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rachalixie · 10 months ago

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can’t get you off my mind

all good love stories start with a drunk stranger, don’t they?

warnings: mentions of alcohol, fem!reader

genre: fluff, comfort

word count: 4k

it starts at a bar.

or really, it starts with a man at a bar. one that you’ve seen before in passing, a familiar face in a sea of more familiar faces. someone who you’ll later learn is one third of your best friend changbin’s production team, someone who you should have met years ago probably, someone who you would find is the perfect puzzle piece that fits into your jagged edges.

but right now, he is just a man at a bar with a beer in hand and a ridiculously dopey smile on his face.

“marry me, please,” he says, absolutely serious but it’s a bit diluted from the way his words were slurred around the edges. “or i’ll have to kidnap you.”

“excuse me?” you raise a brow at him, his image swimming a bit as you turn your head to fully take him in. you’re not drunk, but youre a couple glasses of wine deep and you’re not known for being fully articulate whilst sober anyways.��

“i swear i’m going to marry you,” he says, eyes wide as he looks at you. “you might be the most perfect person i’ve ever seen.”

you’re not overly fond of men you haven’t met hitting on you, but this one seems a bit harmless. if you ignored the part where he said he would kidnap you. at least he wasn’t grabbing onto you or trying to touch you - that would have sent your fist flying towards his face and probably a swift exit from the bar. it was a little weird that you didn’t find him weird, but in retrospect you must have known, even then.

“okay, listen,” you put your hands on your hips, giving him an unimpressed look. “if you find me when you’re sober, ask me again and maybe i’ll reconsider.”

“okay,” he nods, hair moving along with his movement like a puppy’s ears. “i can do that. i’ll find you, i promise. i’m gonna marry you, did you know?”

“so i’ve heard,” you roll your eyes, already feeling a bit fond about him. you didn’t think you’d meet him again, but you were sure that you’d look at this night with a fond smile later.

he sends you the brightest smile you think you’ve ever seen on a person and scampers off, and you stand rooted to that one sticky spot in the bar for longer than you want to admit.

–

he’s in the back of your mind when you wake up the next morning, in a better mood than most - you never liked waking up early, it always took you a good hour and some coffee to be able to stand without grimacing. this morning though, you float around your apartment as you get dressed with a small smile on your face.

a cute stranger who kept his boundaries and called you perfect? that wasn’t something that happened often, at least not to you.

the floatiness followed you all the way through your morning routine until you found your feet stopping outside the coffee shop that you and changbin all but owned. you had no stock in it, but you’re sure that you supply them at least half of their revenue, you probably sit on their rickety chairs more often than your actual couch at home. this place has nursed you through every college class and job interview preparations and beyond, and if it ever closed you might lose time off of your life span.

your movements from the door to the counter to your usual seat were robotic, muscle memory taking over while your head did somersaults through the clouds. it’s only when you take the first sip of coffee, the bitterness and heat hitting your tongue in a delightful dance, that you notice it.

another man is sitting next to changbin. a man that looks awfully familiar, and it takes you a moment to realize why. it’s the man from the bar.

“changbin?” you keep your eyes on the other man as you direct your question at changbin, trying hard to keep your face neutral. “explain?”

“i’m chan,” the man interjects before changbin can answer, reaching his hand across the table for you to shake. it’s warm, his grip somewhere perfectly in the middle of too hard and too soft, and he lets go after an appropriate amount of seconds. despite the neutral passivity of the gesture, you feel something ignite within you, and it threatens to sputter out when you catch no spark of recognition in his eyes. was he that drunk last night that he doesn’t remember you? do his sober eyes not find you as perfect?

“he crashed at my place last night,” changbin’s voice filters through your turmoil, and you finally break away from chan’s gaze to level him with a look. “and he needed coffee, so i brought him along. chan, this is y/n, my best friend.”

the conversation that followed flowed more freely than the coffee dripping from the machines behind the counter, and you almost hate how much you like it. chan is a little goofy, the man from the previous night shining through moments of seriousness and rapt attention.

by the time you had to leave to go to work you felt like you knew him. you learned where he lived (close to you!), that he worked with changbin (he’s a producer!), and that he loved all animals but he adored dogs (he has one named berry!). just an hour of casual conversation had led to you needing more of him in every aspect of your life, but still in the back of your head lived the thought of him not remembering you from the night before.

changbin leaves first, citing some meeting he had to run to in the middle of a yawn, and when you were left with chan the embarrassment began to set in.

“i’m going to marry you,” he blurts out, startling you so much you almost jump out of your seat.

“what?” you ask, a mixture of surprise and disbelief combining into a confusing vortex within your head - was he going to go through this again? you didn’t know if your heart could take it.

“i mean, i remember you,” he says before you could awkwardly excuse yourself and commit to getting to work early for the first time in a year just to escape being in a room alone with him for much longer. “i’m sorry, i was just embarrassed. i didn’t want to make a fool out of myself in front of changbin.”

“oh,” your breath leaves you all at once and you slump into your chair, understanding hitting you like a train. “that makes sense? i think?”

“i’m going to marry you,” he repeats, a mischievous glint in his eyes, the boy from last night shining through. “one day. i’m going to do it.”

“take me on a date first,” you tease back, a genuine smile stretching across your lips when he laughs, a full bodied thing that drew in eyes from the patrons across the room. for once, you didn’t seem to care that others’ eyes were on you. he made you feel comfortable.

“what are you doing tomorrow?” his mouth turns upwards into a beautiful smile that you can’t help but return.

“eager, are we?” you open your phone, sliding it across the table with the new contact page open on it. “i’m free.”

“you’re the most perfect person i’ve ever laid eyes on,” he says, as serious and genuine as the way he had proposed to you last night as he taps his number into your phone. “sorry if i’m a bit desperate.”

“don’t apologize,” you take your phone back, making a mental note to text him later. “i like it, for some unearthly reason. you’re cute, chan.”

the sound of his delighted laugh follows your footsteps all the way to work.

—

he picks you up for your first date at noon, right on the dot. he wasn’t a minute late, a polite knock sounding through your apartment just as the hour turned, as if he had been waiting and watching the time outside the door.

god, is everything about this man endearing?

he’s wearing shorts and a light sweater, looking like something out of a posh magazine. his hair is curly and swept off his forehead and he’s wearing a smile with the most adorable dimples shining through.

he leads you to his car and you have to hold back an impressed whistle. you knew changbin and his team did well for themselves, the name 3racha all over the credits of songs on the radio, but this car was nice. you were going to have a talk with changbin about why he still drove the same beat up sedan he’s had since college but that was a thought for later. right now all you wanted to think about was the man who held the door open for you to slide into the passenger seat and was now holding your hand over the middle console.

“do i get to know where we’re going?” you ask, peering at the map open on his phone but it tells you nothing more than that your destination was 15 minutes away and that he had to make a right turn in one mile.

“it’s a surprise,” he says, voice a little nervous but it was masked with excitement. wherever he was taking you, you would be happy to be there if he was this happy the whole time.

four songs on the radio later, one of which you teased him for when he revealed that he wrote it, he was pulling into a parking lot illuminated by flashing colorful lights. he had brought you to the fair.

“i’ve never been to the fair!” you bounced a little in your seat, wriggling in excitement. “i’ve always wanted to go, how did you know?”

“lucky guess?” he shrugs, avoiding your gaze as he cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“changbin told you, didn’t he,” you smile at the thought of chan asking his friend about what you’d like. it was cute, a word that you were probably exhausting when thinking about him even after a day of knowing him.

“yes, but,” he flushes, the tips of his ears burning red. “i asked him after i had decided to come here, just to make sure it was a good idea. i didn’t steal it from him.”

“hey, it’s okay,” you squeeze his hand in yours that he had yet to let go of in what you hoped was a comforting gesture. you didn’t know what brought him calmness yet, but you wanted to learn. you wanted to learn everything about him. “now, take me to the fair, bang chan. i was promised a date.”

he finally meets your eyes again and he’s grinning so happily that you feel like you had just won a prize. who needed a fair when you had your very own carnival game right here?

it turns out, you did. by the time the sun was beginning to set, your arms were full of various plushies that chan had won for you, each one earning him a hug and a kiss to his cheek. you treasured every single one, the fluttering in your chest when he stepped up to the booths to throw and shoot various things never ceasing.

“let’s go to the ferris wheel,” you tug at him with your free hand, thanking the skies when you see no queue there. “i bet the sunset looks beautiful from the top.”

he’s quiet when he follows you there and into the carriage, his thigh pressing against yours as he slides in next to you, but you don’t notice in your excitement. it isn’t until the wheel ticks to the top and stops that he grabs your hand again, trembling a little.

“chan? are you okay?” you ask, concern warping your voice as you turn towards him. your movement rocks the carriage a bit and he turns pale, ducking his head into your neck to hide.

“yeah, ‘m okay,” he murmurs, his eyelashes ticking your skin when he blinks his eyes shut. “just don’t like heights very much.”

“oh my god, why didn’t you tell me?” you cry out, jumping a bit and regretting it when you rock the carriage again. “nevermind that, what can i do? it’ll go down soon, you’ll be alright.”

“just keep holding my hand?” he squeezes your fingers lightly and your heart melts. you may have made a joke that he was just trying to trick you into holding his hand any other time, but the fear in his shaking body was real and you’d never tease him for that.

“of course,” you press a kiss to his hair, moving your other hand slowly to wrap around your intertwined fingers. the wheel begins to turn again, swaying the carriage as it descends. you keep your grip on his hand tight the entire time, all the way until you’re on your feet again on steady ground.

“i’m so sorry,” you begin to say, the horror of subjecting him to his fear creeping up now that the crisis has passed.

“i’m going to marry you,” he says, cutting off your apology and lifting your hands to his mouth so he could press a kiss to the back of yours. “no one’s ever been able to keep me that calm. thank you.”

you were left speechless after that and all you could do was smile at him, the ghost of it not leaving your face for the rest of the night.

–

your thirty first date with chan ends with you crying into changbin’s arms, utterly confused and the feeling of despair creeping up your veins. you had met him your cafe as you had done several times since the fair, but when you arrived he wasn’t there. he came late, dark storms in his eyes and a hard set to his jaw and you didn’t understand what had made him like that. the usual smile and twinkle in his eyes were missing, and when you and asked him about what was wrong he had snapped at you in a way you hadn’t been talked to in years.

you had left after that, brushing him off when his eyes had widened and he reached for you while calling out your name. you know that you should have given him a chance to explain, but at the time you were too hurt to consider it.

you made your way to changbin’s apartment without thinking, your feet taking you to safety before your head could catch up. changbin had taken one look at your face before wrapping you up in his arm, walking you to his couch so he could cuddle you properly while words spilled out of you like a leaky faucet. you felt like you were back in college, crying and blubbering over a boy who had rejected you at a party, and you hated it.

you didn’t notice changbin sending an angry text to chan, but the sound of changbin’s door opening with a bang startled you out of your tears. chan bursts in like a whirlwind, his hair sticking up at weird angles and a look of panic on his face as he takes you in. he reaches the couch in a few strides and falls to his knees in front of you, holding a crumpled bag from the cafe in his hand and taking your cheek gently into his other. his thumb wipes at the tear tracks there and you could practically taste the guilt emanating off of him.

“love, i am so sorry,” he starts, ignoring changbin when he scoffs at the apology. “i shouldn’t have snapped at you, i had no right to do that. i got some bad news this morning and i wasn’t feeling my best, and i should have been honest with you. i’ll never do anything like that again, please forgive me? i’ll do anything.”

it was more his voice than his words that did it - he sounded so desperate, like he was trying to hold

onto a ledge that was crumbling, threatening to hurl his body into eternal nothingness. you knew him, you knew he was sorry, and against your first instinct you trusted him when he said he wouldn’t do it again.

“is that an almond croissant?” you eye the bag in his hand.

“it’s two almond croissants,” he nods fervently, his hair swishing back and forth with the movement. you sit up, sliding out of changbin’s arms and onto the floor in front of chan. chan’s arms replace changbin’s easily when you lean into him, and it feels like coming home.

“it’s not like i have a nice couch you could be sitting on,” changbin mutters as he leaves, shaking his head fondly at the two of you before making himself scarce.

chan kisses you, cradling your head gently into his hands, and they’re so warm. he slides his lips against yours, slowly like he’s taking his time memorizing the planes of your mouth to commit to memory. even after kissing him dozens of times you still find new things to learn about each other.

“i swear,” he says, pulling away to meet your eyes. “i’m going to marry you, someday.”

“keep getting me croissants as apologies and we’ll see,” you say, sniffling into his neck.

—

your eighty seventh date was spent in your bed, your head spinning like both hands on a clock simultaneously and your body exuding more sweat than you ever have.

chan is wringing out a cool cloth to place on your forehead and it feels so nice that you moan.

“i’m sorry,” you mutter, and chan has lost count of the amount of times you’ve said it at this point. “we had a date and i ruined it.”

“we were going to see a movie,” he says, running a hand up and down your spine. “and we will. we don’t need a movie theater when we have a screen right here, hmm?”

“but the popcorn,” you complain, closing your eyes in bliss when he runs a hand through your hair, scratching gently at your scalp. an apology for being so sweaty was at the tip of your tongue but you hold it back in favor of enjoying the feeling of his touch.

“i’ll make you all the popcorn you want when you’re feeling better,” he promises, dropping a kiss to the side of your head. “for now, how does soup sound?”

“popcorn soup?“ you ask, a wave of dizziness taking over your body; if you weren’t lying down already, you’re sure that too would be falling over.

“yeah, baby,” and even in your delirium the fondness in his voice was prominent. he couldn’t hide it even if he tried. “i’ll make you some popcorn soup. get some rest okay?”

you’re asleep before he leaves the room, and you only wake up when he shakes your shoulder a bit and helps you into an upright position. he feeds you bites of what is definitely not popcorn soup after putting a movie on your laptop, the screen sitting at the foot of your bed. the both of you fall asleep before the movie finishes, but you don’t mind.

he stays with you for days, making you soup and tea and toast and feeding you medicine and being an all-around angel as he nurses you back to health. by the time you’re better you think you’ve fallen back in love with him several times.

as you had expected and warned him about, he catches your sickness the next week, and now it’s your turn to be his nurse. you try and do the same job he did, but his delirium seems worse. the silver lining is that his fever isn’t as bad, so you’re babysitting a babbling boyfriend more than a sick one.

the night before his fever breaks is the worst, since he doesn’t even recognize you. you shake your head at his silliness when he asks who you are and calls you pretty. you smile when he takes your hand in his and asks you to come closer.

you tear up when he tells you that he has a girlfriend that he loves very much and so even though you’re pretty he can’t do anything else because his girlfriend is the prettiest one in the whole world. you let a tear slip when he tells you that he can’t wait to propose to his girlfriend and that he’s going to marry her someday.

you tell him that you have a boyfriend that you're going to marry someday, trusting that he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

—

your hundredth and fifth date was not unlike your fifth, or your tenth, or your ninetieth. two and a half years later, you were just as endeared by him and he was just as obsessed with you - even more so, if it were possible.

he takes the time to tell you how gorgeous you look when he picks you up just like he does on every date, and you hide your disgustingly fond smile for him behind his back like you do every time you see him.

he parks and runs around the car to let you out like he does every time you habit this restaurant, a little fancier than your usual best but it was a favorite of the both of yours - across the street from the bar the two of you had met at.

you start walking before he does, letting him jog to meet you and complain about how you left him, just like you do every time. before him. you might have thought the monotony would have gotten tiring, but he had a fantastical ability to make every moment feel like the first despite their practiced nature.

he calls your name from behind you right on schedule and you hum in acknowledgement, turning towards him absentmindedly. the second you lay eyes on him you’re completely alert, though; he isn’t jogging after you, but rather he’s kneeling on the sidewalk, a small box in his hands as he smiles up at you.

“i’ve told you that i’m going to marry you more times than i can count,” he starts, eyes shining like the stars twinkling in the night sky above you. “but this time i’m asking you.”

“chan,” you choke out, hands coming up to cover your mouth as it quivers. tears spring to your eyes and you silently curse yourself - you always thought you’d be level headed when you got proposed to, but nothing could have prepared you for this, not even the thousands of declarations he had made to you prior.

“i love you. you’re the only one in the entire universe that i need more than blood or breath, you’re the song that runs through my heart and the fire that leads my path when i’m lost,” his voice is thick, like he’s trying to hold back his emotions long enough to get his words out. “i never thought that i would feel so strongly for someone, i never thought that i deserved a love like this until i met you.”

he pauses as you walk closer to him, letting you approach him before he continues.

“my love, my eternal light,” he’s tearing up now, blinking fast to keep the salty water at bay. “will you marry me?”

“chan,” you start, kneeling down next to him and taking his wrists in your hands. “i never told you this, but ever since that first day i knew. i knew that the drunk idiot that was hitting on me would be my husband.”

he chuckles, smiling delightedly as the tears finally spring from both of your eyes in unison.

“so?” he trails off, searching your face with his eyes, waiting.

“oh!” you tighten your grip on him in an apology. “of course i’ll marry you, gosh i love you so much.”

#stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids #skz fluff #bang chan imagines #bang chan fluff #bang chan x reader

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traddmoore · 24 days ago

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Bitter Root: The Next Movement variant cover by Tradd Moore (2024)

Bitter Root is by Sanford Greene, Chuck Brown, and David F. Walker Published by Image Comics

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munson-blurbs · 1 year ago

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Summary: A trip to the thrift store becomes overwhelming for Harris, and you and Eddie have to work as a team. But the real test of your relationship's strength is the crisis that unfolds days later.

Warnings: financial insecurity, school lock-in, missing child, police presence, mention of kidnapping, mention of drug addiction, blood (no gore)

WC: 8.5k

Chapter 19/20

Divider credit to @saradika

Eddie has already been awake for two hours when the phone rings. One part of parenthood that he hadn’t anticipated is that children do not understand the concept of weekends. Harris had flung himself out of his racecar bed promptly at 6:30 in the morning, crawling under Eddie’s sheets and poking his nose until he woke up.

“Har, go back to sleep,” Eddie had grumbled, the last word extended in a whine. One cheek was smushed against his pillow, muffling his complaint. “It’s Saturday; you don’t have school.”

In response, Harris pursed his lips into a perfect pout and used his thumb to peel Eddie’s eyelid open, getting as close to his face as possible. His morning breath was tinged with the scent of chocolate; Eddie groggily made a mental note to better supervise his nighttime teeth brushing routine.

“‘M hungry.”

That’s how Eddie finds himself pouring his third cup of coffee while his son keeps his eyes glued to the TV screen, watching Doug stutter and stammer in front of Patti. Eddie smiles, a blush creeping into his cheeks when he realizes that that’s probably what he looks like around you.

“‘Lo?” He cradles the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, wincing as he clumsily clinks the carafe into place. There isn’t enough coffee left to slosh over the side, a small miracle in and of itself, although he’ll have to brew some more if the caffeine doesn’t kick in soon.

“Hey, baby.” Your voice is sleepy yet sweet, smoothing all the creases of the morning. “Did I wake you up?”

Eddie laughs and takes a sip from his favorite mug, the one that proudly declares #1 Dad. It’s stained and chipped, but he’ll never throw it out. Wayne had bought it for him on his very first Father’s Day; ironically, Eddie had bought him a #1 Grandpa mug that year, probably from the same kiosk at the mall.

“Not even close,” he says, tongue flicking to the corner of his lip to catch the drip of coffee that’s pooled in the crevice. “Someone was up bright and early this morning.” His gaze flits over to the bowl of Cheerios snug between Harris’s criss-crossed legs, mostly uneaten despite his earlier protests that would make an outsider believe he was starving. “How was your sleep?” he asks, swinging back to your conversation.

You switch the phone from one ear to the other. “It was good. Would’ve been better if you were next to me, though,” you add, twirling the cord around your forefinger. If you could, you would capture the safety of his embrace and bottle it, releasing a bit each time you craved his gentle touch. “I might’ve even let you be the little spoon.”

He balks at this with a playful scoff, nearly spilling his coffee with the sudden movement. “Yeah, right,” he chuckles, licking the side of the mug before the bitter liquid can slide off and hit the ground. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Admittedly, his skepticism is rooted in truth; whenever you do get the chance to cuddle in bed, he’s always the one wrapping his arm around your waist, often taking the opportunity to snake a hand up your shirt and let the pads of his fingers brush over your breasts. It isn’t always a display of sexuality or desire–though you can’t say you mind that–but a connection, a way of ensuring that you stay close.

“Just a few more weeks until we get to find out for ourselves,” you tease, though he needs no reminding. Only sixteen days remain until you officially move in together, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he’s counting down. “Speaking of which,” you continue, glancing at the clock, “I was wondering if you and Harris wanted to do some furniture shopping for his new room.” You knew that he would be keeping his racecar bed; it’s unlikely he’ll part with it until he’s outgrown it completely. “Y’know, a new dresser or nightstand or something.”

There’s an extended pause on Eddie’s side of the line. You think the call dropped and are about to hang up and redial when you hear him say, “I, um…I don’t get paid until next week…” He nervously scratches the countertop with one fingernail.

“Oh.” You grapple with a response, trying to strike a balance of empathy without condescension. “Well, I was going to surprise you, but I sold some of Grandma’s old—”

“No way,” Eddie interjects, firmly but not harshly. “I’m not having you spend your money on me. We can just wait until payday.”

“I want to buy this for Harris. I…I probably should have cleared out Grandma’s room months ago, but I couldn’t. I mean, I could, but it felt wrong because I had nothing to put in its place.” You don’t care that you’re babbling on, forging ahead with your impromptu monologue. “It would’ve been too empty, but with you and Harris here, it won’t be empty anymore.”

Eddie tucks his thumbnail between his teeth. “Are you sure?” he prods, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

“Positive.” You’re much more assured in your reply. “If she knew Harris before she got sick, she would’ve spoiled the hell out of him, anyway.” The moment she saw him happily digging into the Oreos, she would have ensured that the cupboard remained stocked with Double Stuf. “In a way, s’like she gets to spoil him now.”

You can sense Eddie’s resistance tempering with an audible exhale. “He’s an easy kid to love, that’s for sure,” he muses, buying time to process the influx of emotions flooding his body. There’s the obvious gratitude that you’re so eager to take care of his son, but it’s cut with the insecurity of him not being able to do so. If you’re going to buy Harris furniture, it should be because you want to, not because he can’t. What if you hold this against him? What if, in the future, there’s an argument and you fire back with a retort about his shortcomings as a father?

Except…you have never done that. Ever. Not that night in the emergency room, or when you’d found out about the CPS report filed that evening. Not even when Eddie had made it his personal mission to tear you down, pulling insults from the depths and hurling them at you with reckless abandon.

You hadn’t brought up the way he’d helplessly panicked when confronted with the possibility of Harris’s learning disability, or how he’d let anxiety overtake him when he officially received a classification. With everything the two of you had endured, you’d never once echoed his anxieties about his parenting abilities; it was quite the opposite. With you by his side, he feels as though he can take on whatever challenge life chucks at him.

“Eds? Is everything okay?” Your tone is thick with concern; Eddie realizes that you probably think you’ve upset him. “We don’t have to go—we can do something else, or—”

“Sweet girl,” he says in one exhale, both to reassure you and to remind himself that you’re his, and he’s yours. Love surges through the phone lines when he speaks. “We can pick you up in an hour, if that works? I should be able to wrangle Harris by then.”

“Y’sure?” And, Christ, how his heart sinks when you shrink inward, reflexively making yourself smaller when you’re worried that you’ve offended someone.

Eddie doesn’t answer you directly, instead, calls out his son’s name. “Hey, Harris?” He frowns when Harris completely ignores him in favor of watching the cartoon. Using his free hand, he cups his mouth in a makeshift megaphone, amplifying his voice. “Harris Wayne Munson!”

The sudden sound jolts him out of his TV-induced stupor. “Huh?”

“Go get dressed and brush your teeth; we’re gonna go shopping with Ms. Sweetheart!” Eddie grins as Harris turns to him with a wide smile of his own. “C’mon, let’s go!”

Harris jumps up without further hesitation, inadvertently tossing his bowl from the makeshift table of his legs. Milk splatters, instantly soaking into the carpet, and the Cheerios topple out and land in a soggy pile. “Nooo, my bref-ist!” His big eyes well up with tears. “Daddy, you made me drop my bref-ist!”

“You, uh, wanna deal with that?” You can’t hide your amusement at the usual Munson chaos.

“Probably should, huh?” Eddie jokes back, stretching the phone cord as far as he can and reaching for the paper towel roll. “I love you, babe. See you in a bit.”

“I love you, Eds,” you tell him. “And Harris, too, of course.”

Some more static and shuffling; then, an energetic voice greets you. “Hi Ms. Sweetheart! Daddy made me drop my bref-ist,” the little boy reports.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Har.” You’ve perfected the art of mustering up sympathy for children’s not-soearth-shattering issues, a skill that every preschool teacher must possess. “Why don’t you help him clean up? That way, I can see you even faster.”

Harris pauses, mulling over his options. “Yeah, okay! Gotta go! Bye!”

You hear the clunk of him struggling to replace the phone on the hook, followed by Eddie saying, “Let me say good-bye before you hang—” click.

Pulling your own receiver from your ear, you stare at it with mild amusement. Never a dull moment with my boys.

Your boys drive up to your building just over an hour later. You stand up from the bench outside the entrance and smooth down your shorts where they’ve creased.

“Hey, Sweetheart.” Eddie lets the pet name roll off of his tongue. He wants to kiss you as you slide into the passenger seat, but he withholds his affection for Harris’s sake. It seems silly, considering you’ll all be living together, but he doesn’t know how his son will react to the romance aspect of it. Will he be happy? Excited? Disgusted by any display of affection?

You give his hand a subtle squeeze, turning around to greet Harris. “Ready to shop till we drop?”

“Till we drop?” Harris wrinkles his nose, glancing between you and his dad. “Why would we drop?”

“It’s just an expression,” you explain, catching a glimpse of the smile tugging at the corners of Eddie’s mouth. “Just means that we’re going to shop until we’re too tired to shop anymore.”

“I never get tired,” Harris declares, sticking his legs straight out so his flexed feet push up against the back of the driver’s seat, nudging Eddie slightly forward. “Grampa Wayne calls me an ‘Energizer Bunny.’” He bounces up and down in his booster seat to prove his point.

Eddie reaches his right arm around, keeping his left firmly gripping the wheel, as he moves Harris’s feet from where they’re planted into his lower back. “So, Har,” he starts, easing his weight onto the brake as he approaches a red light, “we’re gonna look for a new dresser for you, and maybe a nightstand.” He takes a deep breath as he delivers the news: “That means we’re not making any pit stops for toys. Got it?”

You want to interject, to let Eddie know that you don’t mind splurging on a small treat for Harris, but you bite it back. Whether or not you have the spare funds is irrelevant: this is the boundary he’s set for his son, and you have to respect it, regardless of your desire to spoil him.

Harris, however, does not accept the announcement as readily. “Not even, like, a little one?” he presses, holding his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “Even if I’m really, really good?” He gives a hopeful smile, eyes blinking expectantly.

Eddie looks at you, serving as your cue to provide your input. You nod your approval, trying to hide your delight in being asked to make a parenting decision, regardless of how menial it may seem. He peers up through the rearview mirror at his son’s waiting face. “If you’re really, really good,” he acquiesces, features pinching into a grimace when Harris’s exuberant squeal echoes through the sedan. “You have to use your inside voice and stay next to us the whole time. Deal?”

“Deal,” Harris confirms. “Deal, Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Deal.” Laughter bubbles up inside you and you let it spill out uninhibited. You know that telling a child he can get a toy is an easy part of parenthood, but you silently swear to never take for granted being included in that choice. Harris joins you, though he’s not quite sure why he’s laughing, but your joy is contagious.

You lean your head against the car window, listening to the buzz of the radio filling the silence. Harris hums along, more on-key than the average five-year-old, which you can safely attribute to him having a musician for a dad.

“I’m not getting a new bed, right?” Harris says with sudden urgency. “Because I wanna keep my racecar bed.”

“Mhm,” you affirm, smiling when Harris relaxes back against the headrest. “Your racecar bed will be in your new room, don’t you worry.”

“Okay.” That response satisfies him until he thinks up another question. “An’ you’re bringing your bed, Daddy?”

Eddie chuckles as he pulls into the Goodwill parking lot. He picks a spot close to the store, right next to a green Ford with a faded “Clinton ‘96” bumper sticker. “Um, no. I’m not bringing my bed.”

“So are you getting a new bed?” His eyes dart from side to side as he assesses the size of the car. “Where’s it gonna fit?”

“I’m, uh, not buying a new bed, either.” Eddie kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, swiveling to face Harris, who is more confused than ever. “Ms. Sweetheart and I are going to share her bed.”

Harris kicks his feet, processing this new information. “But you didn’t get married yet,” he points out, “so how can you share a bed?”

You rest your palm on Eddie’s forearm in quiet reassurance. “Some people share a bed before they get married,” you explain simply, knowing that less is often more when talking to young children.

“When are you gonna get married?” he asks, more curious than meddling. “Because it’s taking forever. My friends’ mommies and daddies are already married.”

Eddie doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Harris essentially referred to you as his mommy; instead, he slowly exhales. “I’d like to marry Ms. Sweetheart someday, and I think she’d like to marry me, too.” He looks over at you with a sheepish grin, and you give his hand an agreeing squeeze. “But, for now, we’re just going to try out living together. How does that sound?”

“I guess that’s okay.” Harris isn’t completely thrilled with his dad’s response, but he relents anyway.

“While, we’re, uh, on the subject,” Eddie continues, the tips of his ears flushing pink as he carefully considers his words. He chews on the inside of his lower lip. Is he really doing this? Is he opening his son up to this relationship? “You know that Ms. Sweetheart and I love each other very much, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Sometimes,” Eddie continues with only some trepidation, “sometimes, when grown-ups love each other a lot, they hold hands o-or kiss. Would that be weird for you? If Ms. Sweetheart and I held hands, or kissed?”

You avert your gaze, partly from bashfulness but mostly so Harris doesn’t feel any pressure from either of you.

The little boy looks at the car’s ceiling, centering his focus on the overhead lighting. Finally, with utmost certainty, he declares, “just no tongue-kissing.”

You snort out a laugh while Eddie goes bright red and sputters, “where did you learn about that?”

“Young and Restless,” Harris reports nonchalantly.

Eddie rubs his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his lids until his vision blurs. “Remind me to tell Wayne to stop letting him watch the soaps,” he grumbles to you, turning back to his son. “Yeah, no tongue-kissing.”

You easily lace your fingers with Eddie’s as you walk through the front doors of the Goodwill. Harris starts making a beeline for the toys, but Eddie uses his free hand to pivot him in the direction of the furniture department. Harris huffs but complies, trudging alongside you.

There’s a bright blue nightstand on display that immediately catches his eye. “Look!” he points, smiling so wide that all of his baby teeth are on display, “can I get it? Please?”

Eddie smiles warily, flipping over the white tag hanging from one silver drawer handle. He breathes a small sigh of relief when he sees the price is within the range of what he’d like to spend; rather, what he’d be comfortable asking you to spend.

“Looks like we’ve got a winner,” he says, posture straightening with the announcement. He runs his fingertips over the surface, checking for any chipping paint or splintering wood, but the finish appears to be intact. “I’ll go tell someone to set it aside for us.”

He sets off in search of an employee, leaving you alone with Harris. You swallow the nervousness building in your throat. You spend nearly every day taking care of children, but you’re suddenly inundated with the memory of losing him at the flea market. Those few minutes when you couldn’t locate him were some of the scariest of your life.

And yet, it hadn’t prevented Eddie from giving you another chance.

“Are you excited to move in with me, Har?” you ask, reaching out to ruffle his curls.

He nods, then looks straight up at you so that you’re staring at his nostrils. “Ms. Sweetheart?” The position of his neck changes his voice’s pitch so it’s froggy. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Can you marry my daddy?” His eyes shine with potential. “And then you can be my mommy for real?”

You crouch down to his height, heart melting at his request. “Harris, I love your daddy very, very much. And I love you very, very much, too.” You poke his nose gently, and he giggles. “Being married is a big responsibility—”

“‘Sponsibility?”

“Mhm. Responsibility. It means a really important job.” You slide your heart pendant across the chain on your neck anxiously. “And your daddy and I want to make sure that we’re ready for that kind of responsibility before we do anything, okay?”

Harris nods, but you can tell from his crinkled nose and furrowed brows that he doesn’t fully understand. You can’t blame him; it’s an abstract concept, one that even you often have trouble comprehending. “But I can tell you one thing: whenever your daddy wants to propose, I’ll say ‘yes.’” You smile at the thought of Eddie asking you to be his wife.

“Is that where he gets down on one knee and asks ‘Will you marry me?’” You’re about to respond when he adds, “and then someone runs in and yells about being their long-lost ‘dentical twin?”

Yeah, no more soap operas for Harris.

Finding a dresser proves to be a much more difficult task than picking out the nightstand. Everything that Harris likes is out of budget, and everything within budget is too worn down or small. There’s one that’s in good condition and isn’t too pricey, but it’s covered in hand-painted unicorns.

“That’s for girls!” Harris groans, stomping his feet. The last word is stretched in a whine. “I can’t have girl stuff!”

“We can paint over it. Whatever color you want,” you quickly jump in, trying to avoid a meltdown, but your efforts are fruitless. Fat tears stream down his cheeks; he’s already determined that the dresser is tainted.

“No! No, no, no!” he howls, throwing himself on the floor. He smacks down on his tailbone, fanning his tantrum’s flames. He quiets for a moment, too shocked to cry, but then he’s screaming louder than before.

It’s as though he’s lost control of his body, arms and legs knocking into the lower shelves without care. You can’t block him in time before he knocks over a lamp—a Nickelodeon-themed one that would have been perfect in his new room, ironically—and it shatters on the ground. Ceramic splinters, scattering across the linoleum like roaches in the light.

People start to stare, some with sympathetic looks, and some glare angrily at the child daring to interrupt their shopping. Eddie’s face blazes, vision swimming as he wracks his brain for a solution.

You’re faster, slapping a few bills into Eddie’s palm and jolting him from his thoughts. He watches you scoop Harris off of the floor, trying to avoid his flailing limbs.

“Go get the nightstand and pay for the lamp,” you tell him, straightforward and precise. “I’ll get him to the car and calm him down. Keys?”

Eddie blinks, the information swirling around him but not quite penetrating the surface. It’s when you hoist Harris onto one hip and balance his weight in one hand, using the other to make a ‘gimme’ motion that it registers.

“Y-Yeah, sorry.” Eddie fumbles for the car keys and tosses them to you, the two of you working in tandem. A well-oiled machine. You nod gratefully, wincing as Harris’s foot makes contact with your thigh. “I’ll be right out.”

You’re able to bring him to the car, struggling to unlock it and hold on to Harris. After a few failed attempts, you manage to open the passenger door and sit him on the seat.

“Harris, hey, Harris?” you start, keeping your voice soft and even while trying to pull his attention. His sobs are slowing down but he’s definitely breathing too rapidly for your comfort. “Hey, bud. You’re okay, all right?” You extend your hand and he tentatively places his own palm on top of it. “You wanna give my hand a squeeze?”

He does it, the motion grounding him enough that he can focus on your body in front of him. You don’t want to touch him, knowing that his senses are already overstimulated from the tantrum. Instead, you relax as his squeezing grows stronger and his breaths gradually even out.

“There ya go, Har. Just like that.” You smile warmly. “That was a really big feeling, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” His voice shakes and hiccups. He swipes at the tears on his cheeks, smudging them into his skin.

You reach into the center console and grab a tissue, wiping the mucus from his nose and lips. “Good as new.” With no trashcan nearby, you shove the used Kleenex into your pants pocket. “Can you tell me what made you so mad in there?”

“D-Don’t want girl…girl st-stuff,” he stutters through ragged breaths.

There’s a time and place to discuss the optics of categorizing interests into ‘boy’ and ‘girl,’ but you know better than to have that conversation now. “Oof, that’s why you were angry! That’s a lot to handle.” You gingerly tuck a curl behind his ear. “But, Harris, did you see what happened when you started hitting and kicking?” He shakes his head. “Well, you knocked over a lamp and it broke. You could have gotten hurt, or someone else could have gotten hurt.”

Harris’s face falls as you speak, absorbing what you’re explaining. “I-I didn’t mean to,” he sniffles. “‘M sorry.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you sigh, “sometimes, when we have big feelings like getting angry, we do things we shouldn’t without even realizing.” You pause for a moment, biting your lip as you consider your words. “Do you want to hear what helps me when I have really big feelings and I can’t scream and cry?”

“Mhm.” He nods again, little tongue peeking out to swipe up the tears above his mouth.

“I take a deep breath and close my eyes,” you start, demonstrating both actions. Inhale for three, exhale for three, and repeat. “And then I picture myself being in my favorite place in the world.” You smile at him, blinking back the sadness that comes with memories of holidays at Grandma’s. “Wanna try it together?”

Harris responds by closing his eyes and breathing in slowly. “Good job, Har,” you softly praise him. “Now breathe out; make sure you’re thinking of your favorite place, okay?”

“Thinkin’ about the zoo,” he whispers, voice raspy from shrieking for so long. “Daddy taked me there and we saw so much animals.”

“Zoos are a lot of fun,” you agree with a laugh. “I’ve never been to the one in Hawkins. Maybe we can go over the summer?”

“Yeah! I wanna show you the flamingos!” His grin stretches across his cheeks “Do you like flamingos?”

Like most people, you don’t have a strong opinion on flamingos, but you respond with an enthusiastic, “I love them!”

“Love who?” Eddie’s voice breaks into the conversation. He’s rolling out the nightstand in a cart, keeping one hand on top of it to hold it steady. “Me?”

You laugh, opening up the back door so he can wedge the furniture next to Harris’s booster seat. “Yes, Eddie. I love you very much, don’t worry,” you tease, seizing the opportunity to inconspicuously check him out. His biceps flex as he maneuvers the nightstand, and you have to tear your gaze from his denim-clad ass when he stands up and triumphantly wipes his hands on his pants.

“C’mere.” He pulls you in, pursing his lips in an exaggerated pout and planting a smacking kiss on you.

While you giggle, Harris is not as amused. He claps his hands over his eyes and groans.

“No tongue-kissing!”

You’re wrapping up storytime, your students fidgeting with their shoelaces—some fidgeting with their friend’s shoelaces—eager to move onto the corresponding art activity Will has planned.

“Okay, we’re going to use our walking—” Your announcement is cut short by Principal Sinclair’s voice coming over the loudspeaker. Her tone is typically warm and excited, but the way she speaks so sternly sends chills through your entire body.

“This is a lock-in. All staff and students must remain in their classrooms until notified. I repeat, all staff and students must remain in their classrooms until notified.”

You breathe out, though you’re still concerned about the cause of the lock-in. It’s usually some kind of medical issue that requires emergency services to have unblocked access through the halls. You hope that whatever it is isn’t life-threatening.

Will locks the door wordlessly, and you repeat your directions to the class. The kids walk to their seats, asking non-stop about what a lock-in means.

“We just have to stay in the classroom,” you find yourself repeating, losing patience with each iteration. You’re thankful for small miracles; your class has already gone out for recess, which means you don’t have to break that news to them.

Will is helping the kids glue multicolored strands of crepe paper in the shape of a rainbow, complete with cotton ball clouds. You’re unclogging a bottle of Elmer’s when the classroom phone rings, startling you. You place the glue bottle on the table, promising Joshua that you’ll be right back, and answer it.

“Hello?”

“We need you to come to the office immediately,” the secretary’s clipped voice informs you. “Bring your personal items. We’ll send someone to assist Will.”

Stupidly, you nod before remembering she can’t see you. “Y-Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” You hang up, tell Will the plan, and bolt out the door.

What the hell is going on? Why are they having me break the lock-in to go to the office? You hike your purse higher up your shoulder, trying to ignore the dread pooling in your stomach and creeping up your throat.

Something is wrong. Something is really, really wrong.

Your feet can’t carry you fast enough. You nearly stop breathing when you see Eddie pacing in the lobby, Marion and Paula standing off to the side and speaking with Chief Hopper. The two teachers wear matching worried expressions.

As soon as Eddie spots you, he’s charging over. “Oh, thank God,” he murmurs, throwing his arms around you and hugging you tight. You can feel the tears falling from his eyes, wetting the crook of your neck. His hands squeeze against your back and your shoulder blades as his body is wracked with sobs.

You weave your fingers through his hair, holding him as close as you can. You’re desperate to know what’s going on, but you doubt he could explain if he tried. Instead, you continue comforting him while Principal Sinclair walks over.

Her strides are long and purposeful, and she meets your own terrified gaze with her own. “Harris went missing during recess,” she says quietly, “and Mr. Munson let us know that you might be an asset in locating him.”

Harris went missing. Bile inches up your esophagus and you swallow it, wincing at its burn. “Why would he—” You stop mid-sentence; his motive is not important right now. All of your focus needs to be on finding him.

Chief Hopper approaches you and Eddie, tapping your boyfriend on the shoulder with two fingers. Eddie looks up, wipes his face with the heel of his palm, and clears his throat, but a fresh batch of tears threatens to spill over anyway.

“We’ve just collected statements from his teachers,” Hopper reports, looking down at his notepad. “They said that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, that Harris was just playing with his friends one moment and then gone the next.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head. “No, something had to have happened.” Harris had wandered off plenty of times, like at the flea market. The difference was that he was easily found. “If you haven’t found him, then he’s either hiding, or someone…” The thought is too painful to finish.

Hopper looks over at the principal. “You’re certain that the playground is secure?” He asks her, not accusing, but waiting for confirmation.

“Yes, absolutely secure,” she affirms, nodding her head. “The gate can only be opened from the inside, so no one can access it off of the street.”

You know this, of course, but it doesn't bring you closer to finding Harris.

“We’ve taped off the playground,” Hopper continues, “and we’ve got a search squad going now. Considering that Harris has been diagnosed with a disability, we’re beginning this investigation right away.”

“Mr. Munson,” a second officer chimes in, “is there anyone who would be inclined to take your son? Perhaps a non-custodial parent or an estranged relative?”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. “His mom, um, isn’t in the picture. Never has been.”

Hopper cocks one brow. “Never?” he asks disbelievingly. “How soon after he was born did she relinquish her rights?”

“She, um,” Eddie swallows, rubbing his nose in embarrassment, “she never did. Never relinquished her rights, I mean. She just kinda split.”

“So there was no formal agreement that she could no longer be involved in Harris’s life?”

“N-No,” he stammers, shame seeping from every pore. He’d always meant to start the legal proceedings, but that takes time and money…and maybe a small part of him had always hoped she’d come around and do the right thing.

He looks over at you now, the way you’ve stepped into a mothering role like a puzzle piece. Like any parent, you’d made some mistakes, but you’re also the most compassionate person Eddie has ever known.

He thinks of the times he’d tried to make his ex get clean, to want to get clean, and to be there for Harris. The weight of disappointment caused his chest to ache every time she’d mumble, “I’m gonna, but not right now” or “I don’t need help.”

Perhaps it’s unfair to compare the two of you; after all, you hadn’t struggled with addiction. But Eddie can’t help himself. You’d loved Harris before you’d even loved him, he realizes. And he’d never had to ask you to.

“Do you have any contact information for her?” Hopper taps his pen against his notepad. “Nine out of ten times in these situations, the child is with someone they know.”

What about the ‘one’ time? What happens then? Heat pulses in Eddie’s cheeks, sweat beading on his forehead. He doesn’t need Hopper to answer the question; he already knows what that means.

“It’s from five years ago, so I don’t know if it’s still accurate.” He stumbles over his words, thinking about the last time he’d called her; it was the invitation to Harris’s birthday. “I don’t know it by heart, but I have it in my address book at home.”

Hopper gives a brusque nod to his colleague and to your boss. “We’ll give you a lift. And, uh, it’ll be good to set up your place as a home base.”

“Yeah, yeah, right,” Eddie mumbles, simply going through the motions without processing them. He’s on autopilot, a robotic version of himself. If he was able to fully absorb his surroundings, he would note the irony of him sitting in the back of the cop car because they’re helping him instead of escorting him to the county jail.

You don’t let go of his hand the entire ride there, your thumb rubbing the soft hairs on his knuckles. “We’re gonna find him,” you whisper reassuringly, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand.

But Eddie is too embroiled in his own thoughts, imagining every possible tragedy that could have befallen his son. As soon as Hopper pulls up to the apartment complex, Eddie is flying up the stairs, two at a time, unlocking the door as fast as he can. You run in behind him, watching as he flings loose papers and pens from a kitchen drawer. He’s kicked over the boxes he’s already packed; clothes and some of Harris’s toys are scattered across the floor like a poorly-designed booby-trap.

He holds up the tattered black book, flipping through it until he lands on the right page. “Here. Right here.” He frantically points to an entry at the top, fingertip jabbing into it over and over.

Hopper takes the book from him, careful not to rip the already weathered materials. He dials the digits and frowns when he’s greeted by the automated we’re sorry, this number is no longer in service, far too chipper for the circumstances. He tries once more in case he dialed incorrectly, but he gets the same message.

“Disconnected,” he says gruffly, hanging the receiver with a clank. “Is there anyone else?”

Eddie can only shake his head somberly. If Wayne got Harris from school early, he would have told him. He wasn’t even sure how much of Harris’s maternal family knew of his existence, let alone his location. If someone took his son, it was more than likely a complete stranger.

Hopper’s walkie crackles with static; you and Eddie stiffen with anticipation. “Hey, Chief?” comes from the garbled voice on the other end.

“I’m here.”

“We’ve got a kid here at the school who says he spoke with Harris Munson right before he went missing today.”

Eddie stands up, walking closer to Hopper. Part of you expects him to grab the walkie and try talking straight to the other officer, but he doesn’t.

Hopper presses the small black button and speaks. “Copy. Does he know where we might locate him?”

There’s a deafening silence for a few moments; no more than ten seconds pass, but it feels like a lifetime. Finally, there’s some information: “No known location; just says that Harris told him he was having ‘big feelings’ and needed to go to his favorite place.’”

“The zoo,” you murmur aloud, drawing confused looks from both men in the room. “When he got upset on Saturday—at Goodwill—I taught him to do some deep breathing and picture being in his favorite place, and he told me it was the zoo. But I…” you swallow, furrowing your brows, “I told him to picture it, not actually go there.”

“Zoo’s too far for him to walk, and no bus driver is going to let a kid that young ride by himself,” the chief points out.

You nod, biting your lower lip. “He might not be at the zoo, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to get there.”

Hopper thanks the other officer and turns to you and Eddie. My guys are deploying the search party as we speak.” He takes a deep breath and makes direct eye contact with you and Eddie. “We’ll do everything we can to bring your son back safely.”

Eddie buries his head in his hands, collapsing back against the living room wall and sliding down to the floor.

You look over at the police chief. “Can we help? Join the search…or something?” Anything besides sitting around and waiting for answers.

“Absolutely. We’ll keep an officer stationed here in case Harris comes home.”

You nudge your foot against Eddie’s. “C’mon, babe.” You try to keep strength behind your words, to be what Eddie needs right now, but it gets harder with each passing second. “We’re gonna go look for him.” He looks up and notices that you’ve extended your hand, and he takes it, pulling himself up.

He doesn’t say a word, but he follows you and Hopper out the door. He’s gnawing on his lips so violently that some skin peels off between his teeth; flecks of blood dotting his usually perfect mouth.

“We’ve got some time before sunset, so that’s on our side,” Hopper says as he drives back the way he came. “We’ll start in the woods near the school, and we’ll move from there.” He peers back at the two of you through the rearview mirror with a determined gaze.

“My uncle,” Eddie says suddenly, no certain expression on his face. He’s practically catatonic when he talks. “I want Wayne to wait at the apartment. I need to tell him…” If Harris does return home first and sees police officers surrounding the place, he might get scared and run off again.

Hopper scratches at his beard. “We’ll let him know, all right? Don’t worry about that.” He radios the instructions to a colleague, who confirms them and signs off, before pulling into a grassy area and killing the engine. “Let’s go. If Harris is going to come out for anyone, it’ll be you two.” He slams his door and then helps you and Eddie out of the backseat.

Before you can even begin, you hear a group of people shouting Eddie’s name. You look over to see Jeff, Jess, and Robin waving and walking towards you.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Robin says, giving you and Eddie a hug. “We’re gonna help you, and we’re not leaving until we find him.”

Jeff offers a tight smile, one hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “We’re here for you man,” he promises, sincerity in its purest form. “Viv is gonna stop by later and I’ll take care of Ettie.”

It’s a kind gesture, but Eddie’s stomach sours at the thought of still searching later. He needs to know that his son is safe now.

Harris’s name is echoed over and over, bouncing off of trees and shaking the leaves as you and your friends call out for him.

“Harris!” you cry out, throat raw from your constant shouting. “Harris, it’s Ms. Sweetheart!”

“Harris!” Eddie’s voice is even louder than yours; the power behind it is palpable. “Harris, it’s Daddy! Please come out! You’re not in trouble!” he adds, cognizant of the little boy’s fear of making people mad.

Every squirrel that darts across the forest floor has you whipping your head around, heart leaping at the prospect of Harris emerging from where he’s hiding.

He has to be hiding; your mind won’t let you imagine what could happen if the wrong person saw him walking by himself, determined to get to the zoo…

“Harris, Aunt Robin and I will buy you any toy you want!” Jess yells. “And all the ice cream you can eat!”

The five of you take turns making promises to nobody; they’re secrets shared with the wind. Each unanswered call leaves you feeling more defeated, especially with the sun hanging lower in the sky. It will be dark soon, leaving Harris even more vulnerable than he already is.

Will joins the group a few moments later, bringing granola bars, water, and flashlights. You can only stomach about a quarter of your snack, having completely lost your appetite. Eddie doesn’t even bother to eat, fueled by adrenaline rather than food.

“Principal Sinclair is also looking,” Will tells you and Eddie. “She’s with Lucas and Erica over at Merrill Wright’s farm. It’s closer than the zoo, but he’s got some animals, so they wanted to check there.” He pauses, casting his eyes down for a second before looking at Eddie. “Everyone’s helping out with this. They all want to find Harris.”

Tears well up along Eddie’s lash line; he blinks them away to keep his vision clear. “Thanks, man.” He coughs to clear his throat, emotions forcing their way through. “That means a lot.” For a moment, he sees Will as he was when they first met: an overwhelmed little freshman, unsure of his place in high school, let alone in the world.

What if Harris never gets the chance to find himself? What if he doesn’t get to grow up and learn new things, make his own mistakes, figure out who he is?

You put an arm around Eddie, unknowingly pulling him from his intrusive thoughts. “Can you try to drink some water? Please?” You know better than to nag him about eating right now, but the last thing he needs is to get dehydrated.

He cracks open the bottle and takes a few sips, not realizing how thirsty he was until the liquid covers his tongue. He downs it all without taking a breath, the plastic crinkling as he siphons out every last drop of water.

“Take mine,” you tell him, offering it with the best smile you can possibly muster, but he shakes his head.

“You need it, too.” He’s not wrong, but you have no issue letting him drink from your bottle if he’s still thirsty.

You take a sip and pass it to him. “We’ll share.”

Another hour passes, the pink and orange hues becoming deeper purples and reds as the sky darkens with night. Some people start to call it quits, returning home to their own children, breathing secret sighs of relief that they have children to return home to. Your group remains intact; no one is even considering leaving until they physically cannot move any longer.

With just overworked flashlight bulbs illuminating your path, you continue trudging through the woods. Hopper’s shift was over hours ago, but he’s steadfast in his pursuit to find Harris.

Eddie’s exhausted physically and emotionally, feeling like every part of him has been drained and can never be replenished. His son is missing; he might have been kidnapped, and he doesn’t know if or when he’ll see him again. All he wants is to hold him again, to hear his little laugh as he tells a cheesy joke he learned at school, to watch him sound out new words or draw a picture or just fall asleep in his own bed.

Hopper’s walkie crackles; he clutches it tight and holds it so he can hear it clearly.

“Chief, we may have a sighting.”

A light flickers behind Eddie’s eyes; he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he can’t help himself. He listens intently as the other officer relays the information.

“Doris Driscoll just went outside to let her cats in for the night, and when they didn’t go inside, she went looking. Found them behind a bush, eating crackers out of a little boy’s hands. He told her his name is Harris. Matches the descriptions the father provided.”

Eddie grabs your hand, gripping it with whatever strength he has left. You feel a surge course through your veins as Hopper motions for you to follow him to his car. He turns on his siren and guns it down the road, swerving in and out of traffic to get to the old woman’s house as fast as he can.

Please, please let him be here, you silently pray, subconsciously screwing your eyes shut and holding your breath. The only thing worse than not knowing where he is might just be a false alarm that he’s been found.

Hopper slams on the brakes behind an ambulance parked in front of the Driscoll residence, their open doors allowing the fluorescent lights to stream through. Eddie watches, wide-eyed, as an EMT wheels a stretcher over to it.

A stretcher carrying Harris.

“Harris!” Eddie cries in simultaneous relief, exuberance, and fear. He instinctively reaches for a door handle, quickly remembering that he’s in a cop car and had to wait for Hopper to let him out from the outside.

You’re already crying; everything you’d been holding back to maintain a solid resolve for Eddie is crumbling as soon as you’d seen his son. You scramble out of the car, right behind him, and run to where the emergency technicians are treating Harris.

He’s awake and alert, and he spots the two of you right away. “Daddy! Ms. Sweetheart!” He tries sitting up, but a technician gently guides him to lay down again. “No, that’s my daddy and my almost-mommy!” he protests. “I gotta see them!”

You and Eddie reach him at the same time. He’s covered in dirt; it’s smudge along his cheeks, his arms, and his legs. He’s even managed to get some on the tip of his nose. Some blood is smeared on his right knee where he’s seemed to have scraped it, and the EMTs spray some antiseptic on it and apply a bandage before he can even feel the sting.

“Oh, thank God.” The words rush out of Eddie’s mouth, and he puts his palms on his son’s cheeks and presses kisses all over his face. “You’re okay, you’re okay…” He turns to the technicians, worry pinching his brows together. “He’s okay, right? There’s nothing wrong?” He pushes some of Harris’s damp curls from his forehead. There aren’t any visible bumps or bruises on his face, which eases a bit of his nerves.

One technician nods. “Right now, it seems like he’s just got some minor lacerations, but we’ll run the gamut of tests to rule out more severe injuries.” She looks over at the police chief, who stands a few yards behind you. “We’ll take it from here.”

Hopper gives a small, sad smile; it’s then that you remember that his own child had passed away nearly twenty years ago. She was only a little older than Harris is now.

Eddie follows your gaze with red-rimmed eyes, the realization setting in for him, too. “Thanks, Chief,” he says, just loud enough so Hopper can hear him. Hopper nods, placing his hat atop his head before walking away.

The EMTs check for any broken or sprained bones, shine lights into Harris’s pupils, and ask him a few simple questions to assess for a concussion. “We’ll have to take him to the hospital, just to be sure,” they say to you and Eddie, “but barring any extenuating circumstances, you should be able to bring him back home tonight.”

“Okay, yeah, okay,” Eddie breathes, crouching down a bit so he’s eye-level with his son. “Har, can you tell us why you ran away from school? You’re not in trouble; I promise.”

Harris looks down at the blanket draped across his lap. “I had really big feelings, and I tried thinking about the zoo like you told me,” he glances at you, “but then the feelings didn’t go away, so I decided to go there.”

You take his small hand in yours. “What were the big feelings?” you ask gently, free of judgment and filled with concern.

He thinks for a second, then states matter-of-factly, “Mad and sad.”

“Mad and sad?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, wiping at his nose with his free hand. “‘Cause of Ms. Marion and Ms. Paula.”

You freeze, trying to regain your composure before Harris can pick up on your uncertainty. “What happened with your teachers, Har?”

“They were saying mean things about you and Daddy, and it made me mad and sad.”

At the sound of his title, Eddie speaks up. “Mean things about us?”

“Yeah, like, that Ms. Sweetheart is probably teaching you how to read, too,” Harris explains, “and I said that they’re lying, that you’re really smart and read to me all the time. And that Ms. Sweetheart isn’t your teacher; she’s my almost-mommy.”

Eddie clenches his fists, veins prominent as his body goes stiff. His anger isn’t at the insult, but at the way they could speak so brazenly about a child’s family, disregarding the hurt it causes. He doesn’t care what those women think of him, but he’s furious that they upset Harris.

“They keeped laughing and telled me to go play,” Harris continues, getting choked up at the memory. “I tried to do my breathing and my favorite place remembering with Charlie, but it didn’t work. And I got lost going to the zoo–the real zoo, not the one in my imagination–so I hided with the cats until the nice lady found me.”

You and Eddie share heartbroken looks, pushing aside your respective emotions as you tend to the little boy laying in front of you. “Get some rest, Har Bear,” you murmur, kissing the top of his head. “You had a long day.”

He falls asleep after a few minutes, constantly checking to make sure that the two of you are still by his side. As soon as his breathing steadies and his eyes remain closed, Eddie turns to you, exhausted and running on fumes. Wet brown doe eyes pleadingly gaze at you, lids heavy with sleep. You wrap your arms around him, unable to get close enough. He moves slowly, every action a delayed reaction, but he gradually embraces you, too.

“Stay. Please.” The words are muffled by the way his mouth is mashed into your scalp, but you hear them perfectly fine. “And if we get to go home tonight, come back with us. I need you both close to me.”

“Of course.” Your own lips press against his perspiration-soaked shirt collar. “I’ll stay as long as you need me to.” You pull back ever-so-slightly, brushing tears from his cheeks. “He’s safe. He’s safe, and he’s here, and we get to keep spoiling and loving him.”

Eddie absorbs this as best as he can, mind still spinning as the adrenaline crash hits. There’s so much he wants to say, but for right now, he just carves out space in his body for yours. Your light whisper keeps him grounded, pulling hi away from the spiraling that usually overtakes him in times of crisis.

“I’ve got you.”

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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feyascorner · 1 year ago

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5 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

You realize that, perhaps, the Astarion you knew was nothing but a pretty lie.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard, italics are flashbacks/dreams

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words?!!? 😆 whenever i write for this fic i have the constant urge to make him grovel out of nowhere, and to compensate, i make him even worse

“You were my first, you know.”

You raise both your brows, your eyes still trained on the lake stretching out to what seems like forever. The boulder beneath you feels cool to the touch against your skin. “Really?”

He nods, setting his book down to his lap. “Cazador, that crazy bastard, never let us drink from anything besides rats. We were strictly forbidden from humanoid blood because it would let us become too powerful.”

You squint at him. “...Well, what does it taste like?”

“Your blood?”

“Humanoid blood.”

He looks nowhere, as if he’s in thought, before humming, pleased at the taste that lingers on his tongue. “Exquisite.”

“That’s it?”

“Your blood was sweet, almost. Rat blood is terribly bitter, you see, and I only drank it for survival. But yours,” he grins widely. “I could drink nothing but yours for the rest of my immortal life, and I would never tire of it.”

Your face heats, and of course, him being him, it doesn't go unnoticed. He sets his book aside and shifts so he has one arm propped up next to you, his face dangerously close to yours. “I think you rather like the sound of that, darling.”

“It doesn’t sound…terrible,” you mumble. “Better than turning into a mind flayer, at least.”

His lips are inches from yours, so you instinctively tilt your head, allowing space for him to reach your neck. But his free hand reaches your cheek and tilts your head back, making you meet his eyes. It’s so close. So impossibly intimate that you pray he doesn't hear the way your heart pounds in your chest.“That’s not what I want right now, love.”

You nod slowly when his eyes flicker to your lips, and he’s pressed against you in an instant, your lips molding together as if they were made for one another. Even though you know they’re not, his arms feel warm when wrapped around you, and you bury yourself closer as if there’s even any space left between the two of you.

You know this must be a dream. But you’re not sure if you want to wake up at all.

But suddenly, your entire body feels terribly cold. Too cold, as if your very life is being sapped away from its roots, leaving nothing but a husk of a person behind. So you tear away, as much as you don’t want to, and see that you are no longer sitting before your lover. The spawn that nearly killed you in the alleyway is sitting in Astarion’s place, his teeth stained with blood as he smiles at you. Instinctively, you shriek and try to crawl away, but the sharp pain at your throat ceases your movement, making your hand fly up to the puncture wounds you’re sure to find.

Instead, you only find that your neck is sore from the bruises that bloom on your skin.

And as you stare at the spawn in horror, you realize that he’s not a random spawn. He’s covered in so much blood that you can’t even see his snow-white hair beneath the carnage, and all that stares back at you is a man who only resembles your lover. He lifts a hand, reaching sharp, maintained nails toward your face, and all you can do is brace yourself for what’s to come.

You just hope he ends the pain quickly.

The last tenday has been nothing short of hellish.

The walk home from Sharress’ Caress had been a deathly silence—one where you refused to look anywhere but your feet–-and even once you arrived home to the chaos between Shadowheart and Lae��zel unfolding right before your eyes, you only watched Astarion pace up the stairs as if nothing is wrong. Even as they yelled at him, asking what he had to say for himself, he’d only scoffed and shut the door to his room.

‘A man child,’ Shadowheart had called him. Lae’zel said her offer of skewering him with her spear was still available.

You hadn’t corrected her that time.

As you clearly had too many personal emotions, you swallowed your pride and decided to pass the investigation off to one of your companions. You gave the list of spawn killings to Gale, asking him to take charge of the investigation starting that very night. He didn’t ask why.

The days after that were spent in a blur. Aside from the nightmares that only seem to get worse, your life in the daytime is as it was before the bodies started piling up. You spend every waking moment focusing on rebuilding the rest of the city now that you have all the time in the world. Only without the workload did you realize how time-consuming the investigation had been, and without it, your life feels strangely dull. It’s not unwelcome–at least, not now, anyway.

And as another day passes in a state of mind that is not your own, you slump face-first into your mattress.

You only ever seem to return home in the dead of night anymore. Construction runs through the clock, and by the time you’ve managed to say your farewells to the people in the city, the sun’s long past said its own goodbye. Still, you suppose coming home late is better than falling asleep outside.

The handle of your dagger sticks into the side of your stomach, and you fish it out, laying on your back as you examine the bejeweled blade. It’s a pretty little thing, no matter how many sleepless nights you’ve spent staring at the beauty of something that’s taken countless lives. Most of which were his doing, even if you’re racking up quite the number on your own.

You want to hate him, but you’ve come to accept that perhaps you’ve grown soft. Maybe you’ve been surrounded by warmth for too long and now find that the hate you were once so accustomed to has now rendered itself to mush. You’ll learn to hate him—that much you’ve sworn—but you don’t want him dead as he seems to do with you. You have plenty of reason to hate him, and a part of you does, but it’s not enough to rival his distaste for you.

He’s made it clear enough that you cannot hate him the way he hates you.

You pace over to your drawer and place the blade in the deepest corner, where nothing but shadows will know of its existence. As you push the drawer shut, you hope that the next time you see the dagger, you’ll have forgotten it had been there in the first place.

You hear the window in his room slide open and then shut closed again. And if you were anyone else, it would cause an instant panic, but you’ve grown accustomed to the sound of it opening each night. And while the responsible thing should be to let the others know that he’s sneaking out every other night, you can’t find the energy to. Your sentiments toward him may be mixed, but you don’t want the only lead for the spawn case to be taken away just because he was sneaking out like a teenager in their rebellious phase.

There’s a more selfish reason why you’re keeping this secret of his, though you plan on taking it to your grave. It keeps him from approaching you with the request to go hunting. With Gale and Shadowheart busy with the spawn and Lae’zel not to be trusted around Astarion, you’re the only one capable of following him to his weekly supply restock. But you doubt he needs much animal blood when he has others ready for him at the pleasure house, and if this is his only way of getting there, then so be it.

You’re not really sure how to feel about it. It’s not a nice feeling, though.

“There’s someone here for you.”

You look up toward the doorway where Shadowheart leans with crossed arms. She points toward the stairs, and you force your legs up despite their insistent soreness from the past few days. They ache, but you’d rather burst into flames than stand another second longer than you have to in this room. You don’t have the energy to assess the look she’s giving you as you pass by her shoulder.

The man at the door is one your intuition seems to recognize, but your mind comes up empty. The emotions don’t seem mutual, as he straightens his back the second he spots you. “You.”

You glaze your tired eyes over his attire–one with the mark of the Flaming Fist proudly posted on his chest. He shifts, and you notice his short brown hair peeking from under his helmet. “Yes, me. You called for me.”

He clears his throat, blinking wide grey pupils with a hesitant glint. “I apologize for what I said the last time we met. It wasn’t for me to step out of line like that.”

You stare at him quizzically, unsure of who this man even is. He notices. “Wait, don’t you remember me?”

“...No?”

“I was at Roger Highberry’s murder scene! Yevir? I interrogated you for nearly an hour!” his jaw drops, and you somewhat make out his face from the blurry segments of your memories. All of which are not entirely pleasant, from what you can recall. The accusations thrown in your direction for being responsible for the murders were already cruel enough, but you remember how a fight nearly broke out between the two of you, making your lips purse.

You rub the side of your head to soothe whatever headache is sure to follow soon. “What do you want? Are you here to ask if I’ve been murdering people again?”

There’s one you might be so inclined to murder right now, just upstairs. Figuratively. Well, maybe…

“No,” he seems flustered, and you’d feel bad if it were not for your last interaction. “Like I said, I wanted to apologize. I was in no place to accuse you of something so horrid, and I did so without solid proof. I was—desperate and lost my composure.”

At this, your ear perks. An apology after the complete bullshit you’ve been through the past few weeks doesn’t sound bad at all. Still, your caution remains as you lift your chin, eyes lidded. “...You just came to apologize?”

“Yes. Ah, and–” he reaches into his pocket, scrummaging around until he pulls out a scroll wrapped neatly with a red bow. You arch a brow, and he holds it out to you. “My men were attacked last night at the pier next to the Blushing Mermaid. This is the file report I wrote up this morning.”

The Blushing Mermaid. Despite the hopes that had sparked with the conversation with one of Cora’s orphans, Shadowheart had come up completely empty after numerous visits to the tavern. She only mentioned a few brawls, which quickly had Fist rushing in or a couple of drunk smugglers, but that was it. By now, you assumed the tavern itself had no connections to the spawn murder sprees that increased in numbers nearly daily. Perhaps Roger Highberry had just been at the wrong place and the wrong time.

“We tried to talk to them—one, at least,” he continues as you let the scroll unroll on itself. “They seem to be looking for someone. They said they were only willing to listen to the ‘bard’---which I assume is supposed to be you.”

Your face hardens as you scan the report, acknowledging the details scribbled into the sheet in messy handwriting and the bags under his eyes to go along with it. “What were they looking for?”

“Another spawn, we think, judging from what we gathered before they became hostile.”

Despite how your heart sinks into your stomach, you swallow the lump in your throat and tear your eyes away from the report. Who else could it possibly be? And though you want to lie to yourself that perhaps, on some strange chance, this other spawn is someone other than the one residing right beside your room, you know it’s a foolish belief to pray on.

Astarion had tried to sacrifice all 7000 souls of the undead right before their very eyes. The ritual–if you could even call it that–-was mass murder. One he very nearly executed.

You were only unsure if the other spawn sought him out to reconcile or for something much bloodier. You’d likely bet on the latter.

“Have you shown this to the Duke yet?”

“No,” he admits, almost shamefully. “I couldn’t.”

He must be able to tell your shock because his face crumples. “There was someone among them. A friend. I thought she’d gone missing years ago, but…On this small chance that maybe she’s still there, I came here to ask…”

His fists clench, his gaze darting anywhere but your own with a hesitance you’ve become all too accustomed to the past few weeks. Still, they have a glimmer of hope as he swallows hard. “...If you’d be willing to help me.”

You can’t mask the way your eyes widen. He blinks rapidly and immediately reaches to dig around his other pocket, where he hauls out a bag that jingles with the contents inside. The familiar ring of gold. The sack itself is shabby, old enough to split open at any second, and it’s only the size of his palm, but he holds it as if it’s a fragile glass piece. “It’s all I have. I know I’m in no position to ask you for help, especially with how I treated you last time we met…but I’m desperate, and I know the Duke must trust you for a reason.”

“You want me to do what exactly?”

“Let me speak to her. Please.”

Almost instantly, you push the pouch back to his chest, eyes narrowing. “A vampire spawn won’t be the same person you knew.”

“I know. But surely, she would at least recognize me-”

“She’ll be different. She won’t hesitate to kill for blood. Not even yours, if she’s hungry.” This much, you know.

“I know,” he blurts louder. “Please. If I go to the Duke, he’s sure to raid the tavern, and she might get killed in the process. If I was the reason that she died, I don’t know—I can’t even—”

She’s already dead, you think. The words nearly escape your thoughts, but you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood, sealing it shut.

“Her heart no longer beats for you.” Just give up, you plead. Understand that she is not the woman she was. You notice the irony of the statement, but it doesn’t stop you, desperate to prevent this man from making the same mistakes as your own.

“My own heart beats enough for the both of us.”

And perhaps it’s because of the glint in his eyes that feels all too familiar to your own. Or maybe it’s because of the way he appears on the brink of tears and the eyebags dragging at his skin. Or perhaps it’s a more selfish reason of your own. But regardless of what the reason is, the report crumples in your fist as you nod stiffly.

“We’ll do what we can.”

You swing the door shut harder than you probably should, but the sun feels too bright on your skin. And his imploring eyes only hinder your resolve to drift away from all that’s happening. You claimed you’d try, not that you’d produce results. It might be a selfish thing to do—ignoring a person in need—but does it matter, really?

Is it so bad for you to be selfish for once?

Gods, who are you kidding? You’ll end up helping anyway, especially after he came to ask you in person.

Thinking too long hurts your head. When you turn to climb back up the stairs, your heart nearly stops as you realize you’re not alone in the room.

Blood-red eyes bore into the side of your head, his presence almost nonexistent with how his chest doesn’t even move to allow him to breathe. He stands across the room, unmoving and still, as if time itself has stopped for the two of you. You suppose for him, it has.

But you know better now. At least, you think so. For him, time may be something irrelevant, but for you, it continues flowing, leaving no chance to catch up if you dare to fall behind. And you no longer want to chase the ticking hand of your own clock to attune yourself to his. He’s made himself clear, and you refuse to waste away precious years of your own life to mourn his. So, instead of gawking at him like a deer in headlights, you lock the door and pace up the stairs, barely brushing past his shoulders. You have half a heart to shove past him, but considering you barely manage what you did, you think better of it.

The entire time, his eyes follow you like a hawk.

“What was that Fist here for?” he asks as you reach the top.

You don’t bother looking back at him. “...Spawns killed a few soldiers last night.”

A pause. “Surely that’s not all.”

“That’s all you need to know unless you plan on helping us,” you snap. You wish you sounded as cold as you would’ve liked, but instead, it comes out like a last-ditch effort, as he barely acknowledges the bite in your tone.

“Are we not discussing the very spawns whom I called my dear siblings for two centuries? It’s very much my business.”

“And you think those spawn—which you tried to kill for a bloody ritual, might I add— still consider you their brother?”

That shuts him up.

He doesn’t say anything else, and you take the opportunity to march straight into your room. Your chest swells in a pitiful pride as you force yourself not to glance behind you, admittedly relieved you were at least able to manage some semblance of a cold shoulder, even if it wasn’t as dramatic as his own. Ignoring him is childish and quite frankly, a bandage on a more significant wound, but even this feels like a small victory after his last words to you.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hate me.”

“Yes. More than anyone.”

You try not to let your face fall by rubbing your temples with your thumbs again, soothing the headache that threatens to wrack your body. He’s drawn his line, and it’s time to draw your own.

Shadowheart, who hasn’t budged from where you last saw her, grins. Judging from her smugness, she must’ve heard you. ��Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Me neither.”

She holds out her palm, and you weigh if you should even give her the report before giving in, placing it for her to read. Her eyes skim over the contents as you anxiously shift your weight on both legs. And eventually, she lowers the sheet. “I’ll deal with this.”

“But they’re looking for me. They won’t cooperate unless–”

“I’ll deal with this,” she repeats, folding the report before pocketing it into her pants. “Focus on repairing the city.”

“Shadowheart-”

“You entrusted us with this, and we plan to follow through. You’ve done more than enough for this city already,” she sighs. “And besides, we could use a bard around here.”

She gently shoves you toward your door. Despite your hesitance, she gives you an assuring nod and begins heading for the stairs, giving you no space to insist on offering your aid. You’re left standing idly in the hall, brows knitting together even as you reassure yourself that she and Gale are more than capable of handling themselves.

But then again, you’d thought the same for yourself. Clearly, after the night you nearly died and the nightmares that haunt you of that very same night, you’d been wrong.

You hear footsteps you’ve memorized as ones to avoid, and just as you see the tips of his white curls, you rush into your room, slamming the door shut behind you.

You need a drink.

“Haven’t seen you in days.”

You slump onto one of the wooden stools at the bar, rubbing at the soreness of your own shoulder from hours of hauling rubble and debris from more crowded parts of town where they could pose a danger. The other citizens who had worked alongside you trail in through the tavern door, laughing and cheering at today’s accomplishments as they sit across the tables. In an instant, the relatively calm tavern becomes rowdy and filled with life. Your eyes glaze over their victorious expressions as you respond. “Been busy.”

“You’re the only customer I don’t want to see, you know?” Alan wipes at one of his glass cups with a cloth. You wonder if he ever tries on his bartending uniform or if it just rots in the back of his closet. “Thought I finally got rid of you.”

“I bring plenty of business, so what’s to dread?” you offer him a lopsided smile, watching him as he pours your favorite beverage into a cup, almost routine-like. “I brought in plenty of customers when I performed here, too. If anything, I’d think you’d be grateful to see me.”

“I said I don’t like you as a customer, not an employee. I’d rather not watch the so-called hero of Baldur’s Gate passing out on my tavern floor.”

“Business is business,” you shrug, sipping at the drink. You reach for your gold pouch, but he shakes his head.

“You know you don’t have to.”

You toss him a gold coin anyway. “I want to.”

As you drink, you gaze blankly at the bard playing at the corner of the room, a crowd of half-drunken patrons surrounding him as they toss gold, hats, and even a shoe at them in applause. This only prompts the bard to sing louder, their fingers plucking at the strings of their lute. Of course, with the nature of the tavern, the song is rather ambitious rather than soothing, but it’s nice to listen to nonetheless. You watch as another bard, this one with a drum, perches next to them and begins playing in unison. The patrons clap louder to the beat.

A man sits next to you, ordering himself a booze before turning to watch the bards. You’ve never seen him around, but he seems comfortable enough, thanking Alan when he receives the drink. He gives it a sniff, then sets it down. “Nice song, no?”

Your eyes never leave the gleeful expressions of those listening, only recognizing moments later that he’s speaking to you. “Yes, pretty nice.”

“My daughter loved this song when she was younger. Even wanted to learn it herself on her flute,” he says, and a part of you wants to ask why he’s initiating conversation, but you bite your tongue. Surely most people come here to drink, not to talk with strangers? There’s a strange familiarity to him that you can’t put your finger on, and it’s enough to keep you intrigued. “She even wanted to be a bard at one point.”

“I’m assuming she didn’t become one?” you indulge him.

“She died before she could, unfortunately.”

You finally look away from the crowd and turn to him, face falling. And while you should console him, your instinct tells you that’s not what he needs. His face is solemn. Dull as if he’s become accustomed to the death of his own child, and it reminds you of the hopelessness of yearning. Any kind, really, whether it be yearning to love and yearning to care. “Was she any good at playing?”

He stifles a laugh. “Oh, she was the best. Could play better than half the bards at the circus a couple of months after I got her that flute.”

You sip at your drink again. “Being a bard isn’t the most stable of career choices when you’re alive and have a stomach to feed. Wherever she is now, I’m sure she’ll be free to sing all the songs she wants in this world.”

Perhaps your words may be insensitive, but he doesn’t look to take it that way, keenly listening to the song while you wager if you can afford one more drink.

“You know,” he says again. “Most people tell me that they’re sorry for my loss—or something along those lines.”

“Do you want me to say that?”

“No, I prefer that you be honest,” he shakes his head. “It’s refreshing.”

You return to watching the bards, who seem nearing their piece's end. The man lifts his booze to his lips and takes a large swig. “You seem acquainted with loss. Have you lost someone recently?”

“To death?”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

You’re not sure why, but you feel that confiding in this stranger comes easier than confiding in your companions. The guilt eats away at you for being unable to trust the people who care for you most, but a stranger cannot judge you. A stranger does not know you, so they cannot see you differently for your thoughts. And most importantly, a stranger cannot pity you. “I almost lost them. But I didn’t.”

He hums, telling you he’s listening.

“I saved him, I think. Well, to be honest, I’m not so sure anymore. I like to think I did, but I don’t think he thinks the same.”

“Why’s that?”

“I…” you trail off, looking into the half-empty cup reflecting your face. Gods, you’re a mess. “I took something from him to save him.”

“Money?”

“No, nothing like that,” you mumble, swirling your cup mindlessly. “I took his choice away.”

“I see. He must’ve not wanted to be saved, then, is that right?”

You don’t answer him. The air becomes silent again, but the soft tune of the lute, and even the bartender is no longer paying attention to anyone in the tavern, only watching how the bard’s fingers file through the strings. The only person who doesn’t seem distracted is the man beside you.

“Do you regret it?”

“Saving him?” you pause, and maybe it’s the drink getting to your head, or perhaps it’s the way the music seems to fade out, but the words stumble out of your mouth before you can even process them. “I want to regret it.”

From the corner of your vision, you finally notice that his booze is still filled to the top, untouched.

“Does Astarion regret it too?”

Realization dawns on you.

You can see them now—the fangs that peek out from the smile stretching across his lips. And yet, it is not a malicious smile that confuses you even more. It would almost feel genuine if you weren’t in such a vulnerable position, and immediately, you’re thinking of ways to defeat him with just a bottle of wine with your head still spinning.

The door to the tavern swings open.

Lae’zel almost looks out of breath as she sprints to you, a sight you don’t see every day. “Come! They were ambushed.”

When you turn back to the man sitting at the bar, you only see a gold coin beside a full cup.

You don't have time to delay, as Lae'zel yanks out of the tavern.

You've never run faster in your life. But your mind remains elsewhere, unable to keep up with the speed of your body because it's too busy being stuck in the past. Do you regret it? Does he? Until now, before Astarion’s arrival, you'd been sure it had been the right thing to do to stop the ritual. And now, after hearing all the resentment he harbored toward you as a result, you wonder if it was worth it at all. If losing him was worth the ache you endure now. Before you can snap yourself straight, the memories flood in like a dam breaking open.

“Do you love me?”

“I do. I do love you.”

You don’t expect him to say it back. Not when he looks taken aback at how quickly you’d answered him, his eyes flickering with something you can only describe as a false sense of confidence overwhelmed with a glimmer of fear that means so much more. You know love is hard for someone who hasn’t felt it in 200 years. You know this and, therefore, cannot expect it from him right now.

He cares for you, and that’s enough.

He presses his lips to your temple, and you ignore the restless aching in your chest.

Did he regret being with you then? What did he regret? There's so much you want to know, but nobody willing to answer them.

Shame floods you as you realize you’re distracted, even in such a dire situation for your companion. One more reason to hate him, you suppose—not that you’re keeping count. There’s too much blood drenching your hands, sticky and weighing on you like a pile of bricks as you burst into your shared home in the dead of night, the unconscious body of Shadowheart slumped over your back. Gale rushes to the kitchen immediately for supplies while Lae’zel slams the door shut, shoving her sword against the wall.

“Give her to me,” the githyanki demands as she picks up Shadowheart like a sack of potatoes. The half-elf groans loudly, and you hiss.

“She’s bleeding, Lae’zel, be careful!”

“I’m always careful,” she snaps back and lays your companion across the dining room table. And finally, in the light of a few flickering candles, you can see the damage that’s been done.

A large slash runs through her pelvis to just below her chest, and you can hear Gale swallow the lump in his throat before desperately resuming his rummage through the cabinets for a healing potion. Even if he’s injured too, he doesn’t seem to notice. She’s bleeding—too much for you to handle but enough for you to keep your eyes glued to her pained expression. Even unconscious, the pain seems to seep into her dream as she grunts, gasping for her breath.

It was a mistake. You should have gone in the morning. You should have been with them.

“We used all our healing potions in the battle. We need to make more,” he reaches for the cabinet where he keeps most of his ingredients. However, as he begins grinding them together, he stops and whips around to Lae’zel. “Victims outside the Blushing Mermaid. They might come back for them.”

“For corpses?” you answer for her.

“For their blood, dammit! Their children were there, alive and afraid,” he hisses at the pain of his own injuries. “Please, go check on them in my stead.”

She glares. “Tchk. What a stupid suggestion. In this pathetic state that all of you are in-”

You push her toward the door with all that remains of your strength. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Her brows furrow, but she scoffs, relenting. “Fine. This is the last time I clean up your messes.”

You know she doesn’t mean it.

Once she leaves, you’re hunched over Shadowheart, dabbling in your less-than-effective means of soothing her. You can only hear Gale, who keeps feeding her healing potions, but it’s not nearly enough if her groans tell you anything. She needs a potion of greater healing at best, and those haven’t been exactly plentiful in supply after most of the city’s potion shops were destroyed in the war against the illithids. Another thing you should have done is stock up on potions. But you’d thought your group had had enough—at least, sufficient for a few more battles.

He rushes into the other room, mumbling about making a potion from scratch.

You clutch at Shadowheart’s hand, praying Gale would hurry up to cease the way she writhes under the candlelight. All you see is the red staining her clothes.

When you think things can’t possibly get worse, you hear the top stair creak under someone’s weight.

You must be cursed by at least one god. You’re sure of it.

He looks nearly starved. Almost as if he hadn’t drunk in days—but surely he hadn’t been this bad just this morning? His face is pale, though it’s always been white as a sheet, and his crimson glare is glued to the blood dripping off the edges of the table like a harpy with their luring songs. You feel your stomach drop as you recall you hadn’t even had the guts to stare at him in the face, and perhaps he had looked this bad. Maybe that’s why he’d approached you in the first place and asked about the Fist—not to spite you in a taunting manner, but simply because he was starving.

Whatever happened to drinking from the ladies at Sharess’ Caress?

You don’t have time to ask; honestly, you don’t want to know the answer either.

You’re convinced he might have fed off of nothing but the rats he loathes with how sunken his eyes appear from the bags forming beneath them. The overwhelming scent of blood must have lured him out. Even you would have plugged your nose if you weren’t so concerned over your friend's wellbeing, and it’s then that you realize what he’s truly here for.

Almost instinctively, you step in front of Shadowheart, hand going to reach for your dagger. You grasp at nothing but the air.

Shit.

His lips stretch into a dangerous smile. One that is not welcome right now. “Why the hostility, darling?”

“Go back upstairs. I’m warning you.” It’s just you, Gale, and an unconscious Shadowheart in the room at the hands of the hungry vampire, practically ravenous for blood. While you’re sure Gale could handle himself as long as he doesn’t succumb to his injuries, you have nothing in your possession but Shadowheart’s hand and a candle on the table. And on top of this, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to protect Shadowheart in the crossfire if a fight breaks out.

Your mouth feels dry. You can taste blood in your mouth, but you only realize moments later that it’s your own.

Your mind flashes back to the spawn who nearly killed you mere weeks ago. They’d had the same simmering hunger in their eyes, keen to kill in favor of satiating the endless longing for blood. The same spawn managed to overpower you with such a drastic difference in strength, making you wonder what Astarion himself is capable of. He’s had decades more experience and killing—perhaps he’s even stronger.

No, he’s definitely stronger.

When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

“Oh, poor Shadowheart,” he taunts. “She’s already lost so much blood…”

“And she’s not losing anymore.” You don’t dare to lift your eyes from Astarion.

The hammering of your chest, the quickening of your breath—they are all things that he does not feel. You wonder if he feels anything at all. You’re sure he’s capable of hatred, he’s capable of reveling in the blood of his enemies, and he’s capable of laughing as he stabs a blade into a man’s eye.

But you wonder if that cold, dead heart of his can feel anything but for himself.

“You look unsettled,” he mocks. “Shall I drink from her? She certainly wouldn’t survive in the state she’s in, though…it would be a bit of a waste, don’t you think?”

You taste blood again from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not sure if it’s just the booze driving insanity to your head or the encounter with a spawn just minutes ago, but the look in his eyes makes your chest tighten. The hunger, the bloodthirst, and the sheer drive to satiate his vampiric needs are enough to make you feel like prey cornered by a starved owlbear. He doesn’t look himself. He seems more like the spawn who’d nearly killed you. And for the first time since you awoke to his fangs bared at your neck during a night at the camp, you see him for what he is.

A vampire spawn—a monster.

This is not your Astarion. In fact, he’d never existed. He’d never loved you, and while you believed his care was enough at the time, you think that might’ve not existed either. This is not the same man who reassured you in your times of need, praised your very being, and gazed at you with nothing but love as you excitedly showed him your new pieces of music. This is not someone who had looked utterly confused when you confessed you wanted more with him because he could not imagine being a priority to someone else. This is not the same man who you once called your lover.

Your lover would not choke you to the brink of death, with nothing but malice urging him on. Perhaps you stopped the ritual from taking his soul, but maybe something else had taken it anyway. And you’re finished making a fool of yourself, hoping he reciprocates a love he cannot give.

When he steps down the stairs, the butter knife that sat on the table seconds before, flies through the air.

Whoever this is, you decide you do you hate him. You’ll force yourself to forget what he was to you if you have to, the same way he did to you. And this time, there is no hesitance or lingering feelings behind your words that represent the weak, naive part of you that can’t help but hold onto memories that no longer matter.

You truly, utterly hate him.

The knife barely flies past his skin, piercing itself into the wall, and it relieves you of the tension that’s weighed on you for the past few months, like plucking a thread from a poorly sewn piece of cloth.

“I won’t miss next time,” you snarl, your words laced with poison and your glare filled with daggers. It's a tone you rarely use on enemies, much less your allies, but all you can think about is your unconscious companion lying behind you.

For once, he looks almost surprised. His eyes are wide, unblinkingly staring at the bloody butter knife that nearly sliced off the tip of his nose before drifting over to you. You heave, your chest rising up and down as you try to catch the breath that doesn’t seem to exist, and he raises both his brows.

“Threatening me with a butter knife? Really?”

You've never threatened him at all, really. Not even when he first asked you for your blood. But now, even that seems like an afterthought.

“Go,” you spit.

He looks at the blood dripping wastefully on the floor, then at you. His face finally falls, but he wets his lips with his tongue glazing over his fangs, and it boils your blood enough to make you lightheaded. And though the breath you’d been grasping at comes back to you when he turns to disappear back upstairs, his parting words do little to ease the squeamish feeling in your stomach.

“I prefer this spiteful part of you far more, darling.”

You fight the urge to use the candle as a weapon next.

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@bitterrenegade@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst #angst with a happy ending #maybe

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azrielmasterlist · 13 days ago

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His Shadows & Their Starlight

Storyline:-(Ver.2.0) Azriel is sitting next to Elain as you sit by the fireplace reading. You've been staying with Azriel, Cassian, and Rhysand for the past two months in Velaris. You're a mortal but Rhysand says you have different abilities that no mortal should be able to have. For example, winnowing or teleporting. Azriel is in love with Elain Archeron even though Elain already has a mate.

Word count:- 1.2k

Warnings:- Insecurity, Lonliness, Jealousy, Angst.

Series:- Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Chapter 5: Unspoken Words

Isla's POV

The days blurred together, each one more tangled than the last. The weight of unspoken things pressed against me, a silent reminder of the tension that had taken root between Azriel and me.

He avoided me now, or at least tried to. His presence was still a constant shadow in my life—both literally and figuratively. Even when I didn’t see him, I felt him. His shadows brushed against me in moments of quiet, soft and fleeting like they were checking in on me.

It should have made me feel uneasy, but it didn’t.

Instead, it felt like we were speaking a language that only we could understand. A language that Azriel himself didn’t seem to know how to handle.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

One evening, I found myself sitting by the Sidra, watching the water shimmer under the moonlight. The city was quiet, the kind of peaceful that only came when most of its inhabitants had retired for the night.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice him approach me until his shadows brushed against my arm.

I looked up, my heart skipping a beat when I saw him standing there, his wings partially furled, his face unreadable in the dim light.

“Isla,” he said, his voice low and rough.

I nodded in acknowledgement, unsure of what to say.

For a moment, he simply stood there, as though debating whether to join me. Then, finally, he sat down, leaving a careful distance between us. His shadows, however, had no such reservations. They curled around me, brushing against my skin like they were saying hello.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I said softly, breaking the silence.

Azriel didn’t respond right away. He stared out at the water, his jaw tight. “I thought it would be better that way.”

“Better for who?”

“For both of us.”

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping me. “Do you believe that?”

He turned to look at me then, his hazel eyes burning with something I couldn’t quite name. “You don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Help me understand why you’re so determined to push me away.”

His wings shifted, the movement agitated. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” I pressed.

“Because I’m not free to feel this way,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word.

The rawness of his confession hit me like a physical blow. I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“I have a bond,” he said, his gaze dropping to the ground. “A bond that ties me to someone else. Someone who doesn’t… who can’t love me back.”

“Elain,” I whispered, the name heavy on my tongue.

He nodded, his shadows retreating slightly as though they, too, felt the weight of his words.

“But she’s not with you,” I said carefully. “She’s with Lucien.”

“That doesn’t change the bond,” he said, his voice filled with self-loathing. “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m supposed to love her.”

Three Sisters For Three Brother

“Supposed to,” I echoed, my heart aching for him. “But do you?”

His silence was answer enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The days after that conversation were quieter. Azriel and I kept our distance, but his shadows were still there, ever-present and watchful.

I found myself studying them more, trying to decipher the way they moved, and the way they seemed to react to my emotions. They weren’t just an extension of Azriel’s power—they were a part of him, a reflection of his innermost self.

And they were telling me a story that he couldn’t.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

We crossed paths again a few nights later, this time in the library. I had come to lose myself in the comfort of books, hoping to quiet the storm of thoughts in my mind. But the moment I saw him sitting there, his wings tucked close to his body, I knew it wouldn’t be a peaceful night.

“Isla,” he said, his voice soft but strained.

“Azriel.” I hesitated, then sat down across from him.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looked up, his hazel eyes meeting mine. “And?”

“And I think you’re lying to yourself.”

His wings twitched, but he didn’t respond.

“You say you’re supposed to love Elain,” I continued, “but your shadows… they tell a different story.”

His gaze sharpened, his shadows curling around him protectively. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” I asked, leaning forward. “They’re always there, Azriel. Always with me. They’re trying to tell me something, even if you won’t.”

For a moment, he simply stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he stood, his shadows flickering like a storm around him.

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice raw. “I can’t be what you need.”

“Who said I need you to be anything?” I shot back, standing as well. “I’m not asking for your love, Azriel. I’m asking for your honesty.”

He turned away, his wings flaring slightly. “I can’t give you that either.”

And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the shadows he’d left behind.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The conversation replayed in my mind over and over again, each word cutting deeper than the last.

I didn’t understand why he was so determined to push me away, why he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. But I did understand one thing: his shadows didn’t lie.

They were his heart, his truth, even if he couldn’t admit it.

And they were reaching for me.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning, I found Azriel in the training yard again. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I marched straight up to him, ignoring the wary look he gave me.

“We need to talk,” I said firmly.

He sighed, sheathing his blade. “Isla—”

“No,” I interrupted. “You don’t get to walk away from this. Not this time.”

His wings tensed, but he didn’t argue.

“I don’t care about the bond,” I said, my voice trembling. “I don’t care about what you think you’re supposed to feel. All I care about is what’s real. What’s here, between us.”

His shadows stirred, reaching for me even as he tried to hold them back.

“You’re afraid,” I said, stepping closer. “Afraid of what this means. But you don’t have to be.”

For a moment, he simply stared at me, his hazel eyes filled with so much emotion that it took my breath away. Then, slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against mine.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” I said, lacing my fingers with his.

His shadows wrapped around us then, a silent promise that we weren’t alone.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged.

Taglist:- @donnadiddadog @onebadassunicorn-blog @wintersquirrel @rcarbo1

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melonlord98 · 11 days ago

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Love That Waits: II. Jey

Here's chapter 2 of this fic! This takes place on the same day, with a little bit of extra exposition. Hope you all enjoy! Leave me a comment and let me know what you think ❤️

April 17, 2023

The crowd was too loud here. The pop of the speakers as Paul made his impassioned speech about the joining of the Judgment Day and the Bloodline. Jey and his brothers had come out here to scrap, only to find out there had been a snake in the grass the whole time. And it wasn’t Sami Zayn. It was Roman Reigns. The ring in Jey’s ear hadn’t quite reached a fever pitch just yet. For now, he would listen. For now, he’d be the Right-Hand Man. Paul continued.

“A short-term deal, engineered, conceived of, and approved of by your Tribal Chief, Roman Reigns.” Paul declared to the crowd as Jey and his brothers looked on. When the fuck had that ever been the plan?! Jey turned to Paul, reaching hesitantly for the mic. Leaning in when Paul’s hand refused to loosen its grip. Though the older man would eventually hand the mic over as Jey spoke.

“OG, we didn’t–we didn’t know nothin’ about that. We didn’t whatchu talkin’ about right now, OG.” The look Paul gave him in response made Jey went to punch the old man right in the teeth. Still, he returned the the mic respectfully. Yearning for further explanation. An alliance? With them? What the fuck was the Tribal Chief on? When Paul spoke next, he didn’t even look Jey in the eye.

“Your Tribal Chief didn’t want anyone on our side,” Paul raised his eye warily to fix his suddenly fearful gaze on Solo, “well, except for Solo because there’s no raised voices or sudden movements towards Solo…” He straightened his back now as he pressed further, “Because the Tribal Chief wanted his Usos almost to be caught off-guard by the enormity of this short-term deal, you see.”

Jey began to pace. The ringing in his ears now buzzed just behind his eyes. His eyes locked on Finn Balor, who replied to Jey’s bitter stare with a cocksure ass smirk. The kind that reached his eyes, but the blue in them wasn’t alight with anything friendly. That smirk promised war, but as Jey leaned in to answer the call, Paul put himself in front of him. Jey’s head snapped up, only to turn quickly down at the ground again. These looks Paul was giving him would be the death of him too, if Jey had it his way. But I don’t. His fists clenched at the thought. The Tribal Chief was testing them. The Judgment Day was testing them and Jey knew better than to be the one to throw the first punch. Roman wouldn’t have that.

Paul was standing partially in front of him now, his body a warning more than a shield. If Jey crossed Paul, he was crossing the Tribal Chief. The ringing in his ears continued and so did the running of Paul’s fuckin’ mouth.

“Even Mr. Balor,” Paul gestured to Finn, who raised in his chin at him. Jey stiffened his neck and lowered his head, looking up at Finn through his eyelashes. Heat. Simmering. Burning. In his head, in his throat. Paul went on, “Mr. Balor from what I understand, is not that happy about this because Mr. Balor has deep-rooted anger issues about the Bloodline.” Finn shook his head at every word. Other than the pacing, he was a mirror of Jey’s contempt. Somebody swing! Anybody!

But they were all just as much on a leash as Jey and his brothers. Even he knew that. One wrong move and Damian Priest or Rhea Ripley would have something to say about it. Or worse, both. They all remained still. Just on the razor’s edge, but no one was dumb enough to act yet. Patient. Let the promo end and we all go the fuck home. Don’t be the problem.

Paul kept yapping and yapping, just like he always. At some point, Jey stopped listening altogether. Paul started yapping about concerns. Bad Bunny. Solo being an expert at whatever the fuck. The ringing was getting louder now. Jey clasped his hand around his wrist, squeezing. Trying to replace the noise with something else. Anything else. The feel of Paul’s hand on his waist snapped him back to the present. Jey leaned in, following Paul’s eyes out of the corner of his own gaze and caught on Rhea. Damn, she and Solo was lookin’ at each other the way me and Finn was.

“Jey, would you please trade places with Solo.” Man, this some bullshit. But Jey obeyed, tapping his younger brother on the shoulder and gesturing for him to move when Solo looked back at him. Jey slid in behind him, coming face to face with Rhea. At first, he thought she was looking at him just as he was looking at her. Her eyes cold, but focused. Locked in on something. Jey got lost in them as he stared back, squaring his shoulders. She was smaller than him, but he’d seen her throw grown men over her shoulders. If she wanted to, she’d packed my ass up too. Lowkey, I might just let that shit happen though. I bet it’d feel real good to be put in a head lock, head pillowed against her bicep and– His train of thought was broken by Finn Balor shifting back at the edge of his periphery. By the time he’d looked back, Rhea had switched places with him. Motherfucker was trying real hard not to be disappointed. What? She ain’t want none uh ’this? The fuck did I just say?

Jey refocused. It ain’t about that right now. He needed to lock in. Jimmy had already given him shit a couple months ago.When he fully came back around, Jey realized that the ringing in his ears had gone. Shit, lusting after her can’t be what did it? He’d worry about that part later though. But as Paul continued talking, Jey continued watching her. He noticed Finn Balor too, trying to catch his attention. Prob’bly to try and piss him off again, but there was something… No, too much about Rhea that he just didn’t really care about the rest of ‘em anymore. Jey watched her. The way the harness she wore tugged just enough at her chest and creased the skin of her bare shoulder where the harness strap dung in at the lip of her collar. Her hair was short and slick back, shiny with gel. Her knuckles nearly white where she clung to her title. Her free hand clenched into a fists, adorned with a of silver jewelry. Some of the rings sharp at the point of her nails, like claws. If she swung hard enough, they would definitely break skin. Damn, I need to get fucking laid, Jey thought in reprimand. I need to get laid… Not by her though! Someone else! Oh shit– Rhea was leaning toward Paul now, who held the mic out for her as she spoke. What the fuck did I miss?

“For now,” she said emphatically, the look she gave Solo could freeze hell and high heaven over. Jey was definitely not thinking about how hot that made him, though. Jimmy’s hand was on his shoulder now and he leaned into whisper something to him. Jey nodded, but he didn’t fucking hear a word he said.

Paul started yapping yet again. Jey could hear him distantly announce the Usos’ tag team match against Kevin and Sami. Jey knows that he moves, he knows he says something, but everything kind of feels like it’s happening from far away. It’s all off. Or maybe it’s just him. Paul’s talking about taking care of each other’s concerns or something and when Jey looks up, Finn nods at him and he nods back. A reluctant peace offering for now. He catches Paul’s words in the middle of a sentence. “Because right here, right now in the godforsaken city of Little Rock, Arkansas–“ Jey starts pacing with glee, clapping his hands at the jab that Paul makes to the crowd around them, who follow the insult with a chorus of boos.

Paul continues, “Solo is going to go one-on-one, and in the name of the Tribal Chief, smash his opponent–“ he takes Dominik’s head for this one and Jey almost laughs, “I’m so sorry you have to see this deplorable human being up close– Solo’s opponent, the two thousand twenty-three WWE Hall of Fame inductee, Rey Mysterio!”

The crowd cheers as his music hits, but Jey spaces out again as Rey makes his entrance.

When he comes to again, he’s in a club. Some bullshit techno beat with a bunch of bullshit lyrics cranked so loud he can feel his skin vibrating. He flinches back as a sharp bolt of cold hits the skin of his fingers. Upon looking down, he sees Finn Balor hold a fresh beer out to him. Jey blinks at it for a couple seconds before nodding at Finn and taking the drink, sighing as feel of the chilled liquid against his tongue. It’s way too warm everywhere around him. Finn’s saying something to him, but Jey’s not listening.

Instead, he studies the condensation on his beer bottle, cascading down the sides of the polished glass and hitting the side of his finger where he grips it. Cold. Finn seems to get the hint that Jey’s not listening to him and turns back to the person behind, who happens to be a very drunk Jimmy Uso leaning back-to-back with Damian Priest. Both of them some to be singing along to a song that is not playing. Jey’s mind escapes of again, trying to retrace his steps. How the fuck did a get here? What happened at the match? Did Solo win? He knows better than to ask out loud though. The fits of memory loss were something he’d struggled with since the Hell in a Cell match with Roman back during the pandemic. He shivered at the reminder but continued musing on about the gaps in his memory. It wasn’t as bad as it used to be though. This time had to be no more than an hour or two. Maybe three, at most. It was better than the days he used to lose and still remain lost to time.

“Hey!” it was a feminine voice, one that sat low in the throat and heavily accented. He knew that voice. “You not gonna sit down, big guy?” Oh. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Rhea, who Jey assumed had been hovering not too far away from him this whole time, was now standing in front of him. Her boots made her just tall enough now that they were eye to eye. In the dizzying black light and flashing strobes of the club, Jey could see just the tiniest shimmer on her eyelids. Purple glitter looked good on her. Oh shit, I still haven’t answered yet! Talk dumbass!

“I ain’t really in that kinda mind right now.” he replied, whether or not that reply made sense Rhea quickly answered for him, her face contorting with confusion before exploding with laughter. Jey watched in awe at the way all the sharp lines in her face melted and softened, making way for the the most breathtaking smile he had ever seen. He felt his body respond, or rather, a very specific part of his body and he hastily moved his hands to cover himself. He winced at the condensation from the bottle wet the front of his pants. Fuck!

“Hey, everything okay?” Rhea asked, her voice the softest he’d ever heard it, but her face (he saw when he looked up again) was once again contorted. This time in an expression of concern. Jey sputtered for a second, fumbling with his hands before remembering why he had been holding them where they were in the first place.

“I’m all good, Mami. You ain’t worry about me.” The fuck you callin’ ‘er Mami for, you fuckin’–

“Just double checking… uce” she grimaced, but it was quickly replaced by a smirk and she followed with, “Mami, huh? Don’t back acting too familiar, old timer.”

You can’t kiss strangers, uce. It’s bad practice. Her mans is prob’bly near by watching you flirt with his girl. Was it flirting? Jey didn’t know his left from his right sometimes on his best day. Why overthink it? Be cool.

“You got tattoos.” If it was possible to leave his own body and have his ghost punch him in the face, he would do it right now. Thankfully, Rhea didn’t seem to think Jey was as weird as he thought he was, because she just nodded simply. Lifting one of her arms up, she pointed to one of the tattoos and started telling him the story behind it. She was smiling again and honestly; he could fall out right then and there. She talked for quite a while before turning to him and asking about his own tattoos.

It was the most relaxed Jey had felt in years. The ease with which they spoke made him feel warm again, for very different reason than earlier. They eventually moved to sit on the steps just outside of the VIP booth near their table. Jey would kick himself for it later, but he honestly wasn’t listening as much as he wished because he was too fascinated by her smile. The kind of smile that didn’t so much make you weak in the knees as it felt like an embrace. He could feel himself mirroring it and every time she saw his shared grin, hers seemed to grow just a little brighter. It make him think about her and Dom.

Jey had never liked the little scrawny bastard. Hell, he’d nearly killed ‘im back when the kid was still tagging with his pops. Jey hated just about everyone though. They’d had a particularly violent encounter a couple months back that Jey preferred not to think about. It was an especially ugly moment for him and Roman had nearly torn him a new one. Dom had deserved it though. Now that he thought about it, Dom wasn’t special, but Rhea was. He’d hated her too, but it was more so the principle of the thing. Nothing personal. She wasn’t family and Jey hated anyone and everyone who wasn’t a member of his family. For this woman though, he was okay with changing that philosophy up a bit. Adding in an extra stipulation.

But then he remembered Jimmy’s warning from back in January. Jey hadn’t dated much throughout his career. He’d had the privilege of watching the relationship between his brother and sister-in-law flourish, but he had other things to worry about. He was happy enough with his sons, anyway. Or maybe that wasn’t entirely true anymore.

Jey was shaken from his reverie by the unpleasant sound of Dominik Mysterio’s voice. He had stepped out of their group’s booth and evidently was attempting to join them. Jey got up instead, coming face to face on the steps. Dominik’s was eyeing them with a bit too much of a puff to his chest and Jey was about to make that boy taste sound. He sneered at Dominik who tried to dap him up all friendly, but when Jey took Dom’s hand, he yanked him in close and hissed, “You don’t know me like that, boy. This bullshit deal don’t make us cool. Last I remember you trying shit with me, yo ass ended up laid out in a parking lot. If you mad about the girl, don’t be. I ain’t wanna take her from you just yet.”

When he pulled back, Jey felt a jolt of satisfaction at the bewildered look on Dominik’s face. Happy with his work, he turned to Rhea and bid her a gentlemanly farewell. Make sure to say every word too slowly. Enough for Dom to take the hint, but not enough for Rhea to clock Jey’s antics. She returned the goodbye by getting up and giving him a solid squeeze, pulling him into her side with one arm. If he weren’t in public, he’d have passed out.

They nodded at each other before Jey made his way back to the table, brushing roughly against Dom with his shoulder. He scoffed at the sight of Jimmy and Damian still singing along to nothing that was playing while Finn recorded them. Jey made his way over and waved his hand in front of Jimmy’s face to get his attention. Jimmy’s head swung heavily, his neck a loose swivel that the alcohol no longer afforded him control of as Jey spoke.

“I’m heading back to the hotel. I got some phone calls to make.” Jimmy threw him a haphazard thumbs up, having to provided additionally assistance to hold up his arm with his other arm. Damian mirrored the gesture, crying out “Happy Birthday!” as Finn and Jey laughed. Before Damian adds, “Ay, don’t get cold,” followed by a wink. Jey stiffens, suddenly flashing back to cold. The kind of cold that radiated off the asphalt of a hotel parking lot. He could see his own breathe as he hyperventilated. Hear the crunch of incoming feet on rocks.

“Jey…” this voice was Solo. Jey hadn’t noticed him the entire time standing in the corner. His arms were crossed like they always were, but he was squinting at him with concern. Jey shook his head, his throat to dry for any words to escape. The ringing was back in his ears. Before Solo could say another word, Jey had already shoved his way out of the room’s main entrance and back onto the main dancefloor of the club. He stumbled past body after body, his stomach churning as he was tossed around.

The cool night air felt more like a slap than an embrace. He collapsed to his knees on the pavement and emptied his stomach onto the sidewalk. No one seemed to mind though. Typically club behavior. Jey sat back on his heels and heaved the deepest sigh. The ringing was gone again, replaced now by the acidic burn in his throat. Still on his knees, he called an Uber back to the hotel. Making sure not to look out at the parking lot as he exited the car.

He entered the lobby to be greeted by the ugliest of paint jobs but found comfort in the soft hum of activity taking place in the lobby despite the late hour. There was a woman restocking one of the vending machines and he could hear the familiar clatter of a cleaning lady’s cart down the nearest hallway. Not as loud as the club, but not the ugly silence that would likely greet him in his bedroom. Jey noticed one of the many television in the lobby was turned onto a rerun of a recent NFL and he decided to take a seat at one of the tables in the dining area, feigning interest as an excuse to remain in this temporary comfort for just a few moments longer.

He had completely lost track of time when the front doors squealed as they slid open. He looked up at the noise, allowing himself to indulge in nosiness. What he wasn’t expecting was a very intoxicated Rhea Ripley stumbling through the doors without any of her typical entourage in tow. He’s surprised no one is accompanying her but then remembers exactly the kind of woman he’s talking about. Rhea could easily take out five grown men, with or without being heavily inebriated. Jey didn’t think he saw her drinking much at the club, but then again, he didn’t remember much of anything correctly ever. Upon looking over again, he watches her struggle to reach the elevator. Her head swinging from one direction to the other. Her eyes squinting suspiciously at the signs. Jey nearly laughed out loud at the realization that she couldn’t read anything.

Feeling bad for her now, he make his way over. Calling out and making sure she acknowledges him with a rather dumb grin before placing her arm over his shoulders and a guiding hand on her waist.

“Come on, kid. Let’s get you upstairs.” Rhea giggles at him, using her free hand to poke lightly at his cheek. She’s mumbling something, but it’s not coherent enough for him to decipher, so he lets it go. They stumble together down the hall to the elevators and Jey manages to press the button, before he realizes he doesn’t know where the fuck her room is. He turns to Rhea again, but she’s rested her head on his shoulder. Moving it from side to side, nuzzling her forehead against the bare, yet heavily tattooed skin. He sucks in a sharp breath before asking, “Hey, kid. I’m gonna need your room number.”

Rhea’s head snaps up and she giggles dumbly again, her grin so wide the points at the end of her lips nearly touch her earlobes. She replies by puling the rom key out of her back pocket, taking his hand from around her waist, cupping it in hers, and slapping the piece of plastic into his palm before returning to nuzzling his shoulder. He shook his head at her, smirking at the absurdity of it all just as the elevator chimed to announce its arrival. The ride up wasn’t too much work. Rhea still had her head rested against his shoulder, but she wasn’t nuzzling him as aggressively anymore.

Getting her down the hallway was the real challenge. Rhea’s knees seemed to give out right as the doors opened and Jey was forced to carry her princess-style down the hallway. Thank you, Jesus, for allowing me not to get drunk enough to forget this. He would have added more to the prayer if Rhea’s head hadn’t suddenly fallen forward, pressing her forehead right in the curve where his neck met his shoulder. Her forehead was warm form the friction of rubbing it against his shoulder all that time before and he nearly gasped. Thankfully, they arrived at the door of her room almost simultaneously. Lucky for him, the key worked through the sleeve and he used his foot to maneuver the door handle before kicking it open.

Rhea continued to mumble to herself as Jey placed her in bed, making quick work of her shoes. He’d let her figure out what to do with the rest of her clothing. He scoffed when she turned hard, her arm flailing and nearly pulling her entire torso off the bed. It reminded him of a time Jimmy had done the same thing. The thought is quickly interrupted as Rhea calls out, “Dom! Turn the fucking air off in here!”

Jey scoffed at the misunderstanding but didn’t correct her. Instead, he moved back toward the bed and lifted her back onto it, popping her up just long enough to pull the blanket loose and cover her with it. He watched her snuggle into the plush warmth of the comforter before turning to leave. Finally feeling comfortable enough to go back to his room, Jey is surprised by how easily he’s able to fall asleep and remain at rest. In the past, he only slept well when his sons shared a bed with him. Now, he felt warm despite the sharp chill of the AC that hotel rooms always had blasting, even in the thick of winter.

April 18, 2023

Jey was sitting in the dining area down in the lobby, having just finished his first plate of breakfast after the most restful night of sleep he’d had in years. Just as he got up for another serving, his phone went off and his quiet morning was suddenly shattered as the ringing in his ears returned. His phone flashed with the name, “Sami Zayn” and Jey stood frozen, watching it go to voicemail. But Sami was a persistent bastard. He called back immediately. His name flashing on the screen again.

Jey reached out with a shaking hand and swiped to answer the call. He said nothing. Staring off in horror while he waited with bated breath for Sami to speak. Sami, who knew Jey all to well, did just that.

“Morning, uce. I thought I’d call just to check in on you after last night. I saw the show and I just couldn’t get out of my head how Roman blindsided you guys like that.” Sami paused, seemingly to allow room for Jey to speak before continuing, “You know Roman doesn’t do anything halfway. He made this alliance behind your backs because he doesn’t trust you or your brothers to handle business the way the Bloodline used to. This is just the beginning, Jey. If you need someone to talk to, surprisingly, you seem to still have my number.” The silence after the call clicks off is deafening.

He got up almost robotically to make himself another plate of food, the phone call a reminder that he needed to take that new medication he’d been able to get behind everyone’s backs. His doctor had actually been surprised that he was susceptible to the idea of taking medication for his anxiety. Among the plethora of other health issues he was suffering from due to reasons he preferred not to discuss with anyone. Especially not himself.

The ringing in his ears persisted. He flexed his hand, waiting as a a paper cup he had grabbed filled with orange juice. His hands shook as he pulled the pill bottle out of his pocket and emptied two tablets into his hand. He tossed them back, bowing his head as he swallowed. He stayed like that for god knows how long. Just looming over the breakfast counter like a shadow. A specter, the same way his cousin’s presence loomed over him. Even when not physically present. The weariness in him was bone deep, but something else felt off. A feeling, like he was being watched. His mind spun off in all directions. Was it Sami? Had the call just been a ruse for me in the hotel lobby? No, Sami wasn’t the type to play that dirty. Not anymore. Even I know that. Taking in a sharp breath, he spun around surprised to see that the person he fixed his gaze on was Rhea Ripley.

She was staring back at him as well, but her eyes had not met his yet. She seemed to be assessing him and Jey noted that she did that a lot. He watched her eyes move up his frame before finally meeting his gaze. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. Just stared. Watched. One lion circling another, both unsure who was going to pounce first.

Even as he watched her, noticing the coldness in her eyes, the warmth he had felt the night before returned to him. He remembered her tattoos, how her eyes brightened and her face softened when she spoke fondly of them. The way that joy had cracked and broken away into pieces when Dom had interrupted them. Jey had sensed something was off with them, but he didn’t feel the need to pry. If he were to insert his opinion, however, he would say that Dom wasn’t good enough for Rhea. But Jey preferred to keep his teeth.

As they continued to stare at each other, Jey came to the realization that he didn’t know her, yet she didn’t feel like a stranger to him. Just as he had that thought, he and Rhea were both startled by the sound of Damian Priest calling her from one of the hallways. Jey saw her look over her shoulder and decided to make his escape back toward the elevators. As he’s walked briskly back down the hallway, Jey thought to himself, Rhea was a stranger now, but maybe there was something he could do to fix that. Not anytime soon, but I think I can learn to be patient.

#jey uso #rhea ripley #jimmy uso #damian priest #dominik mysterio #finn balor #jhea #jhea fanfiction #the bloodline #sami zayn #wwe #wwe raw #wwe smackdown

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afreakingdork · 4 months ago

Text

Soft Spot - Chapter 8

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Someone's excited and someone isn't in this week's chapter art by @garbagemilkshake

Rated: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Romance, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Married Life, Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, Villain Donatello (TMNT), Love, POV Second Person, Babies, Pregnancy, AFAB reader, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fertility Issues, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Cum Eating, Turtle Noises (TMNT), I have a Biology Degree and I’m Using it, Menstruation, There WILL NOT be any Miscarriages

Synopsis: First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the next step about as smooth as the others arrived. The baby-oriented sequel to Weak Spot.

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

Trigger warning: There is a mention of miscarriage. Reminder that there will be no miscarriages in this story. I apologize to anyone who has suffered that grief and please know that while times may be tough in this story, they will get better.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. leapt into the air. With a swivel of his torso that would have been impossible with mammalian spinal columns, he rotated all the way around to snatch a Frisbee. He then landed with the brunt of his weight denting dead grasses. Doing the same spine breaking spin, he whipped the plastic disc away from him. It shot with lethal accuracy at your mate who caught it without wasting a bit of movement.

The Frisbee was launched again and the game continued on as it had.

It had been going on for some time now.

It seemed like everything had.

This family picnic.

The last few weeks.

The persistent chill in the air.

It was why you were able to be out like this in the first place. For weeks, clouds took root in the sky. They darkened the doors of NYC and filtered out vibrancy. What was left was the usual humdrum of the city’s occupants and the only other entity that marked winter: cold.

Those who braved the elements bundled up, but there was little to see. All color was sucked from the concrete and buildings leaving everything a similar grey casing as the cumulus constellations above. Even a bright colored coat amongst the sea of neutrals seemed a pale comparison to how it appeared on a store rack.

It sent hoards of people indoors where golden tones were meant to encourage circadian rhythm. Bars were packed until condensation clung to the windows and hid them away from the chill. Restaurants buzzed with patrons looking for bowls of comfort and rooftop parties were dotted with the glowing embers of heat lamps instead of fairy lights.

They glowed like fireflies overtop the city, you imagined.

In reality, you hadn’t seen them.

You hadn’t seen much as of late.

Your husband had become a husk.

You had played out the rest of your Valentine’s trip in quiet contemplation. Waking for the multi-course breakfast should have been a treat and to an extent it was. It helped mop up the bitter feelings of the night before and there was love baked into every bite. The couple and other bed and breakfast tenants made for lively conversation and you heard life stories.

Ones that included family.

Ones that turned Donnie further inward.

He had yet to emerge in the time that followed.

When S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. phoned about the parks being empty, Donnie hadn’t challenged him. He agreed to an outing regardless of the conditions. Your son then immediately texted you with complaints of Donnie’s pliancy since he’d had a whole presentation planned to convince him. You offered to listen, but you certainly weren’t going to turn down the offer. In the end, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gave up and you instead ironed out the necessary details that brought you now to the park.

Only a few joggers happened by at an irregular pace and they were so bundled up they didn’t blink an eye at the giant purple humanoid automaton.

To a side glance, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was nothing more than a colorfully dressed being braving the cold in layers. In reality, your son generated his own warmth and the cold meant his processors were firing at some kind of top optimization. He could finally walk around in his humanoid form without being gawked at and having the park to yourselves was an added bonus. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was living out his dreams of playing catch with his dad, even if said man was less part of the game and currently acting like an automated machine that fired discs.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. nabbed the plastic out of the air in another momentous leap before he ran over to you. “See that one? Did I get higher that time?”

“I think so…” You pondered to play up his excitement.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s legs folded up so he could more closely match your height. “Well!?”

You rolled your eyes over the darkened sky before landing on him. “I bet you can do better.”

“I can!!” He revved to his feet and launched the Frisbee at Donnie. “Throw it high!!”

Your husband complained and the disc then cleared S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s leap by several leagues. “Shoot!”

It disappeared into some dead brush.

Heavy metal footsteps clabbered after it. “I got it!”

You watched the lights on S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s chassis disappear and turned back to Donnie. Your husband’s eyes were both fixed and unfocused after where his son had gone. It had been weeks since you’d seen life shine off his gaze. He fully moved through motions and had never verbally accepted that you were no longer trying. Instead, he let his actions speak louder as you’d gone through your next ovulation cycle without having sex at all.

General intimacy might also have been absent had you not pushed for it. Your mate didn’t deter you, but was a lackluster partner in that regard. You often curled up against him on the couch for the sake of it and it was only after you continued to root stubbornly did he relent with an arm around you. You’d settle as thanks for it, but he no longer churred.

You hadn’t heard the sound since that accursed morning.

There was no helping it.

As Donnie had hypothesized, you became his strength where he lost will. He could easily be led, but he lost the desire to plan. This was his version of burnt out, you thought, as you took over making meal plans and keeping track of household stock. You often left him notes of what needed to be done that day and he always had them complete by the time you got home. It was a little more on your mental load, but his despondency didn’t make the extra work a chore. You wanted to care for him. The only exhaustion you had faced in the last few weeks was the one that struck you every time you opened your calendar.

The ovulation schedule was still overlaid amongst your daily tasks.

Since Donnie was no longer updating it live, it now ran on the last approximate data. You saw the time when your body supposedly released an egg, but if Donnie’s nose picked up on it, he didn’t betray that information. He was a shell that currently did what he was told, ate what was put in front of him, drank until a glass was empty, and slept when he laid down. You cared for him without a single question as you imagined this was all very new for him.

He had never spoken of burnout before though you imagined that was probably the stemming factor for his big 30s change. Years of scraping by took its toll on him and had manifested in him giving up the will to fight. He carried on for the sake of it after that and history seemed to align with what was happening now. It made you wonder how or if Donnie had ever learned to process grief.

It didn’t seem like it since his reaction to such was to shut down. While he rarely treated himself like a computer these days, it seemed like an instinct to fall back on those old habits. The moment the chip in his brain couldn’t process one thing, the system kicked in with a failsafe. It robbed him of all other emotions during the reboot. He was in safety mode which glided by on the barest instruction. Sex, to that extent, was out of the question for a multitude of reasons, but the largest reason had to be it was inadvertently the cause of his crash. Doing it again led to that ultimate are you or are you not pregnant scenario that had caused his malfunction in the first place. Until he could handle that exact computation, you would be in stand by with your pocket warmers close, not that you were troubled by the actual cold.

It had been S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. who created the electric blanket you were currently perched on. He was becoming acutely aware that his parents’ flesh bodies were negatively impacted by the cold. You weren’t exactly sure, but you had a feeling he had downloaded data on babies and it had scared him to find out how fragile they were. That was presumably connected to the dangers of motherhood which was why it made sense when your son demanded to take you out shopping for a downier winter coat. You’d picked him out a cute beanie for his worries which he’d clipped onto his head. It flopped around as he jumped which was exactly what it did when he burst from the bushes. “Found it!”

“Where was it?!” You called out to him.

“Tree!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. threw his arms out to mimic branches. “I didn’t cut it down!”

“That’s my boy!” You cheered him on.

He wriggled happily before coming over. “Soup time? I’ve been keeping it toasty!”

“Sure.” You moved to give him room on the blanket if he wanted it and looked toward Donnie. “Come back in!”

Your husband didn’t jostle and walked forward as if a command prompt had been entered.

You pulled up a secondary blanket that was tucked around your legs.

Donnie knelt down on a far edge of the ground cover and S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s chest compartment opened up.

Right next to his facsimile of a heart was a large thermos which he extracted and set down. “Don’t touch it yet. Outside temperature reads 93°C.”

“That’s not toasty; that’s boiling.” You chastised him.

“Nah, it’s totally food safety holding temp!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. scoffed.

“When’d you get your license?”

“I got a part time job!”

“And you didn’t tell me!?” You pinched up the fabric on Donnie’s pants to tug him.

Your mate shuffled only an inch closer.

“I don’t tell you everything, mom.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. took a bitter tone, but his digital eyes wrinkled at the improv.

“My baby, I remember when you were just a microchip…” You feigned sobbing and pulled a seam on Donnie’s pants harder.

He finally came close enough that you could toss some of the blanket over his lap.

There was still a modest distance between you.

“So embarrassing!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. whined.

“Bring someone home so I can show them your baby pictures.” You grinned and grabbed the handle of a soft-sided cooler.

From inside you produced a nice crusty bread you had gotten that morning with S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. as a pre-game outing.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. tugged the cooler to him to get bowls ready and dolled out steaming cups of soup.

“Mom…?” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. watched on as you relished tearing into the loaf.

He sounded nervous so you addressed him seriously. “Yes?”

“I… don’t have a job.” His eyes were pricked with pixel tears.

“I know, dear.” You patted his hand.

“And I’m ace!” He burst into a phony sob.

“But your dating profile!” You feigned a gasp.

“I just love a free meal and ice breakers!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. supposed agony had him falling over onto you.

He was metering his weight and you wrapped an arm around him. “We’ll figure this out. It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah?” He looked up at you and his display blinked away tears.

“Of course. I’m always here for you.”

“And… scene!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. shot upright and you were barely able to get out of the way.

You tittered along with him as he passed you a spoon.

You took it and gave it to Donnie along with a bowl and some bread.

He stared down at the mixture before ladling some up and eating it since it was there.

You gave him a forlorn look before S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. passed you some soup of your own.

“Which parts were true?” You took a knowing bite.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. clammed up and picked up some bread for the sake of it.

“Shelly.” You didn’t need to press heat to know your son would crumble.

“The dating profiles and ace part.” He tore a bit of the bread flesh out and worked it between his metal digits into little tight balls.

“You’re… dating!? Like actually?!” You perked up before you got a bite in your mouth.

“Yeah…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gave way to despondent embarrassment and balled up more bread.

“I feel like I want to congratulate you, but you’re acting weird…”

“I kinda sorta… Uh… keep ghosting them…?”

“Oh…” You finally took a bite and found the temperature warmed your throat pleasantly.

“Yeah… I love the first date. Ugh, I could do it a million times over! The talk! The first look where they get that feeling! Each person is totally new and figuring out how to make them laugh that first time! Unf!! That’s what I bet it feels like when you take a good bite of food! Has to be!”

“Sounds like it, but…”

“I know…” He ground out and wilted. “Some of them get real mean when I turn them down after. There’s like expectations. That stuff sucks. Can’t we just hit it off and end it there?”

“Not really how it works… It sounds like these people are looking for a real connection. How much are you telling them beforehand?”

“Mostly the synthetic body stuff as a test. If they can deal with that then it’s all picking a place.”

“I meant about you being ace or that you don’t want anything long term.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was getting close to hollowing out his slice of bread.

“You’re not.” You ventured a guess.

“I’m not.” He agreed with a pout written in his body language instead of on his display.

“You’re feeling guilty about it.”

“The last guy got so sad…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. set the empty crust aside and started building up his bread pellets into a pyramid.

“It hurts. It sucks to think you met someone only for them to just want to stop after one date. Can’t you set the apps so it’s not romantic?”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. knocked over his growing tower.

You waited.

“You can do that?!” Your son’s eyes shot to yours.

“Depends on the app, I think.”

“Show me your profile!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. made an immediate grab for the pocket of your jacket that had your phone.

“Hey! Just because you can hear where it is, doesn’t mean you get to take it before I say yes!”

“Kid rules!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. protested and snagged the flap on your jacket anyway.

You were unable to swat your son away as he got your phone and plugged it into a port in his hand.

“Kids learn certain boundaries.” You grouched and gave up to eat.

“Nah, kids break the rulez. That’s with a ‘z’ by the way.” His eyes blinked at the display. “There’s nothing here!”

“It’s almost like I’ve been in a committed marriage for years!” You dunked your bread into the soup and watched it sop the liquid up.

“But you said you could make friends on it.”

“I have friends.” You chuckled.

“More friends.”

“I’m pretty good with the friends I’ve got.”

“So you just stop!?” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. looked at you like the odd one.

“I’m not against it.” You reached out to take your phone back.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s eyes rolled over into binary.

“What are you doing?” You turned wary.

“Found it!” In a blink, he projected a display of a dating profile you had made in your 20s.

You screeched straight through setting your soup safely aside and waved through the pixels to destroy it. “What is that?! Where did you find that?!?”

“Nothing on the internet dies!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. cackled pure malevolence to the cloudy sky.

“Is that active?!” You hissed and started grabbing at S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s form in an attempt to stop the display.

“Nah! It’s an archived page!” He giggled.

“Who archives that!?” You asked rhetorically before switching gears. “Turn it off now, mister.”

He laughed louder and the image dissipated.

You sank back into the blanket with a scowl.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. held out for a few seconds fiddling with his bread again.

“Want advice?” You sighed.

“Yes please.”

“Apologize to whoever will listen. Be honest about how much you feel comfortable with sharing. It’ll help. People can usually sense when someone isn’t honest.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. nodded.

“And ask that last guy to be your friend. He might be up for that. He might not be. It’ll all depend. Just stay safe.”

“Are you warning me about stranger danger?” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes.”

“Will you give me a curfew?!” He cheered.

“You live on your own!”

“Aw!” He whined long. “Can I move back in and get one?”

“Back in?” You got hold of your bowl. “How long has it been since you were living with Don?”

“What was it, dad? Like nine-ish years?” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. turned to Donnie as if he hadn’t been silent all this time.

Donnie didn’t look or respond.

“Nine years, 142 days, and six hours.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. told you.

You gave him a sympatric look for trying to include Donnie.

He took it with an understanding bob. “It’s not like there’ll be room for me soon anyway.”

“Shelly…” You had always had a feeling that S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was insecure about his place since you’d told him you were trying for a baby, but this was the first time he’d voiced it.

He waved his hands to dispel your worries. “Not like that! I want a little dude or dudette sibby!”

You tried to stifle a laugh.

“I do!”

“No, no.” You reached out to take one of his hands. “Not that! ‘Sibby?’”

“I’m gonna teach them all the cool slang!”

“Sure…” You teased.

“I am! I’m gonna be so cool! The coolest bro ever! I’ve been downloading books and everything!”

You softened. “You are.”

“Can I babysit?”

“Only lame big brothers don’t.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gasped, horrified.

You squeezed his hand, not that he could feel it.

He did notice though and looked up to you. “How’s that going? The data hasn’t been updating like before…”

The way Donnie’s spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl was palpable.

You sent him a nervous look, but he didn’t return it.

When you got back to S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N., you saw your son had done the same.

“Clean.” Donnie spoke his second or third word of the day.

You slurped down the rest of your soup and held the last bit of bread in your mouth before passing him your bowl and utensils.

He got his own and walked off.

“I mean it’s obvious something happened.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. spoke as soon as Donnie trended out of eye line.

You chewed quietly before you spoke. “It really seemed like I was pregnant for a minute…”

“Did something bad…?” He searched you with growing anxiety.

You shook your head. “No miscarriage, just a late period.”

“Could be late from stress.”

You bobbed your shoulders both agreeing with the possibility, but also not knowing for sure.

“What happened?”

“The emotional toll is… getting to us. It finally caught up with Donnie… I don’t know, Shelly. I asked if we could stop trying for now.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s red eyes widened.

“He’s not getting back on his birth control or anything, we’re just… I don’t know! We didn’t talk about it. I guess we won’t be obsessed with the schedule? I guess it just happens if it does…?”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. nodded.

“He’s hurting and I can’t help.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. tipped over until he could rest his head on your shoulder.

You set your cheek atop him. “I was hurting and he was there for me, but now it’s reversed and I think I’m doing everything I can, but maybe there’s something more.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. shook his head under the guise of snuggling closer.

His body radiated warmth and you leaned into it. “I know… Part of this is him coming to terms with what will or won’t happen.”

“I don’t really get it.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. spoke softly after you hadn’t for a while. “The urge to reproduce or whatever, but I get family. I love family. I want more to love.”

An arm snuck around to hug you.

You wriggled until you could sling one around him.

He rumbled with what you identified as a digital version of a churr. “When’d you get that?”

“Used a mixing board and messed with the levels a few weeks ago.”

“That’s fun.”

“Makes me feel closer to dad.”

“You’re just like your dad.” You pecked just above the point of S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s triangle.

“Thanks.” He rumbled louder.

You chuckled and rubbed his arm.

He adjusted a bit so he could lay in your lap.

You made sure he was whatever version of comfortable that worked for him before you followed lines in his body with your fingers.

He relaxed there for a while and his eyes closed. “You’ll make good parents.”

“I hope so.”

“You will. Dad’s come a long way. You’ve always been great. Fun to make yell.”

“Goodie.” The corner of your lip quirked sarcastically.

“It could take years.”

“I know…” You murmured.

For a long moment you both existed as parent and child.

“I think… we need to accept that. I think that despite hearing those low odds, we thought we could beat it like we have everything else. I think all this… shit, all these shitty thoughts, this misery, is a weird warning.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. watched you.

You looked down at him. “You can’t strong arm a baby. A baby takes time.” You rubbed the area where his cheek would be. “A baby takes understanding and you can’t force it. You can’t force any kid. Knowing every logical science fact in the universe isn’t going to convince a baby to stop crying. Kids are little nonsensical storms. Maybe all this was showing us that. The sooner we accept it, the better.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. reached up and took your hand.

“Do you think Donnie will ever make up for how he treated you?”

“No.”

“But you still want him to?”

He thought for a long moment. “No.”

“Are you waiting for something…?”

“Nothing.”

“Why… did you stay? Why do you still bother? You became independent, why didn’t you leave?”

The line of S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s smile was so genuine you felt your very being soothed. “He’s my dad.”

You had to look away.

You looked up at the cloudy sky.

It sat the same way it had for weeks.

Unmoving.

You lost focus as you stared at the diffused light.

You didn’t see anything until a sharp zap of cold nipped your nose.

It almost felt wet, but from what you saw of the sky there was nothing there.

You had to bring your head lower to see the tiny tufts of snow.

You patted S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s chest to get his attention.

The flakes weren’t heavy enough to come straight down and instead flittered off with weak will to gravity.

“It’s snowing…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. mooned.

He was soon up from your lap and catching your hand.

You were on your feet in moments and he threw his head back. You watched as his digital tongue appeared from the line on his beak and a snowflake hit him only for it to melt instantly. He cheered for it and you threw out your frame to do the same. The snow tasted sour on your tongue and you gagged a little. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. fussed about acid levels and you returned the concerns by wondering why he hadn’t warned you. He started to respond before he ran for the sake of it and you chased after.

He purposely kept within reach so you could catch him and when you did you caught his wrists. You then threw your weight to one side which spun him, but didn’t knock him over. You kept up momentum, soon running. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. caught your hands right back and you were twirling until the flurries made for white blurs around you. Increased speed eventually broke you apart and you both fell onto crunching grass with giggles.

Donnie appeared over your head and you looked up at him with warmed cheeks. “It’s snowing, Don!”

He nodded and offered you a hand.

You let him help you up and tried not to look too owlishly as he initiated a secondary action by dusting grass clippings from you.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was still on his back and watching with glowing eyes.

“Where’s the stuff you rinsed?”

Donnie looked over to the blanket.

You followed his sight and assumed by the open cooler that he had stuffed the tableware in there. “I might have eaten some acid snow.”

Your husband’s face didn’t betray much, but his chin dipped a little to check.

You stuck your tongue out for him to see.

A snowflake immediately landed on it and you choked as you stumbled away. “Ack!!”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. hooted with laughter.

“That was dumb!” You coughed and returned to find Donnie with the faintest light in his eyes.

Yours tripled in size.

He did nothing more and only continued to watch you.

You thought about double taking, but instead chewed your lip.

It took some heavy debate before you gave it all up to chance, “Did… you trick me?”

His gaze softened the smallest amount.

Your heart skipped a beat.

You meant to say something, but a flake then touched down on the tip of Donnie’s nose.

His eyes crossed to look at it and you reached up in a great show.

He lowered his head for you thinking you’d wipe it.

You were going to and fisted up your fingers so your thumb was free.

Just before you made contact, you switched grip so your forefinger was extended and used it to swipe down the melting droplet straight into your mate’s mouth.

The acidity hit his heightened taste buds and he reared away from you with the most movement he’d made in almost a month.

Both you and S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. couldn’t contain your giggles.

You both felt the moment Donnie recovered more than saw it.

“RUN! DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. shrieked before kicking up lawn to take off.

You pivoted as quickly as you could to run the other way.

You heard S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. scream out something about Donnie not being able to catch you both before there was an explosion of sod. You turned back, having run a good many feet away to find debris falling with the snow and Donnie hunched over the jangling arms of his son’s body in a crater. You peeped a single time as his head shot toward your direction. You made it exactly three more leg lengths before your husband dropped down in front of you.

You tried to keep from running into him, but your backpedal tripped you.

In a perfect tango maneuver, his hand caught your waist and you were tugged flush with him.

You hadn’t been this close of his violation in a while and butterfly wings beat against your insides as you looked up at him.

His gaze poured over you, still partially withheld, but opening up further by the second.

“You were listening to me and Shelly.” You told him.

“Yes.”

“Did Shelly know?” You tilted your head.

“One can assume.”

“Did you two set me up?”

“No.” Donnie almost smiled, but caught himself.

“Shelly!” You called out. “Did you!?”

“No!” You heard some earth shift and assumed he was pulling himself up.

“You okay?”

“Yup! Can we do that again?!” He cheered.

“Later.” Donnie rolled his eyes and didn’t bother raising his pitch.

“You seem to like what I thought. About not rushing kids?”

Donnie evaluated you for a while before he looked off to the side. “Sound rationale.”

You reached up and placed your palm flat to his cheek.

He leaned into you. “I’ve been distant.”

“You needed to be. I always told you. It’s fine as long as you know I’m waiting.”

“Always…?” He turned up the end of his sentence with a raw tear to his chilled gaze.

“Always.” You agreed and tucked your fingers into his mask.

He gave a faint exhale and leaned down.

“You don’t have to force yourself to be okay. Even now.”

Again, his lips twitched like he might smile, but didn’t.

You thought that was enough.

He came closer until he was just shy of kissing you.

His reluctance to marry your lips meant something so you only watched him up close and let your hand slide down to his shoulder.

He liked the maneuver and felt comfortable enough for his eyes to shut as he took in your closeness.

You nosed into his airspace and commingled just like that.

The snow didn’t pick up and stayed little wayward flurries that would sometimes brush your skin.

Long after they dotted and melted against your coat did Donnie’s forehead brush yours and he gave the barest churr.

Your fingers spread out against his collar and you sighed contentedly.

“I’d like to continue our exercise in spontaneity.”

“Oh?” You breathed out and felt the warmth of it bounce back from his skin.

He nuzzled you amongst a slight nod.

“I’d like that. I like being close to you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t stay away.”

“You needed me.”

“I did.” He pulled so there was the pressure of your body against his. “Needed you close. Need you.”

“I’m here.”

This time when he nodded it was to lift his head.

“What’s left from your list? Double penetration?”

That finally got him to smile, but he squashed it.

You chewed on your grin.

“An entire mechanism for such, my present at the lab, and something new I’ve added as punishment.”

“Edging…” You hissed at your kryptonite.

Donnie only sent you a confirming look before he released you.

You took a few steps to give him space.

“Now?!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. chirped as he waited the same distance away.

“Run!” Donnie snarled once before taking off.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. squealed delight as he thumped away on bulky limbs. “Wait! This body sucks for this!”

“Too bad!” You heard a clunk of metal before you saw Donnie reach him. “I believe this is called: tag!”

“Tag…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s mouth line warbled and Donnie turned to run.

“Tag! Mom! It’s tag!”

“There’s no tag-backs so…” You saw Donnie signal you for which way to go and you ran that direction.

“Tag!!!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. cheered before his plodding footsteps were sent in your direction.

💜 NEXT 💜

@tmntxthings is busy with life changing stuff and @thepinkpanther83 is sick as a dog! Much love to my precious betas in these trying times!

#softspotfic #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt donnie x reader #donatello hamato #donnie x reader #rise donnie #rise donnie x reader #rottmnt donatello #rottmnt Donnie #me #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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yuellii · 1 year ago

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01. / Fate : BITE ME

vampire neuvillette / gn reader . completely sfw . dark themes

Fontaine : DARK BLOOD ; supernatural series m.list

There is a sensory contact, one that is cold and cutting upon the wake of his fingertips, all when he touches the beginnings of your hair against your head. You can see it in his eyes, the longing emptiness that's yet filled with a passing thought, or what you suspect to be the containment of a certain animalistic instinct he might desire so.

"I adore you," Neuvillette whispers, and he almost feels human as his words of admiration are traced along the roots of your hair above your ear. It brings a shiver down your spine, both from the chill of his breath and the deadly steel-like feeling of his hands. “Even as an outsider,” he breathes.

Pale, boney. He has not touched sunlight for obvious reasons.

You are not ignorant to the way his eyes flicker down to your neck and your collarbone; whether or not he himself noticed it seemed almost subconscious to his nature. This was a recent occurrence—his wandering eyes equated to the beginnings of your fear. For he was not like this at the start: when you first took him into shelter amidst the midnight pouring rain.

Back months ago, starved of blood at your doorstep yet still respectable. You did not fear for your life then when he looked at you like a human, and not his next supper.

You step back. “How heavy,” the remark flies from your tongue. It is only then, at the sound of your voice, does his gaze finally wander away from your neck. He meets your eyes with clouded daze and guilt. “You should consider the weight of your words before speaking them, Monsieur. Any other citizen may mistake your intentions if they hear you ‘adore them’.” For a moment, he looked surprised.

“Ah, it seems I still have more to learn about human speech,” he muses. And there’s a clear, apologetic tone laced in the fanged accent of his words. It almost makes your body less tense for just a moment. “But if you consider my words of adoration for you to be ‘heavy’,” he continues, “then I assure you, every one of my intentions you can assume is correct.”

He mutters aloud to himself. “I best believe, fate discovered you to save me.”

“Have you been eating enough lately?” you ask him one early morning, just as he lays to rest. The curtains are drawn, lightening dawn peeking through the tiniest of crevices.

“My blood intake?” he clarifies. And that’s when he turns on the bed to face you, feeling the weight of your body as you sit along his bedside. He closes his eyes momentarily, as if feeling for an answer, “It’s been sufficient, yes.” You can’t help but feel most normal like this—his laying eyes looking up as your back faces him from the bedside. The way he meets the gaze of your turned head. Perhaps it was times like these, times where he was so ghostly pretty, that you’re both most vulnerable. “Why do you ask?” he mutters, volume quieter than before.

You hummed, hand moving forward towards his laying figure to trace his loose strands of hair behind his head. “You seem…” For a lack of better words, you break the contact of your eyes. The luminescence of his gaze is far too piercing. “Hungrier, lately.”

He stays quiet, simply looking up at you with an innocence in his eyes you want to ignore. Perhaps that’s his form of denial, but you cannot control the sudden tenseness in your body at his lack of a verbal answer. He makes no movement, no response, no expression change—and yet, your body pulls itself taut in fear. Maybe he didn’t know how to answer, but you feel like you might die.

“Monsieur.”

There’s a bitterness seeped into the air, and when he slightly leaned into the touch of your hand combing his hair, you knew that he could sense your tension. Upon this morning dew, there is a lingering question yet to be vocalized between a human and a vampire.

“You won’t bite me, right?”

The sun rises, and he remains silent.

There’s a flicker of vulnerability in which he asks, “Would I have your consent to stay like this a little longer?” And it’s an early morning once again, right when he’s ready to rest just as you’re about to leave for the day.

It’s as he’s clinging onto your body for comfort, holding you with his arms around your waist in a way that’s starved of touch. And you, despite all warning signs, cannot help but cradle the heart of a lonely immortal. Because since his little ‘confession’ of adoration for you, you’ve noticed how much more longing and affectionate he’s become without words. You carry a sense of sympathy that can’t quite ignore him.

But your ignorance leads to a sudden threat—as his face glides from the side of your head to rest downwards at the crook of your neck. It feels sweet, it feels affectionate—but the assumptions and implications flood your mind so instantaneously your body immediately tenses from the feel of his cold lips against your skin. There’s a sudden hypersensitivity in your nerves, and your breath is stunned to stillness as your mind fears the feel of fangs.

Yet, there is not a touch of sharpness atop your skin. Instead, there is the feeling of his lips against your neck, turning downwards to indicate he is frowning. The way your body tensed in danger—he was hurt by it. You almost felt guilty.

It’s a sweet scent of nectar that suddenly secretes as he leans into you, kissing your neck and holding you tighter in this featherlight way. But there’s a desperation in his hold, one that grips tightly to the bunches of your clothes in his fists. He opens his mouth; You cannot feel his fangs, but you can feel his intentions.

“Will you ever let me?” he whispers along your skin.

You know what he’s asking.

Your hand instinctively reaches up to thread into his hair, resting at the back of his head. Perhaps it felt like a comforting touch to him, but you both knew it was so you could yank his head away from you if he bit down.

“Why,” is all you can initially ask, and there’s an air of disgust in your voice you can’t quite control. But who could blame you, when you’ve trusted this creature in your home for months? “Am I not providing you enough?” you ask him. His body is deathly still, but you’re beginning to tremble. “Or are you finally craving my blood? Do you have an urge to kill me, Neuvillette?”

He is intensely shocked by your questions, so much that his face backs away from your neck immediately in order to look up at your face. Your blood. It’s pumping crazy from the fear of death.

“No, no, please,” he is quick to insist. And that’s when he completely leans in, his lips meeting your open mouth to conceal your shallow breaths, and you can feel his fangs against your own lips. You can feel the desperation and obsession within him, once concealed by his clouded eyes and cluelessness of humanity. There’s a question in his kiss, once left unanswered yet one that is also begging for your attention. “Your death is not my interest,” he breaths against your mouth. “Just please, allow me to bite you.”

“I feel sick,” you whispered with seethed teeth, and he returns downwards to kiss a trail from your lips to your jaw. “You already know my answer.”

“I want to serve you for eternity,” he confesses simply, planting one final kiss of devotion to the crook of your neck. “I believe eternal loyalty to you is my fate in this world, and my veins have searched for you like destiny.”

And it’s now when coldness makes you gasp, the first time ever feeling his fangs rest against your neck. He rests them there atop your skin, one movement and he may bite down. Yet you are no longer stunned with the fear of death, but instead the confines of his outwardly obsession floods the depths of your mind—that is when it clicks: he wants to grant you immortality, only to spend it with him.

“Please, please,” he begs against your skin, and it sounds as if you are torturing him. “It is all I ask for.”

An eternal binding that leaves his mark forever on your neck, tying his soul to yours. And he is here, pleading tightly for your shared salvation. You feel a different sense of death.

“I won’t kill you,” he continues on amidst your silence, and you had forgotten his lack of humanly skills only made him ramble longer and longer. “I won’t, I swear to you.” He pulls your head closer to him, breathing against your neck. He was so close. So, so close. “Not when I’ve just found that my purpose is you.”

“Neuvillette…” you struggle out his name, almost choking.

“Will you say yes?” he continues on. And it’s now that you can feel the newfound shakiness in his own voice, one that indicates his patience is running thin. He was still not human. As polite or as much of a gentleman he could ever be, he still had his overcoming instinct of a devouring vampire, and you gulped. This was probably the end of your life.

Blind devotion, so sickening to your stomach.

But you gave your silent answer when your body relaxed itself, and when your head tilted to the side, but you could not tell whether you really wanted this or if you were just giving up a fruitless demise. Exposing the skin of your flesh to his fangs, they sunk in immediately. At the first taste of your blood, he was trembling, whining in his feast little mutters of ‘thank you’, and whispers of gratitude that sealed his fate to your own.

And when you fell back from loss of your blood, his arms caught you right before the hit of the floor. All the gruesomeness in the world; his lips stained with your blood trailed upwards to meet your own lips once more, the taste of iron stinging most evidently along your tongue.

Fate, it was his excuse to tie himself to you. And now the mark on your neck sealed his eternal devotion, forevermore.

Fontaine : DARK BLOOD ; supernatural series m.list

#🗡️ : Fontaine — DRK BLD #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette imagines #genshin x reader #neuvillette x you #genshin imagines #genshin x gender neutral reader #neuvilette x reader #neuvillette

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thesimcalledclem · 4 months ago

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FIRE AND BLOOD Chapter Four ────── ☾ ──────

Warnings: Eventual Smut. Targcest. S!sterw!fe. Dubious consent (You know all the drills atp if you've gotten this far into the tag.) OC FIC, if that isn't what you are into, then kindly don't read. 18+ MDNI

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO UPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO ANY OTHER SITES.

────── ☾ ──────

In the aftermath of the chaotic coronation, my world shifted irrevocably. My childhood chambers, once a sanctuary of familiarity and comfort, were exchanged for the opulent yet alien Queen's apartments, adjoined to Aegon's by a narrow passageway. The grandeur of the new rooms, with their soaring ceilings and ornate tapestries, felt suffocating, a gilded cage that mocked my newfound status. I longed for the simplicity of my old rooms, for the worn books that lined my shelves, their pages filled with tales of adventure and escape.

My brief forays into the sky atop Solayre, once a source of exhilaration and freedom, were now met with more disapproval and admonishment. Aegon and Alicent, ever mindful of the precarious political climate, deemed it too dangerous for the Queen to be seen on dragonback while tensions with our half-sister rose. My wings were clipped, my spirit confined to the stifling confines of the Red Keep.

Nightly, Aegon would visit my chambers, his presence a grim reminder of my duty. Spurred on by my mother's relentless whispers of the need for an heir, our encounters were devoid of any warmth or intimacy. He would arrive late, his movements efficient and detached, his touch cold and impersonal. I would lie beneath him, my body a vessel for his seed, my mind a million miles away.

Afterwards, he would disappear without a word, leaving me alone in the vastness of the Queen's bed. The next morning, his haggard appearance and bloodshot eyes told a familiar story. He sought solace in the bottom of a bottle, drowning his guilt and self-loathing in a sea of Arbor Red.

The days blurred into an endless cycle of monotony and despair. I spent my mornings embroidering with Helaena, our conversations stilted and filled with unspoken anxieties. Meals were a tense affair, the forced smiles and polite chatter a thin veneer over the simmering resentments that threatened to boil over. And then, each night, the dreaded ritual would repeat itself, Aegon's presence a dark cloud that cast a pall over my every waking moment.

Months passed in this agonizing limbo, each day a carbon copy of the last. I felt like a ghost, drifting through the halls of the Red Keep, my spirit tethered to a man I despised, my body a vessel for a future I didn't choose. The weight of the crown, a heavy burden on my brow, was a constant reminder of the sacrifices I had made, the freedoms I had lost. And as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, a deep bitterness took root in my heart, its tendrils slowly poisoning my soul. ────── ☾ ──────

One night that seemed like all the others, a monotonous repetition in the grim symphony of my new life. The aftermath of his climax hung heavy in the air, a palpable tension that permeated the room. He didn't rise from the bed immediately, as was his custom. Instead, he lay beside me, an arm thrown over his face, his breath ragged and uneven. I was accustomed to his swift departures, his cold and aloof manner a familiar sting. This unexpected lingering left me disoriented, a knot of unease tightening in my chest.

"Aegon?" I ventured, my voice a tentative whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile silence.

He lowered his arm, revealing eyes clouded with exhaustion. He didn't answer, merely raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

"I—uh," I stammered, my words stumbling over themselves. Did I even want to say anything? I cleared my throat, pulling the linen sheet higher, seeking a semblance of protection. "Are you well?"

A humorless laugh escaped his lips, a bitter sound that echoed the hollowness in my own heart. "Am I well?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Such piety, wife." His gaze returned to the ceiling, his disinterest palpable.

I felt a familiar sting of chastisement, my eyes dropping to my chest. Silence descended once more, broken only by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. I inhaled deeply and immediately regretted it, the cloying scent of the fermented grapes inside his goblet filled the air, a nauseating reminder of the forced intimacy we'd just shared.

Minutes or perhaps hours passed, time losing its meaning in the oppressive stillness. Finally, Aegon spoke, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the mattress. "I grow tired of my rest being interrupted," he said, his tone laced with bitterness. "Mother or Otto come barging in whenever they please."

His words hung in the air, a flimsy excuse for his prolonged presence in my chambers. I turned my head to look at him, my brow furrowed in confusion. "You are the King," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Deny them entry."

His gaze snapped to mine, his lilac eyes piercing through the dim light. "You are Queen," he countered, his voice sharp. "How does barring their entry work for you?"

I swallowed the retort that threatened to spill from my lips. He was right, of course. My title held no real power, no authority to shield us from the relentless machinations of my mother and her allies. "You make a fine point," I conceded, a bitter taste coating my tongue.

He reached for the wine goblet, the pungent aroma of the alcohol making my empty stomach churn. I turned away, unable to bear the sight.

I saw the narrowing of his eyes in my peripheral vision, but he said nothing. Instead, he set the goblet back down with a soft clink.

"I will leave in the morning," he announced, his voice flat and final. He turned his back to me, the linen sheet a stark barrier between us.

I stared at his broad back, a mixture of shock and disdain warring within me. Even my own chambers were no longer a sanctuary from him, from the suffocating reality of our union. A wave of despair washed over me, leaving me feeling cold and empty. The night stretched before me, an endless expanse of loneliness and fear.

Dawn painted the sky with streaks of pale gold and crimson, casting a somber glow over the opulent chamber. Contrary to his promise, Aegon remained in my bed, his slumber deep and undisturbed. His leg, thrown carelessly over mine during the night, pinned me to the mattress, his body radiating a heat that was both discomforting and unsettling. The mingled scent of his sweat and the lingering aroma of wine clung to him, a potent cocktail that churned my stomach. I fought back a wave of nausea, my hand instinctively covering my mouth.

With a surge of defiance, I nudged his shin with my foot, the pressure insistent but not unkind. He stirred, a low groan escaping his lips. A hand reached up to rub his face, his fingers tracing the light stubble that had grown overnight. His lilac eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily at me.

For a moment, we simply stared at each other, the silence heavy with unspoken truths. The remnants of the previous night's forced intimacy lingered in the air, a palpable tension that crackled between us.

"Release me," I whispered, my voice hoarse from disuse. I squirmed beneath his leg, my discomfort growing with each passing second.

He didn't respond immediately, his mind still clouded by sleep. Then, with a grunt of annoyance, he rolled off me, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated.

I wasted no time in escaping the confines of the bed, rushing to the adjoining chamber to relieve myself. The pressure in my bladder, a result of hours spent trapped beneath his slumbering form, was almost unbearable. I emerged moments later, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.

Aegon, now fully awake, watched me from the bed, his eyes narrowed in silent scrutiny. I stood by the dressing screen, my gaze fixed on him as he gathered his discarded clothing with one extended hand and began to dress. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, his silence more unnerving than any accusation.

He said nothing, merely stared at me with those hazy, bloodshot eyes. I felt exposed under his gaze, my body aching with the memory of his touch. A wave of shame washed over me, a bitter reminder of my powerlessness.

Finally, he turned away, his movements slow and deliberate as he finished dressing and rose from the bed. Without a word, he strode towards the door, leaving me alone in the silent aftermath.

I watched him go, my heart heavy with a mixture of relief and despair. He had violated my body, my sanctuary, and then simply walked away, as if it were nothing more than a routine chore. The weight of my new reality pressed down on me, a crushing burden that threatened to suffocate my spirit.

────── ☾ ──────

For days following that strange morning, Aegon avoided me entirely. It was a welcome reprieve, a respite from the forced intimacy and simmering resentment that had become the hallmark of our marriage. Yet, a strange unease settled over me, a disquiet I couldn't quite place. The rising tensions with Rhaenyra, who, after her departure from the keep and the death of our father, had crowned herself Queen, cast a long shadow over King's Landing. My own place as Queen felt like an empty placeholder, a hollow title devoid of any real power. Nobles were choosing sides, the familiar few declaring for Aegon while others clung to Rhaenyra, their loyalty unwavering. I couldn't blame them. I didn't want this title, this gilded cage of responsibility. In fact, it exhausted me.

A pervasive fatigue clung to me like a shroud, draining my energy and leaving me perpetually exhausted. The simplest tasks felt like monumental efforts, and I found myself retreating to the solitude of my chambers more often than not. I spent countless hours lost in the rhythmic motions of embroidery, the intricate patterns a welcome distraction from the turmoil within. Helaena's children, with their innocent laughter and boundless energy, offered a brief escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the Red Keep. I would lose myself in their games, their carefree joy a stark contrast to the darkness that clouded my own existence.

I was forbidden to ride Solayre, the disquiet in the realm deemed too dangerous for the Queen to be seen on dragonback, or so my mother claimed. But I didn't argue. The truth was, the smell of the dragonpit, the sulfur that clung to my clothes, had been unsettling me lately. It turned my stomach, settled deep in my head, and sparked headaches that lasted for hours, even after a brief visit to the great maroon beast.

This morning was like all the others, awoken with stomach pains and a pounding headache. I needed to eat, I assured myself, or maybe a bit of fresh air.

The morning light, filtered through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep, cast long, ethereal shadows across the stone floors. I had been dressed in another stifling gown, this one a deep emerald green that mirrored the resentment simmering within me. My hair, braided tightly off my neck in a futile attempt to combat the oppressive heat, felt like a crown of thorns. As was my custom, I made my way to break my fast with Helaena in her chambers, a sanctuary of normalcy in the chaotic world we inhabited.

A pang of envy always struck me as I traversed the west wing towards her rooms. Helaena and Aemond, despite their eccentricities, shared a bond of effortless affection, a stark contrast to the cold and sterile union I endured with Aegon. Theirs was a love story whispered in secret smiles and shared glances, a refuge from the harsh realities of courtly life.

My head throbbed with a familiar ache as I reached her door. The Kingsguard stationed outside opened it with a silent nod, and I stepped inside, my gaze downcast as I passed through the empty antechamber and into the solar beyond. The sounds of children's laughter, a symphony of innocent joy, filled the air, momentarily lifting my spirits.

But the smile that touched my lips faltered as I entered the solar. Aemond and Aegon stood near the large windows, their voices low and conspiratorial. The sight of them, their presence an unwelcome intrusion into my peaceful routine, sparked a flicker of annoyance.

The children, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension, rushed towards me with excited squeals. Maelor, the youngest, reached me first, his chubby arms outstretched, his small voice demanding to be lifted.

"Alright, alright, my darling," I cooed, scooping him into my arms. I forced a smile, trying to mask my irritation at the disruption. Aegon and Aemond fell silent, their gazes fixed on me, but I ignored them, my attention focused on the children.

"Mother says that Dreamfyre lay three new eggs, just yesterday!" Jaehaera exclaimed, her violet eyes wide with excitement, her white-gold curls bouncing with each word.

"A hatchling for each of you then, my girl," I replied, gently stroking her hair. Maelor, sensing a rival for my attention, tugged at my sleeve, his babbling demands bringing a genuine smile to my lips.

Helaena appeared then, her presence calming the children's excitement. She ushered the twins towards their governess, but I held onto Maelor, his small form a comforting weight in my arms.

With Helaena's arrival, the pretense of ignoring my brothers was no longer possible. I turned towards them, a sigh escaping my lips. "Hello, brother," I said to Aemond, garnering his attention for a fleeting moment before his gaze returned to Helaena, his eyes filled with warmth. I shifted my focus to Aegon, who was already staring at me, his face an impassive mask, his eyes fixated on the babe in my arms. "Husband," I acknowledged, my voice flat and emotionless.

He met my gaze with a curt nod, but remained silent. I turned back to Maelor, his presence a welcome distraction from the tension that crackled in the room. He babbled on, his small hands reaching for my face, his dark amethyst eyes sparkling with innocent curiosity. Servants entered and exited, bearing trays laden with food. The rich aromas, once tempting, now churned my stomach, sending a wave of nausea through me. I swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to gag.

I ignored the laden table, content with my time with the small child. I bounced him on my hip, humming a soft lullaby until he wiggled out of my arms and followed his siblings' departure with his wet nurse. With a sigh, I turned towards the table of food, my stomach churning at the sight of the rich and varied dishes. I forced myself to pick at a few grapes and nibble on some bread, hoping to quell the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me.

"So, this is where you slink off to every morning," Aegon's voice sounded far too close to my ear, his sudden presence startling me. I glanced over my shoulder, and there he was, his conversation with Aemond abandoned, his gaze fixed on me. I clenched my jaw, my eyes falling to the platters of food, a desperate attempt to avoid his scrutiny.

"If I'm lucky enough to be unnoticed," I murmured bitterly, still annoyed by his intrusion. He huffed, a small exhale through his nose that sent a stray strand of hair dancing across my neck.

"Have I interrupted?" he asked smugly, his tone laced with a hint of mockery. He reached around me, his chest brushing against my back for a fleeting moment as he plucked an orange from the table. The warmth of his body, the subtle scent of his cologne, sent a shiver down my spine.

The strong citrus smell of the orange filled the air, triggering a wave of nausea. I dry heaved, stumbling away from him, my gaze fixed on the offending fruit.

He snorted, a cruel amusement in his eyes. "Do you suddenly hate oranges?"

"They smell rotten," I complained, my hand flying to my mouth.

He brought the fruit to his nose, inhaling deeply. "They smell fine," he declared with a shrug, popping a slice into his mouth. He leaned in, the juice glistening on his lips, the scent invading my senses. "Want a taste?"

I recoiled, pushing against his chest, my hand landing on the firm muscles beneath his doublet. "Don't torment me," I hissed, my voice laced with both disgust and a strange, unwelcome flicker of desire.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down my spine. He straightened, a smug grin playing on his lips, and returned to Aemond. They departed shortly after, leaving me alone with the remnants of my uneaten breakfast and the lingering scent of oranges, a cruel reminder of my husband's mocking presence.

The nausea subsided, but a sense of unease lingered. Aegon's unexpected appearance, his playful torment, and the unsettling sensations within my own body left me feeling off-kilter, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I pushed the food away, my appetite completely vanished, and retreated to the solitude of my chambers, seeking refuge from the oppressive atmosphere of the Red Keep and the unwelcome attention of my husband.

My refuge of solace didn’t last long however, the oppressive heat of the room seemed to intensify with every passing moment, the heavy fabric of my gown clinging to my skin like a second, suffocating layer. "Roslin, help me please," I called out, my voice thick with discomfort. My lady's maid rose from her seat by the window, where she had been meticulously sewing lace fringe onto a forgotten kerchief. With practiced ease, she unlaced the back of my gown, each tug of her fingers allowing a welcome breath of cool air to reach my sweat-dampened skin. I sighed in relief, but even with the constricting garment removed, the heat remained oppressive. Sweat beaded on my forehead, the back of my neck, and between my breasts. I panted, my hands gripping the bedpost, knuckles white with exertion.

"Perhaps, my lady should rest," Roslin offered softly.

With a begrudging nod, I allowed her to guide me to the bed. The cool sheets offered little respite from the sweltering heat that seemed to emanate from within my own body. Roslin settled on the floor beside the bed, ready to attend to my needs, but I shook my head.

"You may go, Roslin."

She looked as if she might argue, but with a small curtsy, she obeyed, the soft click of the closing door marking her departure.

I lay in the bed, the oppressive heat clinging to me like a second skin. Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and fragmented, plagued by strange dreams and unsettling sensations. I woke with a jolt, my stomach churning with a violent urgency. I scrambled from the sweat-soaked sheets, my legs unsteady, my head swimming. I lurched towards the chamber pot, but it was too late.

I doubled over, my hands gripping the bedpost for support, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat. A wave of nausea overwhelmed me, and I retched, the contents of my stomach spilling onto the cold stone floor. The acrid smell filled the air, mingling with the cloying scent of my own perspiration.

I heard the door creak open, and assuming it was Roslin returning, I groaned, waving a weak hand in her direction. A hesitant hand touched my back, a gesture of comfort that did little to ease my distress.

"It must've been the wine," I rasped, my voice hoarse and shaky as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Where is your lady's maid?" a deep, annoyed voice boomed from behind me. It was not Roslin.

I froze, slowly raising my head to meet Aegon's gaze. He stood above me, his expression a mixture of reluctant concern and barely concealed disgust. I blinked; my mind still clouded by nausea.

"I dismissed her. I was resting," I managed to explain.

He scoffed, moving towards me with a purpose that startled me. His hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me towards the bed. He forced me to sit, his touch firm but not unkind. His proximity, however, brought a fresh wave of nausea. The cloying scent of oranges, still clinging to him from his morning meal, assaulted my senses. "You reek," I complained, leaning away from him.

He made a noise of annoyance, but released me, tossing a linen sheet over the mess I had made on the floor. He was uncharacteristically silent, his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed.

"Perhaps we should call the Maesters," I groaned, rubbing my face with the back of my hand.

He scoffed, looking down at me with an expression that bordered on disbelief. "There's no need," he said, his tone dismissive.

I glared at him; my eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm obviously ill, Aegon."

He rolled his eyes, his stance mocking. "You can't be that dense, Clemynsia" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You are not ill."

"I am—"

"Maybe you are this dense," he interrupted, his voice a low growl. "When did you last bleed?"

His question, so unexpected, so blunt, caught me off guard. "What?" I stammered, my cheeks flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with the oppressive temperature of the room.

"For fuck's sake," he sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Your last moon’s blood, when was it?"

His words pierced through the fog of my nausea, silencing all other thoughts. My mind went blank, the world around me fading into a hazy blur. I felt a strange detachment from my own body, as if I were an observer, watching the scene unfold from a distance.

Aegon leaned closer, his hand gently brushing the damp hair from my forehead. The touch, surprisingly tender, sent a shiver down my spine. "You are not ill," he said, his voice softer now, but still laced with a hint of mockery. He stood, running a hand over his face in exasperation. "You are with child."

#aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen smut #aegon targaryen x oc #fire and blood*#hotd oc #oc fic #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon smut #aegon needs a hug

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lisalamona · 26 days ago

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𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 - VII

Chapter VII: Survive

. Summary: Despite your brother's insistence, you stubbornly decided to join him and his men in the war. Now, are you prepared to face the consequences of your actions? . Pairing: Various x Fem! Reader (platonic) . Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, death, trauma, and other sensitive content. . Notes: View notes at the end of the chapter.

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Masterlist

The force of the cyclops’s fist slamming into the cave floor sent shockwaves through the ground, making you and those nearby jump and crash back down with a thud. Before the beast could swipe at you, a hand yanked you to your feet and dragged you into a sprint toward the cave’s mouth.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw Eurylochus, his face tight with concern, silently asking if you were okay. You gave a quick nod. You weren’t fine—not really. Terror gripped every part of you, but physically, you were unscathed, and you hoped it would stay that way.

The cave was chaos. Men scrambled to flee, shouting over each other in panic, bumping into one another as they ran. But then, above the clamor, a commanding voice cut through:

“My brothers!” Odysseus shouted, his tone sharp and steady. A few men skidded to a halt, turning toward him, their panic momentarily dulled. “The rest of our fleet waits on the beach. If we’re defeated here, they’re as good as dead! If we want to survive, we must fight this beast!”

His words brought a grim clarity. There was no escape without defeating the monster. The only way forward was through.

Odysseus waved for the crew to follow him, leading you all to a sheltered spot behind a large rock. The cyclops, now visibly disoriented, lumbered slowly in search of its prey, its single blood-red eye scanning for movement. Its sheer size worked against it—its slowness bought you precious moments.

The little lotus eater clinging to your shoulder tightened its grip on your hair so it wouldn’t fall, making you wince. A hand reached over, gently prying the creature free. Polites cradled it in his arms, carefully peeling its tiny paws away from your strands.

When you met his eyes, you saw the tension there—a somber, bitter expression that didn’t suit him. He noticed you watching and forced a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Polites wasn’t a coward; far from it. But he hated violence, especially this kind of confrontation.

Your attention snapped back to Odysseus as he rallied the crew: “No backup, no support. This is our fight! Draw your swords!” His voice rang with conviction, his tone sharp as steel. “Our foe must fall right here and now or none of us leave this cave alive!”

The men, though trembling with fear, drew their swords. Their hands shook, their breaths were shallow, but they stood ready. Odysseus paced before them, his voice rising with urgency.

“Six hundred lives depend on us! It’s just one life to take! When we kill him, our journey is over. Defeat is not an option! No dying on me now. We will live through this day! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

With his command, the crew charged forward, driven by fear, determination, and the need to escape this nightmare.

You stood frozen, sword at your side. For the first time in a long while, true terror rooted you to the ground. Normally, you’d have leapt into the fray without hesitation, eager to prove yourself. But this… this was different. The cyclops loomed like a force of nature, something far beyond anything you’d ever faced.

Still, a voice whispered inside you—a small but resolute spark. If you don’t go, what happens if someone falls because you weren’t there to help?

Your grip tightened on the hilt of your sword, your knuckles whitening. The trembling in your hands didn’t stop, but you ignored it. Slowly, you began to unsheathe your blade.

A hand landed on your shoulder. You spun around, startled, to find Polites watching you, his expression soft but serious.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said gently.

“I need to,” you replied, your voice firm despite the fear constricting your chest. You fully unsheathed the sword, the metal catching the dim light of the cave. “I’m sorry.”

Without another word, you sprinted toward the fight.

“Surround him!” Your brother’s voice boomed and echoed through the cave, sharp and commanding. It cut through the chaos like a blade, and every soldier by his side obeyed without hesitation. You fell into step, following his warnings like a shadow. “Attack from behind! Keep your distance and stay in his blind spot! Strike at his heels!”

The cyclops stumbled, disoriented and enraged, its massive form lurching as if it couldn’t keep up with the swarm of tiny, darting figures. It swiped at the air, its colossal hands narrowly missing their marks. Each miss fueled the soldiers' confidence.

You swallowed hard, gripping your sword tightly as you surged forward. Your feet pounded against the ground, each step echoing in your ears like a war drum. As the cyclops lashed out, you ducked beneath its sweeping arm and slid toward its right foot. With all the momentum of your sprint, you slashed at its heel, blood spurting from the wound as a furious roar shook the cavern.

Heart racing, you dashed to the other side of the beast where Odysseus stood, his eyes ablaze with focus. The cyclops bellowed, shaking the ground beneath you, as more soldiers followed your lead, cutting at its heels.

“What are you doing?!” your brother barked, his voice tinged with a note of panic. His piercing gaze locked onto yours.

“I’m helping you!” you retorted, wiping sweat from your brow. Before he could object, you cut him off. “Don’t tell me you don’t need it, brother. We’re less than a tenth of what we were when we fought in Troy!”

For a moment, Odysseus looked as though he wanted to argue, but his shoulders slumped in reluctant defeat. “You should’ve stayed with Polites,” he muttered, his tone resigned.

You glanced back at the cave’s entrance, where Polites stood frozen, clutching the lotus eater. “Well, I’m sorry, brother but—”

“Captain,” he interrupted firmly, though exhaustion dulled the edge of his voice. “Right now, I’m your captain. And I need you with that group over there.” He pointed to a cluster of archers stationed near the cave wall, their arrows at the ready. “Go. And for the gods’ sake, don’t pull another stunt like that.”

For a moment, you forgot about the cyclops entirely and allowed a small smile to tug at your lips. “Yes, sir.” Without hesitation, you sprinted toward the archers, determined to prove your worth.

Odysseus’s voice rang out again, cutting through the din of the battle. “Exhaust him! Don’t let him get close—he’s strong, but he’s slow. Keep your distance! Stand up and fight for your lives!”

The archers quickly briefed you on their plan: aim for the cyclops’ eye. A direct hit could tip the scales in their favor, but any misfire at its feet risked injuring their comrades. Your brother had taught you well—wielding a bow and arrow was second nature. You nocked an arrow and drew it back, your aim steady despite the chaos.

“Push forward!” Odysseus shouted, his voice an anchor amidst the storm. The soldiers surged, the cyclops howling in frustration as its blows continued to miss.

Then, the ground trembled.

The cyclops reached into a pile of scattered food and unearthed a massive club, gnarled and menacing. Time seemed to freeze as it gripped the weapon in both hands. Its single eye scanned the battlefield, landing squarely on Polites. The two locked gazes. Polites didn’t flinch outwardly, but you knew the terror that gripped him.

“Polites!” you screamed, your feet already moving before the cyclops raised the club. Your name rang out—Odysseus, frantic—but you ignored it, your only focus on reaching Polites in time.

With a desperate lunge, you shoved him out of the way just as the club came crashing down. The impact shook the cavern, dust and debris flying as a deep crater formed where Polites had stood moments before. His glasses were obliterated, shards scattered amidst the wreckage.

“You idiot!” Polites stammered, his voice trembling. His hands shook as he gripped your arm. “You could’ve—”

“No time for that!” you snapped, hauling him to his feet. The cyclops growled, raising the club again. You grabbed Polites’s free hand and bolted, zigzagging to avoid drawing attention.

“He’s got a club. HE’S GOT A CLUB!” a soldier shouted, panic spreading like wildfire. The cyclops swung wildly, its weapon connecting with bone and flesh. The sickening sound of the blow was followed by a soldier’s scream that was abruptly cut short. Warm blood splattered across your face, staining your already sullied clothes.

Your steps faltered, nausea clawing its way up your throat. Not that there was much to expel—rations had been scarce for days. Polites steadied you with a trembling hand on your back, his fear palpable yet grounding.

“Captain!” Someone cried desperately. “What are our orders?” When he didn’t receive an answer he got more scared, “Captain? CAPTNI—” He met the same fate as the last man who dared to speak.

Odysseus stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the growing pile of bodies. Blood streaked his face, and for the first time, you saw something you’d never expected from him: fear.

The cyclops bellowed, its deep voice vibrating the walls. “Enough!” it roared, its words thick with rage. “Six hundred lives I’ll take, six hundred lives I’ll break! And when I kill you, my pain will be over!” It was almost as if it was mocking Odysseus.

It swung again, the club obliterating everything in its path. Another soldier fell, then another, until the cyclops paused, heaving with exertion. “You're dying here and now,there is no escape from this. You won't live through this day, now die, di-i-i—” Suddenly, its eye fluttered. A strange, sluggish glaze overtook its features, and it swayed unsteadily.

The cyclops staggered, its movements slowing until, with a thunderous crash, it collapsed to the ground. Silence blanketed the cave, save for the labored breaths of the surviving soldiers.

. Notes: After about three rewrites, I finally finished it. Do I like how it turned out? No, but I'll have to deal with it. You won!!! I let Polites live, are you happy?! Now I've gotta figure out how to fit him into the rest of the story. And I'm not saying he's safe from dying, because, y'know, his death is one of the most important events in Epic, and I don't want to lose what it causes. Sooo, I guess I'll have to keep you all on your toes. Sorry for making this chapter short, it's just one big fight scene, and I suck at those :( Anyway, last chapter of the year!!! Wooooo!! Sorry the last chapter of the year is so bad :(

#epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #greek mythology x reader #platonic x reader

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celtigxr · 4 months ago

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THE PINK DREAD - CH. 15 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: The servants are whispering, and the gossip is flowing. Someone is besmirching Valeana Celtigar's name. Word Count: 3807 CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ Smut MDNI, nudity, sexual frustration, angst, Angy!Aemond

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: New Look. I'm too lazy to update the previous chapters. Also I decided to put the sneak peaks for the next chapter at the end of chapters for now on. Also, I'm not putting the smut acts in the chapter warnings. Feels like it ruins the mood. Unless its dubcon and the like, there's no need. Y'all just need to know some hanky panky happened.

The torch clattered onto the floor and rolled until it hit the red stone walls that trapped them. Little embers flew upon impact, twirling around in the air, reflecting the white hot sparks that spread throughout Valeana’s body like a forest fire that started from her loins. She was breathing heavily, hot and bothered for an entirely new reason, an entirely new sensation.

Valeana’s mind was wiped clean, and replaced with longing. All her hurt, anger, bitterness wiped clean, and it was replaced by Aemond and his hands, and his lips, and his blazing amethyst eye. Perhaps this was a mistake; perhaps she will regret it when she was of a sounder mind. But the future did not matter, all that mattered was feeling him on her body, after all these years of yearning it.

Aemond’s fingers atop her breasts sent a ripple of goosebumps all over her body, almost effectively sobering her. But her head spun, and her sense of self was lost when she got drunk off of the look on his face and the simple heat of his palm upon her. Then he fell to his knees and his lips found purchase on top of her mounds, and his frenzied hands grasped and pulled at her bodice, loosening up the laces and freeing her chest.

“Ooh,” Valeana’s eyes fluttered when she felt his thumbs run over the beaded nipple through the thin material of her chemise. The sound encouraged him, gently pushing her against the rough wall by pressing his chest against her stomach. A growl escaped his throat and vibrated against her chest. The sensation and the sound both sent a wave of heat that pooled at the apex of her thighs.

Val’s hands found the back of his head, fingers carding through the silky silver strands, and catching under the leather strap of his eyepatch. Feeling it made her hesitant and careful, not knowing how he would react should she move it and expose the wounded eye. The last thing she wanted was to ruin this moment…This dream come alive.

Aemond gave a rough tug of the bodice, finally getting it fully open. Her breasts spilled out of the collar of her chemise in the one swift movement. He groaned loudly, hungerly as his nose nuzzled between them, both hands kneading the pillowed flesh and pinching her tiny but hard nipples. Valeana gave a soft mewl as her head fell back and her fingers gripped his hair at the roots. When his tongue snaked out and lapped a strip between her breasts, tasting her sweat and skin, she gasped and nearly melted in his embrace.

“Gods, Aemond…”

At the sound of his name being said so sweetly, he pulled her closer to his body. His greedy lips and tongue moved over to her right breast and lapped up her nipple like a babe starved. She squealed, causing an echo to disturb the silence of the barren passageway.

Aemond inhaled her scent deeply, keeping her hard bud in his mouth, and then exhaled a growl of need.

“Valeana,” He purred into her chest, “Valeana, Valeana, Val– Mmmm…”

He spoke her name like a prayer, and then inhaled her nipple, suckling on it with such vigor it was almost painful. Aemond then moved onto the other, repeating the same ritual with his teeth and tongue, while keeping the other occupied with his eager fingers.

She looked down at him in her cloud of pleasure. Down at Aemond. Aemond Targaryen. In her deepest, darkest desires, she had dreamt of this moment all her life. She imagined his touch would send her skin on fire, and the reality exceeded it. It was always meant to be him; her first everything. Her body was always meant to be his. They were born under the same moon, and grew up orbiting each other.

Perhaps if she was of a sober mind, she wouldn’t have let it get this far. She would’ve allowed her resentment and anger towards him to win, as it always did. But her walls were down, and she was not only drunk on wine and ale, but drunk on his touches, his sounds, and his scent. His touch was an addiction like no other.

Valeana peered down at him through the light curtain of her lashes, completely hypnotized by the sight of him worshiping her tits. Her shy hands migrated to the sides of his face, gently pulling him away so he could look at her.

“Aemond,” her gentle plea reached his ears. His eye flickered up to her, and he reluctantly pulled away from her nipple with an obscene wet ‘pop’. Aemond’s lips were absolutely plush and slick with his spit, and the sight of it filled her with all encompassing hunger.

With her hands cupping his face, he silently understood her request.Slowly raising to his feet, Aemond bent over ever so slightly so his nose could touch hers. One of his hands moved up to cup her cheek, and the other moved to take a hold of the back of her neck. Their lips were hovering over each other, breathing in the other’s air. One of Valeana’s thumbs trailed over the bottom of his lip, and the other ghosted over the corner of the scar that escaped the shield of his eyepatch.

“Aemond,” she sighed his name, her breathing becoming laboured with need. “Please.”

Their lips were a hair apart when something stirred behind his eye. As if his soul returned to his body, and he was no longer just a suit of flesh and manly desire. Valeana’s chest caved in doleful defeat as she witnessed regret and clarity breach the fog of lust. In an act of divine symbolism, light peaked through the small diamond shaped holes in the wall and lit up Aemond’s lilac eye. He pulled away from her slowly, yet purposefully, still breathing hard. Then his chin raised in the way he does when he wishes to appear above someone. In the end, it only gave her a perfect view of the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed after he pinched his lips shut and swallowed his desire, deep down to the bottom where it could no longer be reached.

Now aware of her state of undress, Valeana looked down, utterly ashamed as she gathered herself in her arms, and shielding her vanity from him.

She shivered, suddenly feeling so cold.

Ellyn did not remember much of how she returned back to the Northern Tower where she, her sisters, and her father were residing. She vaguely remembered the Throne Room, and saying goodbye unwillingly to Wylla Stark as she was shoved into a wheelhouse at the main gates, kicking and screaming. Though it appeared that when she arrived back, her family were in a deep sleep, and she managed to find her way to her bed, stumbling in the dark without incident.

But then the morning came, and she was greeted by the offending sun when little Floris pulled open the curtains. Her head was pounding, her eyes, mouth and nose as dry as Sandstone. She clung to her covers and buried her face in her pillow, desperately clinging to a few more minutes of sleep.

“Where were you?” Cassandra asked while they broke fast. She at least waited for her Lord Father to leave in favour of male companionship before she started her interrogation. “I told father you were sound asleep, but I waited for you for hours.”

Ellyn moved around her food on her plate, suddenly having no appetite for ham. She mumbled something about losing track of time with Lady Stark and Lady Celtigar.

Cassandra made a face, “You mean Valeana?”

Ellyn simply nodded in response.

Her eldest sister made a noise of disapproval, “Stay away from that one. She is a bad influence, from what I heard.”

“And where have you heard that?” Ellyn’s voice was a little harsher than she intended, but she blamed it on her dry throat and splitting headache.

Cassandra shrugged innocently, “I’ve heard whispers.”

“From Floris Grafton, specifically,” Maris smiled down at the book she was cradling in her hand. She briefly glanced up at Cassandra, “Do not pretend you have a network of spies in the Keep already. Everything you know about Valeana is from her step-sister. Who is quite obviously green with envy.”

Cassandra scoffed at that, “Nonsense. Floris – not you, dear – has a good head on her shoulders. She’s warned me about her; about her being spotted alone with Prince Aegon on multiple occasions at odd hours of the day and night, and I do not get me started on her whole childish feud with Prince Aemond.”

At this, Maris’s attention to her book was lost, “What about Prince Aemond?”

The eldest sister leaned forward, eager to share what she knew, “Well, apparently they were to be betrothed when they were children. But he was so disgusted by her, he pushed her down the stairs to get rid of her. The Celtigars fled back to Claw Isle, and according to her own step-sister, Valeana has been plotting revenge ever since.”

Ellyn’s brow was so furrowed it could have been mistaken for a unibrow, “That is complete and utter rubbish, Cassandra. That is not at all what happened.”

“Oh? And how would you know?”

“She told me!”

“And you believe her?”

“Yes!”

“Hm, I’m going to have to side with Ellyn on this,” Maris leaned back in her seat, rouge starting to dust the tops of her ears and cheeks. “Prince Aemond would never do that.”

Everyone, including little Floris who had been quiet the entire time, silently absorbing all that was being said, turned to the second sister.

“And how would you know?”

Maris shrugged coyly, “I met him in the library yestereve. We conversed for some time, and…” She trailed off as she bit her lip shyly, “And he was beyond charming. He even went out of his way to escort me home afterwards. He was quite the gentleman, and I don’t see him capable of purposely harming a little girl.”

Ellyn narrowed her eyes at her sister curiously. She opened her mouth to say something, but didn’t know what to say. What little she remembered from last night were the emotional conversations she shared with her new friends; the knowledge of Valeana’s true feelings towards the prince was seared into memory.

Wait, didn’t he volunteer to escort Valeana back to the Holdfast last night?

Yes, that was the last time she saw her friend. As small pieces started to fall in place, Ellyn could just vaguely remember words being shared. Something about bacon and eggs, and two princes fighting over a white-golden haired maiden. Valeana. They were fighting over a drunk Valeana.

An image of her being tucked under Aemond’s chin flashed in her mind. When Ellyn looked over at her sister, her face was aglow with béguin.

A large smile crept on Cassandra’s face, “Why, Maris, my dear sister. Are you telling me that you and Prince Aemond One-Eye shared an intimate moment? Tell me everything.”

Ellyn suddenly felt nauseous… From dread this time.

Aemond woke up well into noon, feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. His unconscious mind spun him in an helter skelter whirlwind of emotions and memories, from those in the far past, to those that happened recently. Amongst the chaos of it all, he could hear conversations and see visions that he could not distinguish as fact or torturous fiction. He relieved the moments of bliss he indulged himself in between Valeana’s breasts, his face nuzzled in the pillows of his bed as if they were the real thing, and his hips rutted into his mattress with the unquenchable need that built up to agony. But suddenly she was pulled away from him, and he was nailed to the ceiling as he watched Aegon claim her body. His brother, bare, laying on red silk sheets, and Valeana straddling his hips and throwing her head back whilst Aegon assaulted her neck and chest with his hands and lips.

He became a martyr to his greatest insecurities, screaming down at them, and trying to pull his hands free from the coffin nails that held him. Aemond’s voice was mute, and instead all around him were the voices of others, chanting things in his subconscious.

“That’s it, Val, keep going.” “I know my sister. She hungers for attention…” “You will make amends with Lady Valeana. She did not deserve what you did to her that day.” “You do not need to make this more difficult than it needs to be.” “I forgive you. It was an accident. I forgive you.” “This your plan, huh? Finish off what you started?” “Jikagon raqagon aōha līvi, lēkia. Issa daor aōhon bisa bantis.” “Shall I describe it to you? Her delicious, untouched cunny–” “Aemond… Please.”

Aemond woke to the sound of Valeana’s moans and pleas echoing in his ears. He was sweating profusely, chest heaving, a patch of dampness stained the crotch of his smallclothes. He sat for a good while on the edge of his featherbed, soiled clothes torn off, with fingers pressed to his eye. However that didn’t alleviate anything, he ended up agitating it, because whenever he shut his eye he could still see her breasts and her flushed face in the colours and shapes that danced around behind his lid.

It was almost easy to convince himself that what had happened last night was simply a delusion created in a fretful sleep, but the memory still existed on his fingertips, lips, and the smell of her sweat still lingered on his nose. No, that actually happened…He did the very thing that he accused his brother of potentially doing.

All the emotions he had felt post act came flooding to him like an afterbirth. In the briefest of seconds when he nearly coveted her lips with his own, lucidity came to him like an intrusive thought. Guilt crashed upon his head, and with his thoughts working as fast as lightning, he realized several fundamental truths:

He was taking advantage of her, like his brother would have.

He was weak willed, like his brother was.

He did not protect his heart, like Cole advised him to do.

She had manipulated him, like Floris told him she would.

She was a poison, made to weaken him.

She was drunk, she wouldn’t have allowed him to touch her otherwise.

Because she hated him. She hated him. She hated him.

He lifted his head and surveyed his bedchambers. It was a mess. Accent tables were flipped over, a carafe of wine shattered on the floor, leaving a puddle of red staining the flagstone floors and seeping into the carpet. Scrolls and books tossed about, and shards of vases littered amongst them. Amidst the evidence of his guilt-riddled anger, he spotted his eyepatch under pieces of amber coloured glass.

After the passageway, the rest of the journey to the Holdfast was painfully silent as he kept a safe distance from her. Valeana trailed ten feet away from him, head bowed to avoid the curious stares of the servants that walked by. They didn’t bother attempting to hide their walk of shame, though there was no evidence of their tryst in the passageways. Aemond smoothed out his hair, and Valeana fastened her bodice securely, and combed her hair as much as she could before they exited into the corridor. He looked immaculate, albeit a little flushed, and she still looked sweaty and dazed. For those who witnessed him escort her back to her apartments mutely, it would just seem like he was doing a duty as a gentleman and a prince by aiding a lady in need.

He said nothing to the guard at her door; he was a knight from Claw Isle, and therefore did not recognize him. Valeana did instead, simply telling him that she fell asleep in the gardens when Aemond found her. Her voice was hoarse yet meak, evidence of her exhaustion and emotional defeat. His name on her lips felt derogatory, as if it pained her to speak it. She didn’t even thank him when the guard ushered inside, though he didn’t expect her to. When it shut, the guard stared at him, eyes full of unspoken judgement. Aemond’s jaw clicked before turning on his heel and striding to his apartments on the other side of the Holdfast.

When he got there, the second his door closed behind him, all objects in his way were subjected to his wrath. Including the piece of leather strapped to his face.

With a growl, he got up from the edge of his bed and stepped carefully through the sharp litter strewn across his carpet, then bent down to swiftly pick the eyepatch off the ground. The corner was frayed a bit, likely by his finger nail when he tore it off. Staring at it critically, he pouted as yet another intrusive thought assaulted him

Valeana could mend this…

The mere thought of her name brought back the memories of what conspired not eight hours ago. With fingers curling into the leathered patch, he bit into his bottom lip and shut his eye, where he could see it so clearly. His hands could barely contain her breasts as they spilled in between his fingers. So soft and milky, it was like nursing from the teat of the Mother herself. The texture of her nipples still lingered on the tip of his tongue; they were so innocently small, surrounded by the wide light pink areolas he found so undeniably inviting.

And he could have had the memory of her lips too, had he continued. He could have the ghost of her tongue tangling with his. He could have had her legs wrapped around his lithe waist, and his throbbing cock break through her maidenhead. She could have been his last night, and again that morning.

There he went– Desiring her again.

With growl laced with frustration of various kinds, he grabbed onto the nearest object – a washstand with a full pitcher of water – and threw it across the room. Aemond turned sharply around, grasping a column of his four poster bed, and then used his other to reach down to his hardened shaft that curved up towards his stomach, begging for attention.

“Aemond… Please.”

“That’s it, beg for me.”

Aemond contemplated not leaving his room, but he needed to give space for the servants to restore it. Besides, it didn’t matter how many times he stroked himself with his reminiscences, he could not satiate the frustration he held for himself. Floris was irritably correct that her step-sister was making him out to be a fool. A weak fool who could not control his inflamed longing for a woman who he claimed to be indifferent to.

The need to put an obstacle between him and Valeana was paramount to him now. Maris Baratheon will prove to be useful as both a distraction and a weapon against impending gossip about him and Valeana. Gossip he was sure that she was responsible for. He can only assume what tales she will spin about what happened last night and that early morning.

He was crossing the courtyard towards the north tower when he saw his grandsire exit the Tower of the Hand.

“Ah, there you are,” Otto strode over to him with an expression that he couldn’t entirely read. It really infuriated Aemond that Otto Hightower was the only man he had difficulty reading.

Aemond braced himself for a lecture about the asinine theatrics of last night, since he had no doubt that the servants and guards that likely spied them in dark corners would have fed conjecture to the nearest purse with ears.

“Daeron has arrived. Tessarion was seen flying over the city towards the Dragonpit,” Aemond felt his shoulders relax. “I have arranged for my nephew, his new lady wife, and his sons to reside in my tower.”

Aemond nodded, “Anything else?”

Otto raised an eyebrow, “Remember Daeron is your brother, not a stranger, Aemond.”

“Of course, grandfather,” Aemond couldn’t care less about Daeron at this very moment.

“I expect you, Helaena and Aegon to bond with him, as siblings should. I’d imagine he feels like an outsider with his own kin.”

“Hm,” Aemond pursed his lips, “I’d imagine that wouldn’t be the case had he not been carted away the moment of his birth.”

Otto gave him the deadest of deadpan stares.

“And I’d imagine that is why he has a good head on his shoulders.”

The corner of Aemond’s lip curled into a poorly contained smirk, “By the end of the Conclave, grandfather, that may not be the case any longer.”

“Befriend him,” the Hand said authoritatively. “Do not corrupt him. What’s more, I want you to encourage his friendship with Floris Baratheon.”

At that, Aemond tilted his head at him, now recalling his conversation a while ago about the possibilities of betrothals between Celtigars and Targaryens. His grandsire never did answer his question about whether or not he wanted Daeron to wed a Celtigar, and now he understood why. He had his own schemes.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Aemond lifted his chin, “From what her sister tells me, young Floris is already head over heels for him, and they have not even met in person.”

Otto’s brow furrowed, “You speak to Borros’ daughters?”

The prince shrugged one of his shoulders, “They are guests in our home. Is it not obligatory to entertain them when we can?”

“It is, but I’ve known you long enough to know you would rather shovel your dragon’s shit into a pile than have to entertain young female courtiers for more than an hour.”

Aemond’s smile broadened, “As it happens, grandfather, Lady Maris proves to be stimulating company. She’s intelligent, and has a lot more to offer a conversation than most women. There is only so much that could be said about dresses, embroidery, and flowers.”

A little smirk appeared through the veil of Otto’s wiry mustache, “As I recall, Aemond, conversations about dresses, embroidery and flowers kept you well stimulated for near a decade.”

Aemond’s smile dropped.

Irritably, Otto changed the subject before Aemond could even find the words to rebuke his statement.

“We’ll sup with Daeron and my family tonight. I’ll inform Aegon, so you do not have to,” Otto began to walk away, but slowed his gait to cast a critical eye at his grandson over his shoulder. “And Aemond… Next time, let a guard escort her back. It will spare me from another problem I have to deal with.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN SNEAK PEAK “I came bearing gifts,” He smiled politely, gesturing to the items he was cradling in his arm. “And to ask you a favour.” She raised an eyebrow, looking at the bottle and bundle of canvas in his arms, and then back at him, “What’s the occasion?” Aegon’s eyes flickered to the guard and maid, and then back at her, “May we speak privately?”

Notes: Oh, you thought it was gonna be uphill from now on? Nope. We still cooking, babes. To quote Ewan: Aemond just needs to calm the heck down. Anywho, I hope you like the new format, new banner. Felt it was now appropriate to change things up a little bit.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

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rynneer · 10 months ago

Text

Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after an accident in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

<< Beginning | < Previous | Next >

Chapter Four

Fíli paces the living room, running a hand through his tangled hair, only succeeding in tangling it further. Shafts of dawn light peek through the window, taunting him with reminders of the sleep he did not get. His head snaps up when he hears footsteps from down the hall. “Y/N, I–”

But it’s not you. Instead, Thorin stands before him, arms folded and looking at his nephew expectantly.

“Where is she? She never returned to our chambers.”

Thorin nods back toward the way he came.

“Is…” Fíli swallows hard. “Is she upset?”

“She came to my door last night, would not say what was wrong, and began to cry.” Thorin raises an eyebrow. “So, is she upset?”

Fíli’s heart sinks. “She was crying?”

“Sobbing would be a better word.” Thorin shakes his head and sighs. “Fíli, what happened?”

Fíli turns his head away, face growing hot with shame and guilt. “I said hurtful things. Foolish, hurtful things.”

“Such as?”

Is he really going to make me repeat it? Fíli steels himself as if he’s the one on the receiving end. “I asked her if it was real. The dance. The kiss. Or if she only did it because it was expected of her. Because people were watching.”

“You are right. That was foolish and hurtful,” Thorin snorts.

Fíli sinks down onto the couch, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I messed up.” He runs his hand down his face. “Some husband I am,” he mutters.

Thorin studies the wretched dwarf in front of him. Fíli is hunched over, shoulders drawn and tight. He stares dully at the ground. Every once in a while, he shakes his head to dispel some thought, mustache braids swaying with the movement.

“You are dismissed from your duties today,” Thorin says curtly.

Fíli looks up, dumbfounded. “But the trade negotiations—as heir, I should be there!” he protests.

“Kíli will take notes for you. Mahal knows he needs to pay more attention during these meetings anyway.”

“But–”

Thorin silences him with a hand on his shoulder. It’s not Thorin, King Under the Mountain, looking down at him, or Thorin Oakenshield, the warrior.

It’s Uncle Thorin. The dwarf who raised him, who held him as a child when he cried, who sang lullabies to him when he thought no one else was listening. The softer Thorin.

“Fíli, make peace with your wife.” Thorin squeezes Fíli’s shoulder and takes his leave.

Fíli watches the heavy, wooden doors shut with a thud, as if waiting for Thorin to change his mind. To return, to berate him for how he treated his One.

But the doors remain closed. There will be no reprieve for Fíli, nothing to stall him before he has to face what he did. He says a silent prayer as he stands and trudges to Thorin’s chambers. As he reaches a hand out to the door, he freezes. Dread of what awaits him keeps him rooted in place.

Don’t be ridiculous, Fíli scolds himself, shaking his head sharply. It’s just Y/N. Nothing to be afraid of.

He knocks first, but receives no reply. With a deep breath, he carefully pushes the door open. His eyes scan the dimly lit room, finding no sign of you at first. Then, movement in a wingback chair facing the fireplace catches his eye.

Fíli takes a cautious step forward. “Amrâlimê?”

You don’t respond to the endearment.

He changes tactics. “Y/N? Can we talk?”

You poke your head around the side of the chair for a second before turning back and burrowing further into the cushions. “Go away,” you mumble, pulling the blanket tightly around you. While Fíli’s frustration had softened over the sleepless night, your surprise and hurt had hardened into bitter anger.

“Y/N,” Fíli closes the distance. He traces his fingers along the chair’s arm. “Please.”

“Go away!” you snap again. You press your face into the opposite arm of the chair and cover your head with the blanket. It’s petulant, you know that, but you don’t care. Maybe it will soothe your pounding headache.

“No, my love,” he says gently, but firmly. “We need to talk.” Fíli settles on his knees so he’s level with you and pulls the blanket off of your head.

You scowl at him, but with his careful, honest eyes searching your own, you can’t hold it long. Your gaze drops to your hands, clutching the blanket tightly. “Still?” you ask at last, voice soft.

“Still what?”

“I’m still your love?”

Fíli gently pries your fingers apart until he can hold them, rubbing them to coax warmth into your cold hands. “Always,” he murmurs. “You will always be my love.”

Hot tears fill your eyes. “Then why’d you have to get mad at me?” You try to pull your hands away, but he squeezes them tighter.

“Oh, no, no, amrâlimê, I was not angry with you.” He reaches up to brush strands of hair away from your face.

Your glare tells him you don’t believe him.

“I was not angry,” Fíli insists. “I was…” He shakes his head while he gathers the right words. “May I speak plainly? Without upsetting you.”

You look at him warily, but give him a tiny nod.

Fíli brings his hand back to your hair, smoothing your marriage braid with his thumb. “I am afraid,” he whispers. “I am afraid that I’m losing you. I am afraid that you have gone somewhere that I cannot follow.”

The tears finally spill over your cheeks. The walls of anger you’ve hidden behind crumble, and you wrap your arms around Fíli. You bury your face in his neck and cry. Your hands claw at his back, desperately searching for purchase.

Fíli immediately pulls you from the chair and into his lap on the floor. “Oh, Y/N.” He kisses the top of your head, patiently waiting for you to find your words again.

“I want to remember,” you sob. “I want to love you the same way you love me. I want what we had. I don’t know what we had but I want it back!”

Fíli hugs you tighter as your chest heaves and breath shakes.

For the first time, you don’t recoil from his touch. You need to feel him. Soft skin over hard muscle, coated in gold curls. The weight of his chin on your head. Every inch of him warming you.

You sniff. “Has it been good?”

“Hm?”

“Our life together.“

Fíli lifts his chin from your head and loosens his grip, encouraging you to pull back enough to look at him. “It’s wonderful,” he says. His eyes grow distant with a faint smile. “We both have our duties as the future king and queen, of course, but I treasure every spare moment I get to spend with you.”

The wistful happiness on his face only makes you feel worse. “I’m sorry I took it away,” you whisper.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” Fíli returns to the present, hand rubbing gently up and down your back. “We can start over. You are still you. The brave and clever woman I fell for. My little fighter. And I am still me.” He tilts your chin up and kisses you, quick but soft. “I waited eighty-two years to find you. What’s a little more?”

You shake your head, sending fresh tears spilling over. “It won’t be the same.”

“What if it could be?”

You both jump at the voice. Fíli pulls you back into a tighter hold while his eyes grow darker, scanning the room for threats. The protective lion.

The owner of the voice stands in the doorway, studying you with a careful eye.

“I have an idea,” Tauriel says.

“You cannot seriously be suggesting we take her with us.”

Gandalf leaned back in his chair, puffing at his pipe. “At worst, she makes for an interesting companion. At best, her knowledge of the journey could prove useful.”

“At best, she is a distraction and at worst, a burden,” Thorin retorted. He cast a disdainful look at you, standing in the corner. Bilbo had run out of dining chairs. “The girl’s never touched a sword in her life.”

“Neither has Bilbo,” you muttered.

Kíli snickered.

“Well, I, for one, do not intend on leaving a stranger in my home while I am not here,” Bilbo declared, hands on his hips.

“So you are coming!” Nori exclaimed.

“I never said that!”

“If it’s any consolation,” you interjected, “I’m not exactly thrilled to be here either.” The whole thing was starting to give you a terrible headache as everyone bickered over your presence. Or maybe it was the copious amount of smoke filling the dining room. Either way, you needed out.

“Where do you think you are going?” Thorin demanded as you made for the door. “This is not finished.”

“Somewhere where no one’s blowing smoke in my face,” you snapped. You yanked open the door, barely remembering to duck as you exited. Of course, the awkward height of the doorknob makes it almost impossible to forcefully slam the door behind you, but you did your best.

Some of your frustration melted away as you took in your surroundings. Since you’d just shown up on Bilbo’s doorstep, an overnight bag in hand, you hadn’t gotten the chance to appreciate where you were. It was almost enough to take your breath away. Stars scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds spilled over dark velvet. More stars than you’d seen in your life. Fireflies flitted about the garden, flashing and winking at each other in the night. Small, round windows set into the hills, little puffs of smoke drifting from chimneys nestled in the earth, hobbits settling into their evening routines. You plopped down onto the wooden bench just inside the gate.

The Shire.

Damn it.

Middle Earth.

Damn it.

You put your head in your hands and let out a heavy sigh. You didn’t look up when the door opened and shut again, not until you felt the wood of the bench bend beneath you.

“Care for a smoke?”

Of course it was them. The curious little boys. You lifted your head to see Kíli already lounging next to you, kicking his heavy boots up onto the fence. Fíli sat on your other side, offering you your backpack.

“Didn’t want to go rummaging through your belongings just to find your pipe,” he explained as he tossed it into your lap.

“I don’t have one,” you said.

“Ah, that’s alright. You can borrow mine,” Kíli offered.

The smell of the pipeweed was almost sickening. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Did you not hear me tell Thorin why I left?”

“Something about smoke?” Kíli puffed out a series of increasingly smaller smoke rings. They vanished in the cool breeze.

“To get away from the smoke. Just… never mind.” You shook your head. “Did Thorin send you to make sure I don’t run away and spill his plans to the world?”

“No,” Fíli said, as Kíli said “yes.”

You just rolled your eyes.

Fíli leaned back, lighting his own pipe. “So,” he said through teeth clenched on the end of his pipe. “Not from around here, eh?”

“That’s one way to put it,” you replied with a shrug. “I guess I should get used to it. To this.” You gestured vaguely towards the rest of the Shire.

“It’s not bad,” Fíli remarked. “Peaceful. Quaint.”

“Boring,” Kíli added.

You groaned, putting your head back in your hands.

“I hope you won’t be sulking like this on the road.” Fíli nudged your side with his elbow. “It’d be a bit of a downer.”

You looked up at the dwarf prince. The stupidly handsome and charming dwarf prince. His stupidly handsome and charming brother. Your stupidly handsome and charming favorite dwarves.

Don’t get attached, warned a voice in the back of your mind. You know what happens.

You tried to shut it up, but it refused to be silent. It all flashed through your head—Fíli falling from the broken tower to the ground in front of his brother. Kíli bleeding out as Tauriel leaned over him. Bilbo crouching at Thorin’s side as the king slipped away.

“It’ll be fun, having a lass along,” Fíli interrupted your train of thought. He leaned his head back and blew out a steady stream of smoke. “We’ll watch out for you, naturally. Keep you out of trouble. We would not want you all battered and bruised by the time we face the dragon.”

“You are way more chill about this than you should be,” you said. Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the zipper on your backpack. “Do you actually understand what you’re supposed to do?”

Kíli stretched his arms over his head. The bench creaked in protest as he shifted his weight. “Sure. Get to the mountain, kill the dragon, get the gold. Simple.”

“If you expect it to be that easy, you’re fucked.”

“Ooh!” Kíli’s eyes lit up. “She’s got a mouth on her—I like that in a girl.” He winked, but his mischievous expression dimmed a little when he looked over at his brother.

Fíli’s brow was furrowed. He tilted his head as he peered at you. “You speak as if you already know our path.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Clearly, they did not listen very closely to the argument between Thorin and Gandalf after you let slip some key information about the quest, things no one else should know. Your gaze fell to your backpack in your lap, not wanting to meet the prince’s eyes. It was far too modern for your rustic setting. It didn’t belong.

And neither did you.

“Because I do,” you admitted at last. “I read the book. I saw the movies. I know how it goes.”

Fíli’s face lit up. “Do we win? I bet it will be a spectacular victory.”

“Not telling.”

“Come on!” Kíli pressed. “Nothing?”

You flashed him a warning glance. “Look, I’m just along for the ride. I’m not here to change things—if Thorin will even let me come. But I doubt it.” You kicked at a pebble beneath your feet, watching it skip out onto the path worn into the hillside from hundreds of carts and hobbit feet. “I seemed to have pissed him off just by existing.”

“Ah, you’ll win him over eventually,” Kíli remarked with a lazy grin. “He’s a softie at heart, really—oh, hello Thorin.”

You held your breath as heavy footsteps tromped down the steps. How long had he been listening?

Thorin crossed his arms and glowered down at you. His eyes then flickered to his nephews, leaning back casually while you sat stiffly between them. “I want the three of you awake before dawn,” he said finally. “We leave at first light to retrieve the ponies.” With one last, wary glance at you, he turned away.

You finished processing his words just as he put his hand on the doorknob. “Three?”

Thorin halted. “Do not make me regret this,” he grunted.

And then he was gone.

Fíli clapped you on the shoulder, almost knocking you off the bench in the process. “Well, you heard him. Up before dawn.”

“I think I’ll stay out just a bit longer.” You relaxed a bit on the bench as the brothers stood.

“Suit yourself,” Fíli shrugged. When he was halfway up the steps, he stopped and turned back around. “You do have a name, right? We can’t just keep calling you ‘lass.’”

“Y/N.”

“Pleasure to meet you, m’lady.” He winked and vanished inside with Kíli.

All the air rushed from your lungs as the door closed, leaving you alone in the garden of Bilbo Baggins. In Hobbiton. The Shire.

You shook your head.

What did you get yourself into?

#fanfiction #fíli #kíli #the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #fili x you #fili x reader #everybody lives #angst and hurt/comfort #it gets angstier before it gets fluffier

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kiwiokok · 4 months ago

Text

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙒𝘼𝙔 𝙊𝙁 𝙒𝘼𝙏𝙀𝙍

Previous >> Next

Pairing: Ao'nung x omaticayan! fem!reader

Summary: Fly

Warnings: None

Credits: For the whole plot idea I have for this fanfic I have to credit and thank @lorre-verie <3

The marui was bustling with its usual morning activity, the scent of cooked food still lingering in the air. Kiri was cleaning up the remains of breakfast, her movements efficient but distracted as she hummed quietly to herself. Tuk sat nearby, giggling as she strung beads together, completely absorbed in her little world.

Jake's gaze lingered on Lorre, watching the way her fingers trembled slightly as she pushed her plate away. She still looked pale — far too pale — from yesterday's headache. There was something fragile in the way she sat there, shoulders hunched just a little too tightly, trying to look stronger than she felt.

His brow furrowed, replaying her words in his mind, about wanting to feed the Ikrans. It wasn’t the worst idea, but the timing — it was all wrong. She wasn’t herself yet—he could see it in the way she rubbed absently at her temples as if fighting the dull throb that was still there.

He swallowed hard, glancing at her again, this time more closely. Her eyes, though determined, were shadowed with exhaustion she couldn’t hide. He wondered if she even noticed how drained she looked, or if she was simply too stubborn to care.

- Feed the Ikrans? he repeated slowly, voice heavy with hesitation, the words tasting bitter as he weighed them carefully. His eyes searched hers, silently begging for her to acknowledge her health first.

He felt the unease knot tighter in his gut, torn between letting her do what she wanted and pulling her back, keeping her safe—even if it meant being the bad guy.

- Yes, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. To feed Paz, maybe even fly her for a bit. It’s been some time since we last did that. Lorre tried to sound casual, but the look on Jake’s face told her he wasn’t fully convinced. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly debating with himself before nodding.

- Alright. But Neteyam’s going with you. His tone left no room for argument, the protective edge clear in his voice.

Neteyam, who had been standing off to the side, stepped forward, nodding. - Yes, sir. I��ll keep an eye on her.

Lorre cringed internally at the formality. Neteyam always played by the rules, but hearing him address their father like that just made her feel… watched. Like she couldn’t even do something as simple as flying without someone there to monitor her.

- I don’t need a babysitter, you know. Her voice was quiet, almost defeated, but she didn’t meet Jake’s eyes.

Jake, always perceptive, softened slightly, but his decision was final. - Just until you’re feeling better.

Lorre sighed but didn’t argue. She knew there was no point. She wasn’t about to win this one.

Once they left their Marui, Lorre and Neteyam walked side by side along the winding path toward the forest, where the Ikrans nestled.

The ikran were kept in a small forest grove just behind the village of Awa'atlu, where the dense canopy of trees provided a natural shelter from the harsh coastal winds. Large, twisting roots created natural perches for the ikran to rest upon, their vibrant scales standing out against the earthy tones of the forest.

Though far from their usual mountainous home, the ikran had adapted to their new surroundings. They feasted on reef fish—glider fin and feathertail fish—which were plentiful in the area. The Na'vi didn’t eat these fish themselves, finding the taste of feathertail fish particularly foul, but the ikran had developed a liking for them.

The Breeze carried the scent of damp earth and lush foliage, but Lorre’s mind was distracted, her gaze flicking across faces of those they passed. She wasn't really sure who she was looking for — maybe Ro’uk, though she brushed the thought away. Their plan they were talking about yesterday — to fly with the Ikrans felt distant.

- Looking for someone? Neteyam asked, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Lorre waved it off, shrugging lightly. - No one special.

He hummed, clearly unconvinced but not pushing the matter. As they rounded the bend, where the Ikrans rested, the sight that greeted them made both of them stop in their tracks.

Tsireya stood beside Paz, her fingers trailing gently over Lorre’s Ikran. Lo’ak, arms crossed and looking more amused than he had any right to, watched her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lorre narrowed her eyes, confusion and a flicker of protectiveness stirring in her chest. - What… exactly are they doing? she muttered, glancing sideways at Neteyam, who seemed equally bewildered.

- Lo’ak.. Neteyam sighed, shaking his head. - He thinks rules don’t apply to him.

Lo’ak’s sharp ears picked up on the remark, and he turned with a lazy grin, all mischief and zero regret, but Lorre caught the way he gulped when he noticed the look on her face. - What? It’s not like Paz is dangerous. Besides, he nodded toward Tsireya, - she’s got a way with them.

Lorre stepped forward, hands on her hips, voice firm but more bemused than angry. - She’s my Ikran

At the sound of her voice, Tsireya startled, her hand pulling back as if Paz had suddenly burned her. - Oh! I’m so sorry! she exclaimed, eyes wide with apology. - I just—she’s so beautiful. I didn’t mean to overstep. Her voice was soft, and the nervousness in her wide eyes made Lorre’s annoyence fade.

Lo’ak raised his hands in mock surrender, a wide grin still plastered on his face. - Relax, Lorre. No harm done. I figured you wouldn’t mind.

- Mind? Lorre gave him a flat look, though there was no real malice in it. - Next time, ask before you let other Na’vi pet my Ikran.

Neteyam, standing slightly behind her, chuckled under his breath. - He’s lucky Paz didn’t bite his head off.

- Ikrans don’t just bite Na’vi, Neteyam. Lorre muttered. - But if they did, Lo’ak would be the first to find out.

Tsireya’s tentative smile returned, though there was still an edge of nervousness to it. - She really is stunning, Lorre. I’ve never seen an Ikran like her.

Lorre softened at the compliment, her stance relaxing. - Thanks. She’s special to me.

Lo’ak, sensing an opportunity, swooped in with a wide grin. - You and Paz—both serious and protective. It’s adorable.

Lorre shot him a look. - Adorable? You’ve been spending too much time around Tsireya.

Neteyam snorted at that, but Lo’ak was undeterred. - Nah, it’s true. Always on edge, always guarding something. Maybe Aonung’s rubbing off on you.

Lorre blinked, caught off guard by the sudden mention of Aonung. - What does he have to do with anything

Lo’ak leaned in slightly, his grin widening like a cat about to pounce. - Come on, Lorre. You haven’t noticed? Aonung’s always lurking around whenever you’re nearby. I think he’s got a thing for you.

- Lo’ak! Lorre’s eyes widened, heat rising in her cheeks, though she quickly shot him a glare. - You’re imagining things. He doesn’t care about that, yet.

- Doesn’t he? Lo’ak tilted his head innocently. - Seems to me he finds every excuse to be where you are.

- Lo’ak’s right. Neteyam chimed in, trying and failing to suppress a grin. - I mean, Aonung’s been trailing you for days. You can’t be that oblivious.

Lorre shook her head, her cheeks still warm as she tried to compose herself. - You two are impossible. she muttered under her breath, but her tone lacked its usual bite.

Tsireya, having found her footing again, smiled gently. - He is usually around when you are, Lorre. I didn't even have to ask him to teach the sign language.

- Not you too, Tsireya Lorre groaned, rubbing her temples as if trying to ward off a headache she no longer had.

Lo’ak’s grin was downright wicked now. - You know what? Why don’t we go get him? I’m sure he’d love to join us for a little flight.

Lorre shot him a sharp look. - No. Absolutely not.

- Oh, come on! Lo’ak said, already moving toward the path with Tsireya trailing behind him, giggling. - It’ll be fun. And if Aonung comes along, maybe you’ll show off a little.

Lorre crossed her arms, trying to maintain her composure, but there was no denying the flustered look in her eyes. Though she didn't really believe he liked her that way. - I’m not showing off for anyone, least of all him.

Lo’ak called over his shoulder, already halfway down the path. - Sure, sure. Whatever you say.

- Don’t worry, we’ll bring him right to you! Tsireya added with a playful laugh, before the two of them disappeared around the trees, leaving Lorre and Neteyam standing by Paz.

Lorre let out a long sigh, turning to Neteyam. - Why do I put up with them?

Neteyam laughed, resting a hand on her shoulder. - Because deep down, you actually like it.

Lorre shot him a look of disbelief, but couldn’t quite hold back a smile. - Don’t you start.

Neteyam shrugged, still grinning as he mounted his own Ikran. - It’s not starting anything if it’s already true.

As they stood by the Ikrans, ,Lo’ak’s voice echoed back through the trees, followed by the sound of footsteps. Lorre didn’t have time to react before she saw him—Aonung, striding up to them with that self-assured walk she’d seen too many times before. Lo’ak and Tsireya trailed behind, looking far too pleased with themselves.

Aonung raised an eyebrow as he approached, his sharp gaze locking onto Lorre almost immediately. - Flying without me?

Lorre crossed her arms, trying to look unaffected. - I wasn’t planning on an audience.

- Too bad. Aonung said with an easy grin. - Because I’m here now.

Lo’ak laughed, clapping Aonung on the back. -I told you she was going to show off!

Lorre shot him a glare. - I’m not showing off for anyone. Especially not for—

- For me? Aonung cut in, his grin widening. - Good to know.

Lorre felt her heart rate pick up but quickly turned away, grabbing onto Paz’s saddle and climbing up without another word. - Let’s just fly. You coming or not?

Just as she began to settle into the rhythm, she heard the familiar sound of someone climbing up behind her. She glanced back, her breath catching for a moment as she spotted Aonung, already settled on Paz’s saddle, right behind her.

- You didn’t ask she said flatly

Aonung grinned, leaning in slightly so she could hear him over the loud noises the Ikran was making, - You didn’t exactly stop me.

Lorre rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. - Fine, just don’t mess it up.

- Are we going or not? Neteyam called out once the Ikran started to get louder, eager to fly already

The moment Lorre nudged Paz to fly, the world shifted beneath them. With a powerful thrust of her wings, Paz soared into the sky, and the ground below faded away in a rush. The wind whipped through Lorre’s hair, exhilarating and freeing, a wave of adrenaline surging as they climbed higher.

As they flew together, the vastness of the sky enveloped them, and Lorre felt an unexpected warmth radiating from Aonung behind her. The rhythm of Paz’s wings felt alive beneath her, the pulse of the wind wrapping around them like a gentle embrace. Lorre couldn’t help but steal glances back at Aonung, whose carefree laughter matched the joyful swoops and dives of the Ikran.

Lorre turned her head to where Aonung was laughing, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he watched his sister, Tsireya, soaring through the sky with Lo’ak. Tsireya’s face radiated pure joy, although the rush of air swallowed her shouts, Lorre could see the thrill lighting up her features.

Below them, the lush green forest spread out like a vast tapestry, its vibrant leaves shimmering in the sunlight, a reminder of the home she missed so deeply. Each glance at the landscape tugged at her heart, a bittersweet blend of nostalgia and longing.

As Neteyam swooped around them, his Ikran spun gracefully in the air, letting out a spirited war cry that echoed in the wind. Lorre felt the exhilaration wash over her, the wind tousling her hair and the cool air brushing against her skin.

With Aonung beside her, happiness bubbled within her. She had never felt so alive, she was so used to the contact flying, and now from a long pause of not flying, the thrill of it made a temporary escape from the weight of her worries. In this moment, everything felt right.

But as they glided higher, a familiar ache crept into her heart, reminding her of the shadows that trailed her. She missed the forest—the sacred whispers of Eywa, the gentle rustle of leaves, and the warmth of the trees that had sheltered her since childhood.

Here in the sky, surrounded by laughter and light, she felt a pang of loneliness wash over her, contrasting sharply with the joy around her. It was as if she were living in two worlds, one filled with happiness and the other weighed down by unspoken fears and doubts

In a moment of bliss, Lorre leaned against Aonung’s chest, seeking comfort in his solid presence. She didn’t even realize she had done it until she caught him making a playful face at her, his brows raised in mock surprise.

Flushing, she quickly apologized, her voice barely rising above the rush of wind. - Sorry, I didn’t mean to lean on you.

Aonung shrugged, a sly smile tugging at his lips. - It’s okay. I don’t mind he replied, his voice teasing yet warm. Relieved, she nestled back against him, savoring the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her. The simple comfort of his presence felt grounding.

She cherished this moment, this sense of belonging, even as the shadows of her heart threatened to break through. Here, high above the world, she felt both the exhilaration of freedom and the weight of her unspoken fears.

────────

When they landed, night had already fallen, and the stars dotted the sky like scattered jewels.

Glancing around, Lorre spotted Kiri emerging from the water, her Ilu vanishing beneath the surface. She waved her over. - Kiri, over here!

Kiri smiled and came over quickly. - How was the flight?

Before Lorre could respond, Tsireya spoke up, her voice sounding silent as she got off the Ikran with Lo’ak’s help. - I was thinking… maybe we could visit the soul tree tomorrow.

- Really? Kiri asked, her expression brightening slightly. - I’ve missed that. It’s been too long since I connected with Eywa.

- That sounds nice. Lorre added, a calm smile crossing her face. - It’ll be good to go together.

Lo’ak wandered over after settling his Ikran. - I’m in! he said with a tired smile, placing his hands on Tsireya’s shoulders

Neteyam walked over beside them a moment later, watching the group before nodding, already starting to head out to their family’s Marui.

- Goodnight, Paz. she whispered softly. The Ikran nuzzled her briefly when Lorre disconnected from Paz, and the Ikran gave a sharp screech, flapping her wings before flying back to join the others. Neteyam’s and Lo’ak’s Ikrans followed her, their powerful wings stirring the air before they disappeared into the darkness.

As they began walking back to the village, Lorre felt Aonung’s presence beside her. He stayed quiet, but she could feel his gaze on her as they walked. The warmth of his arm brushed against hers, a subtle closeness that she didn’t pull away from.

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