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emmaofnormandy · 6 months ago

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Imagine Aegon is the father of your children… to whom you are the greatest defender. (Part II)

Warnings: this time we have drama, angst, but fluffy like usual. Maybe some smut. Long post.

@dracaryxzs tagging you once more, hope you like it!

***

• The Last Feast.

You are present at your father’s last dinner. Despite detesting the circumstances, you put an effort at your husband’s request, as much as either of you are uncomfortable with this growing awkwardness—thanks to your father’s preference over Rhaenyra and your mother’s likewise neglect.

Not to mention the Strong bastards who tease your lover endlessly—as well as your younger brother Aemond. You recollect how, when you were ten and two summers, you hit Jacaerys in his face and kicked Lucerys’ belly after their bullying over your family.

“You have no idea whom you are messing with, boys. I may be kind, I may be sweet, but I am as dragon as either of you are. If yet one may say so… considering there’s nothing Valyrian on you.”

Words—and deeds—that earned Aemond’s respect and Aegon’s admiration. Today you wish you had better control of your temper, perhaps being more diplomatic, but you’d still stand up for Aegon nonetheless.

“You look thoughtful today”, you hear Aegon telling you. “I think it’s too early for you to join this bloody dinner. You have been just churched, Y/N.”

You smile, letting memories of a distant past fade when Aegon comes at you, holding you from behind as your ladies have just finished dressing you and brushing your long silver locks.

Today you opt to wear your two-sided braided hair and a long, silk green gown which may reinforce your curves. His hands are precisely there as his eyes stare at your reflection in the mirror of your privy quarters.

About a month and half ago, you gave birth to your fifth child—and you’re already the mother of Aegon, Alysanne, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera—whom you named Baelor after your grandsire. To the surprise of many, you are not only as fertile as your sisters and mother, but just as strong.

Even though ladies are strongly recommended to avoid events after this period of churching—where they go through the process of getting cleansed carnally and spiritually under the Septs of the Seven—you care very little about such rules, specially when your sire father is about to depart this world—something that gives you mixed feelings.

“I am as good as before”, you turn at him with a smile on your lips. “I may look tired but that is because I had to wake early to feed Baelor.”

Aegon chuckles lightly.

“…all the whilst our dearest Jaehaera was found sneaking under our blanket.”

You laugh heartily.

“She seems to take after you, I’m afraid. Are you ready to put some reins in her, Aegon?”

To which your husband scoffs.

“Please. I’m here to protect and spoil my princesses. Yourself included, dear”, and saying so, he presses a kiss on your cheek. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You spot a glint of mischief behind his eyes; it already makes your intimate parts ache for him. You gently put two fingers over his lips and bite yours when he takes to his mouth, sucking each without parting gazes.

“Mm. Someone’s not been churched enough, I see.”, Aegon teases you, now going to press you against the wall.

“My darling, you best not ruin me for the feast. We are awaited”, you try your best not to give him, but what power do you have when he, taller than you, towers over you and starts to lift the skirt of your gowns…

“Oh there you are!”, you and Aegon almost jump out the moment you hear Helaena’s voice. “Alysanne and I were looking for you!”

Suddenly the seven year old princess with short curly hair and eyes that resemble her parents shows up dressing a gown that is very similar to her aunt’s.

“Papa! Mama! Aunt Laena did my dress, look! I’ve been looking for you in order to show you it!”, she steps up proudly under Helaena’s fond gaze and clapping hands.

You are quickly straightening yourself when Aegon promptly goes to one knee to match his daughter’s height and speak as if nothing was going on before their… sudden arrival.

“You look gorgeous as ever, Alys! Beautiful like your mama!”, he beams at her, before lifting his daughter and holding her tight.

“Weeee!”, Alysanne giggles. “You can still carry me! Look, aunt Laena! Look how strong my papa is!”

Helaena is all smiles at the scene. You join her side, adding a teasing comment:

“It appears your father is still strong, uh? Here I was thinking otherwise.”

Aegon rolls eyes at you, but Alysanne points out her tongue in turn.

“There is none as strong as my papa!”

“That’s my girl!”, he kisses her cheek, spinning her around a little more before downing her at last. “Now, you best go to see your grandsire. Where is Egg? And your twins?”

“Egg has joined Maekar”, she tells him in reference to Helaena and Aemond’s oldest son. “They are insufferable.”

Helaena chuckles lightly.

“Best mates, as they should.”

“As for me… at least I have Rhae to be friends with”, and that being said the princess runs after her cousin, Maekar’s own twin, both born in the same year as Alysanne’s.

“You should be more careful, leaving the door unlocked”, says Helaena, amused.

And she turns before either of you could form a proper answer. You sigh and as you link your arm with Aegon’s, you say:

“She is not wrong, you know.”

“Where can I be faulted if these kids are growing too fast these days”, grumbles Aegon.

You poke his side playfully.

“The joke’s on you for being careless and leaving the door open.”

Aegon chuckles, pressing another kiss on your cheeks before going to the king’s privy quarters where a family reunion is expected.

You are sitting opposite Aemond and Helaena, next to your husband on the left side of the table. You are making sure your children are behaving well at the same time instructing your maids what to do in case they get…bored.

Whilst you do so, Aegon avoids Rhaenyra’s gaze, who sits on the opposite right of the table, with her own offspring. Trying to sweep away the taste of bad blood, he rather focuses in his own children.

The sight of his growing family brings a relief to his wounded pride. For years, longing for something his father and mother lacked in providing, seems to have been filled with your love and these of his children.

When seeing how Egg is looking for him and, once finding his gaze, smiles in search of approval, Aegon forgets his haunted memoirs and gives his boy and heir a positive sign with his thumb up.

It’s how happy Egg is that makes Aegon believe that he’s overcome his broken heart. By how proud his son looks just after being acknowledged by Aegon makes him think that… had only his father done that for years, one small gesture such as this, well… wouldn’t things be different?

Looking now at his daughter, Princess Alysanne. She’s every inch his own and Aegon takes pride in his eldest girl. She is sweet tempered and talkative—oh doesn’t she like to talk? Aegon observes how she and her cousin, Princess Rhaella, engage in some serious conversation which the prince supposes to be about dragons.

He does approve how they are bonding. And when his gaze meets Aemond’s, the eldest of the two realizes this is a better out coming than both of them expected—considering their upbringing. Aemond, of his part, gives a small smirk, considering he is proud too of his children.

And then… there are the twins, of course, and the newly born son who’s not present. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys are not gloomy nor moody, simply the mirror of Aegon’s domestic joy.

This picture of the family he never had that is now his new reality makes him at peace with his parents… even if at times, such as now, he is remembered of everything he didn’t have.

“I would like to make a toast”, says King Viserys, and his voice drags Aegon out of his particular bliss. “My family reunited here. Everyone together as it should, the perfect reflection of how peaceful our realm is.”

All eyes are set on the dying king. The evidence is clear and you cannot help yourself wondering… how all would’ve been different had he acknowledged Aegon’s inheritance. When casting a quick look at your sister Rhaenyra, you realize that she’s never wanted the high prize.

“Mama”, your daughter’s hand pushing your sleeve draws you out of your thoughts.

“What is it, sweetling?”

“Will the dragons die?”

You furrow your eyebrows, ignoring Helaena’s curious gaze at the sight of you two.

“Why would you ask this question?”

Alysanne hesitates, suddenly realizing this may not be the most proper place to speak. But since the music is now playing and the babbling is loud, you encourage her to speak her mind.

“I… I had a nightmare again.”

“With what, my dove? You will claim your dragon, eventually”, you assure her.

“I know I will, but this isn’t it. I am talking about a red dragon being smashed. It looked terrifying to watch.”

Back then, you do not comprehend what red dragon is your daughter speaking of: neither you nor Aegon’s dragons possess red scales. Before you could find a way to assure your daughter this is nothing but a bad dream, a sound takes you out of your thoughts.

“I’d like to make a toast for these… Strong boys.”

Your eyes go wide at Aemond’s bluntness. Helaena is too surprised, and you two share a meaningful, confident look. Both of you take your children out of the dining table, sensing trouble is coming out.

Later, you come back to rush Aegon out of this mess.

“I was handling just well”, he tells you prideful.

Indeed, to your relief he bears no black eye. But by how Rhaenyra looks angry, you know enmity is official.

You hold her stare as you stroke your husband’s face.

“I know. Who could beat you, anyway? You did nothing wrong.”

And by saying that, you kiss his lips, finding home in his embrace.

***

• A Storm Of Iron Blades.

Later that night, there is nothing to occupy your thoughts. With your children asleep and your churching period finally at end, you gladly resume your activities.

And your favorite one is riding your husband, of course.

“Aegon!”, you cry out his name, searching for support against the wall as his hands hold firmly your hips whilst his tongue does wonderfulness in you. “Oh Gods!”

And you move your hips gracefully, smirking at the sight of subduing such a prideful prince, yours to be king.

You arch your back, smirking wide as he slaps your hips, hair now a complete puddle of mess as you come undone.

Your husband drinks every juice you give him, such is his thirst. But domineering he still is as, restless like usual, he flips positions and is now thrusting right into you.

“We are conceiving again”, he whispers against your hot skin, turning you around so your face can be seen. Aegon wraps a hand around your neck all the whilst he pulls your hair the way you like him to.

“One more child?”, you moan loud, burying your nails against his skin as you two move as one.

“I told you we are making this a grand family”, he thrusts harder, pleased to earn a louder moan this time.

Matching his hips with yours, Aegon knows you delegate him control. Every time you come after churching, you settle under him, legs firmly tied around his waist… and when you try to swap, oh snap! He got you there.

“Kiss me!”, you demand him. “Now!”

Aegon gladly complies to your commands, pursuing your lips desperately so. In a crazy demonstration of how your connection works, both of you reach climax at the same time.

As he lies his head at your left breast, Aegon strokes your cheek and says:

“Thank you.”

“What for?”, you ask him surprised.

“For giving me what I was refused: a family.”

You peck his lips, cuddling onto him.

“I love you, Aegon. I hope you know I’d do anything for you. Anything at all.”

As he looks up at him, Aegon knows the veracity of these words. And when he kisses you, the prince fears for them at the same.

Little Egg comes early next morning to get his father’s attention. You realize they are very close, which makes your chest swell with pride. It’s you who welcome your eldest when door opens and you are still breastfeeding baby Baelor, despite Aegon’s protest that you should be doing so in your bed not on your feet.

“Darling! What is it?”, you smile brightly at him.

Despite the nickname, Little Egg is hardly little now. He’s grown quite fast for his age and will most likely to be very tall in his early adulthood. His hair is long now, emulating his father’s.

“I want to see my lord father.”

Thankfully, Aegon has just left his privy quarters when his son’s voice reach him.

“What’s lord for? Father is just fine”, Aegon pulls a grimace at the formality.

Little Egg chuckles.

“My lady grandmother told me I should be mindful of my manners.”

“Who cares about what that old woman says?”, and here he ignores your weak protest at how your mother is addressed. “Come here, won’t you hug me properly?”

As you sit to finish feeding your baby and hold him close, you delight at the scene of Little Egg running to the arms of Aegon, chuckling as he is spinning around before putting down.

“A egg has hatched”, says your brave little boy. “I reclaimed it as mine.”

“Well, of course it’s yours!”, says Aegon, admired. “We put that egg with you since you were born. You slept it tightly with it!”

Little Egg blushes at his remark.

“Well, either way, it’s born! And it’s mine!”

“Fantastic! What’s the name of it?”

“I thought about something to honor your dragon, papa, since it’s golden with details in silver. So I figured to call it Goldenfyre.”

You swear you thought Aegon’d burst into tears. You too think some tears come from your eyes, aware of how important this is to your husband. A moment once stolen in his childhood, but somehow regained to compose his son’s.

“Will you show me Goldenfyre?”, Aegon smiles proudly at his boy.

“Yes”, Little Egg smiles timidly, but you spot pride in his eyes. “And after that I want to show mummy too.”

“Of course my dearest”, you tell him just as delighted.

“I also saved an egg to Baelor”, he tells you proudly when coming at you to earn a motherly kiss you give him.

“That’s my boy. Remember, this is your brother whom you shall always protect.”

Very serious, says your small version of your husband:

“I will not fail in this duty, mother.”

“I know you won’t.”

As you look up, finding Aegon as tearful as you, contentment finds solace in this new home, built over a wrecked one. Perhaps the Gods could be good, after all.

Not everything is about family, however. You need a moment to fly with Dreamfyre again and are about to do so with your youngster one when the Queen comes after you with a grave expression.

“Where is Aegon?”

“Greetings to you too, mother”, you do not mind the disdain in your tongue. “He’s with his son. Something you could have done too if you had the time.”

Alicent looks at her daughter as if she somehow wished you were like Helaena: quieter and serene, even though you are more than aware how your younger sister is also estranged with the Queen. Not that you have been very wayward, you have rarely been at her presence… is all.

Old wounds takes time to heal.

“This is not the moment nor the time to point out my wrongs. I know you will not understand the sacrifices I’ve made for this family, but I need you to summon Aegon.”

“Can you not do this yourself since you have sacrificed so much for us?”

Alicent sighs. At times she finds hard to look at you, and you know that is because you resemble Aegon.

“Your father…”

Now she has your attention. You think wise to give your maid your Baelor.

“Yes?”

What you find in your mother’s eyes knocks your pride down.

“Your father has… departed this world.”

In other words, you know you should be prepared to war. And how strange it is when for the first time in a long while you and the queen find comfort in each other with a hesitant embrace.

Outside, you could hear the lightenings.

***

You are flying Dreamfyre when clouds start to rumble. Your dragon turns her head to give you a look as if she’s sensing your intimate thoughts. Amidst the announce of a storm sun is starting to rise in the horizon and you should go back… but you are reluctant. So she knows where to take you.

To your surprise, though, you find him there. In the very spot where everything began. Has it almost been ten years since you and him professed feelings for each other? It certainly doesn’t feel like it.

“Egg”, you call him affectionately. “I wasn’t expecting to seeing you here.”

Aegon looks distraught, a view that much plagues your heart. You take his side and hold his hand.

“War is coming. She’s not going to accept I am our father’s heir.”

“We can do this”, you tell him firmly. To his surprise, you are determined to go to the end of it. “I know my place, but you must know yours. Father has determined as tradition has that a male heir is to sit upon the iron throne. This happens to be you.”

“I wasn’t prepared for the role”, Aegon admits in one of his rare displays of weakness.

You cup his cheeks with both hands and make him look at you. Aegon finds comfort in you, solace for his insecurities, which you know so well. What’s more is that you never left him.

You stayed.

“Circumstances are better teachers than theories. I can help you with that, though. I am not made of silk or dragon blood”, you flash him a side smirk. “I have a brain sharp as sword.”

“Y/N… I never underestimated you. We…”, and here he whispers. “We both know you’d be a better queen.”

You chuckle quietly, rubbing your nose against his. Rain starts to fall but you both seem immune to it.

“Shush. I know my place, husband. You will be a great king.”

As if convinced by your arguments, Aegon rests his head against your shoulder, and you rock him gently, stroking his silver locks.

“We are doing this for our children.” He tells you firmly, regaining his composure.

Hands intertwined, eyes locked. Mutual communication.

“My Visenya”, Aegon smiles, besotted.

“My Conqueror”, you beam at him.

And all is sealed with a kiss.

The green council is gathering and in the meantime you spend your time with your sister and your children.

“We must be wary”, whispers Helaena to you.

You cast her a knowing look.

“Can we prevent it to happen?”

“I don’t think so. The crown has a price to pay.”

“I shall do it so”, you tell her firmly.

And then the conversation breaks suddenly.

“Mama”, says Alysanne, running to her side. “Will papa get burnt?”

Never before you detested these dreams your daughter and sister share.

“No”, you assure her firmly, giving a side glance at Helaena, who’s holding her own children protectively. “Nothing bad will happen to him. This I vow.”

To the rest of the day, despite not contenting yourself with embroidery, you settle with the role of mother just fine. But as rain gets heavier outside, you know another will come eventually: that of a wife ready to fight for her husband.

Later that evening, as you watch the children playing with their father and you rock young Baelor against your chest, Aegon tells you the plans of his coronation.

Alysanne and Little Egg are almost fighting over who climbs faster in his father’s shoulders and when he turns at them with that smile you love and says:

“Hey. What did I say?”

“One at time”, grumbles Little Egg. “But I am the heir, therefore…”

“Heir you are, but you must not forget your manners, my son. Ladies first, or has chivalry died?”, and here you try to hide away your amusement.

“Fine. You go, sister.”

Alysanne puts out a tongue, but she too earns a reprehension of her father.

“Now, now, this is not the way, Lys.”

“Sorry”, she puts out a face that makes her irresistibly cute. Aegon chuckles and kisses her temple before putting her over his shoulders. “Weee! I’m flying!”

Aegon makes a noise that you suppose to emulate a dragon’s. The whole scene is adorable and gets your children’s attention. Soon he does the same to everyone—but Baelor, who’s asleep.

“Very well. Your father is tired, he’s done for the night. It’s late and you should be put in bed.”

“Papa”, says Jaehaera, putting his sleeve.

“Yes, daughter?”

“Can you tell us a story before we go to bed?”

“Yes!”, Alysanne runs to her sister’s side and the boys too, despite them pretending to lack interest, which amuses you.

“It’s your day, honey”, you tell him in between giggles. “I’m already occupied here.”

Aegon rolls his eyes as if he doesn’t want this arduous task. However, he makes sure to get the four children to put in your bed before getting to such a mission.

First, he gets Alysanne and Little Egg under blankets before putting the twins on his knees. Second… he makes sure to get their attention.

“Now listen up. Do you want to hear a story about a dragon princess who saved her dragon prince?”

“Hear! Hear!”, Little Egg cries out. “Ladies and gentlemen, no bard nor storyteller can match our dad!”

Aegon blushes.

“Why thank you for the praise, son. So I guess this is a yes?”

“Of course! There is romance too so we are all very pleased”, says a very romantic Alysanne.

You watch as your husband is set loose to your children. He likes the attention, but more so… he likes being their father.

If we were peasants, we’d be a merrier family.

Sweeping away these melancholic thoughts that make reference to an inevitable upcoming war, you focus on how happy he looks when the burden of wearing a crown is not smashing over him.

How loved he is when surrounded by these innocent toddlers who want to please him—and Aegon is eager to please them too.

You are teary at the scene. Alysanne is watching attentively as her father tells in his own your love story behind a great deal of creativity and fantasy, which makes you chuckle quietly. Jaehaera and her twin brother are not too far behind. These youngsters who like to make your quarters a mess are unusually quiet, captivated by their father’s voice, eyeing him with the most genuine devotion of a children.

Eventually though as the story comes to an end, they are all snoring.

“Well, my king. Our bed is full”, you laugh quietly as you put asleep Baelor carefully in his cradle.

Aegon smiles, moving to where you are and putting you against his arms.

“Thank you for giving me these beautiful children. I cannot believe I am this blessed.”

“How could it be otherwise? Oh Aegon, I love you.”

You spot some tears forming behind his eyes. He clears his throat, still uncomfortable with his own sentiments. Nevertheless he says:

“And I love you, my preciosity. You are my moon and stars.”

“And you are my sun and universe.”

This evening ends well. And you kiss him in turn.

But even sun sets in paradise. You are outdoors with Helaena, two maids and your children when Aemond comes in.

By the looks on his face nothing good is coming. You prepare for the bad news.

“What is it?”

Aemond cannot look at you, but it’s Helaena, who runs to his encounter, who casts a look at you and says:

“War has found its home. We best be prepared to fight it.”

Like a premonition, heavy rain starts to fall. You touch your hip, feeling that dagger you keep hidden underneath your silk gown.

“Well… Let war come. It will end with fire and blood”, you whisper to yourself before going back inside with the toddlers.

***

• A Dragon for A Dragon: The Cause Must Be Avenged.

You are by your husband’s side when the crown is put atop his head and Aegon raises his sword, applauded under the cheerful voices of “Long May Live King Aegon!”

It’s at you he looks for when his smug smirk curls on his lips. You nod approvingly, pride sparkling in your eyes.

Later that day, when council is opened, you are with the children when your husband summoned you. To a general surprise, Aegon wants his wife to be present at his council.

“My lady Y/N is as competent as my brother, Aemond”, he nods at his one-eyed sibling, who gives you a quick, indecipherable gaze. “That is my decision.”

“It is as it is”, says Otto in a dismissive tone. “We need to ponder what to do to counter Rhaenyra’s actions. She’s not inclined to peace.”

“We ought to do what it takes to preserve my crown”, muses Aegon. “Who are our allies?”

Someone starts to list them. You watch Aegon’s reaction, furrowing his eyebrows as he ponders what to do with the information.

“If I may speak”, says Aemond after some babbling dies. “I suggest we take Harrenhal. It’s my understanding the Blacks are heading its way there.”

“We use our dragons before they do. But if they are armed…”, you muse in almost in an inaudible suggestion.

Aegon shoots you a glance.

“Don’t.”

You sigh heavily, but don’t argue.

“I can go.”

“But we need Vhagar”, says Aegon. “Perhaps we can do without a dragon.”

“That is impossible. We are talking about a war of dragons, Your Grace”, says Otto, somewhat impossible. “We must preserve the dragons until we cannot. There’s no need to be in such a hurry. We will come out with a defense tactic.”

“Who’s the one intending to claim Harrenhal?”, you ask suddenly.

Ser Otto gives you a quizzical look, but it’s Aemond who answers you.

“Our uncle, Daemon Targaryen.”

“He’s the right hand of Rhaenyra”, you think out loud, not minding to call her a sister when Helaena does this role a lot better. “What about the other’s?”

“You are not considering getting into this fight, are you?”, to your surprise its Queen Alicent who voices out a general preoccupation.

“Visenya did so, my mother. Whilst I perform my duties accordingly, I shall stand for my husband’s right to wear his crown”, you flash him a smile and are pleased to see him regaining confidence.

“Your loyalty is touching, dear”, says Otto genuinely caring, for you and Helaena are his favourite grandchildren. “However, what military expertise do you have?”

“I am a great dragon rider and I could use this well”, you don’t find prudent to share that you’ve been taking sword lessons for a while. And by the looks Aegon gives you, you know he knows. “I could beat Baela, though.”

“This isn’t about vengeance. It’s about war.”

“War is founded upon vengeance, grandsire”, you speak gently. “Let it be said. A dragon for a dragon, my Aegon shall be avenged.”

That said you recline back to your chair, pleased to leave everyone in the room astonished with this side of yours few—except Aegon, Aemond and Helaena— are familiar with.

“You must stay for the children”, says Aegon. He’s walking from one side to the other, in evident display of nervousness.

It’s just the two of you in the council room this afternoon.

“I cannot handle the possibility of…”

He leaves his fears unspoken and it’s when you walk to where he is and holds his face with your hands.

“We are in this together, whether you like it or not. Your birth right will not be stolen from you. As our children’s…”, you smile at him, fondly. “We will wage this war, but with no need to be cruel.”

Aegon rests his forehead against yours, nodding in an agreement. It’s when he pursuits your lips and you let him lead the way. Suddenly, the kiss evolves and you are gladly lying against the table as he moves over you.

Every issue is kept drowned when the needs of flesh overcomes each. Aegon needs you as much as he needs you. Here comes that boy, starving for affection, that you know.

You gasp as his callous hands run over your thighs, lifting the skirts of your gown as his lips brush against your neck, biting your neck, leaving traces of bruises.

“Aegon”, you moan out his name in response of his eager fingers digging to your core. “Oh Gods!”

His eyes look for yours and when finding yours, your hands hold his hair, pulling him over you.

“My husband”, you gasp, moving your hips against his skillful hands, and soon you take your seat at the edge of the table.

“No”, he groans against your ear when perceiving your intentions. “Just sing out to me…”

But you answer to none—despite gladly obeying him in all when it’s due—so you smirk rebelliously when your hand finds the path to his pants.

“Come here… Let’s do it together”, and you whisper in his ear. “Remember when you taught me?”

Aegon closes his eyes, already unbearably aroused by your words. You bite his earlobe, moaning softly as you speak unspeakable things, caressing his manhood until it pumps against your palm.

“Fuck”, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. “Fuck, Y/Nickname…”

“Yes, baby. Together. We are always together…”

And when he rises his eyes and bites your bottom lip… well, he replaces his hand with something else and it takes little time until you reach climax.

Together.

As it has always been.

“I love you”, you mumble in his ear.

“I love you”, he whispers back.

***

“A king cannot be so until he leads his soldiers”, says Aegon before the council.

To a general astonishment, this is Aegon announcing his preparations to war.

“A king delegates others of his trust for a good reason, Aegon”, your mother snaps at him. “Do not play the reckless…”

“I think it’s funny”, you muse out loud, attracting the council’s gaze—with particular notice to a smirking Aegon, aware of how subtle your temper works, and for which he’s grateful. “How so many of you planned to make the transition to this new reign in a peaceful form, and yet when it is more than clear that war is inevitable… you stop the king to do what’s must. War should have been prevented many moons ago, but this is not the time to live based on “what ifs”. If diplomacy is not the answer…”

You stand, and you swear you detect an approval smirk from Aemond himself.

“…then fire is.”

“May I suggest a fare point that could be turned to our advantage?”, and here Aemond speaks in turn.

“Well, it appears I speak to deaf ears”, grumbles Otto Hightower.

“Listen to Aemond, grandsire. We are not as impulsive as you judge”, you speak softly.

After a moment of silence, the Hand of the king reluctantly lets Aemond speak, of which your brother is thankful for. And you take your seat next to your mother.

What happens next, however, will test the stability of your husband’s cause.

“Baela has been spotted flying near Storm’s End”, you are glancing through the window when you hear Aemond’s whispering to his brother. “She’s sent there in order to bring Baratheons to Rhaenyra’s side.”

“And what do we know about their position?”, inquires Aegon.

As the two men speak, your eyes concentrate at what happens at the yard. Unaware of a grave event that is to mark their father’s reign, Little Egg and Alysanne are playing with Maekar and Rhaella in complete synchrony. You feel a fang of guilt for not spending time with them, but you convince yourself this will pass. After all, you cannot neglect the role of wife. When you told Aegon you’d do anything for him, you meant every word.

“Y/N”, Aegon comes at you, hands resting over your waist. He knows what afflicts you. “When I told you to stay, I’ve meant it.”

He turns you at him, sensing your tears as if he senses his own. You cannot repress all this stress that you’ve been going through. You simply… cannot. And he’s there to hold you, to pick your pieces up.

“You don’t have to be strong the entire time”, he whispers to you, cupping your cheeks and fighting away your fears. “Look at me. I demand it as your king.”

You chuckle lightly, but when you raise your gaze, you know you are the one exposed for the very first time. And Aegon appreciates it.

“This is often the reversed role, is it not? It’s usually me asking for comfort and not the other way around”, and here he wipes the tears off your eyes. “Your unending loyalty to me, regardless of my vices and countless flaws, is a very endearing gift. We have fragilities and they do not make us weak. It makes us… humans, I think. Not a word I think of often, but here’s a brilliant learning you’ve taught me.”

And he proceeds:

“I honestly did not wish our family ripped apart like that, more than aware knowing how a war between kin displeases the deities. But what else can I do? This is not about us, but about our children’s future. I want our five, and hopefully six, toddlers to grow strong and with a prospective future”, he smiles when he manages to get something out of your sadness. “I lament it mostly deep that I’ve brought such misfortune to our family. I wish it was otherwise, that you were proud of me…”

“I am proud of you”, you cut him. “Aegon, I could not look elsewhere and choose someone else to be espoused to. As much as I get along with Aemond, this isn’t the man I love. Who did I come up to this world with? You, Aegon Targaryen. I weep because I want to give you the peace you deserved. I witnessed all these wounds and…”

Aegon swallows his own tears, knowing today you are the one who needs comforts. He comes to realize that, being this stronghold for so long, you too had your own wounds, your own pieces to get.

Oh my darling, Y/N. We are their creatures, are we not?

“You are my sun and stars”, he mumbles. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself, Y/N. We are healing together, won’t we? This is us against the world, my lovely wife.”

Lifting your chin, he presses a soft kiss over your eyes and says:

“You gave me everything I was refused in these years. You gave me love when I had none, you restored me trust when I lacked in; you granted me happiness when I was unworthy it. You make my days a lot better.”

A pause comes where a comfortable silence hangs in between. You rest your forehead against his, breathing in his silence.

“If we came to this world together…”, you whisper secretively.

“…then it is only natural that we leave it together”, Aegon vows it with a smile on his lips.

The decision is done and the pact is made.

***

You see Aegon flying high with Sunfyre and a bad feeling consumes you. Aemond is there too, so he’s going to Vhagar when you stop him.

“Nay”, you tell him firmly. “Leave this to me.”

You are not wearing your court garments, but prepared to go to war. Underneath green and silk, with some adjustments, you are dressing hauberk with two sharp blades carefully guarded. Your long silver hair is tied in a perfectly braid.

“Today we don’t spot Alyssa”, says Otto, concerned about your bold attitude, narrowing his eyes as you mount Dreamfyre and fly high. “But Visenya Targaryen has come to us.”

A remark that would later echo through generations of poets.

What you and Aegon agreed was to inspire soldiers in order to go to local Y/C and there make it a stronghold to his cause. However, spies delivered news that Baela Targaryen is preparing to wage war… with her grandmother, Rhaenys.

Yet, who’s coming is Rhaenys’s red dragon, Meleys. Suddenly you are remembered of your daughter’s dreams and her fear in losing her father.

In order to try to prevent agony making a nest in your heart, in barely gritted teeth you command Dreamfyre to fly above skies—as high as possible without, however, missing Aegon’s position. After that, you promised yourself to fly to Baela’s encounter: there is an unknown bad blood that you find urgent to resolve at last.

In the meantime, though, this isn’t about you, but your king, your lover, your brother, father of your children. This isn’t about a crown, but the legacy of your family—misadjusted they may be, but it’s still the one you are part of.

Grey clouds begin to assemble, but Dreamfyre flies as if it’s in her natural environment. She knows your thoughts and sentiments, she’s prepared to fight even if for a while she hasn’t been part of any of the kind.

But she can fiery.

“Baby girl, be careful. Meleys can be…”

Your words die in your throat when you see fire coming from the old red dragon. Suddenly, Dreamfyre takes a deep dive and gives such a strong bite against Meleys, getting her off guard. Part of the flames may get to you, and you think you hear Aegon screaming your name—you’re fueled with adrenaline, and you cannot stop.

All you know is that, moved by your sentiments, Dreamfyre does drag Meleys down. And it only comes to an end when both rider and creature fall down.

An explosion is heard and felt. You are flying high, Dreamfyre’s sound coming as if echoing your silent mixed feelings. Now adrenaline comes to pass, you realize part of your arm is burnt—and it hurts like hell.

“Are you well, D?”, you ask your dragon, more concerned about her than to your own wounds, in spite of the unspeakable pain.

As if to nod that she is doing perfectly well, Dreamfyre turns her head. It’s when Aegon comes at you.

“My wife!”, and when you turn at him you spot concern in his eyes.

“I told you”, and suddenly weakness comes to shake your senses. “I’d do anything… anything… for…”

And why do words die in your mouth and everything is dark? You have no idea, but you swear that you hear Aegon yelling as your eyes close.

***

• The Aftermath.

In a twist of events, Aegon II refuses to leave your bed until you open your eyes. Nothing can take his mind off you, therefore all matters are placed for now in the hands of Otto Hightower.

Your children have momentarily been put under the care of their aunt Helaena, for so distressed is the king that he cannot fail his children now.

But gods be good and you recover your strength. To your surprise, Aegon is next to your side.

“How… What…”

“My beloved wife”, Aegon smiles warmly when seeing you well and safe, mostly important: alive. “My greatest defensor. Imprudent and reckless, but possessor of the sweetest heart I know.”

He kisses you carefully, as if he’s afraid of losing you.

“What happened? Did we win? How’s Dreamfyre?”

“Calm yourself, love. Rest”, says your husband in most affectionate tone, though firm. “Dreamfyre suffered little damaged in comparison to your broken and burnt right arm and neck. Good grief, woman. It was supposed to be me.”

“No”, you breathe out of relief. “Not you. Never.”

Carefully you lean to his side, not minding the slight pain given just by a slight move. You caress his face, seeing his concern, the fear of losing you… that you risked your life for him, something none has ever done for him…

“I love you”, he whispers like the needy boy he is. “Don’t leave me, Y/N.”

“I love you too, my king”, you brush your lips against his, fingers intertwining together. “We promised to leave this world the same we walked in here, didn’t we?”

Aegon half smiles at you.

Even though the battle is won, the war hasn’t ended yet.

With you regaining your strength, domestic life—where the king’s and yours are concerned—goes back to what it was before your accident.

“Papa, is mama well?”, Jaehaera asks him, eyes tearful.

She’s clinging onto him as he rocks her in his arm. This afternoon you are resting and he’s decided that he needs a break of governing for a moment as well.

Under his watchful gaze, Alysanne is working in her embroidery and Jaehaerys is playing toys with his eldest brother.

“She is resting, my love. But I assure you”, and here he pauses to kiss his daughter’s cheek, earning him a beam that breaks his inner walls, “that she is well. Your mama is as dragon as you.”

“I am a dragon because of her”, Jaehaera corrects him, which makes Aegon chuckle.

Oh aren’t you adorable? How could I father such a pure child? And how… how else does she love me so?

In order to avoid the depth of such thoughts, Aegon limits himself in kissing his daughter’s forehead. Then he drives his fatherly gaze to his offspring.

“What are you seeing there, Alys? Let me see.”

Alysanne is blushing before her father’s attention. Very pompously, she takes her embroidery work so he can take a look.

“Aunt Helaena has taught me how to use the needle properly. I was struggling with the smaller ones”, she admits somewhat shyly so. “So here’s a green dragon. I want to mark in my gown your coat of arms, papa.”

Aegon swallows before the sight of his daughter, whose eyes show an eagerness to please him—a feeling he knows so well, but unlike Alysanne’s case, he was never corresponded. Precisely why the king beams and says:

“I am very proud of your skills, Alys. I am unworthy of such an honor”, says he with a wide smile.

In this sacred moment with his daughters so close, Aegon doesn’t see you come by. You are leaning against the wall, pleased to find your family in complete harmony.

Your boys, getting along… Jaehaerys trying to impress a very serious Little Aegon in his building, earning an eventual smile of his older brother’s approval. All the whilst Jaehaera sleeps in her father’s lap and Jaehaera is blushing pleasantly at the praises she receives him.

It makes you think of your own scars. How many times you tried to please your father and all you got was dismissive waves, distant conversations and comparisons to Rhaenyra?

Containing a sigh, you know how all of this is nothing to what you have now, but it’s pointless to deny these scars. They make you who you are, as it’s Aegon’s case.

Both of you are everything your parents were not. When Aegon looks at you with a smile on his lips, you smile too because you know you succeeded at it.

Despite the gleeful scenarios, war is still going. You are barely recovered when there are news of Baela flying to take y/c, a very important spot for the cause she defends.

You are listening to the Green Council’s strategies when you find Aemond and Aegon’s gaze on you. You lower yourself, but you know why they are concerned about you.

When defending Aemond so many moons ago, it was Baela who hit you hard. Even though you managed to knock her down, your fury was such that left the boys open mouthed by then.

A grudge that you were never able to overcome. A wound that time didn’t heal.

But the opportunity comes just fine.

“I can patrol skies”, you announce casually.

“I forbid you, Y/N”, Aegon is the first to protest. “There is no need to…”

“Y/C stays close to King’s Landing”, you muse, trying to remain calm.

“She’s not daring to come nearby when Vhagar is here”, interferes Aemond.

Both of you exchange looks. You bite down your lips, saying no more. However… opportunity to fight for your husband is coming once more, and yet at what cost?

Days go by when it’s decided that Aemond shall take Harrenhal on behalf of the Crown. This comes after Rhaenyra suffers another blow: her son Jacaerys was defeated once for all in an encounter against Aegon himself.

“I’m proud of you”, you smile the brightest as you two parade at the capital. “A great victor, that you are!”

Aegon flushes at your compliments. This day you and him ride splendid horses before all, richly dressed in order to reinforce signs that the civil war is coming to an end.

“As I am”, he takes your hand to his lips, not minding the courtly rules where public display of affection is concerned. “My greatest defensor. I am nothing without you, Y/N.”

Despite taking pride in this acknowledgment, you play the humble.

“My king, this is untrue. I only do what I am asked of: to daily submit my will to yours, to provide you heirs, to pledge for the safety of our subjects during this rebellion”, you smile at him for, despite the embellishment of your words, you speak such with your heart.

“My queen, blessed by the divine with the utmost caring for this one who gives you word; your unending loyalty and wisdom beyond your years played a great part in the conduct of the affairs of this realm. Whether I wage wars, whether I bring peace to our subjects it is in you and in the beautiful children you provided me that I think of.”

In silence, when he squeezes your hand and nods at you, you know what he means. And as you smile timidly and play the humble queen, he knows what you speak too.

In your own ways, underneath this public exhibition, one tells the other:

I love you.

‘Tis enough to make the people rejoice and praise for the health of King Aegon the Wise and Good Queen Y/N of House Targaryen.

***

• Epilogue.

War had its costs. But it eventually came to an end. Upon its twilight, revenge bled two broken houses of one dynasty for the last time. Aegon met his sister, Rhaenyra, just after you defeated Baela at the Battle of Stormlands, which would later be sang by bards how ‘two damsels, misled by the ambitions of men, took their dragons to a deadly feast and thus they danced’ until ‘the lady Baena was stabbed in the heart by a very bold move of Queen Y/N’.

Some of superstitious folks believed to have seen in you the ghost of Queen Visenya.

You brought a victory to your cause, but got yourself a broken arm. Dreamfyre was hurt too, but not injured enough to impede her to fly with you over the lands of the Baratheons, who welcomed you.

In the meantime this happened, Daemon Targaryen was defeated and Aemond conquered it all. Daemon’s lover, the witch queen of the place, Alys Rivers, attempted to transfer her affections to his nephew—unsuccessfully so. It was rumored that he said the following words:

“Mine heart knoweth no lady that is not mine damsel, Helaena.”

What was her destiny after these words were professed? The chroniclers could not tell. She vanished and many attributed to Lord Aemond her death.

Whatever the truth, Lady Helaena and her offspring moved with Silverwing to meet her husband, ignoring his orders that she should not do so until he sent for her. Apparently she knew what the outcome was going to be.

As for the battle between Rhaenyra and her brother for the throne, Rhaenyra was defeated. However, it was you who interfered on behalf of the kingdom to impede her death.

An agreement was arranged: Rhaenyra, albeit reluctantly, renounced her rights to the throne and agreed to wed her sons to you and Aegon’s daughters, as well as to wed her daughters to your sons. Peace was finally sealed and she was left to live in Dragonstone.

Once reunited, in the present day this feud is now a page in history. You are enjoying better days, ruling behind the scenes as Aegon conducts the realm with a wit that surprised most.

“He is a good king”, you tell your mother in a day where, to a general surprise, Aegon brokered a peace treaty with the Dornish. “Why it surprises you goes beyond my comprehension.”

Today you are dressing a long green, silk gown with reinforces your curves; your silver locks are carefully braided under a hair net that reminds Alicent of the days the dowager queen used to wear it herself. Besides the ravishing look, you wear the jewels Aegon recently gifted you: a pair of emerald earrings and a gold necklace.

“He was hardly the most devoted to studies, is all”, so your mother tells you.

It is a curious contrast how, after many years, you and her found a way to overcome parental issues. But even now, you find difficult to accept some of the critics she at times weaves to her eldest boy.

“Please, it was only lack of proper encouragement”, you roll your eyes as a response.

“I see I cannot make a comment about my son when I’m with you. Let us change topics”, and here she smiles. “I heard you are carrying another child.”

“Well, what can I say? Aegon makes it difficult not to engage in marital affairs”, you giggle maliciously.

Upon which Queen Alicent scoffs, feigning offense.

“To hear these words from the Good Queen Y/N?!”

“Why, I am not complaining. Pretty much otherwise.”

In between chuckles, you move to the gardens where the dowager queen finds all her grandchildren playing together.

Aemond, recently acknowledged as Hand of the King, is talking to Aegon, probably something about the affairs of the realm—judging by their serious countenance. But the one eyed prince is also attentive to his wife, Helaena, who’s teaching the now ten year old Alysanne to improve the girl’s skills, joined by their daughter Rhaella, same age as her cousin. As well as how Maekar and Little Egg—as Aegon’s heir will be always known—are talking nonsenses of their age.

The little ones are not too far behind. Aegon is holding three year old Baelor as he talks to his brother, but is in a position where he can watch over the young toddlers. It does not go unnoticed by all how Jaehaera tries to be friends with another Aegon, Rhaenyra’s son, who was sent with Viserys to be educated at court. Aegon doesn’t look very pleased, but young Viserys is too busy playing with cousins Jaehaerys and Aerys.

When seeing you with their mother coming at the happy meeting, Aegon soon excuses himself to greet you.

“My mother”, he pays the due respects to Queen Alicent, and then doing the same to you. “My lovely wife.”

“Aegon my darling”, and here you pick the chubby baby out of his arms. “Baelor, did you miss mama? Or were you too spoiled by daddy?”

Aegon gives you a smug grin.

“Well, isn’t this why I’m their father in the first place?”

“Not to overindulge, my love.” But not even you believe in what you are saying.

Soon, Helaena and Aemond join the three of you.

“Together at last”, and not to a general surprise Helaena greets you with a warm smile and her own way in showing her affection to you.

“Greetings to you too, my dearest. I was having a moment with our mother. She has some news to share”, you flash the dowager queen a mischievous smirk, pleased to find her blushing.

“Oh…”

“Shh, don’t ruin the surprise.”

To which Aemond confides a whisper to Aegon:

“As if it’s a surprise to know what she’s yet to tell.”

“It did take more years than we’ve judged”, the elder of the two agrees, struggling to muffle a chuckle.

“Well, I was worried… due to the recent events that concerned us all, that…” the Queen doesn’t really know how to put it.

But Helaena makes it easy for all of you.

“If you are happy, then we are happy for you.”

“You deserve it, mother”, you echo your sister’s support.

“But I…”

“Do not protest. We’ve always seen Ser Criston as the father we didn’t have”, says Aegon.

“He did indeed raise us, though”, so Aemond points the obvious.

“I appreciate your support. Then I think we should invite Ser Criston to join us.”

“Later, perhaps”, says Aegon, mirroring that old mischievous spirit that characterized his youth. “I need a moment with my wife and my children if you excuse me.”

“Oh yes, the family man”, teases Aemond discreetly before getting a punch in his arm.

This afternoon, all parts well and in restored peace as it should have been the way it started long time ago.

***

Aegon has just flew with Sunfyre and Little Egg with his own dragon. It’s a good time to do so and represents a unique moment between father and son.

When looking at this growing boy, who’s about to rise to Prince of Dragonstone in due time, Aegon struggles to see he’s no longer that toddler easily impressed with Sunfyre and his first time flying high.

“You are looking at me in a funny way”, says his son as they land and go back to their quarters. “Do you have news to share? Or is it the way I conduct…?”

“No, no. Not at all”, and here he pulls Egg under his arm, ruffling his hair and pleased to get him some chuckles. “I was just noticing that you are growing to a fine man and I am not ready to let that go yet.”

“You sound like mom”, and so typically he pulls a grimace.

“Your mother loves you as much as I do. One day you’ll have children of your own and you’ll see what I mean. As for news, did I tell you that your grandmother secretly remarried and believed no one would suspect she did so?”

The fourteen year old boy laughed loud. A sound that somehow is almost equal to his. Aemond smiles.

“No! I cannot believe my ears! Was she espoused by Ser Criston? But that man…”

“Shush. He’s your grandsire now.”

But the idea brings the two to joint laughters.

Aegon is all smiles when he’s with his girls too. After spending a while hearing Jaehaerys’s proudly progress in his studies, a deed that does impress him, he’s doting on his princesses too. You are already pompously dressed for the dinner when you find your husband hearing Jaehaera’s recent claimant in her dragon which she named Moonfyre because of the curious mix of silver and red scales.

A deed that did impress her elder sister and father.

“I know we have a great bond”, says the seven year old excitedly. “But…”

“But you are likely the youngest of our dynasty to have ridden a dragon! And all by yourself!”, and here Aegon cannot help himself and fuss over Jaehaera, who blushes pleasantly. “My little girl is getting me some headache in the future, I can already foresee it!”

“Well, she has so much of her father to be blamed on it”, you smile at him.

What a scene. Aegon joins you, not the king circumstances made him, but the grown man you loved since you could remember. When he tangles you in his arms and doesn’t mind being affective to you—“uuuuuugh” would tease the boys and even Jaehaera makes a grimace—, you know those wounds took time to heal.

Love prevailed over all.

As you’ve always believed it.

King Aegon II and his Good Queen Y/N of House Targaryen were found dead in an embrace that would be turned into marble. Theirs is one of the longest reign, despite the early years of civil war.

Aegon II is succeeded to his eldest son, Aegon III, married to Rhaena Targaryen, daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. Aegon’s Hand was his long time loyal cousin, Maekar, who wedded his sister Rhaella.

No more turmoils to be seen… for a long while. Dragons did die, as foreseen by Alysanne, who became Princess of Dorne in due time, but they also survived and prospered.

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gh0stsp1d3r · 6 months ago

Note

Can you please please please make the pastor’s daughter x rafe little blurb a longer fic omg and it would be so good if Rafe gets her pregnant and her parents find out and either kick her out so she moves in with him or they make her marry rafe you def don’t have to use my ideas because honestly any way you write this it would be so good ❤️

ℱ𝓊𝒸𝓀ℯ𝒹 𝓊𝓅

a/n: ooo!! Love this sm.🫶🏽

warnings: pregnancy, mostly fluff ig? morning sickness, mentions of hook ups, sort of an arranged marriage?? But they both actually secretly like each other.

lovely div by @/xxbimbobunnyxx !

You felt sick, miserable as you rolled around in your bed. You let out a groan, feeling the bile rise back up into your throat.

You leaned over the bed and grabbed the bowl for what felt like the tenth time this morning.

“Oh, poor thing.” Your dad had sighed, bringing in more medicine for you to down. But nothing had made you feel better.

When you went into the bathroom, it was then that you had realized you were late. You swallowed, a thought popping into your head before you pushed it back down.

You looked over to the window, the window that showed you the balcony of Tannyhill. You spotted a figure on the balcony. You turned back quickly, shaking your head, and turning the sink on, washing your face with the running water.

You sighed heavily, turning back to the window and looking out. A part of you knew what you needed to do. But you hoped that you were wrong.

“No, no, no, no, no, no.” You mumbled, looking down at the lines. “F…” the words died in your throat, a sob escaping instead. You held your head in your hands, glancing out the window.

It was a couple hookups. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You walked over to Tannyhill, wiping away any stray tears, the test hanging heavy in your pockets. You raised your fist, rapping on the door.

You heard a voice talking from inside. “Yeah, y- Look, it’s all taken care of, swear.” He murmured. You knocked on the door again, fishing for the test. You held it up, waiting for him.

“I’m fucking coming!” He shouted this time, opening the door, phone held to his ear by his shoulder. His gaze went to your face to your hands, holding something out in front of you.

His eyes widened, mouth going agape.

“L-listen, Barry, I gotta go.” He mumbled, taking the phone from his ear and hanging up, looking at you again.

It took longer to tell your parents. Weeks for you to finally get the courage. Rafe sat next to you, looking down at the ground, arms folded together.

“Let me get this straight, you’ve… been having premarital sex… underneath this roof?” Your father asked, voice raised. You nodded, looking down as well.

“Honey…” your mother spoke, putting a hand on his shoulder, looking at you with sympathy.

“I know. I sinned…“

“I didn’t raise you like this.” He was disappointed.

“I know, daddy.” You mumbled, tears falling onto your sock covered feet. Rafe pulled you closer to him, trying his best to comfort you silently, a hand on the small of your back.

He sighed, pausing before speaking again. “You understand… that the church is gonna speak, right? This affects me. Us.”

“I know.” You repeated.

“Unless… unless you got married.” He looked at Rafe. Both of you snapped your heads up to look back at your dad.

“Daddy, what do you mean?” You asked the man.

“I’m sorry?” Rafe asked with raised eyebrows, asking him to repeat.

“Would your dad be opposed to you getting married?” He directed his question to Rafe.

“N-no.” He mumbled. “But, sir…”

“And do you love my daughter?”

Rafe looked down at you, you turning to look at him. Rafe huffed. “We haven’t really… gotten that far yet.” He looked back to your dad, avoiding your gaze.

“Well… You two’ll get married. No one needs to know.”

“Wait, daddy, I- I- I don’t even know how far along I am, how am I supposed to hide it for that long?”

“I’ll arrange everything to be done by next weekend. The church will host it, and I’ll ask for donations and everything.” Your dad spoke, standing up and leaving the living room with your mom.

You swallowed, looking back to Rafe. “Fuck.” He grumbled out, his hands going down his face. He exhaled.

“It’s not all bad… is it?” You asked him quietly.

He looked back down at you. “You’re a… a good girl, I’m a fucked up guy. It’ll never work. I’m gonna mess everything up.”

“Now we can be fucked up together.” You mumbled to him, a chuckle escaping his mouth.

#pastors daughter reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron #rafe fluff #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagines #rafe fanfiction #rafe x you #rafe x reader

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warping-realities · 3 months ago

Text

Familly Group Chat

Written version of my last video. At some point I'll make one of the first one too! Hope you like it!

Michael was one of the many “middle kids” of John and Louise Bennet; in fact, he was the 4th of 7, just a few minutes younger than his twin brother, Tobias, with whom he shared that typical inscrutable and unexplainable bond that only twins have. Even though the relationship among all seven Bennet boys was super strong, having been raised under the strict rules of the holy Catholic Church by their parents, they were all scattered across the country, so the only way to keep in touch was through the family group chat on an app. That morning, the 23-year-old blonde man, skinny but toned from constant running, had just finished taking a hot shower and putting on his favorite pair of skinny black jeans, which his modern startup job not only accept but even endorsed as part of the dress code. He was about to start brushing his teeth when a new message notification popped up on his phone.

“Message from Tobias, here we go…” he muttered to himself, knowing his twin would only send a message at that hour if it was to roast someone. And sure enough!

“Hey bro, did you see the good morning message Mom posted in the family group?”

“Not yet, man.”

“Well, brace yourself! I have no idea where she finds this stuff!”

As he opened the family group while heading to the kitchen to make his usual black coffee, Michael couldn’t help but chuckle at the cheesiness of the good morning image Mom had sent.

“Dude, do all moms have a group to share this crap?” he typed to his brother in the private chat.

“Has to be! But you better reply, you know how she gets… soon she’ll be whining about how she raised seven ungrateful kids or some nonsense,” Tobias replied. Thinking about that, Michael rushed to respond to their mom. Louise was really kinda needy now that only the youngest still lived with her. However, when he opened the family group, he couldn't help but laugh out loud at the reply Tobias had sent—an even tackier image than the one their mom sent.

“Dude, you’re the worst! Where the hell did you find that image to reply to her?” he shot back to his brother.

“Well, maybe I’m in the mom’s group!” He replied before sending something completely different. “Hey, what’s going on? Someone saved as Dad 0.2 just join the group. What the hell is this?”

Hurrying to check that message, Michael quickly opened the family group and was shocked to see an unknown person had joined, which shouldn’t be possible without an access link or an invite from one of the group admins, their parents. The private convo that followed between the brothers was frantic and freaked out.

“Dad 0.2 removed Mom from the group… what’s going on?”

“I don’t know… how does someone just waltz into a private group and kick someone out???”

“Dad 0.2 changed the group name from Bennet Family to Bradley Boys! What the hell is this?”

“He’s sending a video, what’s happening???”

“I don’t know, bro, let’s just open it and see.”

The video showed a dude in his forties, but he looked really good for his age, easily passing for someone younger if it weren't for the crow's feet around his eyes that showed he was used to smiling, and his extremely muscular physique screamed years of hardcore workouts. With light brown hair and a well-groomed beard, he was rocking just a pair of sweats that showcased his powerful muscles in a spacious but Spartan room, with minimal furniture or decor.

“Alright, guys, it’s time to send our good morning videos! Who’s next? How about you, Jeff? I’m dying to rest my head on those muscle pillows of yours, babe!” the stranger said, flexing his arms.

“WTF?? You seeing what I’m seeing, Tobias? And who the hell is Jeff?” Michael quickly texted back to his brother.

“I have no clue, man, this is so weird… wait a sec… Dad 0.1 just sent a video, what the hell is this?”

“I think we better check it out…” Michael shot back before opening the video from the contact that also showed up for him as Dad 0.1.

“I’m dying to see you too, Buck! Counting the seconds until you’re back, babe. The bed feels empty without you here! Who’s next? How about our firstborn? It’s on you, Wyatt!” That was impossible; the face on the screen was undeniably their dad, but he had gained a solid 50 pounds of muscle and lost a good amount of fat. Not to mention the carpet of hair that now covered his formerly smooth chest.

“Is that really Dad? No way… how?” Tobias sent back.

“I don’t know, man! This is so bizarre… how did he bulk up so much… it doesn’t make sense… and who the hell is Wyatt?”

“He mentioned firstborn… but no… that can’t be…” Tobias typed before they both received another notification. Upon opening the video, they were in for another surprise.

“Hey there, bros! Ready for a new day? I’m already warming up waiting for my workout buddy—where you at, Maverick, little bro?” said the muscular dude, barely in his thirties, dressed all in black and flexing in a gym locker room.

“Dude… that’s Will!!! But he’s never set foot in a gym,” Michael texted Tobias. William, the oldest of the bunch, was about to turn thirty, and he had the chubby physique of an accountant used to long hours behind a desk, drinking coffee and munching on donuts—that was literally his life… or should be. But if there was anything that video showed, it was that Wyatt had never put a single sweet in his mouth.

“I don’t even know what to say… but there’s more coming!” Tobias replied, apparently just as stunned. As the new video arrived, they rushed to look.

“Ha! I’ve already left you in the dust, Wyatt! Looks like the baby bro is now the big bro! Don’t take too long, or I’ll be late for school, and my coach is gonna flip, right, Griff?”

“Dude, that’s Martin on steroids! That kid looks like he’s tripled in size! Is this some kind of prank? Some deep fake?” he asked in shock. Martin, the youngest, was already a more athletic kid, being on the wrestling team, but with that size, he’d be better suited for the offensive line on a football team, if he wasn’t already too big for that, and who the hell was this coach he was talking about?

“Michael, I’m just as lost as you. But it looks like this isn’t stopping…” Tobias commented as another video popped up in the group.

“You’re gonna have to do a ton of push-ups for not calling me Coach Bradley, kid! No Griff or Griffin while I’m your trainer! And if you’re late for school, it’ll be suicide day! Speaking of late, where the hell are you, Chase? Bet you left Hunter hanging at the beach.”

“Tobias, that’s Gordon! How the hell is he a coach? He’s a math teacher!” Michael texted in disbelief, seeing their second oldest brother looking way older than he should, with thinning hair as if he had been overdoing the steroids, which seemed totally possible, he thought, seeing the massive bodybuilder rocking just boxer briefs and a tight tank top, flexing his powerful muscles in some dimly lit room.

“Tobias? Tobias? Damn… there’s more coming!” Michael texted anxiously as he opened the next video.

“Ha, you know me too well, bro, but The Chaser is on the scene, Hunt’s got to face me!” That was Carl, but just like the other family members, he had gone through a transformation that left him almost unrecognizable. He had turned into a mountain of muscles covered by a thin layer of bronzed skin, clad only in a tiny yellow short, shades, and a backwards cap. Sitting in a car, flexing his muscles and grinning. Michael didn’t even have time to send a new outraged message to Tobias when another video came in.

“Too bad I’m already way ahead in my workout, little bro! You sure you want to take me on? Hehehe. Speaking of challenges, which twin’s gonna fire the next shot? Trey or Micah?” said the bronzed, muscular dude sporting Hugh’s modified look, the brother just below the twins in age. Watching this, Michael’s shock wore off, and he resumed chatting with his twin.

“What the hell is going on??? What are they doing at the beach? They should be in college!” But the reply didn’t come. Worried, he called out for his brother.

“Tobias? Tobias?”

“Who the fuck is Tobias, bro? I’m already sending my video, Micah! Big T is once again taking the lead! At least The Grand Finale is all yours!” was the twin response.

“Tobias, you guys must be messing with me!” Michael sent before opening the family group, where his brother had just sent another video.

“Trey here, leaving the little twin eating dust as always. And like always, I can’t tell what’s more badass, the view from my window or the sight the girls get when they check out my bod! What do you say, Micah, who’s used to seeing pretty much the same thing when you look in the mirror?” said the guy who in no way could be his twin brother, while grinning and showing off his muscular physique in front of his sunny apartment window. Totally lost, Michael sent a message to him.

“Tobias… Trey… I’m not doing any of this, this is insane!” he sent without realizing that autocorrect had changed his brother’s name.

“Dude, we’ve been doing this for years! It’s a Bradley tradition, what’s the problem now? You know how our das freak if we don’t join in. One of them is gonna call you if you don’t send it soon!” he replied. And Michael didn’t even have time to formulate a response to that new absurdity.

“Crap, video call from Dad 0.1,” he muttered to himself, refusing to pick up. But it seemed his phone had a mind of its own because the altered version of his dad popped up on his screen without permission.

“Micah, your dad is far away and wants a video from his boys. Trey just told me you don’t want to do it. What’s the harm in sending it? All your brothers already have, don’t be a buzzkill,” said the man with a serious and slightly disappointed expression.

“Dad, I… what the hell?” Michael started to respond, only to be cut off by the sudden entrance of a third person in the call. How was this possible? How was all this even real???

“Chill out, Jeff! I think Micah’s scared of looking like a weakling in front of his brothers.” It was the guy from the other video, grinning and crossing his arms while looking at Michael with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What??? I… no… weakling!” For some reason, that challenge sparked something inside him, a primal urge to show what he was capable of, and even more, to show that man what he could do. He wanted… no, he needed to prove himself to that man. Show one of the most important people in his life that he wasn’t some weakling!

“You’re gonna see who the weakling is, Dad!” Micah shot back with a grin before sending his own video.

“Last of the Bradley boys here, you bunch of exhibitionists!” he said, shyly smiling. Unlike his brothers he didn't like to show off his physique without a greater purpose, he kept hitting the gym for the joy it always brought him, mainly because it was something that connected all the brothers and their two dads. The boys didn’t know who was whose dad, and to them that didn’t matter one bit. The Bradley boys were a united front; even though each had their own place, they all worked together at the gym their fathers had founded many years ago, even those who had other jobs like Griff or were still finishing school like Maverick. Even when it came time for college, they preferred to stick around instead of crossing the country, which was why Hunter and Chase still lived with their fathers. Their upbringing had been liberal, but there were still well-established boundaries of respect. Even though a much greater degree of freedom was present now that they were all adults, provocative acts had become more common, with the guys and their parents occasionally sending more explicit videos. In fact, the bond among them was so strong that whenever one of them was away for some reason, it had become family tradition to send those good morning videos.

“We’re looking forward to your return, Dad!” he said in the group, joined by his brothers and other father. They were answered by Buck, affectionately known by all as Dad 0.2.

“I’ll be back this weekend, boys, and I want the whole family together! But until then, at least we’ll have our little moments every morning. To wrap it up, here’s one last video from me for you to think of me as much as I think of you!” he said, winking and provocatively massaging his pecs.

“Come on, Dad! We don’t need this at this time of the morning,” was the response from his sons, even though they were all exactly the same kind of man as Buck Bradley.

#male tf #mind change #reality change #jockification #mental transformation #musclegrowth #straight to gay

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not-another-leon-blog · 11 months ago

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Bodyguard

RE4! Leon Kennedy x Reader

Summary- You're Ashley's bodyguard. And the one Leon finds in the church instead. Word Count: 2086 Masterlist

Your leg bounced nervously, eyes trained on the hard stone floor beneath you. You’d lose your job for sure, you thought. It was supposed to be simple and had been for the past few years.

Protect Ashley Graham.

And yet here you were. Locked in an old church somewhere in Spain and with Ashley nowhere in sight. Occasionally, someone would wander into the church downstairs and you heard incoherent muttering. But almost as quickly as they came, they left and slammed the heavy door closed behind them.

Your mind was scrambled with ways to get out. You couldn’t jump out the window. The drop was so high you’d certainly break something or get a bitch of a sprained ankle if you were lucky. And the thick wood door was locked tight. You’d attempted to kick it down earlier but hadn’t made so much as a dent in it.

So you were left to wait. For whom or what, you didn’t know. All you knew was that whenever that door opened next, you’d need to act quickly. Either overpower them and run, or kill them and run. But no matter what, you needed to make sure that you escaped this room and found Ashley.

But where would they take her? Perhaps you could start with the village. And if she wasn’t there… well, you’d figure something out. Even if you died trying, you couldn’t leave this place without her.

You heard the church doors creak open again and froze, straining your ears to hear if anyone was coming. But something felt off. Usually, the door swung open so quickly that it slammed into the wall. This time it had opened slowly, cautiously.

You stood up and brought your ear against the door. Nothing but a muffled voice. Just barely, could you make out the footsteps coming closer.

Quickly, you pressed yourself against the wall and grabbed the nearest weapon you could find. You frowned at the candelabra you'd snatched but it would have to do.

The door creaked open and you held your breath. First, you saw the muzzle of a gun, then muscular arms and broad shoulders. Whoever this was, he was significantly bigger than you. You'd need to act fast.

You creeped out from behind the door as he moved further into the room. With the door wide open, maybe you could just make a run for it.

No. You couldn't have him chasing after you. The last thing you needed was to get yourself caught just moments after freeing yourself. Either you'd knock him out, or kill him.

Creaaak

Shit.

He whipped around, gun aimed at your chest. You swung the candelabra, knocking the gun out of his hands. You swung again, only for him to catch it and rip it from your hands, tossing it aside. The air was knocked from your lungs as you were thrown to the floor, your shoulders pinned to the floor by his knees. The cool blade of a knife pressed against your throat as you glared up at him.

You lay there panting. There was no point in struggling against him– there was no way for you to throw him off. He was too big and too strong.

Disappointment washed over you like a tidal wave. The one chance you had to break free and find Ashley and you blew it. Still, you wouldn’t cower away from death. No matter how hard your heart beats against your chest. You’d stare him down and make him watch the life leave your eyes.

Blue eyes glared down at you and you braced yourself for the moment he’d slide his blade across your neck.

But it never came.

Instead, he leaned back and sheathed his knife at his shoulder.

“I’m gonna get off you,” he said slowly. “Don’t try to take my head off with a candle stick again.”

“Who are you?” you demanded, watching him with narrow eyes. Why didn’t he go in for the kill?

The man climbed off of you and got to his feet, offering you his hand to help you up. “I'm Leon,” he said. “I was sent on the president’s orders to get you and Ashley home safe.”

You stared at him for a moment, eying his hand suspiciously. Taking his hand, you let him haul you to your feet.

“You're a little young for a bodyguard, aren't you?” He asked, though there was no malice in his voice.

You scoffed. “Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?”

His brows furrowed then he chuckled lightly. “Touché.” He reached for one of the pistols holstered at his hip and held it out to you. “I'm assuming you can use this?” A nod. “Good. I can get you extracted-”

“No,” you said immediately. “Not without Ashley.”

He nodded. “I’m gonna find her-”

“Then I’m going with you.” You stepped up to him, your eyes hard and your tone unwavering. “You and I both know POTUS doesn’t give a shit about what happens to me.” You were certain that you were already presumed dead back in the States. “Your chances are better with backup and you’ll have an easier time getting Ashley to trust you if I’m there.”

Leon wanted to argue, but it wasn’t like you didn’t bring up some good points. Ashley was most likely terrified and having a friendly face to help ground and guide her would be best.

“Fine,” he bit out. “But you’ll do as I say.” As much as he didn’t want to risk your blood on his hands, he found that he didn’t want to be alone in this any longer than he had to be, especially given the hell he went through just to find you. There was no doubt in his mind that Ashley would be much more heavily guarded than you were.

“Fair enough.” You trailed after him and out of the small room. The church was quiet save for your footsteps echoing off the walls. He was about to start down a rusty ladder when something flickered in the corner of your eye. You stopped in your tracks, a hand on his shoulder. “We might have company.”

Leon cursed and crossed to the tall windows. There on the other side of the cemetery was a crowd of villagers, pitchforks and torches ready.

“They don’t look very friendly,” you commented beside him.

“They’re not here for a campout, that’s for sure–”

A sharp sting in your temple nearly brought you to your knees. A voice whispered in your head. Though your eyes were squeezed shut, you saw the faint figure of a man wrapped in a purple cloak.

“The lost lambs are escaping,” the voice said. “Bring unto them salvation.”

As quickly as it started, the pain was gone and a loud BANG drew your attention downstairs. It was only a matter of time before the villagers found you up here. Before you could even think about putting together an escape plan, Leon was on the move.

He ushered you over close to the wall and knelt down. Above him was another ladder leading to the attic. Without a second thought, you scurried over and carefully climbed up on his shoulders, your hands braced on the wall in front of you for balance as Leon slowly stood up. Reaching for the ledge above, you pulled yourself up and kicked the ladder down for Leon.

A lone window offered the promise of escape. One glance down had your eyes wide. It was at least a ten-foot drop to a small wood platform below.

“Afraid of heights?” Leon asked as he came up beside you and examined the drop. There was no time to reply when he dropped himself down to the platform. He looked back up at you expectantly. “I can catch you.”

Taking a breath, you all but threw yourself out of the window. Your stomach dropped as the ground rushed to meet you, only to be stopped by Leon’s waiting arms. Not that you saw anything with your eyes screwed shut.

You met Leon’s gaze and your breath caught, a blush dusting your cheeks. For a brief moment, the world fell away, returning only when the sound of smashed glass met your ears.

“Leon?” You started. “You can put me down now.”

He blinked. “Right, uh, yeah.” He set you down and jumped to the ground, mud splashing beneath his feet. You dropped down behind him as he reached for his ear, likely communicating with his handler. “Roost, this is Condor One. I have Shadow Eagle, but no Baby Eagle.” He led you around the side of the church, listening carefully to whatever instructions were being given. “Copy that. Condor One out.”

“What’s the word?” You asked, trailing behind him to a small hallway. You watched him push a fallen bookshelf aside, eyes caught on how his arms flexed.

“I heard talk of someone being taken to that castle nearby,” he said quietly as the two of you reached the other side of the hallway. “Chances are it’s Ashley.”

You paused. “Then what made you come here?” Why not go straight to the castle?

He hesitated and glanced back at you. “That talk included two people and two locations. Can’t be too sure, right?”

When Louis had mentioned two people being carted off, Leon was sure that he’d find your body instead of nearly having his head taken off because you swung a candelabra at him. Even Hunnigan sounded surprised when he reported that he found you alive and kicking.

“What can you remember?” He asked as the two of you picked your way through the village.

“Not much,” you admitted. You reloaded your gun and pulled a boot knife from the body in front of you. With your jaw set and a glare, it was clear how much you blamed yourself. There had to be a thousand different thoughts running through your head. “I just remember leaving campus with Ashley and car trouble and then from there… nothing until I woke up getting dragged to that church.”

His eyes scanned over you, pausing when you rubbed your neck like something had bit you. “Everything okay?”

“It’s probably nothing,” you assured him. “I think that’s how they knocked me out.”

Leon stepped closer and gently moved your hand from your neck. There were two small punctures in your skin; one that had knocked you out and another that he suspected was used to inject you with whatever he had been injected with.

“That voice from earlier,” you began, “did you hear it, too?”

“Yeah.” He continued through the empty village with you close behind. “The sooner we find Ashley, the better. You sure you don’t want that evac?”

You shook your head. “She was my responsibility. I’m with you until I’m dead or we find her.”

Well, he admired your resolve. There would be no persuading you and honestly, he only asked so you didn’t feel like you had to keep going. He wouldn’t have faulted you if you did choose to leave.

The bell tower that had stood tall in the village now lay in a pile of rubble blocking the way forward. No matter, he’d simply lead you through the house that survived the explosion. He pushed open the wood door and started to the stairs, wood creaking beneath his feet.

Your eyes scanned the house. It appeared empty and you suspected that Leon had already had a nasty encounter here. There were at least three bodies down on the first floor riddled with bullets.

“Not the homey type I’m guessing?”

“Yeah, they really rolled out the red car–” A man pounced on Leon, pinning him to the wall and forcing his gun out of his hand. With no clean shot, you dashed up the remaining steps and wrenched the man off of him, throwing him to the floor and driving your knife into his temple. He lay lifelessly beneath you and pulled the knife with a sickening squelch.

You turned to see Leon staring in surprise. “What?” You asked, sheathing your knife. “You’re not the only trained killer here.” It wasn’t something you were proud of but it was a necessary part of your life.

Leon snapped out of his trance. “No, no you did good, uh, just can’t say I’m used to having a partner.”

“Better get used to it then.” You picked up his gun and handed it to him. “Because you’re stuck with me until fate says otherwise.”

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #resident evil #leon scott kennedy #resident evil x reader #resident evil 4 #resident evil leon #resident evil leon kennedy #resident evil leon s kennedy #resident evil leon scott kennedy #re4 remake #re4 leon #re4 leon kennedy #re4 leon kennedy x reader #re4! leon kennedy #re4! leon kennedy x reader #x reader #leon x reader

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venus-haze · 7 months ago

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Power in the Blood (Father Paul Hill x Nun!Reader)

Summary: There’s power in the blood. Father Paul knows this. Soon, you will, too.

Note: Female reader who's only referred to as "Sister," but no other descriptors are used. Also, the newspaper clipping isn't on the wall in this, for obvious reasons. I’ve been working on this fic in one way or another for about a year, but watching The Devils (1971) and Immaculate (2024) earlier this year as well as encouragement from my amazing friend @zaras-really-dreamless finally gave me the push I needed to finish it. Major visual inspiration from this scene in particular. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Angst, yearning, and unrequited feelings. Elements of Catholic mysticism. Sexually explicit content which involves dubious consent by way of religious manipulation, members of the clergy engaging in sexual acts, oral sex (f. receiving, but it's related to the stigmata and vampirism), blood play.

In retrospect, Crockett Island was the only place it could have happened. Desolation hung over the remote fishing village like fog in the early mornings, when you’d take your walks before the Monsignor awoke, and you heard the woes of the fishermen as they prepared to sail out for the day—oil spills, restrictive fishing laws, better paying jobs on the mainland but leaving everything they knew behind in exchange. Despite coming from the mainland yourself and otherwise alien to the ways of the dying village, your being a woman of the cloth on the largely Catholic (though predominantly non-practicing) island made the islanders trust you, consider you one of their own a bit more than they otherwise would have as you took on the burden of buoying their spirituality as the Monsignor’s health continued failing, and he could no longer fulfill the task himself.

You’d begged the diocese for help, hardly considered yourself equipped to care for the ailing priest and run a parish, however small, essentially on your own. But for a parish as small as St. Patrick’s, you were all the help the diocese would care to send. The letter you received in response to your detailing all of the things Crockett Island’s parishioners desperately needed boiled down to “wait until the old man kicks it.”

You supposed it was a miracle the diocese even sent you there in the first place. Though most of the islanders took the arrival of a young nun like yourself as a breath of fresh air, Beverly Keane didn’t seem all too pleased to have her self-appointed position as number two at St. Patrick’s knocked down to number three. She seemed to settle down when it became clear you had no interest in engaging in petty politics in a church that barely counted three dozen people for regular Sunday mass attendance.

The island’s social life, small as it was, interested you more. People were more open to receiving you as a friend than as a representative of the church, undoubtedly put off by Beverly Keane’s self-righteous fanaticism that veered into cruelty. You got to know the regular parishioners, like Erin Greene, who’d grown up on the island, left for some time, and returned pregnant yet eager to become a mother to her unborn baby. She taught at the island’s small school with Beverly, who encouraged you to take up teaching there, obviously hoping to bring a religious curriculum to the tax-payer funded public school. You declined.

Besides Erin, and to your chagrin Beverly, who was convinced the two of you were compatriots of some kind despite how often you clashed, you found yourself spending increasing amounts of time with Sheriff Hassan. Despite dutifully filling an essential role in the community, he hardly seemed any closer to gaining acceptance despite a year on Crockett Island.

The day he and Ali moved onto the island, you had a cold, and thus weren’t part of the unofficial welcoming committee. Your head pounded from the sinus pressure when Beverly brought the Monsignor back to the rectory afterward, and you barely heard what she said. You met Sheriff Hassan a few days later, when you were feeling well enough to shop for yourself and the Monsignor for the week. Among your expectations about Hassan Shabazz, his being handsome enough to make your breath hitch for just a moment before introducing yourself wasn’t on the list. But he was understandably weary of you, expecting the same horrendous treatment he undoubtedly received from Beverly.

Over time, he found you were only interested in buying groceries and not in underhandedly converting him or Ali. You were both lonely outsiders to the island and found some solace in regular conversations about the mainland, or observations about the islanders, occasionally broaching the topic of religion, which had a comfortable place in the space you two shared in the general store, sometimes over a cup of coffee he’d brew for you.

You admired him. His dedication to his son, the efficacy with which he performed his thankless job, and the unwavering faith he had in his religion, while yours had long lost its luster since you’d become Monsignor Pruitt’s live-in nurse in all but name.

But the days became your own when the Monsignor made his trip to the Holy Land, ill-advised considering his health. When you voiced your concerns to the parish, your outsider status was paraded through the discussion by Beverly, who insisted you had no way to understand how much the trip meant to the Monsignor, and by extension, every good, practicing Catholic on the island. At the time, to your frustration, she had won.

Besides, even if he were there, you weren’t sure a man on death’s door himself would have been able to give Mildred Gunning Last Rites. Torrential rain pounded against the rectory when you could barely hear the phone ring.

You had picked up with a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Sister, it’s—it’s my mom. I think she’s—”

“Sarah, do you want me to come over and see her?”

“Yeah, she’d want that. Just be careful with the rain.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Grabbing a flashlight, you had only half pulled on your raincoat when you hurried outside, in a near sprint to the Gunning house. You almost slipped and fell on the way there, and then you wouldn’t have been any good to anybody, and the last thing Dr. Sarah Gunning needed was to tend to a broken leg while her mother was on her deathbed.

The door was unlocked when you arrived, the house quiet and dark save for a few lamps left on.

“Sarah?” you called out.

She emerged from her mother’s room, eyes red. “I thought I was ready for this a long time ago, but being face-to-face with it…”

“Are you sure this is it?”

“As sure as I can be. She hasn’t been eating. There’s only so much I can do,” Sarah said, her voice breaking in despair. “Sister, I—she’d want you to be here. Even though she didn’t know you very much, I could tell she liked you.”

“Of course,” you whispered, giving her a hug before approaching Mildred’s bedside.

Despite her labored breathing, she managed a kind smile when you took her weathered hand in yours and prayed the Our Father with as steady of a voice as you could manage. Then, you knelt, pulled the rosary from your raincoat pocket, and prayed until your knees ached and you nearly passed out from exhaustion at staying up so late. You almost thought you had dreamed it, the way she went, as peacefully as drifting off to sleep. It was only the cry of her daughter that pierced through your haze, and you struggled to your feet as you allowed Sarah privacy and called Sheriff Hassan over to certify the death, as was necessary for the burial Mildred would have undoubtedly wanted as a Catholic.

When the Sheriff arrived, about fifteen minutes after you called, you’d become acutely aware your nightgown had soaked through in the rain, and pulled your raincoat more closely over your body, ashamed you’d even forgotten such a detail in your haste.

“I should head back now,” you said. “I’m so sorry again, Sarah. You’ll be in my prayers. I’ll contact the diocese first thing in the morning."

She nodded. "Thank you, Sister."

“Do you need a ride back to the church?” Hassan asked. “This shouldn’t take long.”

You smiled, tempted by his offer, the prospect of spending more time alone with him. Instead, you shook your head. “Thank you, Sheriff. I think I can manage.”

Crockett Island was quiet the following day, when Annie’s son Riley arrived home for the first time in over a decade, following his four year prison sentence. You could tell through his polite greeting he had no interest in speaking with you further than his mother’s introductions. Fair enough.

Monsignor Pruitt was supposed to return that evening, but you had been calling the diocese to try to get confirmation that they could send a priest over to perform the funeral mass if needed. As usual, you got answering machines or the run around of being told to call different offices, none of which could apparently help you.

When you returned to the rectory after visiting with Sarah Gunning, you noticed the light on in the distance. Beverly had planned to meet the Monsignor at the ferry and bring him home. In all honesty, you couldn’t believe he survived the trip, both there and back.

“Monsignor, it’s me!” you called out. “How was your trip? I’d love to hear about—” You froze when you came face to face with a priest. A priest who wasn’t the Monsignor. Younger, handsome, absolutely unexpected. “Hello. I–I’m sorry, who are you? Father—”

“I’m Father Paul, Paul Hill,” he said kindly. “The diocese sent me.”

“That was quick. I thought they’d been ignoring my messages.”

“Yes, I’m afraid the Monsignor became ill on his trip, and I’m here until he recovers. I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and brought my things into what I assumed was his room.”

“Please, make yourself at home.” You hastily made a sign of the cross. “But the Monsignor…I don’t think the islanders could take another loss. I’m so sorry, you come here and your first mass is a funeral.”

“Funeral? For who?”

“Mildred Gunning, an elderly parishioner who had been ill with dementia for a few years, I believe. She passed away two nights ago,” you said. “That’s why I’ve been calling the diocese all day. We need someone to perform the funeral mass.”

His deep, brown eyes widened with all the terror of a deer being chased through the woods. “Are–are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I was there when she passed.”

“Did she suffer?”

“No, it was like she had fallen asleep,” you said softly, watching in wonder as tears fell from his eyes. “Father?”

“I’m sorry, Sister. These things affect me deeply.”

You put your hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Can I make you coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please,” he said, his voice empty, an almost far away sound to it.

“While that’s brewing, I’ll call Dr. Gunning, Mildred’s daughter, and let her know you’re here. I don’t think she’d want any deviation from the typical funeral rites. Her mother was quite devout.”

“Yes, I know.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What was that?”

“Yes, I–I figured.”

He retreated into the Monsignor’s room. When you brought the coffee to him, he requested you leave it outside the door, which you found odd. Even more strange was having to tell Beverly that she missed the Monsignor’s arrival because he wasn’t arriving in the first place, and the diocese forgot to tell you that he’d become ill on his trip and Father Paul was serving as his replacement until he recovered. You privately figured the assignment would be more permanent, as yours had unexpectedly become.

Mildred Gunning’s funeral was held in St. Patrick’s Church less than a day later. A simple, solemn affair that saw the church nearly packed for the first time outside of Christmas or Easter. Mildred had lived and died on Crockett Island, everyone knew her in one way or another. Father Paul conducted the funeral mass as if mourning the Pope himself, and you were particularly struck by his grief, the way he nearly fell apart while giving the homily.

He fared no better at the wake that followed the funeral mass, held in the community center. Father Paul was utterly disinterested in speaking with any of the parishioners who tried to introduce themselves to him or sought solace and spiritual guidance in his presence. Thus, the burden once again fell on your shoulders, and you almost thought the diocese would have been better off ignoring your calls after all.

You sighed. You couldn’t let your cynicism get the best of you. It’d be entirely inappropriate for Father Paul to treat Mildred’s wake as a social hour. Besides, people with such deep empathy for others, especially someone they’d never met, were rare, as reminded to you by Beverly, who made her way over to you with a plate of cheese and crackers and a slight sneer on her face.

“I suppose it’s nice and all, but it’s not like he knew the woman,” Beverly muttered.

“He needs time to adjust,” you said. “This isn’t the best way to start out his tenure here.”

“Yes, well, let’s just hope he gets his act together soon.”

You could swear the diocese had you on some kind of blacklist, the way your calls to them went unanswered, letters returned with vague instructions and empty assurances. Father Paul had no idea how long they intended for him to stay on Crockett Island or the condition of Monsignor Pruitt.

Your living in the rectory made sense when you were caring for the Monsignor, but with Father Paul fully capable of taking care of himself, you wanted to know if you’d be staying on the island, and if so, if separate arrangements would be made for your own housing. The island was too small, too chatty, for you and Father Paul to be living alone for too long before it was turned into something it wasn’t.

The bitter taste of married life settled on your tongue as you took up most of the responsibilities around the rectory while Father Paul moped . The old man could hardly help with cleaning, and you didn’t want him anywhere near the kitchen, but your new roommate was an able-bodied man who could spare to pick up some slack, couldn’t he?

“I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” you said, emerging from the kitchen and into the living room where he sat on the couch. “Just spaghetti and meatballs. The jar sauce from the store isn’t too bad. I usually add—”

“Red wine and oregano to it. I know.”

“Oh,” you said, taken aback by his statement. “I guess Bev told you. Not much of a secret recipe.”

“You’re pretty young for a nun,” he said, turning to you. “What made you want to give up a normal life for this?”

“It’s my vocation. For as long as I can remember, I knew this was what God called me to do. I never wanted another life.” You sat down next to him, sparing a glance around the room. “This is it for me.”

“Crockett Island?”

You conceded a small smile. “I was hoping for somewhere a little more exciting, but I think there’s a chance for something amazing to happen here.”

He shook his head. “That time’s long passed. Look around you, Sister. People are leaving in droves, and the ones who’ve stayed…it’s just too late.”

“Please, Father, I know this island may seem like it’s dying, and presiding over a funeral as your first mass here doesn’t help that, but the people still need guidance,” you pleaded, taking his hands in yours. You couldn’t contend with the diocese sending you to rot with the rest of the island. It couldn’t be for nothing. “The Monsignor is no longer well enough to fill that need, and I couldn’t do it on my own, but together, I think we can do something great if we try. This might be the island’s last chance to have life breathed into it again.”

“Sister—”

“I agree that Crockett Island is hardly a place anymore, but it’s somewhere to start, isn’t it? We couldn’t have been sent here without a reason.”

He swallowed roughly, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You’re right, Sister. I—Thank you.”

You smiled, relief washing over you at his words, at his assurance you wouldn't have to bring revival to Crockett Island on your own.

Following your conversation with Father Paul, his attitude completely shifted. He was friendlier with the parishioners, taking extra time to spend with Leeza, offering to hold Riley’s AA meetings in the community center to save him a trip to the mainland, and, inexplicably, he liked Beverly, who’d changed her mind about Father Paul since the wake and warmed up to him. The only time he wavered was when he visited with Sarah Gunning, still grieving the loss of her mother and considering moving her practice off of the island.

He’d return to the rectory on those evenings quiet, morose, seeking the comfort you selflessly offered him. A warm embrace in which he’d bury his face in the crook of your neck. A hand to hold and squeeze in his own, intertwining his fingers with yours. Teetering on the brink of an intimacy you’d made vows against, you weren’t quite sure how to bring it up to him, not when he needed you, and you, him, to fill the hunger in your heart for a man you knew you could never have.

You allowed the beast to live in you. Fed it. Nurtured it. Cared for it. Guarded it with a shameful protectiveness, shielding it from your regular confessions with Father Paul, in which uttering its name would make it real, and thus ripped away from you and destroyed.

Ash Wednesday and the first week of Lent were resigned to a haze in your memory, hardly able to think of the beginning of the holiest time of the liturgical year without feeling sick. Not after the potluck. You were sure it had been Beverly, Sheriff Hassan was, too. You knew she was cruel, but to harm an animal, something so innocent…You couldn’t stand to be in her presence for long after that, and silently resented Father Paul for keeping her so close. But you supposed everyone had their vices.

Yours came to a head in a dream, one that felt all too real, that you could hardly remember when you awoke apart from burning hands on your skin, lips pressed to yours, you and Sheriff Hassan in throes of passion. You laid in bed with a lump in your throat and aching between your legs. You hadn’t experienced a dream like that in…you couldn’t even remember.

The entire time you sat through mass, you thought you were going to be sick. You couldn’t concentrate on the readings or the homily. Taking the Eucharist felt wrong, and your hand shook when you brought the communion wafer to your lips when Father Paul handed it to you. Finally, when mass ended, and you were sure the church was empty, you approached him with trepidation.

“Father, I have something I need to confess.”

“Would you like to go to the confessional?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to hide behind it. I need to be transparent and held accountable.”

He nodded. The two of you sat in a pew, facing each other as you crossed yourselves.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Three days,” you answered.

“What is it, Sister?”

“I’ve been having lustful thoughts, Father, about someone incredibly close to me, who I care deeply for. Instead of asking the Lord to take these feelings from me, I’ve been indulging in them, and last night I—I had a dream about him. A sexual one that I experienced physical pleasure from.” You were in tears, guilt wracking your body as you spoke. “I’m so ashamed. I should have been stronger. I’ve been sinning against God, exploiting this man in my heart when he’s done nothing to deserve such disrespect. Sheriff Hassan is—”

“Sheriff Hassan?” Father Paul’s gaze darkened ever so slightly, and you leapt to the sheriff’s defense in his absence.

“He didn’t do anything, Father. Nothing more than friendly smiles and kind words, never anything inappropriate. It was me, letting my lustful thoughts ferment instead of nipping them in the bud right away. He committed no sin. It was me.” Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

“Why him?”

You were silent for a moment. “He’s a good man.” Better than most you’d come across. Kind, selfless, just—the virtues that were few and far between among the men of the cloth you had met. Above all else, even when it was difficult, Hassan Shabazz was good. “I love him.”

“You don’t love him, Sister. Lust after him, yes, but you don’t know him, not enough to love him the way you think you do.”

With a shaky, reluctant sigh, you nodded. “Will you help me, Father?”

He took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Of course, it’s the least I can do after you helped me through the trial God set out for me when I first arrived here.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll get through this together, Sister. Let us pray.”

The following Sunday, you tried to match the enthusiasm he had for ten o’clock mass that morning. You had gotten used to it by then, the way he always seemed to know something you didn’t or was aware of details about the islanders you weren’t keen to even after living there for two years. He was easy to trust, you supposed.

Sitting in the wooden pew, you focused on following along with mass until the homily following the reading from the Gospel. Father Paul’s homilies were always a bit odd, cryptic, even. You assumed his faith was influenced by mysticism, and sought out books by the likes of St. John of the Cross and St. Francis in an attempt to better understand him. The way he spoke that day unsettled you, a fantastical fanaticism that felt out of place on Crockett Island.

Then, when it was time to receive the Eucharist, there was a solid minute where you were sure you had never hated anyone more in your entire life than you hated him. Telling Leeza Scaroborough to walk, goading the poor girl to step out of her wheelchair in an act of cruelty you couldn’t abide by. You got up from the pew, en route to smack him across the face when she did it. Leeza stood up from her wheelchair, and with tentative steps forward and tears of disbelief and hope in her eyes, she walked up to Father Paul and received the Eucharist.

Everything that followed was a blur, but you knew you were one of the few in attendance who hadn’t broken out into frenzied celebration. Something just wasn’t right. You found yourself hesitant to make eye contact with him when you took communion, and remained quiet even as mass ended, the cacophony of elated voices almost background noise to you.

“I’m sorry, everyone, but I need to speak to our dear Sister in confidence. I’m sure you all understand,” he said, murmurs of affirmation from the congregants who had crowded around him, except for Bev, who had a puss on her face at being excluded.

Father Paul ushered you into the sacristy, closing the door behind you.

“Is something wrong, Sister?” he asked.

“How can anything be wrong? Leeza Scarborough can walk again.”

“Yes, a miracle occurred in this very parish, right before our eyes, yet you seem…hesitant.”

You chewed on your lip before murmuring, “Seeing isn’t always believing.”

“You were the one who told me this island needed life brought back to it, who said we could achieve great things together. Now I’ve done that, by the grace of God Himself, and you have cold feet?”

“It’s not that.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“You know I do,” you said, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. “Maybe my faith is still weak—I’m still weak. I’m sorry, Father.”

“You’re not weak, Sister.”

“I think I’m going to get some air,” you said.

He nodded, distressed by your continued lack of enthusiasm. “Alright.”

Leaving St. Patrick’s through the side door in the sacristy, you tried to muster up the joy and faith you were supposed to feel, but found yourself coming up disappointingly empty. You had seen it with your very own eyes, and had been standing right there when Leeza walked for the first time in years. It couldn’t have been a trick, not orchestrated or premeditated, not by her. But Father Paul seemed so certain. Was his faith that much stronger than yours? Strong enough that he could be a true miracle worker, a vessel of God Himself on Crockett Island of all places?

Even the more skeptical congregants present, like Erin and Riley, had bared witness to it. Could attest to what had happened just as everyone else had, as you could. As a nun, you were undoubtedly expected to believe, be among the most fervent of Father Paul’s advocates. Beverly wasted no time in declaring the act a miracle worthy of the Vatican’s attention. Your faith still wavered despite what should have been undeniable proof.

You’d lost track of how long you’d been walking around the island, but the sun was beginning to set and you realized you were tired and hungry. The general store wasn’t much farther of a walk from where you ended up while mindlessly wandering, and so you made the trek into town, telling yourself you were getting a few groceries for yourself and Father Paul. Really, the only person you knew you could speak to without judgment would be in there.

When you entered, Hassan greeted you with an emotional distance you expected. He probably figured you’d be among the dozens of people eager to relay Leeza’s miracle to him, underhandedly attempting to invalidate his own faith.

Grabbing a jar of sauce and a box of pasta, you brought them up to the counter. Your mouth was dry while he rang up the groceries, but you couldn’t help asking, “Have–um–have you seen Leeza recently?”

He nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Walked right in here and bought a Twinkie earlier.”

“Amazing, how it happened.”

“I know about what happened to Leeza. I don’t believe what happened to Leeza.”

“Neither do I.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” you said. “It felt more like a show was being put on than a miracle. I don’t think she had anything to do with what happened, but he had to have done something. He was so sure she would walk, and I just felt angry, betrayed that he’d make a spectacle in mass. In all honesty, Sheriff, my faith has been wavering for a while, but this didn’t make it any stronger.”

“It makes me feel a little more sane to hear you say that.”

“Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure it’s you.” You smiled, taking the bags of groceries from the counter. “Have a good night, Sheriff.”

“You too, Sister.”

Walking back to the rectory, you wondered if anything would be able to make you change your mind about actually bearing witness to a miracle.

Father Paul hugged you as soon as you walked through the door. “I was about to send out a search party for you.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, Father. I just needed time to think.”

He looked at the grocery bag in your hand. “And to see the Sheriff.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sister, something incredible is happening here. I need to know you’re on my side,” he said, his urgency striking you like lightning.

“I am. I want to be. Please just be patient with me. This is—it’s a lot to process.”

“I can’t do this without you,” he said softly, caressing your cheek. “I need you.” His gaze fell to your lips.

“I should start on dinner,” you whispered, pulling away from him.

“Let me, you cook enough for me already,” he said, taking the bag from you. He pulled out the jar of sauce. “Red wine and oregano, right?”

You nodded. “That’s right.”

“Make yourself comfortable out here. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

The following half hour or so was unbearably tense, and you could hardly focus on the book sitting in your lap, The Dialogue of Divine Providence, while he cooked. The two of you ate in near silence, and you retired to your room early, falling asleep almost as soon as you changed into your nightgown and crawled into bed.

Burning pain seared your limbs when you awoke in the middle of the night, the pungent scent of iron assaulting your nose, and for a moment, you thought you were dying. You reached over to the lamp on your nightstand, your arm heavy as you moved it. With trepidation, you pulled the cord, a phantom sensation in your hand as you did so.

Soft, white light from the bulb illuminated your beside. Lifting your hands to your face, you let out a panicked whimper at the gaping wounds in your palms, gently bleeding crimson and flowing down your arms to your nightgown. The fabric around your torso was blotched with blood, each tinge of pink becoming red with every ragged breath you took. You tried kicking at the covers, but found it excruciatingly difficult, and to your horror, discovered identical wounds to the ones in your hands through both of your feet.

Your hands shook as you screwed your eyes shut, telling yourself it was a dream, and that when you opened your eyes, the blood would be gone, the wounds healed. Except the pain was all too real, pulsing in your wounds, tears stinging your eyes as you choked out a sob. Your simple bedroom, with little more than a bookshelf, desk, chair, and crucifix on the wall, threatened to suffocate you as your panic set in.

A groan pulled from your lips as you pushed yourself out of bed, your legs nearly giving out beneath you. The strange sensation of your bare feet on the wooden floorboards made you feel dizzy, or maybe it was blood loss. Each step forward was more agonizing than the last, but you needed help. You needed someone else to see you, a witness to what was happening.

“Father Paul!” you cried out from the doorway, your voice hoarse and low, barely carrying across the hallway. “Father, wake up!” Mustering what strength you could, you threw yourself against his bedroom door, your closed, bleeding fist erratically banging against it. “Father, please!”

“Sister, what’s going—”

As soon as he opened the door, you collapsed into his arms, sending him stumbling backward with the sudden burden of your body on his. He looked at you, gaping at the blood that covered you—and him.

“Father?”

“I should call Dr. Gunning.”

You shook your head frantically. “Don’t! Not yet.”

“What happened?”

“I woke up, and I was like this.” Your bleeding hands clenched around the hem of your nightgown, keeping it at your thighs. “I’m too afraid to look.”

“May I?” he asked, his own hands shaking as his fingers brushed the blood-drenched fabric.

Staring at him for a moment, reckoning with the further vulnerability you were about to display to him, you breathed a soft, “Yes.”

He pulled your nightgown up, the fabric sticking to your skin from the congealed blood. You stared at the ceiling as he lifted the garment over your head, too embarrassed and mortified to acknowledge your body bare before him. His fingertips brushed your torso, and you moaned. In your horror, you looked down to see deep, fresh wounds on your sides.

“Oh my God.”

“Do you know what this is, Sister?”

Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head. “It can’t be stigmata. I’m not pure enough, not devout enough. He’d never—”

“Of course He would. He saw you needed faith, a reminder of His love for you, and look at you now,” Father Paul said with hushed fervor as he took in the state of you. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed your forehead, then pressed his lips to each of your weeping palms, and then your feet.

Desire twisted in your gut at the sight of him beneath you. He kissed your feet again, a terrifying hunger in his gaze as he brought his lips higher up your legs, his hands brushing your skin with a reverence you felt unworthy of receiving.

You watched as he dipped his fingers into one of your side wounds and then brought the digits to his mouth, tasting your blood from them. With a ragged breath, he brought his face to your torso. His tongue plunged in the valley of your wound, lapping up the blood that gently flowed from it. A moan tore from your throat, pleasure rolling across your skin as if you truly were a vessel for the divine. Surely it was the same sensation that inspired St. Teresa of Avila’s eroticism, a mystical ecstasy that saw her driven out of villages and cloister herself in search of the purest, incorporeal love.

Except before you knelt a man of God whom you could reach out and touch, eagerly devouring your flesh as if able to find salvation in your blood. His teeth grazed your skin, eliciting a shudder that echoed through you like a worn-out hymn. Words failed you, the pleasure you received from his ravenous consumption of you overtaking the pain from your wounds.

Holding his head against your side wound, you wanted more, the feeling of him indulging in you. Taste and eat. Everything you felt and saw was in shades of violently blossoming red, deeper and deeper with each curl of his tongue and brush of his fingertips, his unadulterated worship, his veneration for you, serving as the flowing cup of God’s grace and mercy.

Rapturous bliss hummed through you like an ecstatic prayer, pulsing in your wounds on your hands, feet, and sides. You felt like he was part of you, a mystical union between yourself and him.

But just as high as he’d taken you, you quickly came down. The gravity of the situation, of what he’d done, what you’d let him do, weighed on your conscience more heavily than any illicit feeling you’d ever harbored toward Sheriff Hassan.

Father Paul took your face in his hands, eyes glistening with a joyous faith you no longer envied. “Your own miracle, Sister. Do you see it now?”

“You did this to me?” you asked in distressed horror. “You—Who are you?”

“Not me, Sister,” he said. “Here, let me show you. You’ll understand everything. I think you’re ready.”

He held out his hand, and despite everything in you screaming otherwise, you took it.

#father paul x reader #father paul hill x reader #father paul hill #monsignor pruitt #midnight mass #midnight mass fanfiction #midnight mass fanfic #slasher x reader #<- for my own blog organization

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yourgentlegirlfriend · 2 years ago

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Hi!

This is so strange but im so tired of reader getting jealous of Ada.. what about reader being so confident in their relationship she just looks at Ada and her only remark is “cute dress. Where did you get it? Forever 21?”.

And man… LEON EATS THAT SHIT UP AND GETS SO!!!!!

just a quick disclaimer!! I love ada and me making it lil attitude and stuff doesn’t mean i hate herrr, loved this idea!!

It’s short and simple! But it was fun to write<3

Leon was beyond tired, his arms growing sore and his chest growing tight due to the fact that he still couldn’t find Ashley. His shoulder pushed the door in, a little cool air from the open window smacking him in the face causing him to hum as he walked to the back of the room, groaning at the sight of another puzzle piece of a door. He went to turn around but was rudely interrupted by the sound of a gun clicking.

“You can stop right there, Leon.”

Ada wong. Though she was beautiful, Leon’s anger towards her grew after finding out to much. Yet he willingly threw his gun to the ground, the noise being heard all the way from the hallway. Your ear was pressed against the thin wall of the room, your pistol in hand as you listened to the two bicker at each other before hearing the sound of Leon groaning and another gun dropping.

Ada had Leon’s knife in her hand, pressed at his throat with her sly little smirk. They must’ve not heard as you walked in the room, pulling at the safety of your gun, pointing it at the two.

Both of their eyes shooting to you. Leon didn’t know you’ve been following him, all the small things you’ve done to keep him and Ashley safe. Chris doesn’t know you left either, leaving a letter on his desk mentioning that you needed at least a week of vacation time.

A soft smile grew on your face as you tilted your head at the two, shooting the wood between the two allowing Ada to let go of your boyfriend.

“Ada, how have you been?”

Your voice was sarcastic as you kicked her gun further across the room, grabbing the knife from her hand and handing it back to Leon. Ada’s eyes rolled as she looked at you, then at her nails.

“Just surviving..”

Ada spoke as she looked you up and down, shrugging then looking at Leon.

“Wow Leon, you really did score didn’t you?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you gripped at your gun harder, Leon now standing in full beside you.

“You look amazing, Ada. Still wearing that forever 21 outfit, no?”

Ada put her hands up, staring at you two in silence. Mentioning how you could just leave Ashley, then winking at Leon letting him know that he could definitely receive a better welcoming the next time she saw him before she walked out the wooden door.

Your gun rested down at your hip, pushing it into your holster before feeling Leon’s gaze on your neck, you turned to him, your hands reaching up to fix the belts across his chest.

“I knew I saw you, at the church.”

Leon spoke as he stared down at you, reaching to hold the back of your head before he kissed your forehead softly. He then groaned, reaching down tugging at his pants, making you stand back, laughing as your jaw slacked open.

“Leon Kennedy did me saving your life turn you on?”

You gasped as you reached to push in the finished puzzle of the door, Leon’s face growing red as he reached down, his hand smacking at your ass. You yelped swatting his hand away.

“We have things to take care of, Mr. Kennedy, let’s go find the presidents daughter, yes?”

#leon kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy imagine #ada wong #leon kennedy smut #ashley graham #leon kennedy x reader #re4 x reader #re4 remake #re4 ashley #re4 leon

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in1-nutshell · 2 months ago

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Hi! I was wondering if you could write where Sari asks NightLight how Ratchet and her became Conjunx endura?

This story caught the other's off guard for sure.

Hope you enjoy!

How did Nightlight and Ratchet get bonded?

SFW, Platonic, Romance, Mention of injury, Cybertronian reader

TFA

The questioned started after movie night.

Nightlight had finished her evening patrols earlier than expected and the others had been preparing for Movie Night.

Nightlight had nothing better to do for the rest of the evening and decided to join in.

This made Sari very happy, seeing as Nightlight didn’t join in many nightly activities that were around patrolling or work.

The movie ended with its main protagonist getting married and riding off into the sunset.

Sari looked up to Nightlight, who was sitting next to Ratchet. Sari: “Nightlight, how did you and Ratchet get married?” All the bots are caught off guard by the question. Bumblebee: “Now that she mentions it, I don’t think either of you have told us.” Ratchet: “There is a lot you young bots don’t know.” Bulkhead: “Did you have a spring wedding?” Bumblebee: “Or maybe something like in a church?” Prowl: “…Who asked who?” Nightlight: “You do realize we did Conjunx rites? We didn’t do a ‘wedding’ like the humans do.” Sari: “Oh right, aliens… but then how did you get… umm…” Optimus: “Bonded?” Sari: “Yeah! Robo married!” Ratchet looks over at Nightlight and gives her a knowing smirk. Ratchet: “Yes Nightlight, how did we get ‘robo married’?” Nightlight looks uncharacteristically flustered and tries to make a break for it before Ratchet traps her on the couch using his magnets. Nightlight: “Ratchet!” Optimus: “Okay now I want to know.” Bumblebee and Sari: “Tell us!” Nightlight sighs in defeat. Nightlight: “All right, all right… sit down everyone… it’s a bit of a long story…”

…

It took place during the final days of the war.

The pair had been ‘dating’, if you could call it, for a while.

A couple hundred years give or take, but it felt a bit shorter given each other’s professions took a lot of time and dedication to.

It was a miracle for a field tech and detective could even find time for each other that wasn’t based on screen calls or rare mission briefs.

Nightlight’s most recent case had led her to the same base camp Ratchet was in.

It would soon come to her attention that the base would be under siege in a matter of days.

Normally a quick call would have sufficed in warning the others and getting the relief team on their way… if the base wasn’t under a tech blackout.

Nightlight made sure to call in the relief team for the base before racing to get to the base herself.

Ratchet was surprised to see Nightlight in the base looking so disheveled and panicked.

After briefly explaining the situation, the two helped getting the injured and other personnel bots out of the base before the siege started.

Too bad some Con scouts had entered earlier.

It was up to Nightlight, Ratchet and a few other bots to hold everything down before the others would arrive.

The small group was doing okay for the most part.

Ratchet spots a Con sneaking behind Nightlight. Ratchet: “Nightlight! Get down!” Nightlight immediately drops to the ground as Ratchet uses his magnets to throw the Con. Ratchet looks down at her worried as she hadn’t gotten up yet. She just stared at him. Ratchet quickly pulled her up, looking over for any injuries. Nightlight grabs his free servo. Nightlight: “Be my Conjunx?” Ratchet stops, completely caught off guard by the question. Nightlight punches a Con who was trying to attack them both. Nightlight: “We’re busy!” Ratchet shakes his helm in disbelief. Ratchet: “You decided that NOW of all times is the right time!?” Ratchet and Nightlight punch a couple more Con’s. Nightlight: “I am not going to go out without asking that.” Ratchet: “No one’s going out!” Nightlight: “Just being realistic—HEAD’S UP!” Nightlight drop kicks another Con. Nightlight: “I made my decision Ratchet… would you do me the honor of being my Conjunx for whatever time we have left?” Ratchet blinks before turning his helm to a nearby bot. Ratchet: “Kup!” Kup: “Yeah!” Ratchet: “You’re our witness for the Conjunx rites!” Kup does a double looking at Nightlight and Ratchet ducking from the blaster fire. Kup: “Now?!” Nightlight: “Please Kup?!” Kup: “… Sod it… Say your things! I’ll cover for ya!”

Both bots are fighting and yelling out their rites, gifting each other enemy blasters at one point.

Now officially Conjunx’s… just as the relief team came.

Everyone had survived, hurt and wounded heavily, but alive.

Many bots where surprised to hear that the sour field tech and detective had the bearings to do their Conjunx rites in the midst of battling the enemy.

The pair didn’t care too much about what the other younger bots were whispering about.

Mainly because Ratchet had a bit of a lovesick smile while Nightlight had tucked her helm on the side of his helm.

Both their servos tightly wound together.

They had lived for another day.

It would take them a few hours to get back to the capital for better care on their injuries.

It would also be a few days later before the war would have officially ended.

…

The team’s mouths were on the floor.

They were not expecting that!

Ratchet and Nightlight earned some respect on their names.

Optimus and Prowl are just surprised when they had made the rites.

It was completely dangerous and risky for Nightlight to make such a decision.

Though to put it in perspective, if she was that scared to risk doing one last thing with Ratchet before she went off line…

The two bots just hoped that they never had to see Nightlight make such risky decisions like that on Earth.

Bumblebee, Bulkhead and Sari are just floored with this story.

They were expecting something like a sappy love confession or them casually wanting to do it to lower their taxes.

This story gave the married couple a new light for the young ones to look at.

Optimus: “But there is one thing I don’t understand. Nightlight looked very flustered when mentioning about the story, why?” Bulkhead: “Maybe because she’s just embarrassed.” Ratchet chuckles. Ratchet: “No, its what happened shortly after we bonded.” Nightlight hid her face in her servos. Nightlight: “Ratchet please…” Ratchet: “The kids are going to keep on asking.” Nightlight graoned: “…Proceed…” Ratchet chuckled a bit rubbing circles on her back. Ratchet: “She apparently had a whole series of plans to ask me to be her Conjunx. All colored coded, alphabetized and in most likely to least likely to fail.” Sari: “Can we see it?” Nightlight jumps up and is out the door. Ratchet chuckles a bit. Ratchet: “Give her a couple of days, a few puppy dog eyes and maybe you get to see Plan Yellow C.” Prowl: “What is that one?” Ratchet: “Lets just say it involved several jetpacks, a few favors and Megatron’s sword.” Optimus: “Megatron’s what!”

#transformers x reader #maccadam #bot buddy #tfa x platonic reader #tfa x reader #nightlight #nightlight x ratchet

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slay00ryu · 7 days ago

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Over And Over Again.

Ronin x reader, angst, let's bring Ronin pain :p

Trigger warning: suicide, spoilers for KC and maybe Gluttony Gods.

Ronin for the longest time knew that looking for Ther in you was pointless, you were two different people and he wanted to let you be your own person, even if sometimes he caught himself looking at you as if you were them. He loved you for being yourself, even if his version was fucked up and destructive in a way, he wanted to free you, free you of whatever was troubling you.

Yet, nowadays the lines between you and Ther became blurry, you were colder, you looked and acted differently. Ronin started to notice how your mental health began to worsen, how you would avoid eating, how you cared so much about your reputation you were willing to try to kick him out of your life, just to pull him back, crying about how tired you were. He saw it all, still he thought that his help was enough, that the love he gave you, the change he brought you, it would be enough to turn you back into yourself.

One night, when you were staying at Ronin's house, he woke up in the middle of the night. You weren't there. It made him feel uneasy and uncomfortable. He had this voice in his head, a voice he desperately tried to push away.

What if you're trying to leave him just like Ther did?

He pushed these thoughts away, but with every room he checked the voice grew louder. You weren't anywhere in his house, not even outside of it. His hands were shaking.

"Where the fuck are you Y/N?" He murmured to himself, sitting by his desk. He could track your phone, that was what he was doing. Searching for your phone, desperately hoping that you had it with you.

He located it. He clenched his hands in fists when he saw what kind of place you were in. A church. An old church that wasn't used in ages. His stomach twisted and his heart rate paced up. It's just a coincidence, you just felt adventurous. Yeah, that has to be it, there's no way he will find you...

He stepped into the church, it was in a worse state than he imagined. Broken and devastated furniture, graffiti everywhere, only the altar seemed somewhat clean. That altar... It was pulling Ronin towards itself, he was in a trance.

His mind was racing with thoughts, worries and fear. His body felt weak, his legs didn't want to move any closer. But it was too late.

In the middle of the altar, your body was laying on the floor, you looked like you were asleep, only with your neck cut open and a knife in your hand. You chose to slit your throat open, to kill yourself by choking on your own blood. It must've been a beautiful yet painful death.

Ronin immediately knelt next to your body, taking it in his arms, holding onto it desperately. "Fuck, fuck why. Y/N. Why the fuck would you do this!?" He was shouting, his hold on your body was so tight he could break your bones if he wasn't careful. He was crying, laughing, screaming. He wasn't sure of what he was supposed to do now, with you dead in his arms. So he begged, begged that you opened your eyes and said that it was just a nightmare.

If only this could be a dream.

"Ro..." Angel whispered as she hugged Ronin from behind. They were standing behind the church, a freshly buried grave in front of them.

You are in that grave.

Ronin looked at the dirt, clenching his hand around a heart, your heart.

"I promised you, didn't I? Your heart will be mine forever." He tried to ignore the burning feelings in his heart. The feeling of guilt.

He wasn't guilty about your death.

No, he was devastated that you slipped from his grasp and stripped him of his control.

"Ronin... Are... How... You don't have to pretend to be taught here." Angel tried her best to comfort him, but it was hard when she also lost a friend whose heart was in her best friend's hand.

"What do you expect me to say Maria? That I fucking feel bad because I wasn't holding them? I wasn't holding their body Angel, I was fucking holding Ther!"

That was the centre of his guilt. The fact that he didn't see you, he saw Ther. He felt like he was replaying their death in his mind, replaying his actions.

"And now? They're probably laughing at me, both of them. Seeing how pathetic I fucking am, forever bound to Ther."

First, the Devil lost his Lilith, now he lost an Eve. Both haunting him in his nightmares and the shadows of his mind.

#killer chat #fanfic #killer chat ronin #gender neutral reader #angst #ronin beaufort #suicidetw

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miniaturesuitgladiator · 4 months ago

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Hi 👋 I'm knew to posting stories so please don't be rude , I understand that this isn't what some people like ,but there's no need to be rude. I appreciate everyone who read my first post and I am very grateful for them. Please leave tips on how I can improve. Thank you for your time and enjoy!!

Note: this is the first chapter of that little drabble I did. This chapter doesn't include damian or the batfamily. Next chapter it will. I just wanted yall to see readers family dynamics ,and I didn't want to make the chapter so long. Oh ,and N/N= nickname.

WARNINGS: None really no one is yandere ,yet.

-💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗-

It was snowing. Which should be no surprise to you ,atleast not at this time of year. It always snowed in October ,always. As always the snow was beautiful and quite peaceful as well. Watching the perfectly white snow fall onto the dead leaves on your yard was quite peaceful.

Comfortably sat on your living room couch waiting for your dad to get ready for church. You quietly watched TV. You had already been ready for about half an hour. Decided in it was best to get ready earlier than later. Just like your mother had always told you. Your mother always rather be early to an event rather than on time ,and usually she was on early. But then came your father. Now Your father was the complete opposite of your mother. I suppose that's what evens them out.. See your father always seemed to have a problem with keeping up with the time. So more often than not you'd be late because of your father.

You didn't mind though, atleast not as much as your mother did. You found it funny how your tall and fierce father. Sherrif of the small town you live in. Looked like a kicked puppy as your mother scolded him.

you silently watched as your father practically ran through the house looking for his church clothes. You smile as you see your mother walk towards you. She smiles back at you and kisses you on the top of your head. "You ready for church , baby " she says walking to kitchen. "Yes ma'am " you say turning your attention back on the TV. "Good" your mother says packing the food she plans to bring to church. You sigh in frustration. There's never anything to watch on Sunday. So you resort to the only channel that might be interesting. The news.

Your eyes open in excitement when you see the headline for today. BATMAN SAVES GOTHAM FROM A NUCLEAR BOMB! You always liked batman. You thought he did good. Sure he made some mistakes ,but he was only human. After all he had saved Gotham , like a thousand times. So he had to be good.

"Baby turn that off. I don't want you seeing that kind of stuff." Your mom says from behind the kitchen counter. "C'mon mom it's batman. He's a hero." You say trying to persuad her. Nothing big like that ever happened in your small town. Sure you were gratefull that your town wasn't always being attacked ,but nothing even slightly exciting happens in your town. So you live off the gossip of gotham.

"The only hero you need is Jesus. So turn. It. Off. I'm not telling you agian, baby." Your mother says gently smiling at you ,but you know better than to push her buttons. So with a dramatic sigh you turn off the TV.

"Thank you. Now go check on your brother for me." She says pointing towards your brothers room. " whatever" you say quietly ,scared of what she would say if she heard. Because in her eyes that's 'disrespectful'.

"Riley are you ready?" you say knocking on your brothers bedroom door. No reply . So you knock agian. No reply. "I'm coming in."You say and your shocked about what you see when you open the door. Riley your 7 year old little brother is sleeping peaceful in his bed. quickly you rush over to his bed. "Riley wake up ,mamas gonna kill you." You say as you shake him. Slowly he opens his eyes. "What's wrong N/N." He says and you almost feel bad for how concerned he looks ,but then you remember.. He's the one that decided to play Mario Cart all night.

" It's Sunday riley" you say. You watch as realization hits him straight in the face. Quicker than you can imagine he's up and running around in his room. "Oh no , does mama know I slept in." He says grabbing him a towel to take a shower. "No , she thinks your ready." You say but surely he didn't hear you by how quickly he rushed to take a shower.

Being the kind sister you are you grab him some cloths and leave them on the bed.

Deciding that it's definitely best not to go back to the living room. Since your mother would probably ask about riley. So instead you go to your room.

walking in your room you stand in front of the mirror your grandpa had made for you. Looking in the mirror you definitely thought this was one of the best outfits you had worn to church. Not the most expensive though ,since most of your clothing was thrifted. Nevertheless you did love your outfit today.

"I'm ready." You hear you father yell. "Well it's about time." You hear your mother reply. You smile to yourself as you walk towards the front door. You know your mother and father love eachother, but to someone that doesn't know them would probably think their about to sign divorce papers any minute. "You look beautiful ,princess."your father says with a light kiss to the top of you head.

"Riley!" Your mother yells ,since she didn't see your brother by the door. "Coming." He shouts back. Hurriedly your brother practically runs down the stairs. " how do I look." Riley questions and you don't even have to say what's on your mind. Because your father beats you to it.

"Like a mess." Your father says. Which earns him a punch on the arm by your mother. "Nonsense , you look handsome baby." You mother says as she gives him a kiss on the head ,and pats his hair so it doesn't look like a literal mess. "Thanks mama." Your brother says with a smile. "Well we better get going or we're going to be late." Your mother says. As she practically pushes everyone out the door. "Darling, it's only 7:10 by the time we get there we're going to be 40 minutes early." You father says with a sigh. Unlocking his truck.

"Which is practically late." Your mother says hopping into your father's Ford. To which your father just shakes his head with a smile.

The drive to the church wasn't long ,but you wish it was. So maybe you could get to watch it snow for a little longer. Snow was beautiful. Snow seemed to cleanse everything and turn it white agian. Which if you said that to your mother she'd probably say Jesus does the same thing...

Looking over to where your brothers sitting. You can see he's passed out. His head is resting on the window and he's drooling a bit. He looks kinda cute ,but that's only cause he's asleep and not cuase trouble. An you know it.

'Today is gonna be a good day.' You say to yourself ,and Who wouldn't think that it's Sunday. Every Sundays a good day because we get to go to church ,and see family. Maybe it was a bit naive to think that just because it was Sunday it was going to be a good day ,but that's how you were raised.

Ten years from now you'll look back and wish that for once. Just once in your 16 years of having lived your family would have missed church this sunday...

-💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗-

THANKS FOR READING!!!!

#damian wayne x reader #yandere damian wayne #yandere damian x reader #Yandere batfam x reader #Yandere damian wayne x fem reader #Damian wayne x fem reader

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grntaire · 1 year ago

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good omens is an allegory for queer deconstruction from an abusive fundamentalist religious environment.

i've talked about it on here ad nauseum, probably, but i haven't fleshed my thoughts out on it fully. this has been my interpretation since season 1, and season 2 just solidified it for me. so here goes.

it's about the choice that all queer people in an environment like this have to make, and both choices suck and end with loss.

choice 1: stay with your church community, your friends, your family, the world you've always known, but never be true to yourself. because they will never fully accept you if you are true to yourself.

choice 2: embrace your queerness, live your authentic life, and leave it all behind. you're torn from everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved. but it's what you have to do to be happy. aziraphale is stuck between choices. crowley never had a choice. his was made for him.

heaven are the church elders. the protectors. the ones who say they have your and god's best interest in mind, always. they don't. to them, hell are the blasphemers, who are both unworthy of redemption yet can only be saved by it. they are the arbiters of what is good and right and bad and wrong.

aziraphale's story is one of both learned faith and earned faith. learned, in that he's been indoctrinated his whole life. been to church at least twice a week since birth. earned, in that he's seen the good that the church can do–they feed the hungry, shelter the unhoused. how could people who do such good be capable of cruelty? and surely, when they are cruel, there must be some greater good to come out of it?

crowley was faithful once, too. he loved god. loved church. but he knew he was queer from a young age, and asked questions about it. not because he wanted to make trouble, but because he wanted to understand. to understand why something he knew about himself to be so innately true could be wrong. but the church didn't see it as that–they saw the embodiment of sin, questioning them. their authority, their virtuosity, the fibre of what holds their organization together, and he was cast out. was kicked out of his home, alienated from his family, his friends, his community. he fell. and he now sees the church for what it truly is.

as for aziraphale, he's accepted the fact that he's queer, but had faith that his elders had his best interest at heart when they spewed homophobic ideology. he never believed the ideology, not really, but he had to believe (made himself believe) that the people who spread it meant well. that they meant it out of kindness, out of protecting queer people from damnation. he wanted to believe that not everyone in the church was like this, that not everyone in the church thought all queer people are inherently people of sin. that is, until a mentor, someone he trusts, perpetuates it too. he's had moments in his past that chipped away at his faith: he'd stayed friends, or whatever you want to call it, with crowley, and crowley had tempted him into trying new things that the church wouldn't approve of. things that aziraphale loved. but this moment with his mentor is when his faith is truly shaken. it's the beginning of his active deconstruction.

and so he leaves. he leaves and finds crowley and they build a semblance of a life together with what they have. they're happy. he's learning that he doesn't need to go to church to be holy. that he doesn't need to be holy to be happy. that he's allowed to indulge in the things he loves without guilt and shame.

that is, until that mentor shows up at his doorstep, offering him everything he's ever wanted. insinuates that he knows him and crowley aren't just friends, and assures him that they can come back to church together. that they're going to change things in the church, and that aziraphale can help. that they need aziraphale to help. (they don't. they want a pious gayboy to help repair their image. it's performative activism at its finest). aziraphale is being offered his family, his community, everything back, and crowley can come too. preying on his wants and desires, manipulating him back into their control. so of course he says yes. they'll get to be together with everything they've ever known and aziraphale doesn't have to make a choice between losses anymore. (deconstruction isn't linear, and abuse is cyclical.)

but crowley makes it for him. crowley tells him no. he doesn't want that life and doesn't want to go back to those people who hate him so much. who hate them so much. crowley knows what the church is about and sees it for what it is. they're not about god, or moral good or doing what's right. all they want is control. it's about the optics of the organization. it's about influencing what serves them and their agenda, and crowley knows that aziraphale is just a pawn to them. ("Why would we go back to them, when they think that who we are is wrong? Is vile? They think us the embodiment of sin and you want to go help them with their PR campaign?")

but aziraphale doesn't know that, can't know it, and crowley can't make him see it. (aziraphale knows that they cast crowley out, that he was kicked out of his home. crowley never shared with him about what happened after. the nights on the street, the things he'd endured to survive.)

and so crowley kisses him. he kisses him to tell him not that he loves him, because of course he does. he kisses him to tell him "This is what you leave behind. We would never be able to do this there, to be this there, even if they say we could. Our lives are here, our safety is here. this is what you're giving up."

crowley has been through it and experienced their cruelty firsthand. aziraphale won't be able to see it until he experiences it, too. he won't be able to realize he's being played if he doesn't even know that there's a game happening in the first place.

i can't recommend watching the show through this lens enough. it makes aziraphale's story that much more heartbreaking, because there's this intense duality of indoctrination vs. deconstruction that lives within him constantly. (imo it's also the main difference between book aziraphale and tv aziraphale: book aziraphale is significantly further along in his deconstruction journey. it's why he's a bit more of a bastard. tv aziraphale is set back a bit further, which sets up his deconstruction arc beautifully across three seasons.)

it's why aziraphale has the ability to peel back layers of himself and his train of thought depending on the situation at hand–he literally has two trains of thought happening at once. the indoctrinated one, and the deconstructed one.

and when crowley kisses him, it's the first time in his existence that both trains of thought have been that present simultaneously. it's both trains colliding full speed with each other. it's why we see both livid, hesitant frustration and fierce passion and longing at once. it forced him to confront something that lived so deeply within himself that he wanted to bring to light on his own terms, but crowley was desperate. the kiss wasn't i love you, please stay. it was look at what you're leaving behind. we could've been us, we could've been this.

and i think that whatever happens in season 3, whatever heaven does that makes them finally irredeemable in aziraphale's eyes, it'll be a beautiful ending to his deconstruction arc. not that deconstruction ever ends, not truly, but for the first time in his existence, he'll be able to see heaven, hell, and the system as a whole clearly for what they are: a bunch of self-righteous dicks.

[if you're curious about religious deconstruction and what it means, this video by therapist and social worker mickey atkins talking about deconstruction in reference to shiny happy people, a documentary about the duggar family, is a good place to start. cw for pretty much all types of abuse imaginable, fyi.]

#here is aforementioned meta post lmao #i feel like i can breathe lighter getting this out of my system #cw religious trauma #good omens #good omens meta #thoughts #neil gaiman

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harusaki-hugo · 1 year ago

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Hello! I uhm wanted to ask you if we can get another part of being like takemitches twin? Like specifically how the other gangs would react to you fighting and being a girl? Thank you 🫶💗

Fandom; Tokyo Revengers

Hcs; What's it's like to be Tokyo Revengers younger/older siblings .

Note; i didn't expect it to be this popular lmao. Also. warning might contain some spoiler for those who just start the anime. i thought about putting brahman too but it's still not out in anime yet. Also, you can my favorite and my least favorite here XD.

Being Takemichi twin sister part two:-

Black Dragon:

You just want to have one day without you being drag into Takemichi problem but no, you got a call from Takuya saying Takemichi got his ass beaten in church.

Just one day, but no, seem like holy spirit want to see you suffering because your mom told you to drag Takemichi back home so you guys can have dinner together.

So here you are, ignoring the fight happening around you as you go straight to the church. Yamagishi about to cheer your name when he sees the pissed expression on your face, and he start praying for taiju.

Imagine Taiju who about to punch Yuzuha stop when someone push the door open and yell out, "Hanagaki Takemichi!!" and Takemichi like, "Oh shit, full name. I f*ck up."

Inui already know who you are, he sees you dragging Takemichi back home one day by ear. See, he once tries to stop you since he wants to talk to Takemichi but you kick him between his legs, so he politely steps aside to avoid not able to produce heir anymore.

But Taiju is another story, he sneers at you and stop you from taking another step, "who the hell are you, can you see that-"

Just before he can say anything, you rush toward him, Taiju let out a small gasp not expecting you to rush head on. He throws a right punch, but you slip underneath him, clenching your left fist you aim for his family jewel and punch it hard that all male in the church share the same pain.

Taiju falls on the ground holding his crotch, he lifts his head up to yell at you, but you already pull your arm back, without any mercy you start repeatedly punching Taiju in the face, not giving him a chance to recover.

Inui now start thinking whether he should just join toman as he stares at you beating the shit out of Taiju, Kokonoi have a second thought about this event. And Taiju, he, well might need a ride to hospital.

"Takemichi sister is stronger than him." Inui say as he looks at you drag your brother away, " Wait, what?" Koko look at Inui with a wide eye, "Oh right, that's [name], takemichi twin sister." Yuzuha looks at the unconscious Taiju, "Well, damn. I think i like her more now."

Overal: Yuzuha now has a girl crush, Inui start planning on calling takemichi brother-in-law, Kokonoi will literally buy you anything because Inui like you, Taiju has a second thought; wondering if his siblings as strong as you will he end up in hospital sooner?

Bonus: Mikey who about to help the other stare in confusion when he sees you dragging Takemichi out by an ear, yelling and scolding him. He peeks inside the church and see Taiju laying on the floor, beaten up to pulp. "Gotta marry her someday." He thought.

Tenjiku:

Izana knows about you because Mikey like you, so he thought about, why don't we have a chat with you for a bit.

On your way back home from school, you see a group of males hogging around in front of your house. Curious you step closer to them and ask why they here.

Haitani brothers point out at how similar you are to Takemichi, which you answer with duh, obviously. But then you see Kakucho and you recognize him, you greet him saying it's been long time since last you see him. kakucho can't help but blush when you step closer to him because he *cough*haveacrushonyouonce*cough*.

Izana notice this obviously want the best for his servant and take the lead, he asks you a few questions. Mostly about your relationship with Mikey. Which the answers are no.

You sigh and tell them to leave you alone since you are not really an official member of Toman. You about to walk away when Ran stop you, without much thought you flip Ran over your shoulder making him crash on the ground.

Silence. Pure silence.

Izana being curious piece of art he is wanted to test your strength because why not? When you busy apologize to stunned Ran, Izana throws a fake punch at you, but you dodge it by reflex. Oh, now he really interested.

You two start fighting, well, more like you dodging and he is attacking. Much to the other surprise you manage to dodge every single one of it.

"What are you guys doing?" Takemichi who just come back from meeting Mikey look at you guys confusedly and worryingly.

You two stop the fight because Takemichi ruin the fun, izana word not you. Izana whisper something toward you before he walks away with the other following him.

'If Mikey want you then i want you too.' is what he whispers and you like, wtf? aren't you like eighteen? red flags much?

"[Name] never change. She still looks like her brother." Kakucho said out loud making them all look at him. "...That's a girl?" Izana asks, "Yeah? Don't you see she wear girl uniform?"-"...Well, damn!"

Overall: stay away from izana if you want to survive, kakucho want to see you again and maybe you two can get a drink together, Ran is intrigue and wonder if you are stronger than you look and Rindou wonder if you willing to go out with him.

#tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers #x reader #sano manjiro #taiju shiba #inui seishu #kokonoi hajime #izana kurokawa #ran haitani #rindou haitani #kakucho #hakkai shiba #yuzuha shiba

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evita-shelby · 6 months ago

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Promise?

For @novashelby

Tommy & adopted!daughter!reader

Gif by @ssa-kitsune1310

Even though you know you aren’t a real Shelby, it is always awful to be reminded of that fact.

No one dared to do it in front of your family, but there was always someone wishing to hurt you like that the moment they got a chance.

Many had heard the story of how Tommy found you half-starved in the street as a toddler cradling your dead mama before he left for the war and brought you home as his daughter. Most assumed he was your father in truth as it was known how often he frequented ladies of the night after Greta’s death.

But he wasn’t, you were some orphan little girl whose mother got kicked out of her home and died of exposure in a street corner begging for scraps. He loved you and named you Shelby and his family was your family since that night he found you.

You were raised a Shelby, you kept their traditions, you went to church with Polly and learned Rromani just as Finn did and now you would have a mother and a baby brother.

Your family didn’t like Grace, for what she did to Ada and for the betrayal that killed Danny Whizz-Bang that December. But she seemed nice enough, loved your father even if he didn’t seem as in love with her as he had been before she left.

Her family didn’t like you.

They called you the little bastard girl, the street urchin who should be sent away so you can’t steal Charlie’s inheritance or cause a rift in her marriage because stepmothers are replaceable, and children are not.

“They always send us away; he won’t love you anymore because you aren’t his real baby.” One of Grace’s cousins whispers to you as you eat sweets in your room away from everyone. “Daddy sent me to school because my stepmother told him too and now, he only loves her and the stupid baby because he’s the Boy. If Charlie wasn’t his baby too, she wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

You do not sleep a wink that night or those after because while Grace likes you now, you know too well what she’s capable of. Freddie would still be alive if she hadn’t called the coppers on him when Karl was born. The beatings and torture in prison gave him weak lungs after and the influenza finished the job.

It’s been some time after the wedding when you finally get the courage to ask your dad about it. He’s troubled, things with Grace aren’t what they pretend they are.

He doesn’t trust her, can’t have a real marriage or even love if there isn’t any trust, you heard Johnny Dogs’ wives say to each other while you played with their girls earlier and they whispered about them in their gossip.

And it was true, he never invites her to meetings and never confides in her like he promised when they argued yesterday about it. Your dad had raised his voice and told him he wasn’t changing his mind about something, and you knew what it was he meant even if you only heard those words.

“Daddy, are you going to send me away?” you put on your bravest face as you ask him in his office. You sit on his lap even now that you are older as you have always done even after Grace came into his life.

“No, sweetheart, whatever gave you the idea I would ever do that?” He asks concerned about it all.

“One of the girls at the party told me that when her daddy got married and had a baby with her stepmom, the stepmom sent her to a bad school, so the Boy doesn’t have any competition.” You tell him everything that troubles you and don’t even hide what you heard him say yesterday. “She said Grace would do it too because that’s what all stepmothers do in her family.”

“Y/N, no one is sending you away. I would never allow that to happen.” He smoothed your hair and quieted your fears, and yet you need more than just those words.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise, as long as we live, you will be my daughter and I will never send you away even if the King himself ordered me to.” He offers his palm, spits on it like he does with promises he will never break and you do the same as you agree.

You never leave his side, you grow up as a Shelby would and when Charlie leaves with Lizzie after Ruby’s death, you stay with him to the bitter end.

#tommy shelby & daughter!reader #dad!tommy shelby #peaky blinders fanfiction

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nosferatvpussy · 6 days ago

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distorted lullabies [chapter XXVII]

Word count: 4k

Warnings: gets a little brutal

Pairing: Dracula x reader

AO3 link | masterlist

A/N: Hello, lovelies! I watched the Robert Eggers Nosferatu, ran home and finished this chapter. I was stuck on it for I don't know how long. Hope you like it <3 Happy 2025 - it'll be 5 years since I started this, let's hope it doesn't take another 5 to finish the next 5 final chapters.

The cabbie swore under his breath when I slammed the door after me. I gave him my address, cracked the window open and breathed in the smell of rain on pavement and on the nearby Kensington Gardens in an attempt to cleanse my senses of Mallory’s bitter anger.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered to myself. Swearing fixed nothing but it was often relieving.

It was all escaping my control. All of it.

Months ago, I had thought myself so smart when proposing that deal to Count Dracula. I really thought I could win that, or was that my prideful ego poking its head out again? A latent deathwish, that’s what I had, and there came death prancing to my door and tempting me with a delicious form of self destruction. That’s what I had done, utterly destroyed my former self, not without struggle and not without loving my own destroyer, and yet, through it all, I never considered the safeguards of my deal would fail. When I proposed to Dracula that he would only turn me into a vampire when I told him to, that I would die on my terms, I fully thought I was in control. Handled. As easy as winning an argument in court.

Of course, had I known all the variables, I would’ve thought of more safeguards. Not that they would have mattered. This slow withering of my human self was surely a blessing compared to utter obliteration of my humanity. This way I could at least ease myself into what being a vampire entailed.

On the other hand, simply being turned must be like ripping a band-aid off. One day I could walk in the sun, and the next I was changing day for night and drinking blood. Easier perhaps.

Dracula threw it in my face how I had been taking note of my ever increasing heightened senses and ignored it all. My singular thirst for his blood had already started to translate to thirst for human blood — Julia’s scarlet blood spurting from her delicate neck right into my killer’s, lover’s, maw, for instance, and now Mallory’s pulse ringing in my ear like a church bell calling for mass.

All of that, even the unbearable pain of growing fangs I could bear, perhaps, and could learn to control it.

Dracula always did say that I had better self control than he did. The fact that I had lacked control in hypnotising Mallory, practically taking a backseat while the blossoming vampire took over control not only of myself but of her, was the scariest part. A desperate attempt to keep Mallory close, and I had no choice in it.

The car came to a stop across the street from my house and I parted ways from the cabbie. Pulling my trenchcoat up to shield myself from the pitter patter of rain, I looked down the street, two houses after mine, and sure enough, the police car who had followed the cab all the way from V&A was now parked. I raised a hand in greeting to the two officers, even though I didn’t know their faces, and they waved back.

I fished my keys and phone from the bottom of my purse, and rang Dracula as I unlocked my door. I kicked the door shut behind me and went upstairs to my bedroom as I waited for him to pick up.

Voicemail answered.

It was still daylight, so Dracula was most likely asleep, and he slept like the dead. If Renfield hadn’t arrived yet – an usual occurrence after dusk to carry out his services – the call would probably go unnoticed.

I called him again and put the phone on speaker as I threw my purse on the bed. The sound of raindrops hitting the window glass was muffled by the thickness of my curtains when I pulled them shut. Enclosed in darkness, I slipped out of my clothes until I was left in my underwear.

The phone’s beep was cut short as the call was answered. “Yes, my darling?” Said Count Dracula in his velvety voice. “How was it?”

The familiar weight of his voice made me sit down on the bed, half naked and vulnerable as if he had spoken to me within the room.

I almost wished I had gone back to his place instead of mine to feel some comfort. It was a silly thing to wish for. After last night, when Dracula had celebrated what my pain meant, disregarded my fear, my despair, all because I was finally a perfect bride to be, it would be stupid to think he would react any differently to what I had done to Mallory.

“It was fine,” I replied, lying down on my bed. I put the phone to my ear. “No surprises. Mallory is still mad at me. She doesn’t want to see me again.”

“Well, nothing that can be done for that anymore, I suppose. Where are you now?”

“I came home. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ll try to get some rest in the afternoon.”

I counted three heartbeats before he replied.

“Will you come by later?”

I knew him well enough at this point to know that he had fought his initial instinct to question me. He knew I was scared, and I knew he was scared that I would run out of fear. The fact that he hadn’t questioned me boded well in a way. Progress.

“Not tonight,” I said in a small voice, staring at my ceiling and noticing a spiderweb on the corner. The silky brightness of the web glimmered as if the spider could tailor webs made from light. By the size of it, the spider had made a home in my room for some time now. Only now did I have the eyes to notice it, and yet, in the darkness of the room, I shouldn’t have been able to see it. “I don’t think I can handle being close to another person tonight.” Realising how that sounded, I continued. “All I can think about is blood. It’s a wonder I didn’t make a victim out of the cabbie on my way here. I would rather not risk it again.” Dracula laughed on the phone. I winced. “At least you’re having fun.”

“Y/N, of course I am,” he said, a smile on his voice. “Nothing will make me happier than seeing you take your first victim.”

“This isn’t fun for me!” I jerked myself upright on the bed. “Can you try being understanding for once? For fuck’s sake!”

“Understanding?” The word was bitten out. “I have been nothing if not understanding so far.”

“Yes, it was very understanding how you almost killed Diana. So very kind of you to grant me a few more days after you used Mallory against m–”

“I’m not having this conversation again.”

“Then listen to this. I understand that you finally have confirmation that I’ll survive the change and that you’re happy about that. Great! At least I won’t be a shell of myself like your first brides. I think it’s fucking amazing, too, but it is not easy for me.” I inhaled deeply as if saying so much had stolen my breath. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”

“You had months to come to terms with it, Y/N. You asked me hundreds of questions. I showed you all that I could.”

“It doesn’t make it any less scary!” My face fell to my hand as my hair fell around my face like a curtain. “I didn’t think I would have to try to control myself while still human.” Tears fell to my bed, synchronising with the rain outside. “Please, can you try finding some compassion in yourself? I have no one but you now.”

“I don’t understand, Y/N,” he said. He sounded calm, and sincere. “But I will make an effort to. If you allow me to, I would like to take some of your blood tonight and see for myself.”

Closing my eyes, I let my weight go and lied on my side with the phone pressed to my ear against the bed. The knot on my throat joined the ever growing pain on my head and jaw. Another migraine was coming.

“You have my permission.” I sighed. That was the best he could do at the moment, and I would take it. “And then we'll talk.”

“And then we’ll talk,” he repeated. “Darling, have a shower or a bath. Try to take yourself out of your body, if you can.”

“I’ll try to sleep, and dream, hopefully.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Two beeps indicated that the call disconnected.

I rolled over on my back and stretched my arms at each side of me. What remained of my tears ran down my cheeks and dried on my hair.

There was nothing to stop it now.

This was it. I was not dying on my terms, but Dracula’s.

Food didn’t taste the same – from an old brew of reheated tea, to a simple strawberry scone becoming nauseatingly sweet and finally everything was starting to acquire a dry tastelessness. Migraines ensued after eating what my body could no longer accept. Perhaps the pain was the body trying to purge the unnecessary nutrition that food provided, while also begging for something else. It was happening now after trying, and failing, to eat my favourite sandwich from V&A Café. It had happened at the party as well, although the circumstances made it worse. And the very first time was the day after I had drunk deep mouthfuls of blood from Dracula’s wrist while overlooking the city from inside the London Eye.

I ran my tongue over my teeth to feel the small bumps on my gums, which throbbed in response to that prodding. Tiny fangs threatened to protrude from there as they had last night. After drinking Dracula’s blood they had virtually disappeared. Their insistence to make their presence known was a harsh, and painful, reminder of what I could have done to Mallory.

And wanted to do. Still did.

I raised my arms in the air. The wounds were almost gone, leaving only pale outlines of where Dracula had bitten me two nights ago.

His first bite had taken weeks to heal completely.

A chill coursed through me that made all the hairs on my body stand up straight. Only then did I realise how cold I was. I pulled my duvet around me, cocooning myself within it and closed my eyes, wishing I would be pulled away to somewhere else, or to another life where I had already dealt with everything and was living happily ever after. A nice fantasy.

In my dream, I was cocooned by wings which whisked me away, sending me floating into the comforting, soft clouds of dreamland. I breathed in and out to savour the sweetness in the air. In and out. In and out. Like teeth biting and releasing. In and out. Sharp teeth and red blood. Sweet, red and intoxicating.

I don’t want these dreams.

Conscious in the back of my mind, I managed to push the thoughts out, and quickly my subconscious conjured Dracula’s presence to run his hands down my back, massaging, kneading and counting my bones as he had done once to put me in a trance. I counted each bone aloud. Would my bones change too? Become hard and unbreakable? Yes, darling, said death, you are wholly different down to the last bone. His hands, so rarely delicate, turned me gently and I stared up into the dark pits of his eyes. Smiling, he said he would like a taste of his beloved.

His beloved – me.

Say you love me. This is my dream, I can make you say it in my dream.

Anything for his beloved, he said, anything I wanted if only I allowed him a taste first. Obligingly, eager, I turned my head to the side to expose my neck in exchange for his love.

And love poured on me. Cascading, washing over me, so warm, comforting, so red, all enveloping, filling my lungs, my throat, until I was made of love and could feel nothing else.

A pull near my navel jerked me awake.

I stared at the ceiling as my brain finished waking up. Rolling on the bed I looked towards the window, and although the curtains were closed, the light escaping from the corner had to mean it was still daylight.

The pit of my stomach jerked again and growled, begging for substance. My hands covered it automatically, as if trying to stifle the sound and soothe it.

Footsteps coming from the lower floor reached my ears.

I lied there, in wait, processing that there was someone in my home and I had heard it walls and metres away.

For once in this life, I wondered who was more in danger – myself or the intruder?

Something coiled behind my navel. I wondered if it was just hunger — and what sort of hunger was this? For food or something else? – or my new found instincts playing up as they often did when I was around Dracula.

Pushing myself out of bed, my toes pointing and landing, carefully as if I was a ballerina to not make any noise, I made my way to the corridor. As I hugged the bannister, the cold wood touched the naked skin on my stomach, and only then did I realise that all I wore was a bra and hot pants. Returning to my room, I grabbed my robe, a navy blue silk that somehow always disguised the fact that I had just woken up.

On the first landing of the stairs, trying to keep as silent as possible, I crouched to peek around the bannister to catch a glimpse of my living room, populated only by my library and a coat thrown over the couch.

A meow echoed up, coming from the kitchen, and a woman’s voice cooed back, “I know, baby, let’s see if aunt Y/N has anything for you.”

“Di?” I called.

“Oh, Y/N!” She exclaimed from downstairs, unseen. “I didn’t expect you to be home. I’m sorry to barge in.”

“No worries. I’ll be down in a second.”

Diana, cradling one of her cats like a baby, smiled at me when I turned the corner on the kitchen. Another one of her babies, a tuxedo cat, twirled between her legs, meowing non stop.

“I swear I’m not usually this nosy– hey, stop squirming, I know you’re hungry.” She adjusted the calico cat on her lap, Hedy Lamarr, and the other one at her feet was Liz Taylor. She had Laurence Olivier as a cat, as well as Clark Gable, the Hollywood cats, but they were nowhere to be seen now. “I ran out of cat food and tuna so I came to see if you had any left in your pantry,” Di explained, looking apologetic. “I’ve been between meetings all day and couldn’t find the time to run to the store.”

“I think I have some of their food, from when you were in Scotland,” I said, uncrossing my arms and stepping around the kitchen island towards the pantry. Hedy jumped from Diana’s arms to the island, tail swinging in expectation.

“Are you feeling sick?” Diana asked from behind me.

Rummaging through shelves in the pantry, I barely spared her a glance as I continued my search for cat food. “I’m fine,” I said, putting more strength in my voice to make me believe it too. “Why do you ask?”

“Well. It’s Monday 3pm and you’re home in your robe.” At her words, my hand hovered over the box of pasta I was about to move. “And you look dreadful, to be honest.”

“Do I?” I asked, absently.

My mind was torn on wondering how awful I looked and how it could be Monday when I had gone to sleep on a Saturday after brunch with Mallory. Had I lost a day? Slept all through it, or simply did not have any recollection of it?

Neither of those options boded well.

“You look sickly pale, Y/N,” Diana said. “Have you been eating lately?”

“Food poisoning,” I muttered as I closed my hand around a can of cat food. “Here, I found it.” I spun around to give it to Diana and found her too close for comfort. At this distance, I could see the specks of gold and green in her eyes and the fine lines around her eyes that she spent so much money to get rid of. I could smell her breath from here. And yet, she was still at an arm’s distance away. “I need to go back to bed.”

Bed, in the safety of my room, where I could cage myself until night came and so did Dracula.

Pushing the food to Diana, I dodged past her, breath held deep inside my chest, and made way to the hall. Feeling as if my head had disconnected from my neck, I steadied myself against the doorframe as my knees started to go weak. My vision went white.

“Oh love!” Diana exclaimed behind me. A clatter followed by a meow and quick steps echoed in the kitchen before arms encircled my waist, pulling me up. “Gosh, Y/N, you’re heavier than I thought. No matter. Come on, let’s rest in the sitting room.”

“I’m fine,” I grumbled, pushing my forehead against the wall as if that could help me stabilize.

“You don’t look fine. Straighten those legs, come on, can’t do this without you. Hells, I’m getting old, Y/N.” Commanding my brain to focus on one sense, I did as she told me. “Atta girl. Now to the sitting room.” She hugged me close, arms squeezing below my ribs and expelling all the breath I was trying to hold. I gasped for air. Diana’s breath filled my nostrils with the smell of tea, blueberries and yoghurt – her last meal. Concealed beneath that lay a subtle scent, discernible for its lively sweetness.

“Di– I need you to go.” I barely recognised my voice as my own. The thread of consciousness keeping me alert identified a searing pain in my jaw that spiked up to my head.

“Nonsense. One foot in front of the other. Come on,” she huffed, nudging the back of my knees with her legs. She chuckled, the sound so foreign and happy that for a moment I held onto it and the pain of hunger dulled for a second. “Remember when you got home so drunk you couldn’t climb up the stairs? I found you asleep in front of the stairs, covered in all the coats you could find. You looked like a nestled kitten.”

“The day you ordered McDonalds for lunch instead of cooking us lunch on Saturday,” I murmured.

“Sacrilege but yes. First and last time, but you needed a good hangover cure, to be fair, and nothing better than that.”

“You carried me to the sitting room.”

“Pushed you, more like it.” At that, she pushed me a little harder to make my legs move, and my hands flew up to steady myself, finding nothing but air to grasp at. Diana’s shoulder pressed under mine and her hip nudged mine to distribute my weight towards her. My head swivelled, quickly finding a comfortable spot on Di’s arm when my neck proved a little too feeble to carry it. Eyes adjusting through white blotches in my vision, the bite on Diana’s neck peaked back at me between her silver hair. Two punctures glowing at me as a wolf’s glare in the dark. A fat tear formed on the corner of my eye. I closed my eyes in shame, knowing that tear came from desperate hunger and not fear. Deep, ravenous, gut wrenching hunger unlike any I had ever felt. “Y/N, don’t pass out please. Almost to the sofa now. If you fall, you’ll take me down with you.”

Yes, yes, I would.

I bit my lip, and felt a distinct sharpness that should not be there.

“Di, I’m so sorry,” I uttered, hardly believing the words as tears spilled from shut eyes. Wrapping my hand around her arm, telling myself I needed to push her away – please, please, away , AWAY – and instead, it pulled her as in the inescapable grasp of vine that squeezes a tree and constricts its bark, never letting go unless plied off. Unwillingly, my body shifted closer, angling towards Diana. “So so sorry,” I whispered, voice nearing a hiss as my eyes opened again.

I nuzzled closer.

I felt Diana tense up. My grip grew tighter on her instinctively. She could bolt now. Deep in me, just as I knew there was something wrong with me, Diana knew it too. Her fragrance kicked up as her heart spiked with adrenaline.

“You’re scaring me, Y/N.”

“I know. I’m scared too,” I confessed. “Be very still. Very still,” I asked. “I’ll let you go.”

“Let me go,” she echoed. “Y/N, I don’t know what you’re playing at–”

“Disbelief. I’ve been there,” I said, oddly finding empathy while hunger burned hot. “Just be still. It’ll make it easier.” My gaze shot up to Diana’s profile. Her lip quivered as she peered at me from the corner of her eye, as if looking at me straight on would be too much. Somewhere in the house, a drumming started. So loud it startled me and my body jolted.

Diana moved.

But I moved with her as she tried to push me off.

Our arms and legs tangled as this body unexpectedly gained a strength unbeknownst to me. It pinned her arms to her side as it locked around her. She spasmed, trying to fight this body that no longer belonged to me. Hunger was its own entity, and it screamed for sustenance. In the throes of pushing against me, she kicked at my feet and lost balance. We both went down to the floor, all my weight on top of her as if I was the rock tied to her feet that dragged her to the bottom of a lake.

Silver hair spilled on the rug. Revealed, my gaze zeroed in on the crook of her neck where a vein pulsed. I think I heard her scream but the drumming was so loud it was easy to ignore. My unseeing eyes barely registered my friend’s expression before leaning down and biting on the vein that Dracula had shown me.

Blood inundated my mouth, entrancing me completely. A hollow sound escaped from her as her blood slid down my throat like hot honey. Her hands pushed at me and I held them to the ground. Nothing could perturb this feeling. I was gulping light. My skin felt so hot it might have blistered. I lapped up the blood that spurted from those tiny cuts I had made. Too little. A fountain of blood is what I needed. So I bit, ripped with teeth and syrupy blood bubbled up to be savoured. It pulsed in streams with every desperate beat of her heart.

I swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed.

I filled myself up until her hands, intertwined with mine, slowly gave up. Distantly, I heard her gurgling a breath. And with it, the river of blood streaming down my throat slowed to a trickle to match the dying pace of her heart.

My tongue poked at the wounds I had done, pressing them as before in search for the even flow of blood of only moments ago, and this time, I felt the texture of torn skin, ripped to ribbons, the awful rubbery muscles of Diana’s neck touched my tongue back, and I recoiled. I sat back, eyes focusing on the scene beneath me, and I kicked away. The hole I made on her neck seemed to stare at me as if the wound I made had life to accuse me. It gaped, like a second, gory mouth, open in shock.

The stairs poked my spine as I pushed myself back, stopping me in my tracks. What remained of blood pooled under Diana. Scarlet entwined with the silver of her hair, contrasting with the waxy tone she had acquired. She could just as easily be confused with a broken doll, limbs askance, parted lips, and the broken porcelain of her neck.

An awful gasping sound came from her, making me gasp in return and scurrying to her side. Her hands spasmed as I came closer. Somehow still alive and yet when I looked in her eyes, there was barely any light there.

“I am so sorry, Diana. I didn’t mean to. I-I don’t know what to do. Di? Do you hear me? Are you there?”

Her eyes rolled to meet me. Maybe she could survive this - I thought for a second - but her eyes lost the determination as she stared at me, a teardrop running down her cheek, and went empty.

“No- no…” the single word from my lips dragged out in the chilling silence of the hallway.

Knelt before her, my tears poured onto the corpse of my friend.

--------------------------------------

@5thelement @jar-of-moondust @festering-queen @deborahlazaroff @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @girlonfireice @saint-hardy @xoxodracula @princessayveke @dreamer2381 @25ocurer @vampirescurse @blue-serendipity @iwasjustablur @sunscreenfeverdream @daydreaming136 @bittenlove @newyorkrican922 @feralstare @soph3228 @jmor25 @clussysposts @werwulfy @rainbowgoblinfan @soulofsalt @mistandmoss @lddracula @skelior @cesspitoflove @mymindpalaceismywonderland @candleslut @sweet-delila @jackbootedfucks @tilldeathripsusapart @recklessgiraffelife @isayweallgetdrunk

#distorted lullabies #dracula x reader #dracula bbc #bbc dracula #claes bang #dracula daily #nosferatu #robert eggers #bbc dracula fanfic #vampire fanfic

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everlastingdreams · 1 month ago

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The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 6

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Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: Haunted

Notes: I fought with this chapter and ngl it kicked my butt.

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter: 6/47

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The Monk had left early, you hadn’t even heard him leave. The hours passed dreadfully slow for you in that tent. Being bound was one thing, having no entertainment was another. Even when terribly bored, you still refused to read the scriptures. Were they truly hoping that you would become one of them? All the things the Monk spoke off that you would receive were tempting, but evil often cloaked itself in temptation. You had heard the stories of the cleansings, the terrible atrocities committed in the name of the Church, and you wanted no part of it. Then why were you not trying to escape? Was it the lack of destination? Perhaps it was the careful hope in you that the Monk was not yet lost to the Church, if he was truly so cruel as they claimed then why had he shown you kindness last night? Had it been to pacify you after you had tried to take your life and it would have ruined their plans for you? Or had it been because there was a connection between you, both being of the mysterious Ash Folk Clan, that you had yet to understand?

Part of you knew that you had not tried to escape again because you had known nothing but violence from those around you and then to end up in the hands of the Weeping Monk who had not struck you even once… of course it was conflicting. You pressed your eyes shut, hating how you were wishing for things that were wrong. Latching yourself to people who showed you just a speck of kindness wasn’t healthy, but you were so desperate for that feeling of safety that it threatened to cloud your judgment. What had Cassian and Aldith done to your mind…

The fabric of the tent ruffled and the Monk walked in. His eyes had fallen to the book next to you on the floor, where you couldn’t reach it anymore.

He stopped at your feet. “Are you hungry?”

The gentle tone took you off-guard, you nodded.

The Monk walked around you, knelt down and began to undo the ropes. “You have shown that I can trust you without these last night, I wish to see this today as well. Do you believe you can refrain from fleeing without being bound?”

The ropes fell away from your wrists and you rubbed some of the tenderness away that had formed on them, your mouth was slightly agape.

“Do you?” his tone was still so gentle.

You blinked once. “Yes…”

He rose to his feet and tossed the rope off to the side. “Very well.” His hand was held out for you to take, “Come with me.”

You must have been staring at that hand for a while, because he had to clear his throat to get your attention back. Instead of taking his hand, you got to your feet on your own. With a small tilt of his head, he asked you to walk with him.

You felt so small walking through the paladin camp, surrounded by people who would murder you for what you were born as. The Monk looked at you every few seconds, making sure you weren’t running off after all. You were at that table again where they gave out meals to all those of the camp.

“Choose what you want to eat.” He gestured to the table.

But you didn’t, because you had no idea why he would risk letting you walk around without being bound or why he was letting it seem like you were already part of their following. The more he tried to give you this new freedom, the more you felt yourself withdraw inside.

The Monk saw you look uncertain at the table, he put a hand to the back of your arm and moved you closer to it. “Go on, were you not hungry?”

You choose a piece of bread and fruit and started to chew right away, your empty stomach won over you anxiousness.

He was glad that the encouragement had worked. “We walk into the woods again today. Father has asked me to see what sort of skill in fighting you have.”

None?

“Skill in fighting?” Your eyes were wide.

“To defend yourself when the situation calls for it.” he explained.

It was quite ridiculous. “You mean like if I was held a prisoner in a camp full of men taught to kill anyone who is Fey? Because I will not go into battle for Father Carden.”

To you, this testing wasn’t even necessary to know how you’d fare. You already knew. The Monk held his tongue but did steer you along because some of the paladins were staring.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

He didn’t take you far into the forest, you could still see the paladin camp in the distance as you stood and waited while the Monk made a bonfire.

You could already guess why he was making a fire. “I did tell you that I don’t know how I changed the fire last night…”

He did not let it demotivate him. “You also told me you did not believe you were able to smell Fey-kind.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “That’s different. I doubt magic would not have presented itself in me sooner.”

He stepped away from the fire and got closer to you. “And yet it showed itself last night. Are you not curious to know whether or not this power is resting within you?”

“No.” you blurted out. “But you are?”

He took you by the arm and walked you to the bonfire. “I am.”

You scrunched your nose. “Do you really want me to stick my hand in there again?”

“It did not burn you.” he remembered.

It bothered you how careless he could be about this. “Doesn’t mean that it can’t happen.”

He pointed to a spot just in front of the fire. “Sit down here.”

You almost rolled your eyes at the order but did as told.

He knelt down right next to you. “Try to feel if the heat hurts you.”

Slowly you brought your index finger to the flames, feeling the courage leave you just before you could get too close. “I can’t…”

He shook his head, tone far more patient than you thought it would be. “You can, but you are frightened.”

That was true… but your fear was justified. “You stick your hand in there first and tell me what it feels like then.”

He didn’t scold you for the arrogance and to your shock he did exactly what you challenged him to try.

From reflex you had grabbed for his hand. “No!”

The moment your hands touched together in the fire, the flames changed to the strange green ones.

You forcefully pulled both of your hands out. “Are you mad?!”

He was stunned by the green flames, and perhaps even more so by the fact that you had tried to prevent him from getting burned. For you it had clicked right there and then. It wasn’t just you, you could feel the surge in your veins when your hand touched his inside the flames, a strange connection brought forth this magic and he did not seem aware of it.

You stared down at his hand and saw that neither one of you was burned by the flames. “You cannot burn?”

He flexed his hand somewhat nervous. “I do not think either of us can.”

You stared down at your hand, the Monk took it in his, turning it over twice to inspect it before letting go.

“Try to touch the flames again?” He gestured to them.

This time you did it, mostly because you were trying to test your theory. There was just the faintest green glow when you touched the flames alone, but it faded very quickly again. He hummed pensively.

You had felt this strange power surge through you much clearer when touching him. It seemed that by forming a physical connection with him the magic was much stronger. “Why do you want me to practise this? Doesn’t the Church forbid this?”

The Monk took a moment before he spoke. “Our abilities are not spoken off to anyone else but Father, we are safe. There is a place for you here, and I wish to show you how different your life can be if you allow yourself to be guided by me.”

Safe? There was no such thing as being safe living with a secret among people who would kill you if they knew of it. Had he taken you under his wings, a tutor to create exactly what the Church needed more off?

“The one killing Fey is teaching me how to be Fey.” You scoffed in disbelief. “He kept you, because you are the perfect weapon… smelling the Fey, resistant to fire…”

You got up to your feet and took a step away, he was alert instantly and ready to chase if you’d try to run. “You see me and you think that I am some fool who can be molded into a weapon just like they’ve done to you!”

The Monk slowly rose to his feet. “That is not what I see.”

“Oh really.” you scoffed. “Then what do you see?”

He came closer again, slowly to read how you responded to it. “I see a fighter. One who has fought even when all felt lost and when there was no one there to fall back on.” He was close, so, so close. “It does not have to be this way anymore, you do not have to fight alone.”

You tried to read his eyes. “I don’t?…”

Slowly he shook his head. “Fall on me when you fear you are lost.”

Why had you even fought for so long? Insult after insult, hit after hit. Kicked, beaten and starved. Cast aside and given up… Only to end up traded to those of the Church. When he held out his hand for you to take, you realized tears were falling down your cheeks. An awful feeling had crawled under your skin at his persuasiveness, something wasn’t right, he was trying too hard to be kind to you. The gentler tone, freeing your wrists, the persuasion…

“I want to go back.” your voice was unsteady.

He tilted his head, “To?”

You gestured into the direction of the camp. “Take me back.”

It wasn’t something he expected to hear, he could hardly believe you would ask this now that you had some freedom away from it. “To the tent?”

You gave a quick nod, balling your hands into fists to stop their shaking. Being given hope that could be taken away so cruelly again was not something you wanted. Ash Folk or not, he was part of a group that you wanted no part of.

He started to object, “I was asked to test your skill-”

You didn’t want to be there anymore, not when it felt like he was trying to manipulate you. “I don’t trust you…”

The Monk was quiet for a moment. He wasn’t offended. “Do you want me to prove that you can?”

You frowned back at him until you saw him draw his longsword, he turned it and offered the pommel for you to take.

“Go on.” He saw you doubt.

As you kept refusing to take it, he eventually put it in your hands and made you point the tip of the sword to the front of his throat. You were trying to read his eyes.

“You could kill me and run.” He wasn’t looking at the blade, but at you.

You blurted out, “I don’t want to kill you.”

His head cocked a little to the side. “Why not?”

“I just don’t want to kill people.” You frowned at him. “Has it truly gotten this easy for you to take a life?”

With his fingertips he moved the sword away from his throat.

You threw the sword to the ground. “Handing me a weapon doesn’t prove that I can trust you!” When he didn’t stop you when you took a step back, you unleashed the pend up anger inside, “Do you think me a fool? Everything you do is an order from Father Carden, you being kind to me is nothing more than that! You don’t even know what kindness is, only what orders are! Do you ever even think for yourself, or is all that is in your mind scriptures?”

What you had said had gotten under his skin, his jaw was tense and his eyes evasive. As if to give himself a moment to calm down, he picked up his sword before facing you again.

His tone was much colder than it had been, “This hostility will not help you.”

“Neither will you. And putting a sword in my hand will not make me fight for your cause.” you fired back. “I will not aid the Church.”

He closed the distance between you again. “You will. And I had hoped you would do it willingly.”

The Monk grabbed your arm and dragged you with him back to the paladin camp, the sword was ready in his hand to stop you if you’d try to escape. You could not let fear decide your future, it had done it for too long already.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

The Monk had found a new way of keeping you trapped in that tent. A chain connected the shackle on your ankle to the pole, the bastard took the key with him. This did give you the chance to walk around a little, but escaping a chain was harder than a rotten rope. Long hours it took for him to return to the tent in the evening. The atmosphere turned uncomfortable the second he set foot inside. You had been walking around aimlessly in the tent and had learned that the chain prevented you from getting too close to the exit and to the cot. But the chain did let you move to keep a distance from him.

His eyes were sharp, the harsh conversation from the day was burning between you. “Father spoke of you. He expects you to follow every order you are given, if you fail to do so there will be consequences.”

“Consequences?” you gritted out through your teeth.

He stepped closer to you, folding his hands behind his back as he named some, “Starvation, blindfolded for weeks, lashes of the whip. I have spared you from them until now. I cannot keep doing so. I urge you to cooperate, you do not want to face Father’s wrath.”

After swallowing down the threat you faced, you grimaced. “There it is.”

“Pardon?” His eyes narrowed.

You straightened your back. “I knew it. All that kindness you showed was all in the hopes that I would join your cause willingly. And now that it didn’t work, the real Weeping Monk shows himself.”

The change in his eyes was sudden, insult, anger and an emotion you couldn’t place. He took a few deep breaths to compose himself, it didn’t work and he crossed the distance you had tried to create to grab you by the elbow.

His voice rang loud, “If I had been the one to decide, I would not have brought you here! I would have killed the sellsword and left you in the abbey, perhaps you would have shown some gratitude-“

You cut him off. “Gratitude?!? How dare you-”

He spoke over you, “You are being given a chance to a better life and you refuse to even consider it?!”

Your own voice rose to match, “A better life?!” You pointed at your ankle. “A life where I have to obey or be tormented?! Is your life so good then?! I don’t think so, I’ve seen how your dreams haunt you when you sleep!”

His eyes went cold, his tone like ice, “My dreams are not the only ones who are haunted. You may pretend to be brave before me now, but I hear your cries when your father and sellsword-brother haunts your sleep and you beg them to stop.”

The sound of your hand hitting his face rang into your ears and made you realize what you had done. The Monk was looking off to the side and down to the ground while flexing his jaw.

With his tongue he checked if his teeth were still where they had been before this. There was a faint taste of blood where the inside of his cheek had been cut by his tooth by the slap.

You quickly moved out of his direct reach, a cold feeling ran through your veins, up your arms and down your back, memories of the beatings made your blood run cold. The only thing repeating itself in your mind over and over again was that the Monk was going to hurt you for this, and he was not Cassian or Aldith but a notorious fighter… You hated how you couldn’t help when your body felt frozen to the spot when he stalked closer again, the only thing you could do was make yourself smaller. With your arms you hoped to shield yourself from the worst damage. But the Monk forced your arms away and the fear broke you.

“I’m sorry!” You flinched and panicked.

His hands were on your face, but not to hit, they were holding it with caution and trying to get you to look at him. “You need to calm down. Your markings are showing.”

If the paladins saw them… the connection between him and Fey-kind would be made instantly. His secret could so easily be exposed if you did not gain control over this.

The pain never came and you tried to focus on him, it took you a few seconds before you realized he was touching the mark under your left eye with his thumb with a curious look in his eyes. His cheek was red from where you had struck him but he didn’t even seem aware of it now.

“They are lighter than mine…” It took him a little too long to realize how frightened you truly were, he moved his hands away from you completely when he did.

You were still expecting a violent response for what you had done, but then you saw the Monk fold his hands behind his back and you took that opportunity to go and stand a little behind the pole to have something to shield yourself. The markings slowly hid themselves in your skin again.

He was looking at the ground, both feeling the uncomfortable atmosphere rise. When he spoke, he was calmer than you thought he’d be. He sounded tired, “If you cannot find it in you to believe in the mission, then pretend.” The Monk walked past you to the cot. “Avoid the suffering.”

Your thoughts slipped out, “I cannot avoid what is already happening to me.”

It halted him in his tracks, he looked at you over his shoulder. It looked like he wanted to say something but words failed him.

He proceeded to the cot and put his swords down on it again. “Do you believe I chose to be what I am?”

You let the answer free after thinking about it for a moment, “I don’t think a child would choose this. But I do believe that you chose to stand aside and let yourself stay the person Father Carden wants you to be.”

The Monk stood with his back turned to you while he took of his cloak. He avoided all eye-contact after that and you went to sit down against the pole, facing away from him. A long silence passed and you had heard him lay down to rest.

“You hit harder than some of the men here.” he quietly said.

You could have sworn that he had sounded amused. It was the only thing said before the lasting silence pulled you into the arms of sleep.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten @the-great-adventures-of-me @linkpk88 @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks @slytherlight @beananacake @crystallizedtime @moonlightaura03 @angrygardendeer @have-aheart @5am-cigarette @arcanenature @thewinterskywalker @notyourwildestdream @coloursforyourportrait @koressecretidentity @nike90 @n1ghtlux @rachlovesactors @luckyzipperscissorsbat @morena-doing-stuff @the-fangirl-diaries @gipsydanger17 @heavenly1927 @phantasmalbeiing @labyrinthonmymind @asarcastic-thiamstan @rainyv-skies @kissingandromeda @stclairesplace @katjusja @isla-bell-blog @beebeerockknot @sahvlren @lancedoncrimsonwings

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#weeping monk #cursed netflix #weeping monk x reader #lancelot x reader #the weeping monk #weeping monk x you #cursed lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #lancelot #cursed weeping monk

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