whole.

Your throat tightened, the lump there almost unbearable. Your heart pounded in your chest, the rhythm erratic and painful. You did love him—you couldn't deny that, even if you wanted to. Every piece of you, every broken part, still loved him. Even the pieces that hurt the most.

But the question wasn't whether you loved him—it was whether you could move past this, whether you could still be the woman who stood by his side, the woman who once trusted him so completely.

The air between you felt thick, almost suffocating, as you took a step back. Michael's desperation was palpable, his movements quick as he closed the distance you tried to create. "Do you still love me?" His voice cracked, raw with emotion. "I will get down on my knees and beg!" The intensity in his eyes made your chest tighten, and for a split second, you saw him lower himself, his knees threatening to meet the floor.

"Don't do that," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm enough to stop him. You took another step back, instinctively, as if space could shield you from the weight of his plea. But Michael wasn't giving up. He moved closer, his presence overwhelming, and before you could retreat further, his hand caught yours.

His fingers wrapped around your hand, holding on as if he feared you might disappear if he let go. "Tell me you still love me, please..." The way his voice wavered, like a man on the edge of losing everything, sent a shiver through you. "Baby, please!" His grip tightened, his words almost echoing off the walls of the suite, as though he needed the room itself to hear his cry for mercy.

Your eyes drifted to where your hands were intertwined, his large, calloused fingers enveloping yours. You felt the tremor in his hand, the desperation coursing through him. Slowly, your thumb brushed over his knuckles, tracing the familiar ridges and veins, grounding yourself in that simple touch. When your gaze met his, the raw vulnerability in his eyes nearly unraveled you.

"I-I still love you," you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips, but they carried the weight of your heart.

Michael's face softened, but the wariness lingered in his gaze. He wasn't sure yet, wasn't certain if you meant it fully, and you could see the question hovering in his eyes. "Do you mean it?" His voice was soft, almost afraid to hear the answer.

You nodded, feeling the burn of unshed tears in your throat. "I do. I-I could never stop loving you. Not even the bones in my body could stop loving you." The words flowed softly from you, but they felt heavy, laced with the depth of the love that still lingered, even after everything.

Relief washed over Michael, and he stepped even closer, his body just inches from yours now, the warmth radiating off him in waves. "Do you forgive me?" The question lingered in the air, heavy and full of hope.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding. "I forgive you," you said softly, feeling the weight of the words lift from your chest as you released them.

Michael exhaled a long, shaky breath, like a man who had been holding it for far too long. "You still my girl?" His voice was tender now, searching for the reassurance that you were still his, that he hadn't lost you completely.

You met his gaze, your heart swelling with emotion. "I'm still yours," you whispered, the truth of it ringing in the space between you.

Michael's hand cupped your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart ache. "I love you," he murmured, his voice full of sincerity, each word wrapped in the emotion he could barely contain.

You couldn't help but smile, the corners of your lips lifting softly. "I love you," you replied, the words a balm to the cracks in both your hearts.

He moved even closer, his breath warm against your skin, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "Can I kiss you?" His voice was playful now, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, though the intensity in his eyes never wavered.

A soft laugh escaped you, shaking your head lightly. "You don't have to ask me that. You can kiss me," you teased, the lightness between you returning for the first time in what felt like forever.

Michael chuckled, the sound low and warm. "I wanted to ask first," he teased, leaning in just a little more. "I don't need you biting my head off." His words were playful, but the look in his eyes was one of deep, unwavering affection. He wasn't just asking for a kiss—he was asking for the chance to heal.

Your lips curled into a faint smile as you closed the remaining distance between you, your breath brushing against his. "I wouldn't bite your head off," you whispered, your voice soft yet teasing, "unless this took a completely different turn. You should be lucky your mother saved your ass." You moved even closer, feeling the heat of his body wrap around yours like a warm blanket, grounding you both in that moment of vulnerability.

Michael wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him as his forehead rested gently against yours. "She told you, didn't she?" His voice was low, laced with guilt, yet there was a tenderness to it that tugged at your heart.

You nodded slightly, feeling his breath mingle with yours. "She did," you whispered. "But I didn't want to hear it from her. I needed to hear it from the man who put this ring on my finger and promised to love me."

His lips hovered just over yours, brushing against them softly, barely a touch, but it sent a wave of warmth coursing through your veins. "I do love you. All of you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he finally closed the gap, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was tender, yet filled with the desperation of a man trying to make amends.

His lips were warm, soft, and comforting, moving with a gentle urgency that conveyed everything words couldn't. He kissed you deeply, pouring everything he had into that moment, as if trying to kiss away the pain, the hurt, the doubt. You felt your body melt against his, the tension in your muscles unraveling as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.

As the kiss deepened, you felt your legs grow weak beneath you, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his affection. With a practiced ease, Michael scooped you up into his arms, cradling you as if you were the most precious thing in his world. Your lips never parted as he carried you, the soft click of his shoes echoing in the suite as he led you both down the hallway.

You kicked off your heels, the soft thuds as they scattered across the floor barely registering in your mind. All you could focus on was him—his warmth, his touch, the way his lips continued to claim yours with a passion that left you breathless.

Michael nudged open the bedroom door with a soft kick, closing it with another, the quiet click of the door signaling the intimacy of the moment. He walked over to the bed, laying you down with a gentleness that belied the intensity of the kiss still lingering on your lips. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his body hovering over yours as you sank into the plush mattress.

His hand roamed your arms, fingers trailing over your soft skin, igniting a fire everywhere he touched. Slowly, he reached for the straps of your dress, pulling them down with deliberate care, his lips never leaving yours. You lifted your arms, letting the dress slide off, pooling in a rich, crimson stain on the floor, leaving you bare save for the delicate lace of your black panties.

Michael's lips moved from yours, trailing down your cheek and along your neck, each kiss sending a shiver of pleasure through you. His breath was hot against your skin as he found the pulse point at your throat, sucking gently, his touch igniting every nerve in your body. The intoxicating mix of your pheromones and the familiar scent of your skin only spurred him on, heightening the moment as his kisses grew more fervent.

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft curls as you let out a quiet gasp. He pressed his body against yours, the heat between you almost unbearable, and yet, you craved more. The way his lips worshipped your skin, the way his hands explored every inch of you—it was as if he was trying to memorize you, to make up for every wrong with each kiss, each touch.

With each breath, each kiss that grazed your skin, Michael was more than just a reminder of the love you shared—he was a force pulling you deeper into that connection, a tether to something unbreakable, even in the face of all your doubts. His lips moved like a soft whisper, trailing reverently down the curve of your body, leaving a path of heat in their wake. As his mouth traveled lower, the ache in your chest, the heaviness of the past few days, began to unravel, replaced by the overwhelming presence of him—of the man you could never stop loving, no matter how hard you tried.

Michael paused at your chest, kissing delicately down the valley between your breasts before continuing his descent. His movements were unhurried, savoring every inch of your skin as if committing it to memory. When he reached your stomach, his breath warm against your skin, he shed his red blazer in a single fluid motion, the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor echoing faintly in the room. The air felt charged between you, a silent promise hanging in the space as his lips continued downward, inch by inch, until they found the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

His teeth grazed the waistband of your panties, latching onto the delicate fabric as he slowly, teasingly, tugged them down your legs. The sensation was tantalizing, every movement deliberate and filled with purpose. You felt the cool air brush against your bare skin as the lace fell away, pooling on the floor beneath you. Now, you were laid completely bare before him, vulnerable and exposed in a way that left your heart racing, but trusting him entirely.

Michael's hands found your thighs, his grip firm yet gentle as he guided your legs back toward your chest, your knees brushing softly against your skin. He kissed along your inner thighs with a tenderness that nearly undid you, each press of his lips a silent declaration of his love, his devotion. The heat of his mouth sent shivers up your spine, a delicious contrast to the cool air of the room, and your body instinctively arched toward him, seeking more of his touch.

"Michael..." you breathed, the sound barely a whisper, your voice heavy with longing. You could feel the intensity of his gaze, the weight of his attention fully focused on you, on pleasing you, on reminding you that his love had never wavered.

With slow, measured care, he spread your legs wider, revealing the most intimate part of yourself to him. His eyes darkened with desire as he kissed the soft skin around your center, brushing his lips against your folds in a way that made your breath hitch. The anticipation coiled tightly in your core, your entire body attuned to every movement he made.

When his tongue flicked out, tasting the arousal that had already begun to glisten on your skin, a shuddering moan escaped your lips. "Oh God," you gasped, your head falling back against the pillows, fingers tangling in the sheets as pleasure rippled through you.

Michael's fingers slid between your folds, his touch firm yet tender as he parted them, exposing you fully to him. His tongue found your clit with an expert precision, flicking it in quick, teasing motions that made you gasp for breath, your body instinctively arching into him. He sucked gently on the sensitive nub, his lips moving with practiced ease, as if worshipping the very core of your pleasure. The sensation was overwhelming, every nerve in your body alight with the intensity of it.

His tongue moved lower, dipping into your entrance, thrusting slowly in and out as he tasted you, the warmth of your walls clenching around him with every movement. The sensation of his tongue exploring you, combined with the rhythmic strokes on your clit, sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, building with each passing second.

"Don't stop," you begged, your voice breathless, desperate, as your fingers found their way into his hair. You tugged gently, not wanting to hurt him but needing something to hold onto as your body teetered on the edge of release.

Michael groaned softly against you, the vibration sending another shock of pleasure through your core. He doubled down, flicking his tongue with more intensity over your clit while thrusting it deeper inside you, his lips moving in perfect rhythm. The pressure was building, an inferno in your belly, and you could feel yourself spiraling toward release, your hips beginning to move in time with his mouth, chasing that edge, that moment of bliss that was so close you could taste it.

Your breath hitched, your chest rising and falling in rapid succession as the pleasure built with a tantalizing intensity. Your body trembled, hips instinctively grinding against his face, chasing that elusive release he was masterfully guiding you toward. The tension in your core twisted tighter, every nerve electrified, every sensation amplified as you teetered on the edge of bliss.

Michael's fingers slid inside you with ease, his middle and ring fingers curling just right, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. His tongue, slick and warm, moved back to your clit, the soft flicks sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. His pace was steady, controlled, each movement deliberate as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, your arousal coating them in a glistening sheen.

He rested his head against your left thigh, the warmth of his breath fanning across your skin, grounding you in the moment. His tongue moved lazily over your sensitive nub, each slow flick driving you mad with need. He was edging you, teasing you with the slow, deliberate pace, keeping you right on the precipice without allowing you to fall over.

"Michael, I'm so close," you moaned, your voice trembling with desperation, your body arching toward him, begging for release.

But instead of giving you what you craved, he slowed down. His fingers moved inside you with an agonizing slowness, his tongue tracing languid circles over your clit, drawing out the moment. The tension in your core tightened even further, the pleasure building but never quite reaching that peak. He was toying with you, pushing you to the brink and pulling you back, and it was driving you wild.

"Michael, please!" you whimpered, your voice raw with need, your fingers digging into the sheets as you writhed beneath him, desperate for more.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and molten with desire. Those big, brown eyes—eyes that had always held you captive—drew you in even deeper, pulling you into the depths of his love and passion. His gaze was intense, filled with a hunger that matched your own, but beneath it all was the tenderness that had always made your heart ache for him.

"Mmm, you taste so good, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. His tongue flicked lazily over your clit again, drawing another desperate moan from your lips.

"Michael... please, I want to cum," you begged, the words tumbling out in a breathless plea. Your body was trembling, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding back, your core burning with the need for release.

A small, wicked smile tugged at his lips as he curled his fingers inside you again, pressing deeper, finding that sweet spot with precision. You gasped, your entire body shuddering as pleasure flooded through you, your walls clenching around his fingers. His tongue resumed its slow, torturous rhythm on your clit, flicking over it with deliberate care, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"Let go for me," he whispered against your skin, his voice barely audible but filled with command, "I want to feel you fall apart."

With that, he curved his fingers even more, pressing into that perfect spot inside you while his tongue picked up speed, flicking and swirling over your sensitive nub. Your body jolted, every muscle tensing as the pleasure built to a breaking point. You were so close—too close.

And then, with one final flick of his tongue, everything snapped.

A wave of euphoria crashed over you, your body convulsing as you came undone beneath him. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, your fingers tangling in his hair as your release washed over you in powerful waves. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs trembling as the pleasure consumed you, white-hot and overwhelming.

Michael didn't stop, his fingers and tongue continuing their relentless assault, drawing out your orgasm until you were a quivering, trembling mess beneath him. He coaxed every last bit of pleasure from your body, his touch firm but gentle, his mouth worshipping you as you rode the high.

Finally, when you could take no more, your body spent and trembling, he slowed down, his fingers slipping out of you with a wet sound as he kissed his way back up your body. His lips brushed softly against your skin, each kiss tender and loving, a contrast to the intensity of the pleasure he had just given you.

He hovered above you, his breath warm against your cheek as he looked down at you with that same, unwavering affection. "I love you," he whispered, his voice hoarse but filled with sincerity.

You smiled up at him, still breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your body continued to hum with the aftershocks of pleasure. "I love you too," you whispered, your voice soft but heavy with meaning, your heart swelling with the fullness of the moment.

Michael's dark eyes never left yours as he stood straight, the intensity in his gaze making the room feel smaller, the air thicker with anticipation. Slowly, he began unbuttoning his black shirt, each flick of his fingers deliberate, almost torturously slow, revealing the smooth expanse of his bare chest beneath. Your eyes followed every motion, captivated by the way his muscles shifted under his skin, the light catching on the sheen of sweat that still lingered from earlier.

He shrugged the shirt off, letting it fall to the floor without care. The fabric barely made a sound as it crumpled at his feet, but the sight of him standing there, shirtless, was enough to steal the breath from your lungs. His hands moved to his belt, the soft click of metal as he unbuckled it echoing in the quiet room. The leather slid from the loops with a quiet hiss before joining the shirt on the floor with a muted thud, forgotten in the heat of the moment.

You shifted, sitting up on the edge of the bed, your pulse quickening as you watched him with wide eyes. Michael didn't say a word as he reached out, his large hands wrapping gently around your waist as he pulled you to your feet, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours. The moment his lips met yours, the world around you melted away. The kiss was deep, fervent, full of passion, his lips moving against yours as if they were searching for something, something only you could give him.

A soft moan escaped your lips, muffled by the kiss, as his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer to him. The heat of his body, the firmness of his chest against you—it was intoxicating. You could feel the pulse of his need radiating from him, mirrored in the way your own body responded.

Your hands found the waistband of his pants, your fingers trembling as they unbuttoned them. The sound of the zipper lowering was lost in the fervor of the moment. With practiced ease, you slid the pants down, but before you could go any further, Michael caught your hand, guiding it beneath the waistband of his briefs. The heat of him was startling, the hardness unmistakable as your fingers wrapped around him, feeling him pulse and grow under your touch.

A shiver ran through you, your pulse quickening as the kiss deepened, your lips moving in a frantic dance of passion. You backed Michael up, the two of you moving in sync, until his back met the wall with a soft thud. He pulled away from the kiss, his breath coming in harsh pants, his forehead resting against yours as he gazed into your eyes.

"I love you," he whispered, the words rough and raw, filled with all the emotions that had been building between you.

Your eyes flicked from his lips, now swollen from the kiss, to his eyes, dark and full of longing. "I love you," you whispered back, your voice barely more than a breath as you gave his hardened shaft a teasing squeeze.

Michael's breath hitched, his hand coming up to cup your face gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he leaned in, capturing your lips again in a slow, sensual kiss. The intensity of it sent a jolt of electricity down your spine, and before you knew it, he was guiding you back toward the bed. Your body gave way to the soft mattress, the sheets cool against your skin as you collapsed onto it, your breath coming in short gasps as you watched him shed the rest of his clothes.

The sight of him standing there, fully bare, took your breath away. His body was a masterpiece of lean muscle, every curve and line a testament to his years of dancing. His abs were defined, his skin smooth and glistening under the soft light. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, the slight sheen of sweat catching the light. But it was the way his hardened length stood thick and proud, the veins running along its length prominent and pulsing, that had your pulse racing.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice soft but filled with awe as he moved toward the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.

You shifted, dragging yourself up toward the headboard, watching as Michael climbed onto the bed, his movements slow, predatory. He hovered over you, his breath ghosting over your skin as he kissed his way down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Each kiss, each flick of his tongue, sent shivers racing through you, your body arching toward him, craving his touch.

When his lips reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, dark with desire. He placed a soft, lingering kiss against your folds, his breath warm against your skin. The sensation sent a shockwave of pleasure through you, your body trembling with anticipation.

Michael held his hardened length in his hand, stroking himself slowly, his eyes never leaving your face as he teased you with the sight of him. His tip was slick with precum, the thick skin pulling back with each stroke, revealing the sensitive head that glistened in the low light.

He kissed his way back up your body, his lips brushing over your stomach, your chest, until finally, they found your neck. His body pressed against yours, his warmth surrounding you, the weight of him a comforting presence as his lips found yours again.

You could feel the heat of his shaft against you, the swollen tip brushing teasingly over your slick folds, sending a pulse of raw desire coursing through your body. The anticipation was electric, the air between you humming with unspoken longing as his breath mingled with yours, every brush of his skin against yours a promise of what was to come.

The teasing glide of his tip against your entrance had your heart racing, your core tightening with every soft, deliberate movement. His gaze held yours, intense and unwavering, making you feel like the only person in the world.

"You ready?" His voice was deep, laced with both tenderness and need, as he continued to nudge himself against your entrance, his precum mixing with the wetness that had already begun to gather there. The slick friction of him against you made your breath catch in your throat, and you could only nod, the words barely able to form on your lips.

"Yes, Michael," you breathed, your voice soft, trembling with the weight of desire. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers threading through his hair, anchoring yourself to him.

Michael's hand moved with practiced ease, gently lifting your left leg and draping it over his shoulder, the position opening you up to him completely. The warmth of his body was overwhelming, the sheer size of him pressing into you making you shudder with anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he guided the tip of his length inside, his every movement deliberate as he stretched you, inch by agonizing inch.

You gasped, your head falling back against the pillow as he filled you, the sensation both overwhelming and exquisite. The stretch, the fullness of him inside you, made every nerve ending in your body come alive, your slick walls pulsing around him, adjusting to the invasion.

"Shh, relax, baby," he whispered, his voice rough with restraint. His eyes, dark and full of heat, flickered up to meet yours before dipping down, captivated by the sight of himself sinking deeper into your warmth. He took his time, easing in slowly, savoring every inch as your body stretched to accommodate him.

The feeling of being completely filled sent a shudder through you, your body tightening around him as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. The fullness, the delicious stretch of him inside you, was overwhelming, and yet, all you wanted was more. His slow movements in and out were almost torturous, dragging out the pleasure, making you hyperaware of every inch of him.

Your eyes followed his, both of you transfixed by the sight of your bodies joined so intimately. His thick shaft glistened with your arousal, every movement making it shine under the soft, dim light. The way he slid in and out of you, slow and steady, left a trail of slick wetness that only added to the growing intensity of the moment.

Michael's breath came in shallow gasps, his mouth hanging open slightly as he watched your bodies come together again and again. The look on his face, the pure, unfiltered desire, sent a thrill through you, your own breaths turning into soft, shaky moans. Each thrust, each pull, was deliberate, his hips moving in a slow, sensual rhythm that had you climbing higher and higher.

He reached out, his hand cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. The connection made your heart stutter, your body arching into his as he sank even deeper, the pressure building inside you unbearable in the most delicious way. Your moans were muffled against his lips, the sound of them only making him chuckle low in his throat.

He broke the kiss, his lips hovering inches from yours as he whispered, "You feel so good, baby."

And then, he went deeper, pushing past the point of teasing, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur, your body jerking in response. A cry escaped you, your hand flying to his abdomen, fingers splaying against the hard planes of his stomach in an attempt to steady yourself. But the truth was, you didn't want him to stop; if anything, you wanted more. Needed more.

Michael's chuckle was dark, knowing, his hand slipping from your face to your waist, holding you firmly as he thrust deeper, his pace still slow but each movement precise, deliberate. The tension was coiling tighter inside you, the heat building with every second. You could feel the pressure mounting, every nerve in your body on fire as you teetered on the edge, waiting for that final push.

"More, Michael," you pleaded, the need in your voice thick and trembling, your nails pressing into his skin with desperation. Every inch of your body was taut, straining toward the release you craved, but Michael was in control, holding you just at the edge.

"You want more?" His breath was hot and teasing against your lips, his deep voice vibrating through your chest. You nodded eagerly, your body arching into him, but Michael's dark chuckle made your heart flutter with both frustration and desire.

"I'm taking my time tonight, baby," he murmured, the words a slow, deliberate promise as his hips rocked forward again, his thrusts measured, almost torturous. "I'm not rushing anything."

A gasp tore from your lips as he pushed deeper, his tip brushing against your cervix with each precise movement, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body. Your muscles tensed, clinging to him even tighter, your breaths coming out in ragged, desperate pants.

"Michael..." you gasped, your voice a broken whisper as you held onto him like a lifeline, his warmth and weight grounding you amidst the overwhelming sensations.

His lips found the crook of your neck, soft and slow as he pressed tender kisses against your skin, the heat of his body melding with yours as he shifted, pressing deeper, stretching you further. Your leg still rested over his shoulder, his grip on your waist firm but gentle, pulling you even closer.

Each thrust was slow, deliberate, designed to make you feel every inch of him. It was maddening—the way he held back, savoring the moment, pouring all of his unspoken emotions into the rhythm of his hips. This wasn't just about pleasure—it was about making up for everything, about showing you just how much you meant to him. The love and regret hung between every breath, every deep plunge inside of you.

"Oh god, Michael..." you moaned, your voice cracking as your nails dragged down his back, leaving faint marks in your wake. His name was a soft plea, a prayer, whispered against his ear. The sound seemed to ignite something in him, urging him on, though his pace remained maddeningly slow, each thrust a steady, rhythmic beat like the pulse of a heart.

Your bodies were slick where they met, a sheen of sweat and arousal coating both of you, making the friction both unbearable and intoxicating. You could feel every inch of him, the thickness of his shaft stretching you to your limit, his tip pressing against all the right spots. Each slow retreat left you aching for more, but when he filled you again, it was like he was made to fit perfectly inside of you, his length pulsing in time with your own heartbeat.

He could feel the way your walls clenched around him, slick and hot, gripping him tighter with every slow thrust. The pressure inside of you was building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, threatening to snap with each deliberate movement of his hips.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it as his hand cupped your chin gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. His dark eyes were filled with heat, with the need to hear you say it.

You moaned in response, unable to form words as his lips trailed over your neck, each kiss sending jolts of pleasure down your spine. His hips continued their slow, devastating rhythm, driving you mad with need. "Tell me," he coaxed again, his voice low and rough, a command hidden within the soft plea.

"I want you," you finally gasped, your voice broken and breathless, your body trembling beneath him. "All of you," you moaned, your words spilling out between labored breaths.

Michael's lips brushed against your ear, a soft kiss filled with reverence and need. "You have all of me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Everything." His words were a vow, one that made your heart swell as his hands gripped you tighter.

Your nails dug into his back, pulling him closer, your moans vibrating against his skin. He responded with a deep groan of his own, his body pressing harder into yours as he buried his face in the curve of your neck. His tongue flicked out, teasing your skin, before his lips latched onto your throat, sucking gently but firmly, his intention clear. He wanted to mark you, to claim you all over again, as if the love you shared could somehow be stamped into your skin.

His slow, deep thrusts had you teetering on the edge, your core burning with the need for release. The tension inside you was unbearable, your body trembling as the pressure mounted, threatening to break. You were so close, so desperately close, and he knew it. He could feel it in the way your walls clenched around him, could hear it in the breathless moans that escaped your lips.

Michael's lips hovered just above your ear, his breath hot and tantalizing as he whispered, "I can feel it, baby. You're so close. Just let go for me."

The sound of his voice sent shivers down your spine, the rumble of it vibrating through your core. You were on the edge, teetering on that precipice of pleasure that only he could push you over. "Michael, please..." Your voice cracked, laced with desperation, the heat in your body growing unbearable. You clawed at his skin, nails raking along his back in a silent, aching plea for more.

His mouth lingered at your neck, his breath teasing your sensitive skin, and his voice dripped with both power and tenderness. "What is it, beautiful? Tell me what you want."

You could barely breathe as you looked up into his eyes, pupils blown wide with need. "Harder," you whispered, your voice shaking as you tried to find the strength to speak. The tension between you was almost unbearable, a heavy, charged silence that echoed in the room.

For a moment, he just watched you, his dark, molten gaze searching your face, savoring every flicker of emotion. His slow, deliberate thrusts continued, each one calculated, driving you wild with the need for more. He was holding back, teasing you, savoring your frustration. Then, without warning, his pace changed. His hips snapped forward with a force that took your breath away, his body slamming into yours with raw, unbridled intensity.

The shock of it ripped a cry from your throat, the sound broken and jagged, your moans turning into desperate, breathless screams that echoed off the walls. His name left your lips in a shattered gasp, "Michael!" The sharp, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin filled the space, each powerful thrust driving him deeper, harder, shaking you to your very core.

His hand found your chin, gripping it possessively as he tilted your face upward, forcing you to look into his eyes. There was fire there—an intensity that left you breathless. He leaned down, his lips rough as they claimed your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a possessive mark. Each kiss felt like a brand, a reminder of the connection, the tether that held you both together in this feverish moment.

"You feel that?" he whispered against your skin, his voice a deep, dark growl that sent a shudder through your body. "I can feel how close you are... just let go, baby. Let it out."

You tried to resist, tried to hold on to the last thread of control, but it was slipping, unraveling with every brutal thrust of his hips. Each time he moved inside you, he hit that perfect spot, the one that had your body trembling, your mind slipping into a haze of pleasure. The tension inside you snapped all at once, a white-hot wave crashing over you as your body shattered. You convulsed beneath him, your muscles tightening around him, your release coming in violent, uncontrollable spasms.

Your hands flew to his back, nails digging into his skin as you cried out, your voice lost in the storm of sensation. You could feel your own slickness coating him, your release mixing with his as he kept moving, unrelenting, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you.

"Oh, just like that," he groaned, his voice a low, guttural growl as he felt your body responding to him. The tight, pulsing grip of your walls drove him closer to the edge, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. His arms wrapped around you, holding you against him as his body tensed, the muscles in his back tightening under your hands.

With a final, powerful thrust, he spilled into you, his release coming in deep, shuddering waves. His moan was raw, broken, his breath ragged against your neck as he emptied himself inside you. Each pulse of him inside you sent another ripple of pleasure through your body, your walls milking him for every last drop, the heat of him flooding your core.

Michael collapsed against you, his body heavy as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath still ragged and uneven. He was still moving inside you, slow, languid thrusts as he rode out the last waves of his release. The sensation was overwhelming, your body trembling beneath him, utterly spent.

You could feel his seed seeping out of you, mingling with your own, slicking the insides of your thighs and the rumpled sheets beneath you. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and the aftermath of what you had just shared.

For a few long moments, the two of you just lay there, tangled together, the only sound the soft, heavy rhythm of your breathing. His heartbeat pounded against your chest, still racing, in sync with your own.

Slowly, Michael pulled out of you, his length slipping from your body with a wet, slick sound that left you trembling. He carefully lowered your leg from his shoulder, his hands trailing down your thigh, his touch soft, gentle in the aftermath. The cool air hit your skin, making you shiver, your body feeling strangely empty without him inside you.

He pressed a soft kiss to your hip, then your stomach, working his way up to your chest, leaving a trail of tender kisses in his wake. Finally, his lips found yours again, capturing you in a deep, lingering kiss. "I love you," he whispered against your mouth, his voice rough with emotion. "More than anything."

Your body was too exhausted to respond, but you smiled softly, your heart swelling with the warmth of his words. He eased off the bed, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment before returning with a warm, damp washcloth. Gently, he wiped away the sweat and the sticky mess of your shared release, his movements slow and careful, full of love and tenderness.

Once he was done, he discarded the cloth and slid back into bed beside you, pulling the covers over both of your bodies. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his chest pressed against your back, the warmth of his body soothing your trembling limbs.

His lips found your ear once more, brushing against your skin as his breath came in soft, warm waves. The simple, quiet intimacy of the moment felt profound as he whispered, "Hey."

You stirred in his arms, your body moving instinctively closer, seeking the comfort of his embrace. The bed felt like a sanctuary, the covers a cocoon around you both, holding you in this fragile moment. Your hand slipped out from beneath the blankets, your fingers trailing across his chest before coming up to his face. Your touch was gentle, delicate, as if you were tracing the very essence of him.

The room was bathed in a pale, silvery glow from the moonlight streaming through the window, casting soft shadows across his face. His strong features were softened by the light, the sharp lines of his jaw now gentle curves under your thumb as you traced the rough stubble there. His skin was warm, and you could feel the subtle tension in his muscles begin to relax as you caressed him.

"You mean it, right?" His voice was barely above a whisper now, the vulnerability in his tone raw and exposed in a way you didn't often hear. It trembled slightly, a hint of insecurity laced beneath the question. "You still love me?"

The weight of his words lingered in the air, fragile and heavy at the same time, like he was afraid of the answer despite knowing it deep in his heart. You nodded slowly, your fingers moving across his jaw, brushing lightly against the stubble that you loved so much. The texture beneath your fingertips grounded you in the moment, in the depth of your shared history.

"Always," you whispered, your voice quiet yet resolute, filled with all the love and assurance you could offer. The word hung between you, a promise as enduring as the years you'd spent together, filled with passion, struggle, and unwavering devotion.

A look of pure relief washed over his face, and his lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile that melted something deep inside of you. His dark eyes softened, the intensity in them easing as the tension that had been gripping his body finally released. He leaned in slowly, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, his nose brushing against yours in a gentle, playful gesture that was so quintessentially him.

Then, he closed the distance between you, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss that was achingly tender. It wasn't a kiss of passion or heat but one of love—deep, abiding love that spoke of shared memories, of moments when words weren't enough, of the bond that had grown stronger through every trial. His lips moved against yours slowly, reverently, sealing the love you both carried for one another, a love that had withstood time and trials, unshaken.

When he pulled back, the soft smile remained on his face, but his eyes held a spark of playful curiosity. "Good," he murmured, his lips grazing yours as he nuzzled against you, the warmth of his body wrapping around you like a blanket. "Because I didn't want to lose you. I don't think I could handle that."

You smiled at him, the affection you felt bubbling up inside you, and pressed your forehead against his. The closeness between you felt magnetic, an unbreakable bond drawing you together. The warmth of his skin, the scent of him, the sound of his breath—it was all so familiar, so comforting. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, beating in time with yours.

"You never will," you murmured softly, your voice a gentle promise that you both knew was true. Your fingers traced the shape of his lips before resting on his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of his stubble beneath your palm. "But, like I said, thank your mother. She was a big help in all this."

Michael let out a quiet chuckle, the sound rich and warm, and his smile grew. The tension that had been hanging between you seemed to melt away completely, replaced by a sense of peace and lightness. He leaned in even closer, his nose brushing yours again in a playful, teasing gesture.

"Yeah, I guess I owe her one," he replied, his voice still low, but filled with affection and gratitude.

Before you could say anything more, he closed the distance between you again, this time with a kiss that was deeper, more intentional. His lips moved against yours with a gentle firmness, conveying everything that words couldn't—the gratitude, the devotion, the love that had claimed you both so completely over the years. There was something timeless about the way he kissed you, like each kiss was a reaffirmation of what you had, of what you would continue to build together.

As he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the room. The love that tethered you both was palpable, an invisible thread woven through years of memories, trials, and triumphs. And in that moment, in the quiet darkness, you both knew that it was a love that would last—still strong, still meant to be.

#michael jackson #wattpad #moonwalker #mjf fanfiction #writing #badera #imagine #mjj

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hiatusdeity · 7 months

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one stays shackled (in your life i will unshackle you)

summary: the good ending

astarion x vampire spawn reader (GN)

warnings: angsty, death, blood, fluff, sad and cute, i hope this makes up for not posting for 4 months

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All thoughts of the plan to kill all the spawn and cazador had immediately dissipated when you reached for him. Your thin hand ached to touch him when he got relatively close, it seemed your bodies still recognised and yearned for each other. He could see that you longed for the solace that Astarion provided, so he gave in without a fight, and let you curl a hand around his wrist, tugging at him with all your might (which wasn’t much) to check if he was real.

When he in fact did not appear to be an apparition or trick, his facade of being fine and strong in your presence almost cracked when you cried out. Whether it was relief, sorrow, grief, he couldn’t place what your sound of distress had originated from. He couldn’t do anything but shield your body from his companions as you sunk into him, he caught you just in time before you fell onto the cobbled floor. Your poor body was so weak, it was a wonder you had been able to be completely present, and not faint during the interaction.

“my moon.” Astarion breathed, no longer resisting the urge to cave into your body. He cradled you with a gentleness his companions had never witnessed, his head dug into the crook of your neck like it was home. “i am here.”

“you are here.” you whispered back weakly, breathing shakily as your lover held your shivering form after what felt like an eternity. through every lashing and cut your body sustained, it had seemed worth it to finally be in astarion’s arms. “you need to go, he’s, he’ll kill you.” tears trickled down your face, all this torture would’ve been null if he stayed here, to walk straight into a gruesome death that you had tried so hard to prevent. “go, go, a’rion please-

Astarion had shushed you, his words coming out in a tentative whisper, meant for only the two of you. No one would know his love like you. “none of these tears.” His head pulled back from your neck, the pads of his thumbs swiftly wiped away the tears that left your sullen eyes. Astarion gazed at you, gathering all his courage to tell you it would be okay with just a glance. “He will rule over you, over me, no longer.” he promised, hoping he was not lying through his teeth.

chilly hands reached for equally cold ones, “trust me, my moon.”

Astarion revealed the party to you, all feverish with looking at you, as if you’d break if their expressions weren’t soft enough. “i met some people, good people, they exist.” Astarion couldn’t help the tears that pricked the corners of his eyes, all the years he spent waiting for a miracle, a god to help, a good person to free him. Now he had a whole band of people who were with him to end his captor. it felt surreal, where had they been all this time?

without that dreadful tadpole in their heads, Astarion would’ve never escaped, he would’ve never had the chance to free you either. The thought of it made him sick, stomach churning with uncertainty, if they failed to do this. If they failed, he would face a painful death, and hell knows that Cazador would kill you in front of him first.

with a nod to karlach, the tiefling gently picked you up, cradling your freezing body that was all shivers and tremors. and steadily, the group descended into the depth’s of Cazador’s palace, a fortress of darkness and misery that seemed impenetrable before he had been unknowingly graced by being infested with a tadpole.

he sneaked glances at you every so often, at least he thought it was now and then, but with the way Laezel fought to roll her eyes, it seemed he had been looking more times than he had initially realised. his body fought the urge to stiffen, still new with the idea of trust, and with one of his weaknesses laid in Karlach’s arms, his instincts were on fire to hide everything that made him vulnerable.

but he forced his mind to focus on the task ahead, killing cazador. a prospect that would’ve gotten him slaughtered if he even thought about it a month prior, but now he was more free than he had ever been. inching forward for a key that would undo a lock. an inescapable prison, suddenly escapable.

his eyes subconsciously glazed over at the sight of his abuser, standing on a platform with his “siblings” all strung up in the air.

he couldn’t recall a moment after.

when he next ‘awoke’, a knife lay crimson in his hands. and a mutilated cazador under him. The foreign sensation of tears came crashing upon him, and with shaky hands and a rage that was immeasurable, the dagger plunged into the remains. again. again and again.

as Cazador’s blood drenched his skin, he had never felt more clean.

and when his eyes locked with yours, he had never felt such relief.

and such, hope.

hope, that was it, and no longer was it fleeting. it was blooming.

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AUTHORS NOTES

hello you :] it has been a long while (4 months since a piece of writing has been delivered to you) ermmm, my bad! writer’s block and lack of motivation yada yada, has invaded my mind and consumed it whole. i owed you guys at least to finish this little fic series. and as much as you might say i don’t owe you guys anything, i feel like i do. for the very small bunch that enjoy my work, this is for you, every word is for you. you keep me writing, even when i hate it, and sometimes i fall back in love with writing (momentarily).

thank you for every like, comment, repost, i see it and it makes me feel so so appreciated beyond belief. i’ll see you next time (whenever that is)

people who asked to be tagged: @oliviaewl @youaskedfurret @tyongluvs

#imagines #x reader #fluff #lgbtq #anons are open #anons open #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction

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fulcrum-art-fox · 1 month

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I keep thinking about surreal must it have been for Osha in that period between guessing that Mae’s alive and out causing havoc and actually seeing her. Because like, by this point, Osha has lived with Mae’s death for sixteen years. Lived with that, and all the grief and the resentment; a weight she’s resigned to, trying to live around. But for someone who is supposed to be dead, her twin’s been making some pretty big tracks, trailing that chaos through Osha’s life. A dead Jedi and a witness who knows her face; a vial of poison, unmistakably from their home planet, that they grew up using, made from the leaves of the tree Osha loved to go to, and the place her sister always knew to find her. Hell, Osha even pretends to be her sister way before she actually lays eyes on Mae alive again. Just, the way that Osha’s been living with the reality of her death for sixteen years and the surprise of her survival a handful of days. Something about that period; the rush of conflicting and messy emotions she must have felt, like watching a real ghost slowly materialising before her eyes

#the acolyte #acolyte spoilers #osha aniseya #mae aniseya #the acolyte spoilers

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pyrettawychwiggin · 3 months

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Come With Me (Oneshot) - Crow x Guardian (Destiny 2)

The following oneshot contains spoilers for The Final Shape beneath the cut. Tread carefully, Guardian.

What to Expect: SFW, fluff, cute

I put this together shortly after Ch'ak and I completed The Final Shape campaign. I've been a bit of Crow stan ever since I first started playing, so naturally, I ship my own hunter with him pretty hard-core.

That being said, seeing as how my Guardian, Vera, respected and got along well with Amanda, she rooted for her and Crow despite her feelings, honestly feeling that she would be good for him (until they hit their rocky patch). If anything were to happen between she and Crow now, I feel like it would be a bit of a slow burn, so maybe eventually I'll write more about them.

Anywho, enjoy!

♡

The words kept echoing in her head.

Vera sat atop the overlook high above the dreaming city, one leg tucked into her chest, the other dangling over the ledge. She gazed out to the skies shimmering in hues of ammolite, a stark contrast to the pearlescent white structures towering over the misty green landscape.

Now, you tell the others that this was my choice.

She removed her helmet and set it aside with a huff, feeling more and more constricted by her grief.

My Light.

She felt her chest grow tight, and the familiar sting of tears threatening to fall.

Nobody makes my fate but me.

Her hands burned with the phantom sensation of Cayde's over hers.

You're my favourite. Don't ever forget that.

Her mind returning to the moment Cayde's Light - that bittersweet cataclysm - crashed through her consciousness and brought Doppler back to her - but at a cost she wished he hadn't needed to pay.

"Vera?" Doppler hovered just a few feet away at her side. "Maybe we should get back."

"Sorry, Dopps - just..." Vera shook her head and sniffled, using the palm of her hand to dry her waterline. "Just a little bit longer."

"Well, alright..."

Dopps' robotic tone was still full of concern. Usually his guardian was far more forthcoming with her feelings; she notoriously wore her heart on her sleeve, but ever since they'd returned from the Pale Heart for the final time since the Witness' unmaking, it felt as if her heart had been sealed off in a steel vault. On occasion, he'd see her eyes brimming with the shine of tears, but she wasn't allowing herself to fully break down like he knew she needed to; the next moment, her expression would harden again; as if she were actively reigning herself in - blocking off her feelings, which most certainly was not like her.

"I'm here," he said softly, almost as if he was afraid that breaking the silence would shatter her into dust. "If you need to talk."

Vera nodded before Dopps disappeared to give her a moment of privacy. Perhaps if she wouldn't allow herself to cry in front of him, she'd be more comfortable if there was no one else around.

The area was silent and still once more, but Vera's expression remained blank. She had no idea how long she'd been there, or how long she planned on staying, but she knew if she really wanted, she had all the time in the world; which perhaps made the whole concept all the more maddening.

"Guardian," a familiar voice broke the silence once more, making her jolt a little. "I thought I'd find you here."

Crow carefully approached her, stopping about a meter away to wait for her to respond.

"Crow." Vera rasped, keeping her back turned to him, silently hoping he'd keep this encounter brief. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, for one, you could talk to me." To her dismay, Crow sighed and took a seat on the ledge beside her, giving her a sidelong glance. "You haven't been yourself since we got back. We're all getting a little worried."

"I don't know how to talk about it. This all still doesn't quite feel real, yet."

"Mm." Crow nodded and took a heavy breath, turning his gaze beyond the horizon. "Maybe start with telling me... how are you feeling right now?"

"It changes with each passing thought." Vera frowned and shook her head, furrowing her brow as she attempted to find the words to describe what was in her heart. "I'm furious, I'm heartbroken, I'm confused, but most of all, I feel.... guilty."

"Guilty? Crow turned his head to look at her again, eyebrows raised in surprise at her choice of words. "Don't tell me you blame yourself for Cayde?"

"No, I... I feel guilty for feeling the way that I do."

"What do you mean?"

"I just can't help but think about the lightless folk. People die around them all the time - and for good - no Ghost to resurrect them from a bullet to the heart or a knife to the throat." Vera hugged her knee closer to her chest. "How many of them have lost people they'd loved and wished more than anything to get to see them one more time; to have one more conversation with them to find that closure they never got to have beforehand?"

Crow frowned and nodded slowly, allowing her to continue her thought.

"We did. We were so lucky to have gotten to hear his smart-ass voice again, and yet I can't help but feel that it just..." Vera's shoulders started to quiver as she felt herself beginning to break. "Wasn't enough."

Crow shuffled closer to the Awoken hunter and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, gently resting his cheek on the top of her head while tears finally started to trickle down her face. She leaned back against him, despite the tingling of her skin that begged her to push him away.

"No amount of time is enough when it comes to someone you love," Crow sighed, feeling his own heart ache for his own losses as well as Vera's. "Were you two really that close?"

"When I first arrived - after Dopps woke me up - I was all over the place." Vera sniffled. "Cayde was also... well, all over the place, but I think that's why I could relate to him. His chaos was like a mirrored version of my own, just so, so much brighter. He was one of my first friends."

"Just friends?" Crow chuckled, giving her arm a playful shake. "I always assumed there was more to it than that."

"No, never." Vera shrugged. She cast her eyes out across the vast landscape and smiled numbly. "He was more like a big brother in my eyes. Or, maybe a mentor - of some sort? I don't know. I loved him with all my heart - but not... like that."

The two Hunters sat in silence for a while before Crow cleared his throat.

"There's a private vigil for Cayde back at the Tower tonight; there won't be many people there, it's really just Cayde's closest friends." He dropped his arm and rose to his feet, dusting himself off and offering a hand to her. "Come with me?"

Vera gulped, staring at his open palm with hesitance. "I don't know if I'll be able to keep it together long enough to be social..."

"You don't have to be social if you don't want to," Crow replied with a sympathetic half-smile and a slight tilt of his head. "Just stick with me; I can do the brunt of the talking today if that's what you need."

Crow... Vera nearly felt as though she'd crumble. He's dealing with his own pain and grief, but he's still looking out for me...

"Okay." Vera wiped her tears off on her sleeve and took his hand, letting him gently hoist her up to her feet, his grip lingering for just a few seconds longer than necessary. "Thank you, Crow. And by the way..."

"Hm?" Crow waited for her to continue.

"I, uh... I like the hair." Vera gave Crow the first genuine smile she'd had for quite some time. "It's nice being able to see the rest of your face."

"O-oh." Crow averted his eyes, his ears darkening slightly in a soft blush. He scratched the bridge of his nose with a bashful chuckle under his breath before silently working up a small ounce of courage, reaching out to softly drift his fingers over her jawline. "Thank you, Vera."

"See?" Glint excitedly popped out from behind Crow's shoulder. "I told you she'd like it."

Crow's shoulders jumped with surprise before he turned and frantically shushed his ghost, making Vera laugh for the first time in weeks.

"I haven't seen you laugh for weeks!" Dopps returned, hovering around Vera almost as if he were dancing with glee, turning to Crow and stating, "you really do bring out the best in her."

"Dopps! Seriously?" Vera hissed, face warm and flushed at the ghost's lack of tact.

Laughing and arm-in-arm, the two hunters transmatted back to the Tower for one last celebration of their fallen hero.

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incandescentlysomething · 2 months

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Princess of the Smoke: Chapter 2

House of the Dragon Season 2

Aemond x TargaryenOC

Chapter Word Count: 5608

Chapter Summary: The aftermath of Blood and Cheese is felt by all, though some feel more deeply than others. This follows Episode 2 of Season 2!! Full spoilers ahead!

This is a sequel to Lady of the Ashes! It follows the events of the show, but is canon-divergent.

For most of her life, Aelinor had been a temperate being. She loved fiercely, and as all children were, she was prone to fits of outrage or sorrow, and yet she had never been one to lose herself to her passions. She was capable of knowing herself without ever losing herself fully to her emotions.

But now she felt rage unlike any other.

“It appears that the boy’s head was severed from his body. Thousands witnessed the procession.” Geradys was relaying the missive to the council.

Jaehaerys. That poor little boy, who had never done anything to deserve such pain. There was nothing he could have done, nothing that anyone could have done that would have warranted such violence against a child.

“And they are accusing me of this?” Her mother was aghast, and Aelinor had no doubt in her mind that the Queen was innocent of this crime. She may be only barely past the worst of her grief, but she was not one to order the mutilation of a child.

Aelinor shifted in her chair. She still felt ill at ease, like she didn’t belong at this table. Her mother sat at its head, all eyes on the Queen as this news was delivered, and Aelinor wondered if anyone would truly notice if she slipped away. Jace was here, but he was the heir, bound to stand by their mother’s side through everything. But she had no real place here, in many ways no more than a spectator in her mother’s court.

Jace stood at her side, and she felt him shift as he spoke.

“Send me on Vermax,” He implored. “Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet, and we need all eyes on King’s Landing.”

“No!” Rhaenyra said quickly. Jace let out an exasperated breath, too quiet for anyone save Aelinor to hear. She carefully reached back, finding his leg and giving it a squeeze. She understood him, knew that he too felt the buzzing in his veins, the instinct to get out there and do something. Both of them simmered in this knowledge that there was worse to come, and yet neither of them could take action.

She would speak to him after, reassure him and together they could come up with a plan. Their mother would not ignore the both of them, not when they stood in agreement and only sought to defend her and their family. Perhaps she should speak to her father. They might be of two different minds on many things, but he was not one for inaction. It was he who had coaxed her from her grief, urging her to fly to Winterfell to retrieve her brother. Perhaps he would help her mother see reason.

“How long have they been in there?” Baela asked.

Aelinor rested her cheek against her arm. “Long enough. Too long.”

They both looked down the corridor, to the closed door that the Queen and Prince Daemon had retreated behind following the council meeting. Aelinor sat in the window, the black velvet of her dress barely enough to keep out the cold stone. Baela wore her riding leather, much more suited to Dragonstone’s harsh climate. Aelinor’s own leathers had been torn to shreds by her journey North, the leather stripped bare until they were largely useless to her. She had had no choice but to turn back to her gowns, which only made her stick out more.

“What was the North like?” Baela asked, as if reading her thoughts.

Aelinor tilted her head, looking at the genuine curiosity on her sister’s face. “It was cold.”

Baela snorted. “That’s all you’ll give me it? It was cold? What about the people? The food?”

“You’d be better served asking Jace,” Aelinor said. “He actually spent time there. I spoke to no more than two men, had an arrow fired at me, and then left.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll ask Jace about the food.” Baela laughed. “But he is useless when it comes to important things.”

“Important things?” Aelinor asked.

“Like men,” Baela winked conspiratorially. “What of Cregan Stark?”

Aelinor felt her lips twitching in a smile. “Dear sister, are you not betrothed?”

“I can still admire,” Baela insisted. “Tell me.”

“Hm,” Aelinor considered her answer. “And I suppose ‘sturdy’ is not a good enough descriptor?”

“Not nearly!” Baela laughed.

She had missed this. In the tragedy of the last few weeks it had been easy to forget that — even when they pretended to be cousins and not half-sisters — they had always been friends. It was so hard to find levity in these days, with Luc’s death hanging over her like a shadow, and yet she could feel Baela bringing shreds of herself to the surface.

She twisted her lips together, trying to remember Cregan Stark’s face. “I’m not sure. Handsome enough, I suppose. Very…severe looking. A bit bear-like.”

“Bear-like?” Baela mused. “How specific. Though I suppose, not unappealing.”

Wasn’t it? The more Aelinor thought of it, the more Cregan Stark’s features seemed too large, too found. His eyes were hidden beneath messy hair and fading amongst shades of brown and gray. He was a large man, but not as tall as she liked. No, the more she considered it, the more his features faded away, assembling themselves into a figure she considered handsome.

She realized who that person was with a start, the anonymous man she was imagining quickly gaining a recognizable face, and she shook her head to clear it from her mind.

Baela’s eyes widened, as if she had followed where Aelinor’s thoughts had wandered, but she was saved from any inquisition by the sound of the door opening at the end of the corridor.

Baela leapt to her feet, striding down the hall with quick steps. “Father?”

There was no answer.

“Baela?” The Queen’s voice called from the library, and Aelinor heard the sound of Baela walking away.

Prince Daemon reached her window a second later, his eyes darting over to where she reclined. His shoulders were tense, his head hanging down as if he had been scolded.

“You ignored her.” Aelinor said, picking at a loose thread on her skirt. “Why?”

He did not answer for a long moment, looking as if he was debating continuing down the hall and ignoring two of his three daughters in the span of a minute.

Finally, he sighed. “I am to go to Harrenhal, to muster the Riverlands.”

Aelinor swung her legs down from the window, stepping onto the floor and finding herself face to face with her father. “You did not answer my question.”

From the tick in his jaw, it was clear that he did not intend to.

“Perhaps you’ll answer another one?” Aelinor was not sure where this boldness was coming from, and yet she found herself unable to stop her tongue. “Did you, or did you not, order the murder of Prince Jahaerys?”

His mouth opened once. Then twice. Practically confirmation.

“I did not order the murder of that boy.” He said finally.

“Not in so many words then?” Aelinor knew her father, knew that he was many things, but he was not a liar. A braggart and snake and sometimes a coward, but she had never known him to be untrue. “You can tell me, Father. What’s done is done. I simply want to know.”

Did she? What good could come from her knowing the truth of this? A little boy had died, a little boy who was the son of someone she loved very much. Learning her father was responsible should only bring her more pain.

“Your brother was murdered,” Daemon said quietly.

“He was,” The words stung as they left her lips. “And was this your justice?”

Daemon looked away, staring back down the hall to where Rhaenyra and Baela stood behind closed doors. “I will not burden you with this act, Daughter.”

It was generous of him. Even, she suspected, an act of love. And if not love, some loyalty. He did not wish to share the truth of this act with her, and either it was because he thought she would turn from him, which she would have already done, or it was genuinely because he did not want it to weigh on her. She could leave it there, there was no reason to push for more. But she nodded anyway, urging him to go forward.

Daemon gritted his teeth, before nodding slightly, as if acknowledging her choice. “If…if this had been an act of justice…it would not have been the boy Jahaerys who should have paid.”

Aelinor’s heart beat once. Then twice. And then the full weight of her father’s words hit her in the chest.

Aemond.

Her father had sent assassins into the Red Keep to kill Aemond.

“Oh,” Her voice sounded echoey, distant. “I see.”

She did see. The horror of it all was that she did understand. Aemond had murdered her brother. It was a crime he needed to pay for. She wanted him to answer for it. But for her father to nearly be the one to swing the sword, for a little boy to pay the price instead? It was horrific.

It was hard to determine which was worse; the murder of that little boy, or the idea of imagining Aemond dead in his place. And perhaps most horribly, Aelinor knew which would have caused her more pain.

“For what it’s worth, Daughter,” Daemon said quietly. “I thought to warn you before.”

But he hadn’t. She remembered a few days ago, crossing paths with him as he left for the harbor with his cloak. Had it been then that the deed was done?

“I…” Thoughts tumbled around in her mind like leaves in a gale. “I understand, Prince Daemon.”

“I think you do.” He nodded.

That acknowledgement, that inkling of respect that she saw shining in his gaze, that affected her more than she would like to admit. Here she was, having been just delivered the devastating blow that her father had ordered the death of her….of Aemond, and still the shock and shame was quickly giving way to an unfamiliar feeling. Pride.

It was deeply unnerving.

“You are going to Harrenhal now, then?” Aelinor asked.

Daemon nodded. “Rhaenyra thought I would be of more use there.”

Or rather, Rhaenyra was displeased with Daemon’s actions, and now sought to send him away.

“You will be safe, I trust,” Aelinor felt herself verging on sentimentality. “I imagine war will come to us all soon.”

“At least one of you can see it,” Daemon pressed his lips together. “Don’t let her tell you what you are.”

Aelinor blinked. “What?”

“Your mother.” Daemon said, leveling her with a serious gaze. “She is going to want to treat you like her daughter.”

“I…I am her daughter.”

“No,” Daemon insisted. “You are a dragon rider and a weapon, and she must not forget that.”

“We are…” Aelinor frowned. “We are all dragon riders.”

“Yes,” Daemon agreed. “But we do not all command the largest claimed dragon save Vhagar.”

“Dreamfyre,” Aelinor said quietly.

“That girl,” Aelinor bristled at how he addressed Helaena, “Will not ride to war. You will.”

He made it sound so easy. She would go to war. As if it were an inevitability. Alas, it was not up to him.

“I ride at the pleasure of the Queen,” Aelinor said simply. The door at the end of the corridor opened, Baela stepping through. She saw her sister hesitate as she spotted the two of them, a wounded expression flashing across her face.

“Safe travels, father.” Aelinor dipped her head slightly.

Daemon nodded. “And you, daughter.”

Aelinor didn’t look back as she approached her sister, reaching out to grab Baela’s sleeve. “It wasn’t what it looked like. He only wanted to—”

“Speak to you and not me?” Baela jerked her hand away. “It’s hardly a surprise.”

Aelinor floundered for a reply, her sister striding away before she could decide how to respond. What did she mean ‘it’s hardly a surprise’? Surely she did not mean to insinuate that Daemon favored her? Not when she had spent half her life without him, not when Baela and Rhaena were his trueborn daughters.

But that hurt in Baela’s eyes, that had not been new. That was the ache of a pain that had been there for a long time, only hidden beneath the surface.

Aelinor longed to chase after her, longed to reassure her that her conversation with their father had been anything but comforting or welcome, but the open door at her back beckoned her.

She stepped into the study, finding her mother seated on one of the low chaises.

“Mother,” She bobbed a curtsy even though there was no one to see it. “It’s been an eventful morning.”

“That is has,” Her mother let out a weak laugh. “Do you have need of me? I am supposed to be at another council meeting.”

Because this was her mother’s life now, council meetings and courts and war planning.

“Was there something you needed, Aelinor?” Her mother reached out a hand, gently brushing her fingers across Aelinor’s scarred palm.

In truth, no. There was nothing Aelinor needed. But she could not pass up the opportunity to have an audience with her mother, not when her time was becoming more and more precious.

“I sought to implore you, on behalf of Jace,” Aelinor stepped around the chaise, leaning her hip against the table.

“And why does Jace need you to advocate on his behalf?” Rhaenyra said, sounding mildly amused.

Aelinor knotted her hands together. “He is anxious to help, Mother. He wants to be out there, patrolling on Vermax.”

Rhaenyra sat up straighter. “He is my heir, it is out of the question.”

“He is a prince, and a boy,” Aelinor sighed, “Or a man, technically. It causes him shame when you order him to stay here while others fight our battles. While his betrothed and Princess Rhaenys fly around defending our borders. He wishes to be useful. For a chance to prove himself.”

“And yet he sent his sister here to petition me?” Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows, the expression all-too patronizing and motherly.

Aelinor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “He didn’t send me, Mother. But he…we understand each other. We both desire nothing more than to help you.”

“You have helped me. Jace secured the Vale and the North for us, and you flew to retrieve him after fleeing King’s Landing. What more could I ask of you?”

“You should ask us to help. To fight. To defend your claim.” Aelinor insisted. “We are dragon riders, Mother. Use us.”

Rhaenyra inhaled deeply. “Aelinor, I understand the desire to be useful. Do you think I am not also frustrated? I must stay here, away from danger, as a war is waged in my name. It is difficult, but it is the way of things. And Jace is my heir.”

Aelinor scoffed, surprisingly indignant. “Surely if you are Queen, it is up to you to determine the way of things. Don’t let that council of old men tell you what you are capable of.”

Rhaenyra’s silence was answer enough.

“If not Jace, if he is too valuable to risk, then why not me?” Aelinor asked.

“You?” Rhaenyra said in surprise. “You wish to fly to war? A war that may yet prove unnecessary.”

“Have I given you reason to doubt me?” Aelinor asked, mildly offended. “I flew North when you commanded, I fled King’s Landing all on my own.”

“Yes but…” Rhaenyra hesitated. “You have always been…gentle.”

“Gentle does not mean weak.” She insisted. “Darrax is nearly as large as Vermithor, with the speed of youth. You must use him. Use us.”

“And what if it comes to battle?” Rhaenyra asked. “What would you do then?”

“I would do what was necessary to defend my Queen.” Aelinor said simply. “Do you doubt that?”

“Aemond is out there, Aelinor.” Rhaenyra’s expression was soft, pitying almost. “Could you fight him?”

“I—” The words caught in Aelinor’s throat.

It wasn’t as though the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Somewhere out there Aemond was flying around on the biggest dragon in the world. If there was to be a war, he would certainly be on the other side. The thought of standing against him, of facing him across a field of fire, it was terrifying. But she had to believe that she would have the strength to do what was necessary.

She wouldn’t be able to live with herself otherwise.

“I’m here, Mother.” She brushed out her skirt. “And so is Jace. Use us, before it is too late.”

Aemond wasn’t supposed to be here.

He wasn’t sure what had driven him back to this place, to this place where his sins seemed to hang in the air like smoke.

His sins.

Killing Lucerys.

Returning to this establishment for the third time.

Betraying Aelinor.

“Is something bothering you, My Prince?” Madam Sylvi asked, her hand stroking his back softly.

“Daemon sent them to kill me, you know?” The silk sheets were soft under his fingertips, the fabric meant to be smooth and sensual, but to him it seemed only cold. “But I was out.”

“You were with me,” Madam Sylvi added, as if the source of his greatest shame was not worthy of note. While his nephew had been slaughtered in his bed by assassins sent to kill Aemond, he had been here, soaking in his own shame and depravity.

“Perhaps you should be proud of it, that he considers you such a foe.” Madam Sylvi suggested, her tone placating.

“Hm,” Aemond considered this, drawing his knees a bit closer to his chest. “That he would murder me in my bed? That he might fear me?”

“As well he should,” Madam Sylvi’s hand slipped from his back, traveling down toward his hips. “The boy is grown into a man.”

“No!” Aemond jerked away from her hand. “I have told you already. No.”

Madam Sylvi sighed, but leaned back into the cushions. Aemond rested his head back in her lap, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he tried to block everything out. The ringing in his ears, the voices that seemed to be constantly haranguing him, refusing to let him get a wink of sleep without reminding him of what he had done. What he was doing.

“I do regret that business with Luc,” He admitted quietly. “I lost my temper that day, and I am sorry for it.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Madam Sylvi said. “I would remind you that when princes lose their temper, it is the smallfolk who pay for it. Like me.”

Aemond sighed. “They used to tease me, you know? Because I was different.”

Madam Sylvi let out another exasperated sigh, as if he were wasting her time. As if he weren’t paying her a small fortune for her company. “Are you sure I can’t be of more….help…my prince? Offer some relief?”

He knew exactly the kind of relief she could offer, and perhaps he was the fool for denying her. But despite the frustration stirring in his body, despite the fact that he knew any normal man would never spend hours in the company of a whore without fucking her, he could not find a single ounce of desire in him. Not for Sylvi, anyway.

He pushed himself up from her lap, reaching for his discarded clothes. “I have made my intentions clear.”

“Yes, yes,” Sylvi pulled the shoulder of her robe up to hide her nakedness. “Your loyalty is admirable.”

It wasn’t admirable. There was nothing about him that was worthy of admiration. He had betrayed Lina by murdering her brother, and by setting foot in this place. That he had returned many times to the company of a whore old enough to be his mother was too shameful to admit. But he would not allow himself to indulge in anything more than Sylvi’s company. Here he could lay himself bare, let his sins seep through his skin and feel a bit lighter, if only for a few hours. But he would not fuck her. No matter how much he craved the touch of a person, he would not give in. Not when he had sworn himself to Aelinor and broken her trust so deeply. It would never make up for all he had done, but he would not betray her in this. If he couldn’t have Lina — as he did not deserve to — then he wouldn’t have anyone else either.

“Will you be back, my Prince?” Sylvi asked.

Gods, he wished he could say no. Wished that this place hadn’t become his only escape in the city, the one place where he felt free of the judgment that followed him around the Keep.

But he jerked his chin in a nod, reaching down into his boot to remove the small pouch of coins.

“Do you require an escort, Princess?”

Aelinor barely glanced up at the Queensguard posted by the door. “I do not. I’ll be back inside by nightfall.”

“Only it’s…” The Knight trailed off, one of his gloved hands holding the door slightly ajar.

She turned, trying to recall if she knew his name. It was Ser Erryk, one of the few faces she actually recognized. He seemed to be hesitating, as if unsure whether he should address her directly.

“Yes?” Aelinor asked, trying to manage a smile.

“It’s a bit cold for dragonback,” Ser Erryk said, “And you do not seem to be dressed for it.”

She glanced down. No, she certainly wasn’t dressed for a ride on Darrax, what with her loose velvet dress and her hair hanging down about her shoulders. Already she could feel a slight chill from the crack in the door.

“Your concern is appreciated,” Aelinor said. “But I’m just going for a walk. Actually, I was looking for my brother. Have you seen him?”

Ser Erryk stepped aside and held the door open, allowing her to step outside. “I think he was also out for a walk, Princess. I believe the Lady Baela was with him.”

“Wonderful, thank you.” Aelinor gave him one last smile as she walked away, turning down the stone path to circle the base of the castle. Jace would most likely be at the lookout, and she wanted a chance to speak with him about her conversation with their mother.

It was cold out, far colder than she would have liked. If she’d had any sense, she would have turned around and gone to fetch a cloak. But she just wanted to be out of the castle, to spend a few precious minutes surrounded by nothing more than open air rather than stone and tapestries.

She spotted Jace just as she was rounding the corner, his head leaning close to Baela’s as they spoke. She stumbled in her step, tucking herself behind the side of the tower before they saw her. As much as she wanted to talk to Jace, it was probably best that she give Baela some more time. Her sister had been mad at her only hours before, after all, and she did not want to make anything worse.

Resolving to wait for Baela to leave, she crouched down at the base of the tower, leaning her weight into the corner to keep herself upright. There was gravel spread across the ground here, and she let the small stones slip through her fingers.

A small part of her resented Jace and Baela, though she knew that it was unfair of her. But however unfair it might be, she couldn’t stop the painful bite she felt every time the two of them stood together, and she was forced to remember just how alone she was.

For the past years, she had always been some form of alone. Yes, she loved her brothers, and she loved Baela and Rhaena. But they all had each other. Jace and Luc had always been inseparable, and they adored Baela and Rhaena. Now Luc was gone, his absence an ever-present shadow in their minds, and Rhaena had all but retreated into herself. A better sister might have sought Rhaena out, but Aelinor could barely handle her own grief, let alone someone else’s.

Truthfully, seeing Baela and Jace together just reminded her that Aemond wasn’t here. Her entire youth had been spent with him by her side, and she had imagined that her future would be the same. Now everything had changed, and Aemond seemed to be an ocean away.

“What are you doing down there?”

She looked up in surprise, finding Jace leaning over her.

“Oh,” She blinked a tear from her eye. “I was waiting for you.”

“Well, here I am.” He held out a hand, pulling her to her feet. “You didn’t want to talk to Baela?”

“I…spoke to her earlier.” Aelinor stepped around him, shivering in the cold wind. “I was looking for you.”

“Gods, Aelinor,” Jace reached over to remove the red cloak from his back. “Why aren’t you wearing a cloak? You’ll freeze.”

Aelinor accepted the cloak with a smile, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. “I was just looking for you, and I figured I could just steal yours.”

“You’re hilarious,” Jace took her arm, guiding the two of them down the path. “Why were you looking for me? Did Baela tell you that mother is sending her out again?”

She hadn’t, but it was hardly a surprise. “Baela is quite capable, Jace.”

“I know she is,” His lips pressed together in a pout. “But she…how am I to sit here while my future wife flies around fighting our war? It’s embarrassing.”

“According to Mother, we aren’t at war,” Aelinor sighed. “I asked her to send us out, but she wouldn’t be convinced.”

“No, I assumed not,” He sighed. “I assume her reasoning was the same?”

“Of course, you’re her precious heir. She can’t risk you.” Aelinor kicked a rock down the path. “And apparently she thinks that, despite my irrelevance, I am too weak and gentle to be sent out.”

“You are gentle,” Jace said, his voice kind. “But you are not weak. And you have never been irrelevant.”

Aelinor tucked herself closer to his side. “Why, Brother, was that a compliment?”

“It might’ve been,” He sniffed. “I like you a great deal more now that I know we are not to be married.”

They both wrinkled their noses at that.

The cloak shifted, and Aelinor struggled to grasp the tie with her scarred hand. Occasionally she had issues like this, when the muscles in her burned fingers proved too tight for small movements. It was why she had given up on embroidery years ago.

Jace’s hand was there securing the clasp with easy movements. “Does it still hurt you?”

“No. It’s more of an ache than anything else. I manage.”

He swallowed, his gaze darting to her hand before shifting away. “Do you know, I don’t think he ever really hated us before that.”

She didn’t need to ask who he was referring to. “No? I thought you all teased him terribly.”

Jace shrugged. “I think it got worse as we got older. When you were little we didn’t really care about him, because he was always with you. But after you…after the accident I think everything got worse.”

Aelinor couldn’t really remember. She had been so young at the time, her world so small, that she wasn’t sure that she would have noticed how one event could have changed her brothers’ relationship with Aemond. As far as she was concerned, they had never liked each other, and it had never mattered, because she was there to keep the peace.

“I don’t know how we’re just supposed to stay here,” Jace wrapped his arm over her shoulders. “I feel like I’m going mad.”

Aelinor hugged his waist tightly, sharing in his frustration. “I know, Big Brother. We just have to wait.”

Aemond stood in the balcony, watching his grandsire’s party slowly make their way out of the gates. He hadn’t bothered to speak to Lord Otto before his departure, though it was clear from the tension in the Keep that it had not been an amicable one.

“Ah, Brother,” He bristled at Aegon’s voice. “There you are.”

Aemond smoothed his expression into a mask, spinning on his heel. “You summoned me?”

“Yes,” Aegon’s doublet was unbuttoned, his hair mussed, with dark circles ringing his eyes. He looked exhausted, though there was a brightness to his expression that unnerved him. “You saw that our grandsire is gone.”

“I did,” Aemond looked outside, watching the gates close behind him. “What inspired you to make this change?”

Aegon scoffed. “The bastard suggested that my actions with the ratcatchers was unwise.”

Aemond had seen the display on his walk home from the brother. Crowds had still been gathered under the hanging bodies, some crying out in horror as crows began to feast on the remains. It would hardly win his brother favor with the people.

“One of those filthy, pest-ridden vermin murdered my son,” Aegon seethed. “The goldcloak would not identify which one, and so I was forced to take drastic measures.”

“And the Hand thought it unwise?” Aemond mused.

“Apparently. As if it were his place to question me.” Aegon seemed appalled by this. “As if anyone would have done any different.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” Aegon strode over to a small table, pouring a cup from a pitcher of wine. “Ja— my son was the most important person in the world to me. I would burn the whole damn city down to find out who hurt him.”

“And you think I would do the same?” Aemond followed after his brother, pouring a small portion of wine into his own cup.

“Surely you would,” Aegon said. “What if it were Helaena?”

Aemond chose not to point out to his brother that Helaena was not his wife, as the years had proven that Aegon had not an ounce of attachment to their sister.

“Or what if it were Aelinor?” Aegon was still talking.

“What?” Aemond sat up straighter, cursing himself for being so obvious.

Aegon smirked in amusement. “I’m just saying. It’s a war, so one of us is going to kill her eventually, but it's just the principle of it. If someone snuck in and slaughtered her in her bed, you would seek your vengeance, wouldn’t you?”

His throat was tight. “I…I would.” Was this admitting to treachery? Was his brother trying to coax him into admitting that he still cared for Aelinor?

“I want you at the next council meeting, brother.” Aegon said. “I’ve named Cole my hand, and I want you there as well.”

“Why?”

“To support me? You are our greatest weapon.” Aegon spoke as if it were obvious. “You may yet win this war for us, and Otto was a fool for not employing you.”

Aemond nodded slowly, feeling his chest swell with pride.

“And,” Aegon took a swig of wine. “Maybe, if you win this for us, I can give you Aelinor as a prize.”

Aemond’s teeth smashed together.

“Imagine that,” Aegon chuckled. “The Bitch of Dragonstone having to give one of her bastards to you.”

Aemond had never wanted to murder his brother before, but he did now. How dare he speak as though Aelinor were a thing, some prize that could be won and given away? He was a—

“But it’s possible that none of this will matter,” Aegon stood, dropping his empty cup onto the floor, where crimson driblets of wine began to seep into the rug. “Not if Criston’s plan is successful.”

Aemond was still seething when his brother left the room.

There was screaming in the halls of Dragonstone. Aelinor joined the throng of people pushing towards her mother’s chambers, elbowing her way through until she was near the first to burst into the room.

Her hand flew to her mouth in shock, spotting first the dead knight on the floor, then the second advancing towards her mother.

“No!” Aelinor shouted, pushing toward Ser Lorent and her mother. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do. Throw herself in front of the Queen? Attempt to tackle the invader?

But her efforts were unneeded. No sooner had she realized the foolishness of her plan, then the knight, either Erryk or Arryk, she wasn’t sure, uttered “Forgive me”, and thrust himself down upon his own blade.

Aelinor let out a whimper as his body thumped to the floor, her body feeling weak. There was blood on the floor, under her boot, though she had no idea whose blood it might be. Two identical bodies lay in the room, a heavy silence hanging in the air.

She felt Jace’s hands on her back. “Aelinor? What is…what is the meaning of this?”

He whipped around, beginning to demand answers on how an intruder had entered the castle.

On shaky legs, Aelinor approached her mother. The Queen had lowered herself into a chair, one hand held to her hard. She could see the emotion shining in her mother’s eyes, even as she fought to maintain her composure.

“Aelinor,” Her mother looked up in surprise. “You were…are you alright?”

Of course she was. This attack had been directed solely at the Queen.

Aelinor glanced down, watching as two men grabbed Ser Erryk or Arryk by the legs and started to drag him away.

“Well, Mother?” She asked.

“Well, what?” Rhaenyra furrowed her brow in confusion.

Aelinor gestured to the smear of blood on the ground. “Are we at war now?”

#hotd #house of the dragon #fanfic #fanfiction #game of thrones #lady of the ashes #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye

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