#involuntary repetition of words

[thecouncilofidiots]

The awkward "I swear I'm not calling you annoying; we're autistic and accidentally picked up that phrase as a vocal stim because of echolalia"...

Friendly reminder that autism isn't The Cute Disorder... because yeah...

[hyewka]

warnings. possibly unfaithful, switch!beomgyu, ex best friends, pull out method, drunk sex, not proofread

you’ve always felt big feelings towards beomgyu, after all he has been your best friend for as long as you can remember, its just never ever been lust, even as a teenage girl with rapidly changing hormones. you love beomgyu, but it was never romantic. and yet as much as it surprises you, in the moment, it feels so right. like this is exactly how its supposed to be. getting maniacally mounted by choi beomgyu in a bathroom with your sense overwhelmed with the soju and beer breath. yeah, that sounds about right.

you just hadn’t expected it to turn so sappy so quick, despite the alcohol in your systems.

“i missed you…i missed you, i missed you”

at some point, you would’ve guessed those repeated declarations would’ve faded into white noise had it been any other person—any other person but him. someone who’d you considered the most important being of your entire life, someone who you haven’t seen or heard from in two entire years when your entire relationship had consisted of seeing each other all the time, someone that you’ve also, terribly missed.

when you share the same sentiment, when you also feel the need to repeat it over and over again, the heartache you’ve felt and the utter devastating emptiness that you’ve lived with for so long now being satiated—the repetition doesn’t let the words turn into sounds of nothingness as it naturally would’ve. rather, it continues to ram against your skull every time he gasps and whines them. like it gains a deeper, more intimate meaning the more he whispers them against your neck, trailing his wet kisses along your jawline.

“what happened with him?”

it’s like he got worked up at his own question, gripping the plush of your ass so hard his nails painfully digs into your flesh, having you hiss. you don’t blame what you register as an involuntary response—your ex boyfriend was the sole reason for your fallout with beomgyu, it’s a sore subject to poke.

“we broke it off six—s-six months after.” after you and beomgyu fell out you would’ve said, but how can you when the prick’s practically ramming his cock in you.

“oh,” he groans speeding up his sloppy pace, finding more rhythm—all while wearing a dopey smile, the frown on his face returning to ecstasy. “why?”

“just didn’t work out.” you reply curtly, trying to move on from the topic of your ex. he lets you, humming contentedly.

there was a part deep inside him that urged him to be smug and petty with an i told you so, or get mad that you dumped him for a relationship so futile to your life, but he can’t find himself to do so as he gets lost further in the way your face contorts, reacting to each jerk of his hips. you’re perfect, he thinks to himself over and over again. you’re perfect.

he thinks he could cum right then and there.

but somethings on the tip of your tongue— in fact, the moment you had registered him inside your head when you went inside that damned karaoke room, you noticed the ring. you quickly dispelled your first thought—it doesn’t look like a ring for marriage, it looked far too casual for that.

but you had still eyed it practically the entire night curious if it held any meaning and you had so badly wanted to pry. then you finally concluded that beomgyu has always been into jewellery, rings no exception. an hour ago, you didn’t know why you were so curious of his relationship status. but now? now you’re being fucked. you have a reason, so you try to bite the bullet to satiate your curiosity. “what about you?” you choke out. however, your question immedietely evaporates from your head when he smashes his lips against yours again heaving.

you don’t question it, you melt into it, pulling him in closer to the point there’s absolutely no space between the two of you.

“missed you” he whines. it has you uncontrollably tumble out giggles between your smushed lips before he steals your breath away yet again. you feel like you’re on drugs, you’re so high off of the adrenaline you feel. never in a million years would you have expected the original deep set uncomfortable tension between the two of you three hours ago to turn into this. when you had been invited out to hang out with your old college friends to come in and be met with familiar faces—you just didn’t expect your joy to so quickly be replaced with suffocating dread when the most familiar looks you up and down.

you weren’t warned of his presence. and now you were crowded by it.

“i couldn’t,” you gasp, your hooded eyes flying open when he revisits a hickey, grazing his teeth. “i can’t, i can’t live without you. that’s what i’ve realized, i can’t do it.”

you nod over and over again along to his words, frankly out of it, rolling your hips pathetically in rhythm with his. “wh-what about you?” he asks, his vulnerablity on full on display. long gone was the confident, vulgarity that oozed out of him.

it turns you on so much, it’s wrong but it does—his teary eyes, imploring you to put him at ease as he drives his cock deep inside your cunt. it feels right, it feels natural to try it out with him. the moment your finger flick his nipples, beomgyu gives you an immediate, satisfactory reaction—a combination of a gasp and a shriek before his head just pathetically falls to bury his head into the junction of your shoulders.

“you’re sensitive,” you note, letting your fingers lightly lay against his chest. the faltering of his pace is extremely noticeable as he had been increasingly building up his pace. it gives you a rush of dopamine, enough of it to have you more confident with what you want.

“whyyy..why’d you touch..” his whines muffle into your skin.

you peel his head off your shoulder by a fist of his hair and for what feels to be the hundredth time this night, he knocks the breath out of you—he’s gorgeous. when you started making out earlier you had passively asked him to keep his glasses on, you didn’t expect him to make such an effort to keep them because it’s practically falling off the bridge of his nose, crooked and foggy. he looks like a perfect mess.

your ex boyfriend hated it—when you had introduced domming during sex it had immediately killed the mood even though he promised you afterwards that it totally wasn’t because of your risque play with his nipples. after a while, you believed him—you wanted to believe him so you tried to ease into it again, showing him some porn, he’d surely like it as much as you did. you were sorely mistaken. he didnt, he practically ridiculed you, basically implying you were a total freak. it’s one of the things that served as a catalyst for your eventual breakup.

but beomgyu, god, beomgyu.

he transcends even your wildest imagination—hes everything you’d wish to hear and more. when you experimentally let your finger twist his hard buds again as he attempts to pick up his rhythm he gurgles on his spit, moaning loud enough for you to completely lose it. he slows down again, almost completely stilling, looking like he’s about to sob with his face a shade of red and pink, as if hes asking you for mercy.

“what?” you slur, cocking your head. “who allowed you to stop? i was close.”

he shakes his head, bottom lip slightly wobbling, “i c-can’t. if you keep touching my-”

your groan cuts off his rant. “hurry up, my legs are starting to cramp up gyu.”

he flinches at your harshness, falling into a pout. it’s a habit that as long as you remember, had driven you up the wall. but right now, you can’t help but find the action adorable, in complete contrast to the dirty situation you’re in. “but what if i just…like, cum?”

you sigh, propping yourself up again, “when you feel it coming, pull out.” you say simply, which doesn’t seem to ease his mind but he doesn’t resist shaking his hips again. it isn’t long before he’s losing himself in you, slap of skin against skin no longer your concern, totally ignoring the semi public setting. the moment he feels like he has has the upper hand you do it again, playing with his nipples until you’re sure they’re pink and plump, sore.

he not once questions anything, which makes you feel so immensely comfortable. “he would’ve hated this,” you comment absentmindedly, more to yourself than beomgyu. you hadn’t even thought he picked up on it when suddenly he becomes a lot more vocal, moaning obnoxiously loud you would’ve definitely slapped him silly and hopped off his cock…had you not been completely trashed. your brain is turned off, only mustering up a wobbly smile as you drown in his outward display of pleasure. it makes you feel so powerful. he both exaggerates and at the same time actually fucking loses his sanity.

he says those words again, panting, eyes completely glazed over and mouth almost permanently hung open, his hand reaching down to shakily play with your clit, making you arch into his touch, absolutely out of breath. “can’t live without you,”

at that final declaration, you clench around his dick to which he immediately reacts, erratically fucking into you, having your tits jiggle lewdly. he thinks hes hypnotized, he thinks he would’ve probably just bust a nut inside you anyway, but he snaps out of it, getting a sense of clarity.

beomgyu's cock throbs one last time inside you, before he pulls out, giving his cock only one small pump before spurting his load, some of it landing on your stomach and legs, some dripping to the floor. he lets out a soft moan, his breath hot against your neck. after what you believe to be an eternity, your sweaty selves interwined with each other, wallowing in silence as you finally get your breathing controlled, beomgyu pulls away to look at you.

it’s like you truly are telepathically connected, something you’ve joked about for years due to the instance you’ve completed each other’s thoughts. but you’ve come to realize it might be closer to the truth than anything you’ve ever known to be true. your feelings were intertwined, scarily so.

so its to not to your surprise when he doesn’t ask for a round two, he knows. like he always does.

you just try to ignore the constant ringing of his phone.

[leighsartworks216]

Love Me, That's All I Ask Of You

Sylus x gn!Reader

Apparently my brain can only cope with angst if it has a happy ending rn @comatosebunny09 YOU DID THIS (/positive)

Inspired by this post

Title from "All I Ask Of You" from Phantom of the Opera

Warnings: blood, injury, self-destructive behavior, swearing, requited unrequited love, angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending, kissing, ignoring the red string of fate, jealousy, soft Sylus

Word Count: 1,900

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The repetitive thwack of the punching bag keeps you going. Harder and harder, faster, more precise.

Your knuckles are bleeding. It stains the vinyl of the bag. They sting with every slight adjustment of your hand, with every punch. They’re probably misaligned, too. On the verge of breaking. But it’s not enough.

Sweat drips down your forehead and back. You’ve been down here for hours. You don’t want to leave.

It’s so fucking childish - you know that. But it hurts so fucking bad. Hearing the way he speaks to her, like you’re not in the room. The way he seeks out the banter and teasing conversations they share. The way he looks at her…

Is the only thing you’re good for your loyalty?

And it’s not like he hasn’t noticed the way you distance yourself. He’s brought up your over-the-top silence, saying he hasn’t heard your voice in a week. He’s tried asking what’s wrong, but you never answer. And when you stopped sleeping in his room altogether? He looked exhausted the next day, staring after you like he was working to decipher why he’d been left to sleep alone. The only company you seemed to seek anymore was that of Mephisto’s.

God, Mephisto. That crow had shown you their excursion to enhance her ability. You couldn’t deny the sick satisfaction you got when she still couldn’t Resonate with him, whether it’s because she found him “disgusting” or some other reason… But why did he have to look so offended by it?

You hit the bag so hard it rips. Sand pours out of the tear like water, draining onto the floor. You’re mesmerized by it. The slight hiss of the sand moving together, pouring out like a faucet and pooling on the floor into a steadily growing pile. It’s almost soothing.

Almost.

You kick the sand to the side. It fans out across the black floor in an arc of dappled white.

The prickle at the back of your neck puts all your nerves on high alert, but you know not to be afraid of it. You know the source. The cause of all your rage. The last person you want to see right now. You’d even take Little Miss Hunter over him.

You turn and meet his eye. Crimson, sharp with concern to match the furrow in his brow. It burns through you, all too familiar and, once upon a time, comforting. When he could look at you and so easily know exactly what you were feeling, even before your deal. They flicker down to your hands, crusted over with blood.

“It’s not like you to hide away when something bothers you,” he states, shifting his weight to his other foot as he crosses his arms. He’s right, too; for a while now, if something - anything - bugged you, he was the first to know, usually seconds after it started grating on your nerves. Still, you don’t say anything.

Sylus sighs. You’re nothing if not stubbornly persistent. He holds a hand out, motioning toward your own.

You think about obeying. Ever since Little Miss appeared, you haven’t really touched him. It was of your own volition - a sacrifice to pull yourself away and watch from afar - but you can’t deny how much you miss it.

His frown deepens when you stay exactly where you are. “So it’s something I’ve done.” Your face remains set and unemotive. His hand returns to its crossed position, finger tapping against his leather jacket. “Something so terrible you’d rather hide away from me.”

He looks you up and down, studying every small tell he can find, any twitch or involuntary muscle spasm. He doesn’t find any. Another frustrating skill of yours. The only thing he can latch onto is the state of your hands. He’s not used to seeing your own blood staining your knuckles. If you used your bare hands at all, the only blood you’d be covered in when all was said and done was that of your prey.

“And enough to harm yourself.”

He meets your eyes again. It almost feels familiar. That intense insistence on knowing you, on wanting to know every single thing about you even if it takes eons. But now it’s not out of an innate desire to unravel the secrets you wrap yourself in. It’s prying. It’s grabbing bolt cutters and breaking away each chain link one by one.

He takes a slow step forward, testing the waters.

You don’t move.

He takes another, dropping his arms to his side.

You study him in return. He’s tense. You see it in the set of his shoulders.

He’s five feet away when Mephisto appears in a whirl of smoke on your shoulder. He caws twice before projecting a video on a little holographic screen.

Little Miss Hunter, searching for the brooch. Yesterday, Mephisto had snuck it off Sylus’s body and brought it to you. You’d had a brief moment of fun teasing Little Miss with it, silently taunting her as you twirled it lazily between your fingers while she threatened you. You have no doubt after hiding it that it found its way back to Sylus.

You watch his face as he watches the screen. The intensity leaves his eyes, replaced with the calculating stare of a businessman in his trade. He watches her frustratedly try to break the lock on a cabinet, determined to check behind every item on display to make absolutely sure the brooch isn’t hiding behind them. When she turns to the bookshelf in a huff, she pauses. Sylus’s eyes narrow a fraction. She runs over to the shelf and starts emptying it out book by book, fanning through pages for any sign of a secret compartment to hide something inside. There was one book of such a nature; you’d hid the brooch inside of it, just to see if she would be hell-bent enough to search through every single one.

He looks away from the projected images, eyes softer than before. He’s figured you out, you’re sure of it.

“Search me,” he says. It’s not a demand, it’s an offer. Your expression falters for a millisecond, but he catches it. Of course he catches it. He opens his arms, inviting you in. Mephisto’s video feed disappears from view as he flies up to sit on the broken punching bag. “Find the brooch.”

You glance him up and down. There are plenty of places for something that small to hide.

Hesitantly, you step forward. His eyes follow you, but he remains still. This close, you refuse to look at his face. You haven’t been near enough to feel his radiating heat like this in so long…

You feel his sides first. The pockets of his leather jacket, both inside and out, are empty. There’s nothing concealed in his waistband. You don’t look at his face as you reach up to feel along his collar and lapels.

You pat along the length of both his arms. Aside from muscle, you find nothing. You reach into his pants pockets, but the only thing you pull out is his phone. You slip it back in before feeling down the long length of his legs. You pull up the bottom hem of his pants and check the top of his socks that peek out of his shoes, but there’s still nothing there.

You stand up, hands falling back to your sides. You meet his eyes. He doesn’t have the brooch.

Mephisto caws again. You turn to look over your shoulder. Little Miss Hunter, surrounded by a pile of books, triumphantly holds up the red-jeweled brooch, dropping the book you hid it in into the mess. Gentle fingers glide along your jaw to turn your face back to him.

Sylus looks at you in a way you never thought you’d see again. He’s leaned down to reduce the strain on his neck and be closer to you, but there’s still about a foot of distance between you. Even the way he touches you is reserved, like he’s waiting for you to pull away or punch him.

“I’m sorry.”

Your breath hitches. He… apologized? Of all the things he could have said, you never expected that.

“Whatever binds me to her,” he whispers, “it holds nothing to you. I should have made that clear much sooner.”

“What binds you to her?” Your voice is raspy from disuse. His shoulders relax, just so relieved that you’re speaking to him again.

He shakes his head slightly. “A past I should have buried a long time ago.”

It’s vague, he knows it. You wish he would tell you more, tell you exactly what happened that has him so inextricably connected to Little Miss Hunter. But he never pried into your own past, for better or worse. Maybe you both need them to die, buried at least 12 feet under and covered with a block of cement.

You lift your hand to trace his cheek. He sighs, leaning into the touch. Your fingers are rough and cracked, blood drying on your knuckles. The copper twang is hard to miss. He turns his head to kiss your palm, eyes closing in reverence. You fully cup his cheek and draw him in, kissing him softly at first.

Your lips tremble with overwhelming emotion. The anger that burns in your heart is slowly snuffed out by the soothing balm of his quiet sigh, a hushed whisper of your real name, not your moniker. You wonder for the first time since this began if he felt the same loss you did when you began distancing yourself from him. When you went back to your old room instead of sleeping in his bed, if he looked so tired the next night because he couldn’t sleep at all without you there beside him.

You get your answer in the way he desperately pulls you into kiss after kiss, burning with passion and trying to catch up for the time lost. In the way his hands hold your face, tangling with the hairs at the back of your neck as he keeps you close. In the way he sighs and gasps so longingly, savoring everything you give him.

He feels how much you missed him in much the same way. In the way you step closer until your bodies are pressed together. In the way you grab onto his jacket’s lapel. In the way you dig your bloody fingers in his white hair.

You’re both panting when he finally pulls away, breaths mixing in the centimeters between your faces as he refuses to move back any farther, forehead resting insistently against yours. Neither of you say anything for a moment, basking together in the quiet aftermath of the storm.

His hand is warm and gentle when he pulls yours from his hair. He turns it over to press featherlight kisses along your busted up knuckles. “Let’s take care of you, sweetheart, hm?” His eyes are half-lidded with affection when he looks at you. “The auction is tomorrow night. I need to show everyone just who I belong to.”

Your heart skips in your chest as you draw him in again by his leather jacket, biting down sharply on his lower lip. He hisses at the sting, but groans with want when you pull away. His eyes are drawn to his blood on your lips. “I’ll make sure they never forget.”

---

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[marvelmusing]

Earned It

Pairing: Mafia!Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader (Modern AU)

Summary: Aleksander Morozova has specific tastes. Nikolai knows this, which is why he invites you to join him at one of Morozova’s parties in the hopes of fostering a business partnership. Once you set eyes on Morozova, you are more than happy to play the part of pawn.

Warnings [18+]: sexual content, dom!Aleksander, pain kink, exclusive kink party, semi public spanking and nudity, sir kink, praise kink, hints that the reader was used as an incentive for a deal between Aleksander and Nikolai

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It won’t be much longer before you lose your patience.

Bent over a table, you manage to moan when Nikolai swats at your ass cheek instead of groaning in frustration. He’s too gentle. It’s driving you up the wall.

He had asked you to be his plus one for this unconventional party, hosted by a potential future business partner - Aleksander Morozova - in an attempt at forming an alliance. Despite the rumours you’ve heard about Morozova, you had agreed to help your friend.

The two of you had discussed what you would be comfortable doing together at the party, though Nikolai seems to have misunderstood just how enthusiastic you are about public spankings. All too soon, it’s over, leaving you unspeakably dissatisfied.

He helps you stand upright again, looping his arm around your waist and smoothing your dress down as he looks down at you.

“You okay?”

“I thought you would have committed to the role a little more,” you remark quietly.

“You’re my friend,” he protests. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

While his words are sweet, you’re too on edge to say anything except,

“Could you get me a drink?” He nods.

Tugging at the hem of your dress a little self consciously, you move towards an empty sofa at the side of the room. Irritation prickles over your skin, a dissatisfied pout puckering at your lips as you sit down with a small huff.

Closing your eyes, you slump your head against the back of the sofa, delighting in the dull thud that reverberates through your skull. Irritated by the events of this evening, you continue to bang your head half heartedly against the soft edge of the furniture.

The repetitive motion helps to relieve some of your frustration - until someone grasps a fistful of the hair at the crown of your head, meaning it stings when you move to drop your head back against the sofa.

As your eyes snap open, you’re greeting by the sight of Aleksander Morozova standing over you.

“I don’t condone self inflicted pain at my parties.”

Heat burns through your body, prickling from your scalp down to your stomach that flips as his eyes lock on yours. His gaze is frighteningly direct and your thighs shift as you squirm in response to his attention.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Nerves have you nipping lightly on your lower lip, which makes Mr Morozova raise a dark brow pointedly at you. He hooks his hand beneath your chin, putting pressure on your lips with the pad of his thumb. Instantly, you release your lip from between your teeth, cheeks scolding hot.

“Good girl.”

The sharp breath that escapes you is involuntary and you are ten times more aroused now that you were when Nikolai was attempting to spank you.

“Let me guess,” he muses, stroking his fingers delicately over your cheek in a manner that has you leaning into his touch. “Young Mr Lantsov wants to do business with me, and thought inviting a pretty thing like you would sweeten whatever deal he hopes to offer me.”

A frown creases at your features and you begin to shake your head. Mr Morozova mirrors your expression mockingly with a raised brow and your stomach flips. He smirks.

“He didn’t?”

“I- I don’t think he did,” you stammer.

Mr Morozova laughs, tilting his head back as the bright sound escapes him. His laughter fades and he considers you for a long moment, continuing the motion of his thumb circling your cheek. Then he releases his hold on your face.

“Stand up.”

The loss of his touch is briefly upsetting, but you do as he says, smoothing your dress down nervously as you stand. Mr Morozova circles around the sofa, sliding between you and the piece of furniture before he sits down, claiming your seat for himself.

He takes a hold of your hips, guiding you to stand between his open thighs. Even sitting down, he’s able to reach for your chin, directing your gaze to meet his.

“I’m going to bend you over my knee now. Is that alright?”

Startled desire pools in your stomach as your eyes widen at his question.

“Please,” you whisper.

He pushes your dress upwards over your hips, revealing your lacy panties to him. The sight of his eyes darkening makes you shiver. He touches you leisurely, stroking over the lace covering your mound and pressing his thumb into your hip.

“Would you like to take these off for me?” he asks, his tone light. Instantly, your eyes flicker up to the rest of the party. There are plenty of eyes on you - mostly due the man in front of you. “You don’t have to,” he adds softly and you believe him.

Glancing back down to his eyes, you feel a sudden burst of confidence. The way he’s looking at you has warmth spreading through your body, making you eager to do as you please - and right now you want him to see you.

Hooking your thumbs under the waistband of your panties on either side of your hips, you slip them down easily, keeping your eyes locked on Mr Morozova’s. He smiles widely.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Such a beauty.”

The weight of his gaze is heavy as he admires you. It makes you squirm. Then he does as he promised, bending you over his lap so that your ass is on display for him. Mr Morozova scoffs.

“He didn’t leave a single mark on you.” A shudder runs through your body as he rubs his hand over your cheeks, his palm smoothing across every inch he can. “That simply won’t do. Will it, darling?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s unacceptable, leaving you wanting like this.”

You nod in agreement.

When he starts out gently, swatting your cheeks at a lazy pace, you whine and kick your feet lightly in protest. He lands a harsh crack to your backside that has you crying out, the skin there burning in the wake of his hand. He pinches your cheeks between his fingers and you whimper.

“Being neglected does not give you the right to act disobedient,” he scolds you in a low voice that makes you burn internally. “You will get what I give you and be grateful for it.” He places his hand at the back of your neck, giving a firm squeeze. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He settles his hand back down onto your ass, petting the tender skin.

“That’s better.”

Every strike that lands has you sinking deeper into the sofa, into him. Arousal is thick and cloying in your body, filling up your mind like molten honey. The only sensation you are able to focus on is his hand as it meets whatever portion of your skin he deems worthy of his attention - and he appears to value every inch you’ve offered him.

His encouragements make your thighs quiver and butterflies swarm in your stomach as he praises you for withstanding something that you delight in. He makes every second of the pain worthwhile, ensuring that every spot he strikes makes you moan with a pleasure that makes you throb with need.

Tears prickle in the corner of your eyes and it isn’t long before they spill down your cheeks, hot and salty as they smear over your flushed face. When he finally stops, your mind is hazy. A blissful lightness has filled your limbs and your gaze is unfocused as he turns you onto your side so that he can see your face. The beat of your heart is no longer in your chest, it’s between your legs.

“That was what you needed, wasn’t it?” he muses quietly, stroking his thumb over your cheek to wipe at the half-dried tears there. Nodding weakly, your eyes flutter shut. The image of his smile is burnt into your closed eyelids.

He continues stroking your cheekbones, his fingers tracing absentmindedly over your jawline and across the pulse point in your neck.

“Poor darling,” he murmurs. “Are you tired?”

Blinking heavily, you nod. Fatigue weighs down on your eyelids and the urge to curl up in the safety of his arms is incredibly appealing. He seems to notice, helping you sit up in his lap.

“That’s it. Come here.”

He drapes a cosy blanket over your body, his hands wandering beneath the fabric to squeeze reassuringly at your thighs, encouraging you to relax. It’s easy to press your face into his chest and you soon sink into slumber.

When you wake, you’re being lowered onto a plush mattress in a darkened room. It takes half a second for you to realise who is smoothing his hands down your bare legs, before he tucks a soft duvet over your body.

“Did you make a deal with Nikolai?” you ask Mr Morozova sleepily. He nods.

“I did.”

Exhaustion has buried itself into your body, a pleasurable ache spreading over your backside that has a giddy smile spreading over your face which you attempt to hide as you curl your arms around the nearest pillow.

“Good.”

The corner of his mouth quirks darkly as your eyes flutter closed again. He presses a kiss to your temple, his arms encaging you as he leans over your body.

“Sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

-

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[talesofadragon]

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬

Summary: Like the ebb and flow of the tides, matters of the heart prove to be fickle. When love finds itself at a crossroads, each step forward holds the potential to either mend the fractured pieces or shatter the fragile bonds. As the path ahead becomes a dwindling maze of secrets and emotional infidelity, Y/N realizes that some promises need to be shattered for others to be forged anew.

Warnings: bring tissues

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader, Theodore Nott x Reader

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort

Word count: 1.2K

ACT ONE Why am I afraid to lose you when you're not even mine?

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𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐝𝐞-𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝, I stood frozen as my boyfriend knelt before me, holding my possible fate in his hands—a velvet box cradling a bright emerald set in a silver band.

My breath caught in my throat, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. Tears hovered on the brink of my lashes as thoughts whirled tumultuously in my mind.

Draco's smile remained unwavering, the hope in his intense gaze growing with each passing moment, oblivious to the inner turmoil consuming me.

"Will you marry me?" he had asked a minute ago, or perhaps it was five—I couldn't tell. Time seemed to elude me, slipping away faster than I could grasp.

I struggled to form a coherent response, my mind overwhelmed by the weight of his words.

Will you marry me?

Will you marry me?

Will you marry me?"

The question echoed relentlessly, each repetition more piercing than the last.

As if his piercing gaze wasn’t enough, I suddenly felt thrust onto a stage, a spotlight illuminating me, exposing me to the scrutiny of countless eyes.

Hesitation flooded through me, my veins pulsating with uncertainty. I was trembling uncontrollably. There was no other way to explain how everyone around me could sway so violently.

My eyes darted between the shocked yet hopeful faces surrounding me—each look weighing heavily on me. Draco's parents stood together, his mother's shining eyes and exuberant smile challenging me, while my parents' expressions told a tale of contrasting emotions—a mother's joy and a father's reticence.

Pansy, my closest friend, who felt more like a sister, regarded me with an inscrutable look in her eyes. Was it empathy? Anticipation? Perhaps even fear?

She quickly averted her gaze, prompting me to follow her line of sight until I found him.

An involuntary whimper escaped my lips as the enormity of the decision I was about to make settled over me like a heavy blanket.

Theodore, my best friend of thirteen years, my first kiss, my first love, stood before me with a forced smile plastered on his face, and I cursed our ability to read each other like open books.

His tight-lipped smile clashed with the iron grip he had on his goblet of fae wine. If I didn’t know any better, I'd say the chalice was ready to explode from the pressure of his fingers. Despite the curt nod he gave me, the crease between his eyebrows betrayed his inner turmoil. His clenched fists were hidden in his pockets, and the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. 

The fear lurking in his dark hazel eyes was unmistakable even in the dead of the night.

A gentle yet suffocating grip on my hand pulled my attention away from him and back to the question I dreaded answering.

“Darling, what do you say?” Draco's voice broke through the haze of my thoughts.

How could I say no? 

How could I refuse my boyfriend, who had put so much thought and love into this moment, who had gathered our families and friends to surprise me? How could I break his heart?

A salty taste on my lips signaled that tears had escaped. 

‘But how do you say yes?’ a voice inside me whispered. ‘You're accustomed to kissing his warm lips, but have you grown accustomed to the emptiness that follows, the absence of fireworks that should ignite your heart?’

Am I ready to say yes? Am I ready to feel his lips roaming outside the boundaries of my own, exploring my face and tracing the outline of my body? 

Theodore. The thought of him swept into my mind, bringing memories of that foolish kiss we shared when we were fifteen during that ridiculous game we coerced ourselves into at Hogwarts.

My gaze shifted from Draco to my best friend, and suddenly, it all came rushing back to me like a violent wind. The warmth of his lips, the tenderness of his touch, the magic in his eyes, and the fluttering in my heart.

I remembered growing up with Theodore—our jokes, our pillow fights, our Quidditch matches, and our midnight broom rides beneath the stars. It felt like every moment we shared was etched into my memory.

"Y/N, you are the definition of crazy. Bloody hell, how do you always manage to get me into these messed-up situations?" Theodore had tried to sound stern, but his escaping smile gave him away.

"Yeah, maybe I am," I had replied, propping myself up on my elbows after collapsing onto the ground. "But it's not my fault you blindly follow me."

He chuckled and plopped down beside me on the grass. "Yeah." Pausing, he lay back, gazing up at the stars. "That's what happens when you love your best friend too much."

I knew he didn't mean the "I love you"s the way I wanted him to, but deep down, I wished he did.

As I glanced at him once more, I couldn't shake the feeling that he, too, was realizing something—that I might be slipping away and that he never tried to hold me back. Perhaps, he regretted not holding me back.

Memories crashed over me, accompanied by an onslaught of voices in my head, each one clamoring for attention.

My mother's voice echoed, praising Draco and insisting he'd bring me happiness. His parents' joyous declarations welcoming me into their family mingled with my father's urging to give Draco a chance, citing Theodore's apparent lack of admission to feelings towards me. According to him, it was time to "live up to the expectations of our family's last name and preserve our lineage."

Then came Blaise's solemn confession, "They’re my best friends, and I never want to choose between them. So, I can imagine how it is for you. But Draco doesn’t love you like Theo does. Not in the way you or he thinks."

Amidst the senseless chatter of my friends extolling Draco's virtues, Pansy swore that Theodore and I had harbored love for each other all along, too afraid to admit it aloud. And Theodore. His absence in the conversation was deafening, yet his presence weighed heavily on my mind.

I wanted to flee, but I was trapped within the confines of my own body.

I longed to scream, but the cacophony of voices drowned out my own.

I yearned for Theodore's touch, but Draco's grip felt like it was tearing me away from my thoughts, pulling me back to reality.

"I—" The word hung in the air, barely escaping my lips. I could have sworn Theodore's grip on his goblet tightened for a moment, but the tears welling in my eyes made it difficult to see clearly.

My knees gave out beneath me, and my heart followed suit, the world fading into piercing screams as my eyes rolled backward and my body braced for an impact that never came.

Instead, I found myself enveloped in someone's arms, their scent of musk and berries flooding my senses, a stark contrast to Draco's familiar fragrance. Instinctively, I nestled closer, tightening my grip around my savior's neck as they whisked me away, their whispered words a soothing melody I couldn't quite decipher.

His embrace tightened as I caught fragments of his reassurance, "You're safe, little sprite. I've got you."

At that moment, there was no one else I wanted beside me, holding me, touching me. As he gently laid me down on the silky sheets of what I presumed to be my bed, his warm breath carried the lingering scent of fae wine, further intoxicating my senses.

And it was then that my heart knew the answer long before my mind could comprehend it.

No, Draco. I can't marry you.

Hi witchlings!! This baby has been sitting in my drafts for two years! I toyed with the idea, with no set protagonists in mind, but I find that this fits our favorite Slytherin boys perfectly. This fic is going to be a two-shot, with possible outtakes/extras if anyone is interested in diving more into this love triangle's story.

Hope you liked it!

All-Works Taglist: @xxrougefangxx

Draco Taglist: @imabee-oralizard @ameliaphoenix @arcana-greenleaf @dittos-blog-dylanobrien @ye0nvibezzn

[mcdonaldsplayground]

| actually the worst | part 4

ao’nung x f!reader

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus part

summary: just when things start to seem decent between you and ao'nung, you discover that he's done something terrible. though your family begins to forgive him, you know he doesn't deserve forgiveness for being a total dick. so why do you feel so bad for him?

includes: enemies to lovers, swearing, teasing, mentions of fighting/death, ao'nung being a terror😐

word count: 3k

a/n: okay i thiiiink i can wrap this up in one or two more parts, so hopefully this series will be finished up in a few days. i’m sorry i think this is getting repetitive, but i swear things are gonna change up a bit soon😏

“What was the one thing I asked? The one thing?” Your father demanded, sounding like he was gearing up to give one of his famous “Lo’ak Lectures” as you and your siblings called them. His disappointment was understandable, but you were itching to try and set the record straight. You thought Lo’ak was incredibly stupid for starting a fight, sure, but it seemed unfair for him or any of you to get into trouble for standing up for yourselves.

“Stay out of trouble…” Lo’ak answered wearily.

“Stay out of trouble, right.” Jake was about to go off when Neteyam tried to intervene.

“It was my fault-”

“I don’t think so. You have got to stop taking the heat for this knucklehead!” Jake exclaimed, making you flinch. He was being harsh, as per usual, so you decided to see if he would listen to you.

“Dad. Ao’nung was picking on Kiri.” You said calmly, hoping your twitching tail didn’t betray how angry you actually were.

“And you.” Lo’ak added, giving you a look. “He called them freaks.” As if he hasn’t called me that a million times already, you thought to yourself, though you had to admit that this time was less teasing and more targeted.

“And he hit you?” Your dad questioned, gesturing to the newly forming bruise on your cheek, anger flickering in his eyes. You could tell what he thought of Ao’nung without even asking.

“What? No!” You couldn’t help but reach up and brush your fingers over your cheek, wincing a little. You hadn’t stopped thinking about Ao’nung’s expression after you had gotten hit. You had never seen him look at anyone that way before, almost like he was actually concerned. “It was an accident. I stepped into the middle of the fight like an idiot.” You shrugged, realizing you felt a little afraid for Ao’nung, not wanting him to take the heat for something you could never imagine him doing. You took solace in the fact that the feeling was involuntary. You still wanted to kick his teeth in.

Your father sighed, looking around as he decided how to respond. “Lo’ak, go apologize to Ao’nung.” He said finally, sending your heart plummeting into your stomach.

“What?” Lo’ak breathed, incredulous.

“He’s the chief’s son, do you understand? I don’t care how you do it, just go make peace. Just go.” He shooed Lo’ak outside, his lips pressed into a thin line as he watched the boy stalk angrily away. You groaned, thinking about how smug Ao’nung was going to be now. You imagined your life was about to become insufferable.

“So, what’d the other guys look like?” Jake tried to ease the tension, though he appeared genuinely curious. You rolled your eyes.

“Worse.” Neteyam replied.

“That’s good.” Even with a straight face, you could tell your father was secretly proud of his sons, but it did little to make you feel better.

“A lot worse.” Neteyam decided to push his luck, smiling cheekily as he peered up to get your father’s reaction. The tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of Jake’s mouth before returning to his familiar strict expression.

“Get out of here.” He said, and you and Neteyam quickly distanced yourselves from the marui.

“Should we go find Lo’ak?” You asked. “He’s probably gonna have permanent ego damage after this.”

Neteyam laughed. “Probably. But nah, he’ll come find us after he’s done licking his wounds. Let’s go tell Kiri and Tuk what happened.” He tugged you toward the village, the two of you setting off to find your sisters.

It was getting late, but you didn’t have an appetite, so when your siblings started heading back to the marui for dinner, you decided to walk around the beach instead.

You spent most of your walk looking down at the sand, trying to spot some nice shells to collect. You were just about to reach down to grab an iridescent-looking one when you bumped into something warm and solid. Blinking, you realized that your face was mere inches away from a broad chest. You backed up hurriedly, blushing.

“Sorry I-” Your apology was cut short when you finally looked up and saw those piercing blue eyes staring down at you. He seemed just as startled as you, the two of you standing in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say. The look on his face was strange, guilty almost. You figured he would have been cocky as ever after Lo’ak’s apology, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

“Looks like Lo’ak got you good.” You broke the silence, deciding the most normal way to go about this interaction would be to tease him. He took the bait, narrowing his eyes as a sly smile tugged at his lips. His eyes roamed your face, inciting that buzzing feeling in your stomach that often came about under his gaze.

“Looks like-” But his words died at his lips when his stare came to rest on your cheek. Most of your hair had fallen down to cover it, but you guessed that some of your bruise must have been peeking out enough for him to notice now. He stepped forward seemingly without thinking, gingerly pushing your hair back behind your ear as he examined the bruise with a hard expression. You were frozen in place, unsure of how to respond.

“Are you okay?” He questioned, his voice low and quiet.

“Um, what?” You couldn’t help but be confused, having never seen the tall boy act like this before.

“Does it hurt?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you think, genius?” This made him huff in annoyance, but he didn’t move away.

“Come,” Was his only response, placing his hand on your back as if to guide you along with him when he started toward the village. Against your better judgement, you found yourself being guided along with little resistance.

“Where are you taking me, weirdo?” You tried to put some venom into your words in an attempt to get the old Ao’nung back instead of this strange, concerned clone of his.

“Do you ever stop talking?” He bit back, rolling his eyes. There he was. You almost smiled.

“You know, if you’re taking me somewhere to murder me, everyone is going to suspect you, like, immediately.”

“I’m not going to murder you.”

“Then where are we going?”

“Stop asking dumb questions, forest girl.”

“Just tell me where-”

“Maybe I will murder you just to have some peace and quiet.” Ao’nung growled, steering you up to a very small marui pod that seemed to be unoccupied. “We’re here.”

You chuckled, unsurprised that this whole thing had turned out meaningless. “Wow, this is really nice. Thank you for the pointless walk and terrible company, but I have to get going now.” You deadpanned, turning to go, only for him to grab your arm with a huff.

“Would you just sit down? I know what I’m doing.” He gestured to the small ledge just outside of the marui. You rapidly tried to work out what his end goal was, but obliged to his request, sitting cautiously as he ducked inside. When you peeked into the pod, you noticed various pots, bottles, and dried greenery, but you and Ao’nung seemed to be the only living beings around the area. The thought set your heart racing.

“Here. Now stay still.” Ao’nung popped back out of the pod, holding a small pot of what looked like ground up herbs in some kind of paste. It was then that you remembered who his mother was and figured this was probably storage for her medicines. You tensed, scooting away from him.

“I am not letting you play doctor on me.” You scoffed.

“Don’t be such a baby. My mother is Tsahìk, I know what I’m doing.” He sat down beside you, waiting annoyedly for you to allow him closer.

“Yeah? Well, you’re still a dipshit, so stay away from me with that stuff.” Ao’nung shook his head, groaning.

“You are impossible,” He hissed. “I use this all the time on myself, okay? It works.”

You glared at him for a long moment before giving in, still wary of his insistence to help you. He smirked when you relaxed somewhat, and dipped his fingers into the paste as he leaned toward you.

You gasped a little when he made contact with the bruise, surprised at the coldness.

“Don’t tell me that hurt, forest girl.” Ao’nung mocked quietly, smirking at your annoyed expression.

“Was just cold.” You mumbled, and he went back to gently spreading the paste along your tender cheek. His featherlight touch and warm breath fanning across your skin gave you goosebumps. The silence was too much for you.

“I don’t know if you got brain damage from being punched too hard, but we,” You whispered, gesturing dramatically between the two of you. “Don’t get along.” You stared directly into his amused eyes. “It’s actually weirding me out that you’re being… nice?”

“Just shut up, freak. Listen to the ocean or something so I can enjoy the quiet.”

You wanted to keep talking just to annoy him, but you soon settled into the comfortable silence, listening to the soft lapping waves and the insects humming.

The sun had begun to set, washing everything in golden light as it started to dip below the horizon. Ao’nung’s skin looked soft in the golden glow, his eyes turning a shade of blue that you didn’t even know existed. You were staring but you couldn’t pull your eyes away, not when he was practically caressing your face. Suddenly, his eyes flickered away from his focus on your bruise and locked with yours. The air in the minuscule space between you felt charged with electricity. You briefly wondered what it would be like to lean a few inches forward and kiss his cheek. Or his lips.

“[Y/N]! There you are!” Neteyam’s relieved voice instantly shattered the strange bubble you and Ao’nung had just been living in. Both of you jerked away from one another, as if burned. “What are you doing here?” Neteyam’s tone changed when he took in the full scene before him. Despite the distance you had just put between yourselves, there was a only so much space on the marui ledge, and both of you looked flushed.

When he didn’t receive an answer right away, Neteyam stepped closer, narrowing his eyes at Ao’nung. “I asked what you are doing here. With my sister.” He said through clenched teeth, looking murderous.

“Teyam, it’s okay. He was helping me with this. See?” You turned your cheek slightly to show him your newly treated bruise. Neteyam’s gaze flicked between that and the paste still in Ao’nung hand. He seemed satisfied enough with the answer, but still didn’t relax much.

“Well, mom and dad want you back home soon. It’s almost dark.” He stretched his hand out to you, helping you down from the ledge to stand beside him. Your heart was still racing and your skin burning as your mind tried to make sense of everything. Ao’nung said nothing, though his own chest was heaving slightly.

“Let’s go.” You murmured, lightly pulling your brother away. “Um- thank you.” The words came out robotic, and couldn’t bring yourself to meet Ao’nung’s eyes as you said them. You didn’t wait for a response before you and Neteyam slowly trailed away. You were rapidly trying to decide how to explain everything to your brother when he spoke, seemingly more worried about something else.

“I thought Lo’ak would have been with you.” He was clearly deep in thought, concerned over something you were unaware of.

“Why? Didn’t he go back to the marui for dinner?” That’s where you assumed he would have been. It wasn’t like him to skip a meal.

“No, he didn’t.” Neteyam shared a look with you. “I told mom and dad that I would bring him back with you.” He looked scared now, and you didn’t blame him. As you racked your brain, also growing scared for your brother, you suddenly stopped, remembering something.

“Ao’nung!” You whipped around, starting quickly back toward the marui where the boy still sat. His surprised expression rapidly shifted into confusion when he noticed the look on your face.

“Where is Lo’ak?” You demanded, not missing the way he tensed before slumping his shoulders slightly. He looked down.

“I was going to tell you…” He started and it took everything in you to stay calm and let him continue. “That’s why I was on the beach. I was looking for you. But then I saw you were hurt and I got distracted-”

“Where. Is. Lo’ak?” You breathed, far too mad to register his unusual remorsefulness.

“We took him out hunting,” His head lowered even more, his voice downcast. “Past the reef…”

It was safe to say that your entire family was seething at Ao’nung, though your parents clearly tried not to show it. You knew they constantly worried about offending the Olo’eyktan- and Ao’nung happened to fall under that umbrella of protection. You, however, couldn’t care less who he was. You wanted to kill him.

He had told your parents everything after you and Neteyam dragged him back home, which resulted in a search party being sent out to look for Lo’ak. The thought that he might not ever return gripped your throat and lungs, making it hard to breathe. Tears were streaming down your face, but you couldn’t find it in you to be embarrassed, despite the large amount of people who could see you crying. Ao’nung was trying to help by explaining where they had taken your brother, but you had begun to notice that he would frequently pause to glance at you from afar. You kept your distance for fear of not being able to control yourself if you got too close. It didn’t matter that he had already apologized a thousand times. It didn’t matter that he seemed genuinely sorry. That damage was done.

As you began gearing up to take your ikran out (against the wishes of your parents), a horn sounded, followed by some unintelligible shouts while a crowd formed at the dock. You instantly dropped your gear and ran toward the commotion, arriving just in time to see Lo’ak approaching on the back of someone’s ilu. He stepped off easily, thanking his rescuer before turning to face the crowd. Without a second thought, you jumped down into the sand to meet him, wrapping him in a bone-crushing hug. He may have been larger than you, but you felt that you could have picked him up and swung him around.

“I’m okay.” He breathed, patting your back in reassurance. You only released him when you noticed his vision fall on Ao’nung who was standing on the dock above you. Lo’ak narrowed his eyes, starting menacingly toward him.

“Hey, hey.” Your father had appeared behind you, grabbing Lo’ak to prevent him from getting into his second fight of the day. “Let’s have a look at you.” He quickly examined your brother, who surprisingly appeared unharmed. Only a few marks here and there.

“He’s fine, he’s fine. Just a few scratches.” Jake was quick to try and wave everyone away, as if that would magically fix the situation. The tension only tightened as Neytiri arrived, assessing Lo’ak’s condition.

“I pray for the strength that I will not pluck the eyeballs out of my youngest son.” She hissed, making a clawing motion at his face. Lo’ak, however, seemed to have calmed down, an almost bored expression on his face.

“No! My son knows better than to take him outside the reef.” Tonowari spoke up, putting a hand on Ao’nung to push him down to his knee, looking more ashamed than ever. Despite what he had done to your brother, your felt a pang in your heart.

“This is not Ao’nung’s fault.” Lo’ak suddenly said, standing up straighter, and you couldn’t believe your ears. What was he doing? Even Ao’nung looked extremely taken aback. “This was my idea. Ao’nung tried to talk me out of it.” If you didn’t know him so we’ll, you might have just believed him. A stunned silence followed, no one sure of what to say in the face of such a humbling remark. Eventually, Lo’ak stiffly nodded at Tonowari and set off toward the village.

You quickly scrambled after him, dying to ask him why the hell he was suddenly being so humble.

“Lo’ak!” You panted, jogging up beside him. He didn’t slow down, but he didn’t look annoyed that you were there, either. “What was that?” You pressed. He only shrugged, making you roll your eyes. “Lo’ak, come on, why-” You didn’t get to finish before someone approached on Lo’ak’s other side.

“Why did you speak for me?” Ao’nung asked, confounded. You stayed silent, hoping Lo’ak would actually give a proper answer.

“Because I know what it’s like to be one big disappointment.” He turned to briefly meet Ao’nung’s eyes, not a hint of sarcasm or malice in his tone. He was speaking from his heart, causing yours to break a little in turn. Ao’nung stopped walking, a curious expression overtaking his face, though you and Lo’ak kept on walking. It took a good amount of self-control for you to rip your semi-murderous gaze off Ao’nung and keep walking straight. It was silent between you for a long while.

“So, what?” You finally cut in. “Are you two just on good terms now?” It was mostly a joke, but Lo’ak dipped his head into a nod.

“I’m not going to hold a grudge about it, if that’s what you mean.” He said, and your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“What? I mean, after everything you’re not even a little bit mad? You could have died, Lo’ak.”

“Look, he apologized. He seemed weirdly genuine about it. Besides, if we keep holding grudges then this stupid revenge cycle is never going to end.” You had never, in your entire life, heard your youngest brother say something so wise. It made you wonder what really happened to him out at sea.

“Okay, mr. peacemaker. Well, I’m still gonna be pissed at him.” Lo’ak laughed at this, turning to walk backwards in order to face you. It was good to see him smiling again.

“That tracks. Hating each other seems to be your guys’ favourite game.” He grinned as you scowled.

“It’s not a game, Lo’ak. He’s actually the worst.”

“Yeah, actually the worst guy to have a crush on. That’s why you hate him.” Lo’ak snipped, his grin as wide as ever. “You hate that you like him.”

taglist:

@luvlykrispy @foreverfolkloregirly @findingourtreasure @tiddybiddy @nao-cchi @goodiesinthecloset21 @elegantkidfansoul @azaleaniath @cloakedvengeance @philiasoul @aonungmybf @joshuahongsfuturewife @shartnart1 @ayanamire @tireytesulineytiriite @bigmama123 @fucksnow @seashelldom @melsunshine @donaldsmac @littlethingsinlife @kainari144 @thesheelfsworld

[b1xi]

𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙛𝙤𝙘𝙪𝙨

Glenn rhee x reader

Word count:4578

Warninig: blood, dead,Alcohol.

Previous Chapter/Next chapter

You didn’t know how long you had been in Glenn’s arms. Your head rested against his shoulder while he, with gentle and repetitive movements, slid a hand down your back, soothing you with each caress. Every now and then, tears would escape from your eyes again, an involuntary release of all the accumulated fear. Alice, who had been crying desperately until recently, now remained silent, curled up between the two of you, her little head resting on your chest. The sky was starting to lighten, the night’s gloom giving way to the first light of dawn. It was probably five in the morning.

Glenn pulled away slightly, though not enough to completely break contact. His fingers still rested on your arm, as if he feared a single movement might cause you to fall apart again. His tired eyes met yours. You could see the deep bags under his eyelids, the fatigue evident in every line of his face. But despite everything, there was constant concern for you in his gaze.

“Everything’s okay,” he said softly, his voice raspy but full of calm. “Let me take you to your tent. You’re exhausted.”

You looked at Alice, her small body still trembling and her eyes shining with exhaustion. You knew you needed rest, but the mere thought of being alone again filled you with indescribable unease. However, when you saw Glenn’s face, you couldn’t help but worry about him too.

“You’re tired too,” you whispered, trying to show a small token of concern, though you had barely any strength left. Glenn gave a small but sincere smile.

“I’m fine. I just want you to feel safe.”

Carefully, he helped you stand, keeping Alice secure in your arms as he walked with you back to your tent. The camp, which moments before had been a chaos of screams and gunfire, now lay under a heavy, painful silence. You could hear the wind moving through the branches of the trees, a sound that, under different circumstances, would have been soothing, but now made you feel more vulnerable.

As you walked, your heart shattered into a thousand pieces when you saw Andrea. She was kneeling on the ground, her face drenched in tears, her body shaking with desperate sobs as she clung to Amy’s pale, lifeless body. The scene was unbearable. You placed a hand over your mouth, trying to hold back the scream threatening to escape. Andrea’s pain was palpable, so real and tangible it seemed to invade the very air around you.

You forced yourself to look away, feeling the weight of someone else’s grief was too much for you in that moment. Glenn noticed it too. Without saying a word, he quickened his pace slightly, guiding your steps towards the safety of your tent. Every step felt like a battle, not just against physical exhaustion, but against the emotional tide threatening to sweep you away.

When you finally reached the entrance of the tent, Glenn lifted the flap for you to enter. He carefully helped you settle onto the makeshift bed. The air inside the tent was warmer, but it didn't calm the coldness you felt deep within. Alice, though calm, was still in your arms, her breathing soft, but your own unease prevented you from relaxing completely.

Glenn knelt in front of you, making sure you were comfortable before speaking. “You need to rest. It’s all over for tonight, you’re safe here.”

You nodded, though words wouldn’t come out. There was something in your expression that Glenn didn’t overlook. Despite being physically safe, your mind was still trapped in the horror of what you had witnessed. Your eyes still showed a deep fear, one you couldn’t hide.

Glenn remained still for a moment, watching you with concern before making a silent decision. He stood up and took a few steps toward the exit of the tent but stopped when he noticed your hands trembling slightly as you held onto Alice.

"I'm not leaving you alone," he said softly, almost tenderly, returning to your side. He sat on the ground beside you, his presence steady but discreet. "I’ll stay here with you, just in case you need something.”

You looked up at him, unable to express in words the relief you felt. You didn’t want to be alone, not after everything that had happened. Glenn, always attentive, seemed to understand that without you having to say anything. He stayed there, by your side, offering his company as an anchor in the middle of the storm that still raged inside you.

As the minutes passed, the rhythm of your breathing began to stabilize. Alice, finally surrendered to exhaustion, had fallen asleep in your arms.

"Did they find Merle?" you asked, your voice hoarse, forcing the words that seemed stuck in your throat.

Glenn, who had been staring at the canvas floor with his hands clasped, looked up at you, his face somber but calm. "No," he responded quietly, though the content of his words was unsettling. "Just… his hand.”

The impact of that answer hit you like a wave of cold, but all you managed to do was nod silently. You wanted to ask more, but you feared the answer. Instead, you followed up with the next question that had been lingering in your mind since you had seen him arrive at camp.

“Why did it take you so long to get back?” You looked at him with curiosity and concern, waiting for an explanation.

Glenn glanced at you for a moment before letting out a sigh. "They stole the truck," he explained, shrugging as if trying to downplay what he was saying. "And then a group of survivors kidnapped me.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you stared at him, trying to process his words. “Kidnapped you?” you repeated, incredulous. “And they were good people?”

Glenn, noticing the disbelief in your expression, smiled faintly. “Yeah,” he replied with a small shrug, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “They were good people.”

A confused laugh escaped your lips despite the tension of the moment. "People kidnap you, but they’re good people?" you asked, still incredulous but relieved. Glenn allowed himself a small smile too, one that brightened his face in a way that comforted you more than you dared admit.

God, you loved that smile.

“Well, yeah,” he responded with a soft laugh. “I guess it sounds strange, but after talking to them... they're not bad, just as desperate as we are.”

“Thank you, Glenn,” you whispered finally, feeling that the words were not enough to express what you truly felt. “For staying... for everything.”

He looked at you gently and nodded, saying nothing more. Your eyes started to grow heavier before you closed them. The tent’s flap opened, and Jacqui peeked in, looking at both of you for a moment before focusing on you. “Y/N, we need your help. It’s Jim.”

Carefully, you stood up from beside Glenn and walked toward where Jim was sitting, leaning against the side of the RV. Every step you took made you more aware of the disaster surrounding you: bodies scattered across the ground, some in advanced stages of decomposition, others just beginning to lose the life they had left.

Jim looked at you with dull eyes, his face marked by fever and exhaustion. His movements were slow, almost clumsy, as he lifted his shirt to show you the wound that condemned him. You crouched to examine it more closely, seeing the unmistakable marks of a bite on his side. The skin around the small wound was already starting to darken, a sign that the infection was spreading quickly.

You knew there was nothing you could do. It wasn’t possible to cut away the infected part, and even if you tried, it wouldn’t change his fate. There was no cure for what was consuming him. The silence between you was heavy, filled with a truth neither of you wanted to speak.

You slowly stood up, saying nothing, and approached the rest of the group that had already gathered in a circle. The tension in the air was palpable; everyone knew what was coming, but no one wanted to be the first to say it out loud.

"Let’s just put a pickaxe through his head and the dead girl's too, get it over with," Daryl said, his voice full of frustration and anger. You knew he wasn’t heartless; there was just no time for sentimentality in this new world. But his words cut like a knife through the silence, causing uncomfortable glances between the others.

Shane huffed, frustrated, taking a step forward, his eyes blazing with disbelief and irritation. "Is that what you’d want if you were in his place?" he asked, his voice sharp as a blade. His words seemed directed at both Daryl and the rest of the group.

Dixon didn’t flinch for a second, his gaze hard and full of conviction. "Yeah," he answered calmly. "And I’d thank you for it." The coldness in his tone only made the tensions in the group rise further. For him, there was no room for doubt when it came to survival.

Rick, still processing everything, searched your eyes. "What do you think, Y/N?" he asked, a mix of desperation and trust in your judgment in his voice, making everyone else turn their faces toward you.

You took a deep breath, crossing your arms over your chest as your lips pressed together, considering the few options. "There’s nothing I can do for him," you began, your voice measured yet firm. "We can’t cut off the infected area, and even if we did, we don’t have the proper medicine to treat him. I’ve seen what this virus does. If you think Jim is going to last more than two days, you’re fooling yourselves."

Rick lowered his head, nodding slowly as he stared at the ground. He knew you were right, but that didn’t make the decision any easier to make.

"I hated to say it... I never thought I’d agree with something like this, but I think Daryl is right," Dale spoke heavily, his gaze sad yet resigned.

"Dale, Jim is not a monster or a rabid dog!" Rick reprimanded, his voice laden with anguish.

"I’m not saying that," Dale replied, looking at the others with concern.

"He’s sick, and if we take that route, where do we draw the line?" Rick raised the question, visibly affected by the idea of having to end the life of one of their own.

"It’s obvious: zero tolerance for walkers," Daryl insisted, and everyone looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed. "Or in the case of potential ones."

"And what if we get him help?" the sheriff suggested. "I heard the CDC is working on a cure."

"So have I, and a lot of other things before everything went to hell. There were a lot of promises made before this," Shane’s tone was pessimistic as he spoke.

You sighed, feeling tired and lost in the conversation. After a moment of discussion, it was decided that they would try to get to the CDC in hopes of finding shelter and medical assistance for Jim. Meanwhile, the group took care of burning the corpses and arranging a small, proper burial for Amy.

As everyone packed their things to leave in the morning and prepared the vehicles, you decided to go with the others in the RV to keep an eye on Jim’s condition. Upon entering, you took a seat next to the bed where he lay, his body covered by a dense layer of sweat that revealed his fever was beginning to rise.

"You’ll be okay," you tried to offer some comfort, though you knew the words sounded empty. Carefully, you dampened a cloth in cool water and gently wiped it across his forehead, feeling how the heat of his skin burned beneath your fingers.

Jim could only nod before closing his eyes again. You leaned back in the chair, resting your arm on a small table beside the bed. Fatigue was starting to set in; you hadn’t slept since the night before. From a distance, you could hear Alice’s light laughter filtering through the curtains.

After a while, Jacqui appeared to take over, allowing you to rest for a moment. You thanked her for the intervention and reclined, though the stress of the situation kept your senses alert.

Eventually, after several setbacks, they arrived at the CDC. The sight that greeted them was nothing short of desolate. Hundreds of walkers and bodies lay strewn outside the facility, and the smell was nearly unbearable.

Quickly, you placed Alice in her carrier, making sure she was snug and comfortable. Then, you wrapped a light blanket around her, shielding her from the stench emanating from outside.

"What the hell...?" the words escaped your lips as you gazed at the place. Your hands instinctively tightened around the loaded weapon you carried with you.

"Listen up. Don’t split up and stay quiet," Rick ordered firmly as the group moved toward the facility. His words seemed to temporarily calm the latent panic in the air, though with each step you took, your body tensed further.

As you walked, you could see several bodies in an advanced state of decomposition. Birds feasted on the rotting flesh that remained, creating a macabre image that churned your stomach. The group began to move faster, avoiding glances at the decomposed bodies that lay as warnings of the fate that awaited them if they failed to find shelter.

Your eyes fixated on the enormous metal doors of the building when they finally stood before them, closed and showing no signs of activity. Was there even anyone inside?

"Nothing?" Shane asked, turning his head toward Rick with a look of distrust as he saw the sealed doors. Meanwhile, the others kept watch around, weapons ready in case a walker got too close.

"Should we go back?" you suggested, your eyes following Rick and Shane as they knocked insistently on the metal door, trying to attract the attention of anyone who might be inside.

"There has to be someone inside," Rick replied with conviction, still clinging to hope.

"Walkers," someone warned from behind, causing a wave of panic to wash over the group. Daryl reacted immediately, releasing an arrow that pierced the head of a nearby walker with precision.

The situation grew tenser as Shane and Rick argued over what to do next. As the walkers approached, the bullets began to fly, and the desperation in the air became palpable.

"The camera moved!" Rick suddenly exclaimed, stopping the steps of those who were already starting to retreat to the vehicles.

"It’s your imagination," some told him, trying to reason with him.

"It moved!" he insisted, refusing to back down. His desperation was palpable as he pounded on the metal doors again, calling to anyone who might be listening on the other side. "I know there’s someone in there; I know you’re listening to us! Please, we’re desperate; we have women and children, we have no food or fuel, we have nowhere to go! Please!" he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of the plea as Lori tried to push him away, moving him from the doors.

Your heart raced at the intensity of the moment. You stared intently at the metal doors, silently praying for a miracle, but silence persisted.

Just as you turned to follow the others, a metallic screech echoed in the air, and a blinding light erupted from inside the building, catching everyone’s attention and halting their march.

"Daryl, cover us," Shane quickly ordered as the group ventured in with their weapons raised.

"Is anyone in there?" one of the group members called, but the only response was the echo of their voices reverberating in the vast, seemingly empty space.

The sound of a weapon being loaded made everyone turn their heads sharply. A blonde man, shotgun in hand, was watching them from a safe distance. "Is anyone infected?" he asked seriously, keeping his gaze fixed on each of you.

“There was one, it didn’t make it here,” Rick replied, swallowing hard, keeping his weapon steady.

“What do you want?” the man asked, moving slowly closer, not lowering his guard.

“A chance,” Rick answered honestly, his voice reflecting the exhaustion and desperation everyone felt.

“That’s a lot to ask for these days,” the man replied, a slight gesture of skepticism in his demeanor.

“I know,” Rick admitted.

“You will undergo a blood test. That’s the price of admission,” the man announced after a quick glance at the entire group.

“We can do that,” Rick accepted, speaking for everyone.

After returning to the vehicles to gather their belongings, they followed Dr. Jenner to an elevator. Although it was tight, they all managed to fit in, with Glenn insisting on carrying your things so you could better manage Alice, who was starting to squirm in her carrier.

“Do doctors always go around armed like this?” Daryl asked, raising an eyebrow at seeing Dr. Jenner still holding his weapon.

“There were a lot of weapons lying around. I just familiarized myself with what was left,” Jenner replied with a calm smile. “But you all look harmless. Except you, Carl; I have to keep an eye on you,” he joked, playfully directing the comment at the boy in an attempt to ease the tension.

The group remained silent as the elevator descended, immersed in a heavy atmosphere. When it stopped, the doors opened to reveal a long hallway leading deeper into the CDC. Without saying a word, everyone began walking closely behind Dr. Jenner.

“Are we underground?” Carol asked, firmly holding her daughter to her side, her voice betraying some anxiety.

“Does it feel claustrophobic to you?” Jenner replied calmly, not turning to face her.

“A little,” Carol admitted, casting a glance around the narrow corridor.

“Try not to think about it,” Jenner suggested with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he raised his voice and gave an order: “Vi, turn on the lights in the room.”

Instantly, the lights came on, revealing a spacious room filled with computers and lab equipment. Murmurs of astonishment were inevitable as everyone surveyed their surroundings.

“Welcome to Zone 5,” Jenner announced, his tone not hiding a certain solemnity.

The surprise deepened when the doctor explained that he was the last one left in the facility. As he described “Vi” as an artificial intelligence assistant, he led them to a room with several chairs lined up and a desk in front of them. On the surface lay a couple of syringes and tubes of EDTA waiting. The time had come for the blood draw.

One by one, the group members took a seat for the procedure. When it was your turn with Alice, you approached cautiously, holding the little one tenderly.

“Please, be careful,” you warned Jenner, your voice firmer than you had intended. Your eyes fixated on the small needle he was holding, and although you trusted his skill, a mother’s anxiety never faded.

Jenner looked up, surprised by your intensity. “I will be,” he replied softly, a hint of respect in his gaze. His hand trembled slightly as he inserted the needle into Alice’s tiny arm, and she let out a sharp cry at the prick.

“Done,” he murmured, withdrawing the needle with the same care and applying a small bandage over the spot. Alice continued to cry, though more softly now, as you cradled her gently, trying to soothe her.

“It’s okay, it’s over,” you said softly, cradling her against your chest as her cries gradually subsided.

It had been a long time since you felt this sense of calm, one that seemed almost impossible in the world they now inhabited. Laughter echoed in the room, creating an unexpectedly warm and relaxed atmosphere as everyone gathered around the table, enjoying the dinner that Jenner had prepared for them.

You brought the glass of wine to your lips, savoring the deep, bitter flavors interwoven with a slight smoky note. You felt the warmth of the alcohol begin to relax you, blurring the tensions that had built up in your muscles. Occasionally, your hand brushed against Glenn’s, a subtle yet intimate gesture that was enough to bring a small spark of comfort amidst the uncertainty. His warm, slightly nervous fingers intertwined with yours for brief moments before releasing, as if the contact were too intense to prolong.

At the table, conversations flowed with an unusual lightness. The emotional fatigue from days of fear and exhaustion seemed to dissolve with each sip of wine and each shared laugh.

“In Italy, kids usually drink a little wine with their meals, and in France, it’s customary too,” Dale commented with a smile, pouring himself another glass while making the remark to Lori, who was watching Carl with a mix of concern and tenderness.

“Well, when Carl goes to France, he can have some,” Lori replied, throwing a sideways glance at her son, a gentle smile creeping onto her lips.

Rick, who had been silent until then, watched the interaction carefully before interjecting. “It won’t hurt him,” he said with a mix of softness and firmness, his voice laden with the intention to soothe Lori’s anxieties. “Come on,” he added, looking at her hesitantly, waiting for her approval.

Lori, after a brief moment of doubt, lifted her hand from Carl’s glass, giving the older man the go-ahead to pour a tiny amount of red wine into the boy’s cup. Carl accepted it with curiosity, but as soon as the liquid touched his palate, he made a clear grimace of disgust, prompting a new wave of laughter around the table.

“That’s the way to do it, champ,” Lori praised him, reclaiming the glass and passing it to her own drink while affectionately stroking her son’s hair.

“Better stick with the soda, buddy,” Shane joked, adding to the conversation with a conspiratorial smile.

However, attention quickly shifted when Daryl, in his usual direct and slightly mocking tone, abruptly interrupted. “Not you, Glenn,” he spat, drawing everyone’s gaze to the young man who, carefree, continued to enjoy a bottle of wine on his own.

“What?” Glenn replied, confused, raising an eyebrow and smiling absentmindedly. It was clear he was in a much more advanced state of intoxication than the others.

Daryl, enjoying the moment, watched him with a half-smile. “Keep drinking; I want to see how red your face gets,” he added, mischief in his tone.

The comment made the group laugh, but it was Carol who, with a playful laugh, made an observation that further fueled the atmosphere. “Then keep Y/N away from him; we don’t know if he’s turning red because of her or the alcohol.”

That sparked a collective burst of laughter that resonated through the room. Your cheeks immediately flushed, feeling the heat rise to your face as embarrassment enveloped you. You knew your expression wasn’t helping, and you could feel the blush spreading rapidly across your skin.

“She’s gone even redder,” Andrea pointed out amid laughter, while you tried to maintain your composure, though your own embarrassed smile betrayed your attempt at serenity.

“I think we haven’t properly thanked our host as he deserves,” Rick said, standing up and drawing everyone’s attention to him. He raised his glass, his eyes scanning the table before addressing Dr. Jenner with gratitude. “For your hospitality, and for giving us a safe place amidst all this.”

“It’s more than just our host,” T-Dog added, his tone a bit drawn out but sincere, raising his glass as well. A relaxed smile crossed his face as the words resonated in the room.

One by one, the others raised their glasses, following the toast and celebrating with a strange mix of joy and relief. Amidst laughter and conversations that began to fade into the drunkenness of the moment, you shifted your gaze to your lap, where Alice, curled up against you, was struggling to stay awake. Her little eyelids were slowly closing, and her head tilted further to one side, in a losing battle against sleep.

Tenderly, you adjusted her comfortably in your arms, making sure she was snug. You downed the last sip from your glass, the warm wine sliding down your throat, before carefully getting up, trying not to disturb the little one’s rest.

“Where are you going?” Lori asked, raising her voice to ensure you could hear her over the growing noise of conversations around the table.

“I have to put Alice to bed,” you replied in an equally loud tone, mimicking her volume so your answer wouldn’t get lost in the noise. You glanced at the little one in your arms, who now seemed completely asleep.

“Come on, stay a little longer, enjoy the night,” Andrea intervened with a broad smile, trying to persuade you to remain in the celebration a bit longer. “We don’t always have moments like this.”

You glanced briefly at the others, all lost in their own state of relaxation. While the idea of staying was tempting, a sense of responsibility made you shake your head gently. "Maybe later," you said with a smile, though the calmness in your voice made it clear that your priority at that moment was taking care of the little one in your arms.

"The rooms are over there; keep going straight, and you'll find the bathrooms," Jenner said, pointing down the hallway with a firm yet relaxed gesture. You nodded in thanks, silently bidding farewell before walking in the direction of the rooms. As you moved forward, the voices and laughter from the dining room gradually faded away, leaving behind a peace that, though fleeting, was deeply comforting amidst the constant tension.

Once in the room you had reserved for yourself and Alice, you decided to give the little one a quick shower. You carefully cleaned her up, ensuring she felt safe and comfortable. Afterwards, you gently tucked her into bed, her calm breathing indicating that she was already deeply asleep.

With Alice resting, you took your towel and headed to the empty showers, knowing it was one of the few moments you could allow yourself a breather. As you entered, the steam from the hot water filled the small space, and the sensation of relief was almost instantaneous. The warm water cascaded over your body, relaxing every tense muscle and washing away the dirt that seemed to have clung to your skin during days of exhaustion and stress.

You washed your hair meticulously, feeling the strands return to their soft and clean texture. As you scrubbed your skin, you noticed a fine layer of dirt coming off, as if each stroke of soap was taking away not only the grime but also a bit of the accumulated fatigue.

You turned off the shower but took a moment to enjoy the last drops of water slowly sliding down your skin. It was a small pleasure, a fleeting sensation of tranquility amidst the constant struggle. Finally, you wrapped your naked body in the towel, letting the warmth linger a little longer before dressing in a loose shirt and denim shorts. Your still-damp hair slightly soaked the fabric of your shirt as you headed back into the hallway.

[morea-alicia]

Day 6 of 100 Days of Smutty Dramione Drabbles

100, 100 word, smutty Dramione drabbles inspired by THIS prompt list.

WARNING !! MINORS DNI !! 18+ CONTENT !!

A/N: I found this prompt a little awkward. I think it's the sweetheart part. Maybe it doesn't fit Dramione? I don't know. Might start shaking things up a bit. Smut is so... repetitive...

Find the masterlist HERE

Day 6: "You’re so sweet for me, such a sweetheart."

The steady efforts of his broom-calloused fingers wrenched a painful growl from her throat. 

Again? It was… it was… Gods, what time was it? 

“Dra-co,” she moaned, but the hoarse crack in her voice betrayed her exhaustion, “...t-too mu-ch.”

“Just one more, for me?” But Hermione didn’t get a chance to respond, an involuntary groan escaping her lips just as her brown eyes fluttered shut.

The way he curled his fingers was absolutely sinful, and she could do nothing but sob at the overwhelming feeling of her impending, fourth? fifth? orgasm for the night.

”Hmm… so sweet for me,” he cood, “such a sweetheart.”

[fentrashcat]

May 15th- June 15th is Tourettes Awareness Month!

I want to try to do something for at least every other day to talk about Tourettes and my experience with it.

⚠️please be aware that each person's experience is different and I can only talk about my own personal experiences⚠️

For today I'm just going to talk about vocabulary, both medical and colloquially.

Gillies de la Tourette's Syndrome- also called Tourettes Syndrome, Tourette disorder, Tourette's disease, or TS- is a tic disorder characterized by the presence of both motor and vocal tics that last a year or longer and are onset before the age of 18.

Tic- which I occasionally call a glitch- is an involuntary sound or movement. They can be motor based (shrugging, head jerks, blinking, ect) or vocal (humming, saying words or phrases, clearing the throat). They can also vary in complexity, for example saying one word vs saying a full phrase.

Prompt- idk how widely used this one is but I personally use it so including it here- is the feeling you might get before a tic. My common tics have different prompt feelings so I can sometimes know what's coming. I don't always get a prompt, and they don't mean I can change what is about to happen, it's just kind of a warning.

Coprolalia- the involuntary use of obscene language. If you only know Tourettes from popular media, this is likely what you know it for. In reality this only affects about 10% of people with Tourette's, though I have seen estimates that go up to 30%.

Echolalia- involuntary repetition of words or phrases spoken by others. I also count mimicking noises under this but there may be a word for that I'm not aware of.

Copropraxia- involuntary obscene gestures

Echopraxia- involuntary repetition/mimicking of movements.

Tic attack- a sudden severe outburst of tics.

That's all I can think of at this moment but I'll try to update if I think of anymore. My asks are open if anyone has questions I will be happy to answer to the best of my ability 😊

Trigger- sets off a tic. Not all tics have triggers but several of mine do, and some of them are very odd, I'll probably talk about my strange triggers tomorrow lol.

Tic shopping- picking up a new tic from someone else who has tics.

[marveloustimestwo]

Hi! Could I request how (mcu) peter parker would react to a reader with echolalia? I do it because of my autism (tho obviously the reader doesn't have to be if you don't feel comfortable with it) and I could not stop saying that 'dance if you gay bruce' thing last week 💀

I literally do the same thing, directly because of my autism 💀 Didn't even know it had a label, tbh.

Warnings: Yandere themes, Reader is implied to have autism, and they have echolalia, which is the involuntary repetition of words or phrases spoken by someone else.

Peter would not be surprised or bothered by this in the slightest.

In the early stages of his obsession when he wanted to learn everything he could about you, he'd clock this particular thing in a second.

The hours he spends around you (with or without you knowing), just idly looking at you, listening to you, will have him catching on to your smallest quirks and habits.

One of those quirks is how you often repeat words or phrases that you hear from the people or things around you.

At first, he might not even have paid any mind to it. He might've even been used to it, having been around you so much that something so simple faded into the background.

As such, it might take you repeating something very obvious or someone else pointing out the habit for him to notice it was a thing.

But when he does realize it, Peter can't help but be very amused, feeling a rush of affection every time it happens.

The fact that it's so absentminded on your part makes it all the better.

He'll absolutely take note of what types of things you repeat the most often, such as repeated words, phrases, and/or memes.

Peter would be especially pleased to hear you repeat something he's said or even something you've heard Spiderman say through videos taken of him.

At times, you two might even get into a loop of repeating the same things to each other, until something or someone else catches your attention.

All in all, Peter finds this very fun and adorable, while also doing a bit of research on it

[calware]

OK so I have this problem that I've tried googling in the past and so far it has not turned up any results that I think match the problem. so here's my attempt at describing it is in case any of you recognize this at all. also i'm sorry if this is worded/explained really badly bc i just wrote it all out in one go

so about once a year I will have this problem where I'll wake up in the middle of the night, half asleep, and

1) I have these weird involuntary thoughts(?) where I have one specific thought or one specific series of thoughts that loop around my head really quickly, quicker than normal thoughts, and it's really repetitive and i keep thinking them over and over. it's not racing thoughts (even though I think racing is a very applicable adjective) because they aren't thoughts about something that makes me anxious, the topic is completely random. for example, the first time this happened, my brain was trying to list all of the trolls in homestuck in order(idk), but it wasn't actually the correct order or the correct names, it was more like a completely incoherent jumble (bc I was half asleep) it's like my brain was trying to list all these names and it was just completely incoherent and I couldn't stop it. It was really uncomfortable, almost to the point of being physically unbearable 

2) along with this and I'll also get this uncontrollable feeling in my legs that I have to move them (I think that this is restless legs because I will sometimes have that on on its own, but this specific time it's these two issues together (the involuntary thoughts and the restless legs))

Another time this happened I was thinking about splitting wood over and over very quickly and picturing it happening without being able to stop and with the urge to kick my legs. Again, it somehow feels quicker than normal thoughts. At the time I just wanted it to stop (both because of the physical/mental discomfort and bc i just wanted to sleep). if I got up from bed and woke myself up properly, like getting a drink of water, this would stop temporarily and resume once i got back into bed as I start to fall asleep again. so this only happens when I'm half asleep. 

this might sound a lot like OCD, but I REALLY don't think it's OCD because I don't have any other symptoms related to OCD and it only happens about once a year when i'm half asleep. it's almost like i'm in a weird uncontrollable half-dream state. DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT THIS IS i'm so curious

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Hi! My friend recommended your blog as a nice place for some research about Autism.

I've started to notice a few things and question if I could be autistic, but I wasn't able to find enough information about it while researching.

Do you have any info about how to identify autism in adults? It would help a lot 😊

Hi there,

I’ve found some resources. I’ll leave excerpts below. They are a bit long.

Common signs of autism in adults include:

* finding it hard to understand what others are thinking or feeling

* getting very anxious about social situations

* finding it hard to make friends or preferring to be on your own

* seeming blunt, rude or not interested in others without meaning to

* finding it hard to say how you feel

* taking things very literally – for example, you may not understand sarcasm or phrases like "break a leg"

* having the same routine every day and getting very anxious if it changes

Other signs of autism

You may also have other signs, like:

* not understanding social "rules", such as not talking over people

* avoiding eye contact

* getting too close to other people, or getting very upset if someone touches or gets too close to you

* noticing small details, patterns, smells or sounds that others do not

* having a very keen interest in certain subjects or activities

* liking to plan things carefully before doing them

Autism in women and men

Autism can sometimes be different in women and men.

Autistic women may:

* have learned to hide signs of autism to ‘fit in’ - by copying people who don’t have autism

* be quieter and hide their feelings

* appear to cope better with social situations

* show fewer signs of repetitive behaviours

This means it can be harder to tell you're autistic if you're a woman.

Common symptoms of autism in adults include:

* Difficulty interpreting what others are thinking or feeling

* Trouble interpreting facial expressions, body language, or social cues

* Difficulty regulating emotion

* Trouble keeping up a conversation

* Inflection that does not reflect feelings

* Difficulty maintaining the natural give-and-take of a conversation; prone to monologues on a favorite subject

* Tendency to engage in repetitive or routine behaviors

* Only participates in a restricted range of activities

* Strict consistency to daily routines; outbursts when changes occur

* Exhibiting strong, special interests

Autism spectrum disorder (ASD) is typically a life-long condition, though early diagnosis and treatment can make a tremendous difference.

Autism Symptoms in Adults at Home

Other peoples’ feelings baffle you. You have a collection of figurines on your desk that must be in the same order at all times. These, and other common manifestations of ASD, may be apparent in adults at home:

* Your family members lovingly refer to you as the “eccentric professor” of the family, even though you don’t work in academia.

* You’ve always wanted a best friend, but never found one.

* You often invent your own words and expressions to describe things.

* Even when you’re in a quiet place, like the library, you find yourself making involuntary noises like clearing your throat over and over.

* You follow the same schedule every day of the week, and don’t like unexpected events.

* Expressions like, “Curiosity killed the cat” or “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch” are confusing to you.

* You are always bumping into things and tripping over your own feet.

* In your leisure time, you prefer to play individual games and sports, like golf, where everyone works for themselves instead of working toward a common goal on a team.

Symptoms of ASD vary greatly from person to person based on the severity of the condition. These or similar manifestations of ASD may be apparent at work:

* When you’re having a conversation with your boss, you prefer to look at the wall, her shoes, or anywhere but directly into her eyes.

* Your co-workers say that you speak like a robot.

* Each item on your desk has a special place, and you don’t like when the cleaning company rearranges it to dust.

* You are really good at math, or software coding, but struggle to succeed in other areas.

* You talk to your co-workers the same way you talk with your family and friends.

* During meetings, you find yourself making involuntary noises, like clearing your throat over and over.

* When talking with your boss, you have difficulty telling if he is happy with your performance or mad at you.

In addition, autistic individuals may exhibit extraordinary talents in visual skills, music, math, and art. And roughly 40 percent of autistic individuals have average or above-average intelligence.

Some of the characteristics that adults with an autism diagnosis commonly report, include:

Communication

You may:

* Find joining in conversation difficult.

* Speak in a flat, monotone voice, or not speak.

* Have trouble relating to other people’s thoughts or emotions.

* Use repetitive language.

* Find it hard to read someone’s body language and emotions.

* Find that others don’t understand how you are feeling and say that “it is hard to know what you are thinking”.

* Dominate conversations and provide excessive information on the specific topics you are interested in.

* Find it easier to talk ‘at’ people, rather than engaging in a two-way conversation.

* Have trouble reading social cues.

* Find ‘small talk’ such as talking about the weather and what others are doing difficult.

* Take things literally. For example, if someone says ‘oh that’s a piece of cake’ or ‘you’re barking up the wrong tree’ you find it difficult to know what they mean.

* Be blunt in your assessment of people and things.

* Find it difficult to maintain eye contact when you are talking to someone.

* Have your own unique phrases and descriptive words.

* Find building and maintaining close friendships and relationships difficult.

* You may make faces that others find unusual.

* You may make gestures when speaking with people.

Behaviour

* You enjoy consistent routine and schedules and get upset or anxious should that routine or schedule be changed.

* You find it upsetting when something happens that you did not expect to happen.

* Have trouble regulating your emotional responses.

* Are bothered if your things are moved or rearranged by someone.

* Have a series of repetitive rituals or behaviours that you follow on a daily basis.

* You make noises in places where you are expected to be quiet.

* Preference for highly specific interests or hobbies that you spend a lot of time on.

* Have difficulty multi-tasking.

* Have a very strong reaction or no reaction at all to sensory stimuli, such as textures, sounds, smells and taste.

* Like operating solo – both at work and play.

I hope these sources help you. Thank you for the inbox. I hope you have a wonderful day/night. ♥️

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter II

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 4.7K

17 Telona

Kazi was a creature of routine.

She preferred tidiness and organization, as demonstrated by her clean house and minimalistic interior design. Everything had its place. And clutter was quickly alleviated. If it wasn’t useful, then it was donated.

After her father’s death, she became hyper-focused on intensive scheduling. The galaxy was chaotic and unpredictable. Routine guaranteed a sense of security and allowed her to feel in control. 

Early morning—the gray of nautical twilight just giving way to the pinks of sunrise—was her time. 

She preferred the quiet, the solitude. 

A swim in the lake down the hill, her strokes repetitive.

A brisk walk back to the house, the dewy climate of Eluca’s jungles and the chilled scent of an earthy breeze relaxing.

A quick shower to cleanse herself. 

A bowl of porridge decorated with chunks of lumina berries and a drizzle of honey. 

Breakfast completed, her solitude lasted an hour, soon interrupted by a sleepy Neyti and a busy Daria. The morning routine took a turn as Kazi focused on Neyti. Breakfast eaten, teeth brushed, school uniform donned. A short drive to the school and then onto work in Eluca’s capital city, Canopis. 

Daria, sometimes with the aid of Healer Natasha, retrieved Neyti from school in the afternoon. Kazi returned to the house in the late evening, ate dinner, and then started her analytical work for the rebel network, spending time with Neyti as the youngling completed her schoolwork or watched a film. Her day didn’t allow for unscheduled interruptions. 

So it had gone since their arrival on Eluca.

Hair still wet from her shower, Kazi stood at the kitchen counter slicing strips of a lumina berry. The berries—ovular shaped and larger than her hand—were a random buy at the marketplace, but when she realized Neyti enjoyed them, they became a staple in the household.

The dark purple fuzz of the shell tickled her palm. She placed the tip of her knife at the center of the berry, sliding it around until it fell into a nearly imperceptible crack. With a smug smile, she slid the knife down and—

The bookcase in the entryway swung open.

Kazi startled, her hand twitching and the knife jerking. It sliced open her palm. 

“Fuck,” she hissed. Setting aside both fruit and knife in favor of running her hand under the sink’s spout, she assessed the cut. 

Luckily, it was small and shallow, and it wouldn’t require stitches. And even if it did, Kazi knew herself well enough to admit she would ignore the problem indefinitely. She would have to be forced and drugged to get stitches. She shivered at the thought. 

It was her involuntary reaction that reminded her of the moving bookcase. Shoulders stiffening and stomach clenching, Kazi turned off the sink, pressed a cloth to her still-bleeding palm, and lifted her head. 

One of the clones, the one with the cybernetic eye—Commander Wolffe—stood on the opposite side of the bar. He was dressed in simple clothes: a white work shirt, brown trousers, and a dark belt. His hair—faded on the sides and longer on top—was slicked back with water. He must have taken a shower. At least the amenities in the basement still worked.

The commander scanned his surroundings, his eyes lingering on the dragon figurine on the bookcase. 

Scales polished a lightless black, as impenetrable as a black hole, the dragon was as long as Kazi’s hand. It was poised in the midst of flight, mirroring the flight pattern of the female dragon from her favorite constellation and legend: the Dancing Dragons. 

The sole difference between her carving and the female dragon was the color. Black versus silver-blue. Kazi’s dragon had been carved from a burnt tree in Ceaia’s most sacred land, the resting place of the last dragon. 

The figurine used to stand on her nightstand. Gifted by her father when she was five years old, per Traditionalist custom, the dragon was her guardian. Her protector. It was one of the few pieces of her old life she still kept. Symbolic of the little girl she used to be. The little girl she couldn’t entirely cut out. 

Kazi shook away the memory and refocused on the clone.

Silence expanded between them, tense and heavy. Tightly wrung with mutual observation and calculation both she and Commander Wolffe were partaking in as they eyed one another. 

In the spirit of cohabitation—forced cohabitation—Kazi cleared her throat. The man across the counter stilled. Except she didn’t have anything to say to him. Maybe a morning greeting would suffice.

But she didn’t think she owed him that. He was in her house interrupting her morning routine, after all. 

“My sister and Neyti will be down sometime soon to eat breakfast,” Kazi informed him. Setting aside the now bloodied rag, she returned to the lumina berry. The shell split open with ease. “Neyti and I leave at 07:30. Daria typically spends the day in town, so you’ll have the house to yourselves until 16:45, or 17:00.” And because her nerves were still rattled by his presence, and because she couldn’t help herself, she added, “Be sure to tidy up after yourselves up here. We prefer cleanliness.”

With that, she walked around the bar, keeping close to the cool metal to avoid nearing the commander, and approached the couch and the flatscreen. A flip of a switch and the flatscreen displayed the local news channel. 

“The problem of terrorists attacking our workplaces, our places of trade, our homes cannot be taken lightly,” a female voice relayed from the screen. Kazi pursed her lips as she returned to the kitchen. “I am dedicated to protecting the people in Veridian Sector, and by extension, the people of our Empire.”

The voice belonged to Moff Harpy of Veridian Sector. A kindly appearance hid the woman’s vindictive nature. Supporting Imperial nationalization of local businesses, Moff Harpy earned herself a negative reputation among Eluca’s locals. She was greedy and willing to funnel money from obsolete planets, like Eluca, into the industrial, money-making planets of Veridian Sector. 

Since the end of the war, Veridian Sector had grown into an important military stronghold. Its location along a prominent hyperspace route and its general submission to Imperial whims made it ideal for Imperial military and security operations. And, as such, most of its planets hosted new military bases. To aid the Empire in its conquest of the ‘uncivilized and rebellious’ Outer Rim.

“Has terrorism been a problem here?”

The question caught her off guard and Kazi looked up from the porridge she was heating on the stove. The commander sat in a stool at the bar. He was reading through a file on his datapad and when he noticed her attention, he shut it off. 

“I wouldn’t call it terrorism,” she said, meeting his gaze. His expression was unreadable, hard and seemingly apathetic. Bored, yet hinting intrigue.

The expressionless mask shifted as he rolled his eyes. “Unlawful use of violence against civilians is terrorism.”

“That may be so”—she stirred her porridge—“but what about the unlawful use of violence by the government against civilians. Is that considered terrorism as well?” Her question was rhetorical so she pressed on. “There have been small pockets of rebellion in this sector, just as there have been in most Outer Rim sectors ever since the Empire arrived.”

They lapsed into silence. 

Kazi listened to the updates from the HoloNet, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to watch the screen whenever the news was appallingly glamoured in propaganda. The reporters shifted their attention back to the question of “terrorism” and the recent imprisonment of terrorists on the planet Geonosis.  

“These rebels”—Commander Wolffe said the word as if it offended him—“are idiots if they think they can take on the Empire.”

Kazi frowned at the condescension in his tone. She may have held similar cynical beliefs—rebellion against the omnipotent Empire was inevitably futile and would likely lead to mass deaths across the galaxy—but she didn’t care for the former commander’s ridicule. 

There were good people out there. People like Lore and Sparks, and even Fehr, who were dedicated to helping others: food relief, chain code provisions, displaced persons’ relocation. Kazi may have lacked the optimism in hoping for the Empire’s end. But she did believe in helping others.

“They’re people who believe in something bigger and better.” She noted the barely masked scorn in the commander’s gaze while he listened to her. “I don’t see why their personal decisions matter so much to you.”

“They don’t.” He tapped two fingers against the bar. 

Even sitting his stature and size were imposing. Intimidating. He could easily overpower her if he wanted, and that thought unnerved her. 

“They have to realize fighting against the Empire is a waste of resources,” Commander Wolffe interrupted the silence once more. Kazi gripped her spoon harder. “And for what? To restore the Republic? It’s an unattainable goal.”

“Maybe to you.”

“Don’t tell me you believe their agenda.” 

Her hesitation to answer earned her a smug look from the commander. It put her on the defensive.

“What about you?” she demanded. “You’re trying to rescue current soldiers of the Empire. That’s an incredibly futile mission.” The commander stiffened and she silently congratulated herself for hitting a nerve. “The rebels may be optimistic, but they’re actually doing something instead of hiding.”

“The rebels’ actions aren’t doing anything helpful. You can argue their actions are working to the contrary. Blowing up government buildings with innocent civilians in them will anger the Empire. It’ll react harsher. And crueler.”

“Those were guerrillas. The rebel network isn’t—”

“What has your network done? Anything of value?”

“The Empire has been in control for little more than a year.” Defensiveness coiled in her muscles and it took effort to keep her tone composed. “Rebellion takes time. Time to plan. To organize. To strategize. The network is gathering resources and intel in order to prepare for well-timed targets. I would expect a commander to know that.”

“Not everyone has time.” Commander Wolffe leaned forward. “My brothers and I are doing something. We’re rescuing soldiers. Getting them out and somewhere safe. Right now. The rebel groups—network, Partisan Front, whatever you want to call them—haven’t done anything beneficial.”

“I find it hypocritical that you’re scorning the rebels while working with them.”

He scoffed. “We’re not working together.”

Kazi frowned. It was her understanding that the three commanders were working with the network. Now that she thought about it, though, Fehr never mentioned a network-clone collaboration. The older woman merely stated she knew the men through a mutual contact. 

Suspicion spiked in her chest, like a blowfish the moment it sensed danger. Kazi knew nothing about these clones—their mission could be a lie, a façade for something else.  

“We have a similar dislike of the Empire,” Commander Wolffe said, his eyes narrowing at her blatant stare. “That’s it. I won’t waste my time on unrealistic ideologies and impractical strategies that will fail.”

“The rebels’ ideology may be flawed, but it’s hope that dictates their actions. Hope that the galaxy can be better.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “People need that hope—they need something to believe in—because without it, they won’t be invested in the movement.”

He cocked his head to the side, mistrust palpable in his quick assessment of her body. “What are you doing for the movement?” 

“I collect data and analyze it.”

“What type of data?”

“Data concerning Veridian Sector.”

Commander Wolffe sat back in his seat, a satisfied expression on his face. “Your data isn’t significant.”

Kazi gritted her teeth. The data she stole from her government job was minimal, and it wasn’t significant to the galaxy at large. However, it kept the network informed of Imperial movements within the Sector, as well as the occasional intelligence that helped precarious situations elsewhere. 

Her intel analyses served one purpose: to warn the network of alarming Imperial decisions. 

Kazi didn’t appreciate the smug look on the commander’s face, and she didn’t appreciate his blatant dismissal of the rebel network’s work—dismissal of her work—even if she agreed with him.

“It’s better to analyze insignificant data than to abet the Empire. Remind me, you were a soldier, right?” She smiled at the clench in his jaw. “We have people like you to thank for standing by and allowing the Empire to overthrow the Republic.”

The commander straightened in his seat, lips pressing in a firm line. Kazi maintained eye contact. But she could feel the tension emanating from him. Tension and rage. 

The silence lasted a full minute before Commander Wolffe tapped his fingers against the bar, rolling his shoulders back. 

“ ‘Course a natborn would assume I supported the rise of the Empire.” His voice carried an overtone of indifference. It was belied by the rigidity of his posture. “Arrogant and judgmental, huh.”

“Is it really judgmental if it’s based on fact?”

“And what evidence do you have to support your statement?”

“Did you or did you not serve the Empire as it came to power?”

The commander crossed his arms over his chest. “You said you already knew.”

Kazi regarded him for a few seconds. He had a point—she had made her judgment and thought herself correct without the evidence to support or prove it. It irked her that he was technically right. The taunting quirk of his mouth irked her even further. 

“I may have judged you, but I am right.” Kazi turned off the stove and removed her porridge, allowing it to cool. “The clones turned against the Republic and now serve the Empire. You served the Empire, so your criticism of the rebellion is moot.”

Commander Wolffe scoffed. “I’m not allowed to criticize ineffective strategy because of my past?”

“You’re not criticizing ineffective strategy. You’re criticizing the rebellion’s existence.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He fisted a hand atop the counter. “The rebellion is another form of authority. Similar to the Empire. It’s exerting what it believes is the ideal way of governance.”

It was her turn to scoff. “The rebellion is fighting to free people from oppressive authority. They’re not exerting their own beliefs on others.”

“What happens if the rebellion defeats the Empire? What’s stopping them from abusing their power?”

“The rebellion’s leaders won’t abuse their power—”

“You don’t know that.”

“In that case, you shouldn’t trust any form of authority or governance.” At Commander Wolffe’s casual shrug, Kazi rolled her eyes. “Your cynicism is unreasonable—”

“I have every reason to not trust any form of governance.”

“I never said you didn’t—”

“You were saying my behavior was unreasonable.” 

Kazi straightened at the accusation in his tone. “You clearly have a problem with me—” 

“And you’ve been the picture of hospitality.”

“As I was saying”—her voice sharpened—“you have a problem with me, so tell me what it is.”

The commander lounged back in the stool. His features were tight with wariness, his gaze cold and harsh. “What does your network want from us?”

The question was so unexpected Kazi could only blink at him. 

“The network wants many things,” she said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know what the network wants from you, or if they even want something.” She held his gaze. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescue-and-relocate.” The commander worked his jaw, his eyes never leaving hers. “Why was this house chosen?”

At his flippant tone, Kazi tensed. “Is it not up to your standards?”

“I’m trying to figure out why the network chose this location when you clearly don’t want us here.” He gave her a bored look. “Planning on turning us in to the Empire?”

“Why did you accept the location when you clearly don’t trust the network?” 

He refused to answer, his gaze unflinching. 

Deeming the conversation concluded, Kazi returned to her porridge. She spooned a lump but hesitated, sneaking a sidelong glance in the commander’s direction. Eating in front of a stranger—eating in front of people, in general—was something she avoided, so she turned her back to him. Her small bite was cold and bland. She forced herself to swallow. 

Uncertainty gnawed at her mind and apprehension knotted her muscles. The commander’s intrusion left her feeling off-kilter. Everything was outside her control.   

Her porridge was no longer warm. She lost precious minutes of solitude. Her palm ached from the coagulating blood. The floors were dirty.

Kazi bit her tongue. Crumbs dotted the hardwood and it was clear her sister hadn’t vacuumed, even though she said she would.

Gripping her spoon harder, she tried to steady her breathing. She would vacuum when she returned to the house tonight. It wasn’t a big deal.

But her sister’s lack of responsibility vexed her, and her environment was unclean, and now three more people would be using the kitchen. Excluding however many soldiers the clone commanders brought here. 

The reality of the situation struck her. Soldiers would be living here. Soldiers she didn’t know. Male soldiers who could be a danger to Neyti or Daria. 

Heart beating too fast, Kazi forced herself to take another bite of porridge. It was too cold. She struggled to swallow it. 

Panic mounted inside of her. She set aside the bowl and moved on to preparing Neyti’s lunch. 

Minutes later, with a well-balanced meal paired with a tasty slice of pie she baked earlier in the week, Kazi stacked the food containers into a portable lunch bag. Snagging a pen and flimsi pad from a drawer, she wrote a quick note. 

The moons will be full tonight. We can look at them.

The daily notes were simple. She didn’t know if Neyti read them, but she wanted the little girl to know she wasn’t alone. Even if she was distant and they didn’t talk—

A sharp intake of breath drew her attention and Kazi looked up. 

In hindsight, she reacted too slowly. 

The situation was unusual—players on a gameboard interacting in a dimension they weren’t supposed to—and so her reaction was delayed, allowing the situation to devolve. 

A sleepy Neyti stood at the bottom of the stairs, adorably rumpled in overlarge pajamas and bunny-shaped slippers. Black hair knotted, her mouth hung open. 

Kazi’s first thought concerned a morning greeting. She never knew how to interact with Neyti, and she always overthought what to say. 

Good morning felt too formal and insincere. 

How did you sleep? would go unanswered since Neyti refused to speak.

Today, the greeting debate didn’t matter. 

Neyti stared at Commander Wolffe with wide eyes, and the commander stared back, perturbed. 

The small child gulped. She mouthed a word, something that looked like “No.”

Confused, Kazi watched Neyti launch herself at the now-standing commander. Tiny fists pummeled the commander’s thighs and stomach, and it was so odd that Kazi still hesitated.

An annoyed grunt from the commander snapped her into action and Kazi lurched around the bar, yanking Neyti into her body. The little girl strained against her arms, gasping. 

“Neyti,” Kazi scolded gently, turning the girl around. “Stop—stop.”

Neyti was shaking, large gray eyes welling with tears, nose sniffling. She seemed to be fighting the tears—her tawny skin growing blotchy and shoulders curving inwards. Pitiful hiccups emanated from her chest and she kept gulping, as if she could swallow back the emotions.

The sight of the small child trying to control her emotions made Kazi tense. 

It was like looking through a window into her childhood. Witnessing the moments she hid in her room, breathing erratic and body shuddering as she dug her fingernails into her thighs and ordered herself not to cry. Pinching herself to feel real pain rather than the uncontrollable feelings pounding in her chest like fists trying to claw their way free.

“Neyti,” Kazi whispered hoarsely. 

Neyti burst into a stifled sob and pressed her hands to her face, trying to hide the tears wetting her cheeks. Small, muffled cries shook her shoulders. 

From the corner of Kazi’s eye, Commander Wolffe rubbed the back of his neck, his consternated gaze trained on the crying girl. He took a step forward, brows knitted together. 

Deciding it best to create space, Kazi scooped Neyti into her arms and moved upstairs to the safe confines of the little girl’s room. Once the door was closed, she set Neyti on the edge of the bed. 

The bed’s quilt was a mosaic depiction of blue and white waves. She thought it would be a pleasant reminder of Ceaia; a reminder of home for the child who lost everything. Small stuffed animals—a spotted jaguar, a blue bird of prey, and a pink dolphin (all natives to Eluca)—perched across Neyti’s stacked pillows. 

Sitting cross-legged, Neyti hid her face in her hands. Her sobs had quieted into wet hiccups; she still trembled. 

Kazi reached a hand forward—tentative, slow—but she hesitated. She worked hard to respect Neyti’s space, understanding how disorienting unwanted touch could be, and she didn’t want to force it. 

Instead, she grabbed the spotted jaguar and gently placed it in Neyti’s lap. A hope the stuffed animal could provide a comfort she couldn’t. Neyti hugged the animal to her chest.

Uncertain what to do now, Kazi scanned the girl’s bedroom.

A brown, wooden desk leaned against the left wall. Laid across its chair was Neyti’s school uniform, creaseless and clean.

Four of the desk’s six shelves were barren. One shelf carried extra school supplies and the second shelf housed a small succulent Daria gifted Neyti a few weeks ago. Bulbous, white dots splattered the red flower, like sheep grazing in a field of blood. Vibrant green oddly shaped leaves sloped the perimeter of the pot. The dirt looked freshly watered.

A quiet cough drew her attention. Wide eyes blinked at her. Abashed, Neyti ducked her chin to her chest, hastily wiping at her cheeks.

Kazi bit the inside of her cheek, hating herself for Neyti’s clear embarrassment. She needed to do better—be better—for the youngling. Shoving aside her self-deprecating thoughts, she grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the nightstand and offered one to Neyti. The girl accepted it and rubbed away her tears. 

“Did the man downstairs scare you?” Kazi asked gently.

Neyti froze, her shoulders curving inwards.

“It’s okay if you were scared,” she said. Neyti’s lower lip trembled and Kazi mentally berated herself. Berated herself for putting Neyti in such an awful situation. “It’s scary to see people you don’t know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him.” She paused. “Did he remind you of what happened to your mom?” 

The little girl sniffled and looked down at the bed. Her fingers played with the tissue, folding it into crisp lines.

Kazi massaged her temple. She should have known Neyti would react this way. She should have been prepared. She should have told Commander Wolffe to leave so that she could speak with Neyti.

It was her fault Neyti was scared and crying. She had failed. Failed spectacularly.

Defeat wrapped an unfriendly arm around her; she gritted her teeth.

“That man downstairs isn’t going to hurt you, okay?” She searched Neyti’s frowning face. “He’s a…good guy. And he and a few others like him are going to live with us for a while. Okay?”

Neyti tilted her head to the side, curiosity awakened.

Kazi nudged a bunny slipper with her foot. “You’re safe here. You’re safe with me and Daria. Okay?”

Still fiddling with the tissue, Neyti considered her. For a six-year-old, she practiced a shrewdness most adults lacked, her expression thoughtful, perceptive eyes wandering from the door to her face. Kazi kept her features open and kind, hoping Neyti could see the truth in her gaze. The promise. Finally, Neyti nodded. 

Loosing a quiet breath of relief, Kazi straightened. She hesitated for a moment and then extended her hand. “Are you ready for breakfast?”

Neyti appraised her hand. After a few seconds, she patted it.  

Slightly bemused, Kazi decided it was progress and made her way to the door. 

Correcting one of the lopsided ears on her bunny slipper so that both were proportionally angled, Neyti stumbled from her bed, tossed away her tissue, and followed Kazi back downstairs. 

Her hope to ease Neyti into a cohabitated space with the clones—starting small with just Commander Wolffe—was ruined by the presence of the other two clones. 

The three clones stood close together, countenances serious and voices low in discussion. 

Muscles stiffened along her back and Kazi pursed her lips. So much for an easy introduction.

Lifting her chin, she strode into the kitchen. The clones’ conversation faltered. Three sets of eyes assessed her and then lowered to Neyti who stood on the final step of the staircase, one hand curled around the banister while her gaze bounced from one clone to the next. Her cheeks started to darken; her mouth pressed into a thin line. 

Kazi cleared her throat—an attempt to distract the clones from Neyti—and grabbed her bloodied rag, stuffing it in her back pocket to hide it from Neyti.

“I want to apologize for what happened,” she said, meeting Commander Wolffe’s gaze. “I hadn’t told her about your arrival and you…” Scared her.

A muscle flexed in his jaw. 

“…startled her,” she finished.

Soft footsteps padded to the corner of the bar. Kazi gave Neyti an encouraging nod. Bunny ears bobbing, Neyti stepped close to her side, her eyes darting from Kazi to the clones. A vacillated movement waiting for someone to act.

Commander Cody moved first, patting one of the bar’s stools. A small smile lifted his lips, and in a kindly voice he asked, “Do you want to sit here?”

An adorable glare darkened Neyti’s features. With a suspicious glower aimed at the commander, she wandered farther into the kitchen, deliberately ignoring the three males. 

The clones shared dubious looks. 

While Neyti grabbed a fork from a squeaking drawer, Kazi opened a lopsided cabinet to retrieve a plate, wincing at the cabinet’s poor appearance. The house boasted a multitude of loose or broken oddities. She wanted to hire someone to fix the basic issues but she kept putting it off. 

Still glowering, Neyti edged around the bar, keeping ample distance between her and the males, and took a seat at the kitchen table. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and berry slices filled her plate. She took slow bites as she eyed the clones.  

Expecting more interrogation from the now-gathered commanders, Kazi faced them. Commander Wolffe was staring at her, arms folded across his chest. 

“You have a kid.”

“Yes.” She studied him, trying to decipher his inscrutable expression. It was futile. When the three clones didn’t question her further on Neyti’s existence, she changed topics. “I registered a flight plan for you. Your ship is now a food-export carrier.”

Registering the flight plan under her name left her annoyed and unsettled. But Fehr requested it, and she couldn’t refuse. She only hoped nothing would come of it. 

Commander Fox leaned against the bar. “Fehr mentioned you’re an analyst.”

It wasn’t a question so Kazi didn’t bother confirming. Instead, she observed the severe glare Commander Wolffe threw Commander Fox. A glare full of warning.

Either ignorant of Commander Wolffe’s baleful stare or electing to ignore him, Commander Fox continued. “We have intel that needs to be analyzed—”

“No.” The word was low and controlled, and though Commander Wolffe appeared apathetic, the rigid lines in his shoulders and jaw spoke otherwise.

The two commanders stared one another down. Their postures were stiff and eyes narrowed as they engaged in a silent argument Kazi couldn’t parse. Commander Cody looked between them. He released an aggrieved sigh, shaking his head. 

Deciding she had no interest in whatever the clones wanted, Kazi joined Neyti at the table. 

While Neyti finished her breakfast, Kazi considered her tasks for the day, making a mental note to pick up more lumina berries from the Marketplace. Her thoughts were jittery, though, and her attention returned to analyzing Commander Wolffe. He hadn’t moved, his stance defensive, face guarded.

Except, this time, his expression wasn’t so unreadable. 

He was scrutinizing her. Studying her in a way that made the hairs on the back of her neck curl. 

There was something in his gaze that left her discomfited. Like she was a ball of yarn, knotted and entangled, yet he was assured in his abilities to pick her apart. To untangle her and peer inside at all she kept carefully locked away and hidden. 

But she knew herself, and she knew he would never succeed. 

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | A Muse

A/N: I love the reluctant father trope. It's one of my favorites. But I’ve also come to the unremarkable realization that readers readily forgive male characters for their parenting mistakes, but when it comes to a woman, she’s expected to be a good parent. She’s expected to have a motherly “instinct”, and readers, and society in general, aren’t forgiving of these female characters when they mess up.

This is my take on the reluctant father trope. Kazi will make mistakes when it comes to Neyti’s care. She will majorly fuck up. She is human, she is not infallible, and she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Parenting is a learning experience, regardless of gender. Her struggles are a main part of this story. 

[evadnesworld]

Your Name. (Or more like their name?)

an: saw this quote on this youtube answering tmi questions and it inspired me

pairing: zayne x reader, xavier x reader, rafayel x reader

cw: suggestive in xaviers, no proofreading, wrote this while being very tired, got bored halfway, ooc.

“Remember that a person's name is to that person the sweetest and most important sound in any language." - Dole Carnegie

Zayne

Oh, how he wished you could view yourself through his eyes; he knew that if you did, then your breath would be taken away from the sheer adoration, and loyalty he felt for you. In his eyes your beauty could not be described with words, for even the words of poets would fall short. Your eyes, they held the stars, no not even. The stars would shy away, believing their beauty to be inferior to your magnificence. They would dim themselves for your light was too bright for them to handle. He believed that sculptors and artists across the world would make you their muse, your body perfection with every dip and curve, with every blemish and inperfection- in his eyes everything about you was just- you.

Thats how he'd describe it, he just loved you.

Your soul, your personality, your eyes, ears, hair, everything! You truly ensnared him, without knowing it, you had him wrapped tightly around your finger. Honestly, if he didnt build up self control during his academic venture, then he'd definietly look a fool since he would shamelessly listen to your every beck and whim. I mean who wouldn,t look at you!

But a lot of the times (some would say more often than not) he did indeed listen to you. Adoring the nicknames you gave him even under his teasing and brooding guise when you spoke to him. But there was one other thing he adored even more than just your usual chatting session, and that one thing would be- his name.

Okay, that does sound a bit arrogant, I mean- who would admit that they like hearing their name being said? He was very aware of how it would have come off like, so he kept it to himself in fear of you bing a bit put off by it. But, the eyes dont lie. (and the actions dont either.)

To say you loved teasing him was an understatement, youd try to find anything to get him even a bit riled up, even if it was something small like switching his beloved tea flavors with some bitter revolting tastes-it was never too small. You were quite observant too,you wre well versed in the art of Zaynes monotone expression, a master even!

And when you discovered his reaction when you would call his name out instead of those wild or romantic nicknames you decided to bestow him with, you decided that you would not let that chance to tease him slip away.

"Zayne." You whispered out, your voice laced with a sweeter tone than usual. You eyed him from the couch which you currently sat on, seeing him stiffen ever so slightly as he read a few articles right next to you. The two of you enjoying the silence and were more than satisfied to just bask in each others presence. But now you decided that the silence would be filled with various teasing words.

"Zayne." You repeated once again resembling the constant mocks of a bird who just learned how to cuss. He looked at you, his mouth ever so slightly agape, his eyes dilated, and his eyes a bit more open than usual. If anyone saw this, they wouldn't think anything of his expression, but they weren't you- they weren't as close to him as you were.

He sucked in a breath, "Yes my love?" he inquired, his voice steadied from its unusual wavering.

"Zayne," you repeated once again before deciding to bring up some random topic to cover your abnormal repetition of his name. "Why is it that when you're in love with someone and you see them, your pupils dilate?" looking up at him to meet his gaze, you hoped your nonchalant attitude and tone wouldn't arouse any suspicion from him.

clearing his throat, he seemed to not catch on yet. "It's because your brain releases dopamine and oxytocin, which triggers that involuntary response." He elaborated a bit more on it, you made sure to keep your eyes on him.

"Oh, that's interesting, right Zayne?" With the amount of times you had repeated his name, people would question whether you were a living human being or a broken record player, doomed to play the same lyric again and again.

Oh you would truly be the death of him.

But you weren't too careful this time, batting your lashes at him with a teasing smile. He chuckled before he leaned in, trying to match your (freak) teasing. "Yes, [name]?" He asked, mimcking your previous actions and whispering, words sounding like honey. His voice husky, and his breath tickling your ear.

Curse this guy, he was gonna be the death of you.

"Is there anything you need, [name]?" He was definitely worse than a parrot repeating what foul language their owner taught them because they at least copied their tone too, but he decided to take it up a notch by making his tone deep, husky, and just way too hot for you to handle.

He took your hands and intertwined them with his, his smile teasing. Two could play that game, and it was a game he made sure to win. He saw your flushed expression and your faint pout. He chuckled, patting your head once more, "Are you mad at me, [name]?"

He was insufferable- the stoic, patient, loving kind of insufferable.

And he would vaguely bring this up often, not making it obvious but you both knew what he meant every time he decided to draw out your name. Making sure to use it in more than just day to day instances.

Rafayel

"Do you have a sudden obsession with my name? I know its a pretty name, everything about me is pretty, unlike those fat fish from the pond." he crossed his arm, his gaze eyeing you up and down relentlessly. If it weren't for your constant teasing and his slight pout, you'd think he was checking you out.

You laughed, "If you're aware that it's a gorgeous name then why won't you let me say it however many times I want to?" You furrowed your brows in a playful manner, mimicking his pose as you also crossed your arms, forcing that adorable slight pout of his.

He grasped dramatically, "Not only are you repeating my name like some sort of chant, but now you're mocking me? I may be a fish, but i'm no dumb fish." Now, his dramatic gestures worsened as he turned away from you with a loud huff.

Plus, the fact that you were laughing at him like there was no tomorrow was not helping your cause. You smiled as you poked his shoulder from behind, an attempt to get his attention- a failed attempt may I add. His frequent looking back to see if you were there did not go unnoticed.

"Raf, I wasn't mocking you, I just really like saying your name." Grinning, you gave him a kiss on his shoulder. That would surely warrant a reaction from him, and that it did. "Glub, glub, glub. I'm just a fishy, I don't understand these dumb human gestures and weird language." You both rolled your eyes.

"Rafayelllll," you drawled out his name once again, this time he turned to look at you. I mean how could he not? Not when you were saying his name like that, and even if your flirty tone wasn't on purpose he'd still turn around! Your voice was too beautiful for him too handle, he was like your cat, if you told him to sit then he probably wouldn't sit immediately but he would at some point. Or maybe thats a bad analogy, dont cats usually eat fish?

You patted him on his head, a gesture he would not dare lean away from, melting into your warm and loving hold.

If being able to hear your voice, his name falling from your lips, and just being able to see you meant him having to sacrifice something of his then so be it. For he'd give you his heart if he could.

How could a painted handle losing his favorite muse afterall?

Xavier

Now, unlike the other two who would shy away at your gesture, Xavier would do anything but that.

Say his name again and again, I dare you. But be warned, if you do then theres no getting rid of him.

He's a clingy guy, cat form or not, he just always wants to be by you. It's not something that can be helped, I mean who wouldn't want to be next to someone as dazzling as you? He sure wanted to.

So when you decided to repeat his name like some sort of mantra, to say he instantly stuck to your side would be an understatement- and also a lie. But thats because he was already by your side. His hands would snake around your waist, his head laying on your shoulder as his warm breath tickled your shoulder. There was never gonna be a different outcome than this, he loved you too much.

He loved your voice, your hands, your eyes, your everything.

So haring his name being said time and time again was truly a treat, "Xavier,", "Xavier!", "Xavier?" Oh, it sounded like a lullaby, if that was what he wok up to everyday, then wiping his smile off of his face would prove arduous.

"Xavier, I'm gonna die here!" You patted his back, his body was currently draped over yours after you decided to say his name like there was no tomorrow. I mean, you usually gave him a cute nickname, reserving his name for a more intimate moment. And whenever his name was said during said moment, it would just make something click.

So tonight, was no obviously not gonna be different, your hands were clasped with his. You were under him, his hair draping over you, tickling your everything. Your face was hot, and you could feel his smirk against your skin. His touch was prickly, it sparked warmth all across your body, it was too intoxicating. it was something you wouldnever get tired of.

"Would you care to repeat that once more for me? It sounded really nice being said by you." He was surpisingly straightforward, as he usually beat around the bush or just never said anything. You really just had that effect on him at the moment, so you repeated it once more.

Maybe you shouldn't have, but thats what made you wind up in this spot.

Your hands pinned to the bed, his legs between yours, the room felt hot, fuzzy. The air felt prickly against your bare skin as you heard the words spew out of his mouth once more,

"Can you say it once more for me, please?"

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[kanene-yaaay]

The Shine in My Eyes (Can Someone Turn Off The Lights?)

Kanene’s notes: Heya heyaaa! I received that request AGES ago and thank you very much for your patience, bean! I hope you like the story, even tho I strayed from the original prompt.

I didn’t proofread it because I really wanted to post it as soon as I could sdfghjjhgfd so maybe some parts are confusing or repetitive, pls just hmu if that is the case ^.^)

Warnings: Light angst and hurt/comfort. Light and rough tickles. Ticklish!Reader and Ler!Moon. Around 4.000 words. Can be platonic or romantic. Sun is mentioned.

[~*~]

“Sleep?” The raspy voice questioned, so quiet that you would almost believe that it was part of your imagination if it wasn’t the amount of times you heard that same question in the last months. It spiked a warm feeling on your chest.

You would almost smile if it wasn’t the mild headache taking over your entire brain. 

“No.”

Cold, metallic hands touched your elbow, leading to an involuntary flinch that quickly disappeared when your mind catched up to whom the hand was. Moon continued, traveling his hands upwards your arm with careful, light and slow touches, telegraphing his movements enough that you could perfectly picture his form slouched next to you on the couch, head tilted, attentive eyes watching your body language and scans looking for signals of distress. It was good that you didn’t even need to open your own eyes to see that, knowing pretty well that doing so would only aggravate your pain.

Frustration ran hot on your throat, making you clench your jaw in response. Your eyes itched, still aching after hours staring at the computer’s screen after an entire morning of going out to do chores and shopping. There was an uncomfortable pressure on the back of your head. Yesterday it all wasn’t good either. This sucked. This really sucked.

Moon pulled you up from the urge to give up to the darkest thoughts peeking on the corner of your mind by taking the light fabric over your eyes and changing it for another one, damp from being recently bathed in cold water. A relieved sigh flees through your lips, your fists unclenching (when did you start pressing your nails in your palms again?) and being lifted to clean a couple of stray tears that now ran across your cheeks.

Two bigger hands overlapped yours, silicone digits wiping the water away before a humming began filling the air. You could almost picture the way the animatronic’s body was swaying from one side to another in the rhythm of the lullaby.

“Fuzzy, fuzzy.” The touch quickly changed directions so it would be playing with your hair, massaging and scratching your scalp with the skill of an animatronic that passed weeks fixated on human hairs and would spend another plentiful of weeks being amazed by their softness, form and type, waiting for you to lower your guards so he could try to convince you to let him try another hairstyle. Maybe you should consider buying them a wing. Sun would love it. You could almost hear the uncontrollably, excited rambling already. A small grin grazed your lips. A finger booped your nose. “You’re fuzzy because you’re tired. Sleep. Go to sleep.”

“Contrary to your belief, sleep doesn’t solve all the problems in the world.” Moon huffed at the lightheaded poke of fun, instead choosing to pinch your poor nose in retaliation. You swatted at his general direction, knowing very well it wouldn’t hit the target nevertheless. It was the thought that counts. “Besides, if I take a nap now it will destroy my sleep schedule for today. I am at least trying to keep it healthy.”

More like, you had now two animatronics that would either began to fuzz over your bad habits, nervously twisting his fingers and anxiously spinning his sunrays, hovering and doing his best to make you feel better while trying to not overstep any boundaries and respect your (bad) choices or follow you at night with light steps and clicking sounds, calmly and happily accompanying you through your chosen night activities while also attempting to subtly nudge you to the direction of your room (and, consequently, your bed).

Of course, every now and then all of you would have your missteps. Some days Sun would tremble uncontrollably and hug you tightly when you tried to go out, chatting non stop over your and Moon’s attempts to comfort him. Another nights you would move too quickly or suddenly and Moon’s eyelights would go to a bright red and he would tackle you on the floor, body frozen on a security code he no longer had, but that still affected him. Other weeks everything would feel too much and you would push them far and away and wonder when it all came to this. Why did all came to this.

But… 

But then there were also be days where Sun would skip around the house, a happy humming that made his entire circuits vibrate - and kind of reminded you of a cat - on the tip of his tongue, a batch of homemade cookies or a new colored drawing waiting for you after a long day. There would be moments when your presence and Moon’s comforting, teasy banter would be able to make his sunrays twitch less anxiously and for him to smile brighter, every shoulder bump, every poke, every half hug and every lingering touch would be a promise and a confession (I am here I am here I care I am here).

There would be moments when Moon would come at your room with his hands once again tangled in a mess of yarn’s strands and he would grumble at your light pokes of fun and refuse to tell about his new project so he could catch you and Sun by surprise and tease you both about your reactions afterwards. There would be nights when he would be frozen and twitchy and feel the worst because he can’t get his body to move and you would start telling him about your day, about a funny meme you saw on internet and and interesting something he maybe didn’t know yet about humans or the world that exists around them, and then, bit by bit, he would be able to move (his entire systems blastring friend friend my friend my dear friend over and over above the instinct of threat catch eliminate) and you would watch a movie.

And there would be moments when you gave them surprise gifts because it seems like their wonder about the world, the universe and humanity would never disappear no matter how much time they spent out of that mall. There would be days they would leave warm dishes and hot drinks on your desk, when they would hug and hold you close when you were ready to face them, when they would listen to you and sing soft lullabies or distract you with games and banter until a smile and a soft feeling took over the sadness and red eyes.

There would be days that you spent looking for new activities or experiences the animatronics hadn’t tried yet, preparing another good memory for them to have. There would be afternoons when Sun would dance with you across the living room because he knew how much you loved that song. There would be evenings when Moon would wipe your tears and distract you from your aching eyes because he knew that bad thoughts are easier to fight when you’re not alone.

Evenings just like this one.

“Thinking too hard.” Moon pressed his thumb firmly on your forehead, pulling you out of your thoughts (again). “Too hard. Must rest. Sush.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thank you, man. I have no idea how I lived until now without your rich life advices.”

“Cheeky brat.” A playful poke was jabbed on your side, fishing a surprised yelp from your lips. 

Silence.

“Let’s play a game.”

A jumpy ‘zing!’ ran across your spine at the dangerous and incredibly joyful tune that took over his raspy voice, and you immediately knew that there wouldn’t be another ending for this day other than you becoming a mess of laughter on the couch. Still, even when a wobbly smile stretched on your face you tried to sound firm.

“No.” It didn’t work very well. There was no heat in it, titters already bubbling in the back of your throat. Your arms began moving and flailing in the general direction of his snickers.  “Moon, no. Give me your hands. Give me your hands right no-o-ow, come on!” Your words began fading and twinkling in between stubborn giggles and squeaks as a wave of pokes and squeezes began attacking your entire torso from seemingly everywhere. 

"Sorrrrry, Moonlight. Can you repeat that?" He was prodding your ribs now, tapping his fingers on each one of them, escaping from your grabbing hands with ease, not taking long before his attack changed to a light pinching of that absurdly vulnerable spot that connected your belly with your sides. His delighted tune showed that he was not sorry at all. "Can't hear you over all of those wiggly giggly giggles. Care to repeat what you just said? Hm?"

His attacks were getting even harder to predict, the cloth on your eyes helping in nothing your current state, actually, the fact that you couldn’t see where he would strike next only made butterflies fly excitedly on your nerves.

Before a reply could leave your mouth, however, his hands began spidering all across your midsection, digits fluttering and dancing on your stomach, barely scratching the sensitive skin next to your bellybutton, teasing and worming their way up and down, from a side to another on your stomach, exploring and tickling every available space until it could calmly rest on your hips, still softly scribbling the ticklish spot with no worries in his heart.

It was hard to not squirm with the tickles, even more so to control the yelps and chuckles that kept falling from your mouth like a waterfall. Especially with Moon's taunting squeezes that never failed to appear when you never expected and fish a squeaky snort.

You tried to talk once again.

He digged his fingers just the slightly bit on the flesh of your hips.

Your hands flew to hold his wrists, lips pressed firmly shut with the willpower that he, the evil jester, the mean clown wouldn't get not even a single more yelp from you.

"I think someone wants to laugh. ~" The whispering wasn't even that close, the animatronic not even having a breath to make it so taunting but you still felt the urge to scrunch your neck and protect your sensitive ears, knowing very well they were one of their favorite places to attack. "Someone here, a very ticklish, very giggly and silly-silly-silly someone wants to laugh sooo much right now… isn’t that right, starlight?"

His hands (still being held but not pushed away by yours) calmly crawled across your sides, drumming on your ribs and still going up until both of them laid on your shoulders, scribbles and scratches leading their way up to your chin, leading your squirms even worse with all the giddy anticipation that traveled across your nerves and made it hard to stay still in the same place.

"Such precious, beautiful laughter and giggles trapped right here." He tsked, one of his hands traveling slowly - all his movements now were surprisingly and still slow, as if he was telegraphing his moves for you - to tease the underline of your jaw. "Greedy, greedy. Wanting to keep all of your adorable reactions all for yourself. You need to learn to share."

His voice was closer. Much closer than before. Danger sirens blasted on your brain but the effort to not laugh and succumb to the ticklish scratches now focusing on unfairly attacking the shell of your ears and the spot right behind them distracted you too much to realize what was about to happen. Why was his voice closer? 

A low, half filled with joy and half with mischief chuckle filled the air. And suddenly you knew the answer. 

“Moon, don’t you dare-!” But it was too late, the unbearable buzzing already taking over your senses, the raspberry spreading like electricity across every single inch of ticklish skin on your neck, pulling all the laughter, all the squeaks, snorts and titters from their hiding spots, making a smile stretch from a side to another on your face.

It didn’t last more than one or two minutes, however. And soon enough Moon was changing and re-adjusting the cloth over your eyes since the last one was already dry and it had fallen from its place with all the struggles. It was dark and your vision was still slightly blurry, but the smirk over the other’s faceplate was crystal clear, his head spinning twice before it bobbed in your direction. 

You mentioned for him to come closer, giggles still running away from your mouth uncontrollably. When he did as asked, your hands held his face with care, thumbs caressing the metal of his cheeks, red eyes watching your expression with adoration and wariness.

“I…” You took a good gulp of oxygen, letting your voice in a sweet, lovely tune, giant smile still plastered on your features. “Will destroy you once I’m free.”

The wheezing sound that came out of his system was loud and uncontrollable, a few parts of his exoskeleton clicking non stop in a kind of amusement that only happened when his guard was down and he was caught by surprise.

You probably just made it even worse to yourself. It was clear for the way that Moon’s eyes squinted until they looked like a crooked smile.

But the promise was worth it. Maybe you could even ask for Sun’s help. His teases were basically unbearable to endure.

“Lay down, lay down, troublemaker.” Careful touches pushed your shoulders so they would go back to a laying position, the piece of fabric being again put over your eyes and bringing a sense of cold relief. It almost made up for the fact that you were walking to a trap.

Well, at least it was a comfortable one.

“Perrrrrfect.” You felt Moon lifting your legs, sitting on the free space on the couch and then laying said ones on his lap. “You laughed, now it means you have to play my game.~”

You wondered if you would be able to get to your room and lock yourself before the animatronic could catch you.

As if reading your thoughts, two hands locked on the spot right above your knees, not squeezing (not yet) but being close enough that a wobbly tune began painting your grin and the need to wiggle away started itching on your nerves.

“Alright.” You acquiesced, the grumpy pout being quickly erased when a single finger skittered on the ticklish skin under your knees. Cheater. “Alright. What is the game?” 

“Say the word.” Confusion must have shown on your face, because Moon continued his sentence. “I write and you say the word, right, squeaky mouse?” As if to confirm his words, he clawed your kneecap, fishing a squeal.

You didn’t answer right away, the squeezes became more and more quicker.

“Ok, ok!!” Kicks did nothing to dislodge the attack, and by the way Moon snickered, he knew very well that. Laughter began bubbling once again on your throat. “I agree! I already agrehehehed, stohohop!”

Satisfied, the animatronic relented his tickling, hands not more touching anything.

Strangely enough that only made you feel even more ticklish, tingles and shivers running and spreading everywhere.

“Guess.”

And then they were back.

The tip of his index finger touches your thigh in a straight line, goosebumps following the scribbling as it changed to lay in the middle of the previous straight line only to make another, tiny, tickly, horribly tickly bolts of electricity teasing the nerves as he repeated the sign, over and over again.

“Guess.”

An only finger dancing and tracing your thigh. It shouldn’t be able to tickle so much. It shouldn’t affect you this much. But it was so light. It was so unbearably light and soft. It was…

It was a letter.

“Ihihihi! It’s an ‘I’!”

“Yesss.” Moon seemed delighted at the snickers, more than happy to see you playing along the silly game and forgetting the reason for your earlier tears. “Second one. Four letters” He got closer to your knee, but instead of one, now two fingers danced and scratched the sensitive skin, going up - once again in a straight line - before going down and to the right - another line, - repeating the movements thrice before moving to the kneecap, softly tracing circles on it again and again and again and again and-

“Move on!” You could feel the heat creeping on your neck and face, the airy giggles becoming more and more frenetic and uncontrollable as the previous daycare attendant refused to focus his attention elsewhere. He did, however, continue after a few more seconds, not wanting to scramble your thoughts so much. 

Moon lifted your leg just a little bit, just enough for him to reach with no problem behind your knee, pulling his touch downwards before going right up, as if his touch was doing little jumps on the spot, zings and more zings of tickly electricity pulling hints of snorts on your reactions.

Lowering his tracing a bit more he arrived to your calf. One straight line up. One to the right. Go a tad downwards the first line. Another line. More downwards. One more line.

He began repeating the tracing. You felt like all of your other tickle spots were tingling in empathy for the calve’s struggles.

“Lohohove! It’s ‘I love’!” A wheeze escaped from your lips and filled the air. Was he really writing I love you? “That is so chehehesy.”

“Sush, sush, sush, cute teapot.” A couple of squeezes. More kicks in protest. “Third word. Five letters.”

Wait. Five?

Now, Moon moved closer to your ankles, three fingers scribbling and drawing the letters, slipping way too close to your soles for it to be only a mistake. It took him having to ‘write’ the word more three times since your brain simply erased any and every knowledge as soon as he felt those nails scraping the skin of  your ankles.

“Being!” You shouted, once again descending in breathless laughter and squirms when the animatronic confirmed that your guess was right, firmly rubbing and massaging the sensitive skin so that you could get a break and breathe more steadily. 

It took a while before snorts and quiet squeals stopped taking over your voice and your legs stopped tingling and sending shivers across your body. You didn’t even was usually that ticklish on your legs, but the mix of light and soft teases and not being able to see what he would do next making your sensitivity spike to the sky.

The game had a logic, however. Thighs, knees, calves, ankles… If you weren’t mistaken, then the next one would be…

Another ‘zing!’ ran down your spine.

“Last word. Seven letters.”

Seven letters.

I love being…

“Wait, wait, wait!” You tried pulling your legs away, but the hands were keeping them nice and cozy in his firm grip. The cloth fell from your eyes and you looked for his, an unstable, pleading grin on your face. “Moon, wait, you know I can’t!” His eyes only squinted more in mischief, smirk growing on his mouth unashamedly. That son of a- “I can’t say it, Moon, please! I swear Moon, I cahahan’t!”

He lifted his hands, fingers wiggling in the air. For a moment you thought that the sentient robot was waving you goodbye since he was about to absolutely kill you dead. But then you heard it.

A faint buzzing, dancing and filling the room.

“No!”

The clawing hand slowly began moving to your feet.

“Last word. Five letters.”

“Don’t you dare!” You had no idea how your voice didn’t break any windows with how high pitched and loud it was, the hysterical, belly laughter already bubbling in the back of your throat as pleas fell like flocks from your lips. “Moon, don’t you dare! No! Come on! Do NOT-”

The buzzing, still discharging small ticklish sparks of electricity touched your sole.

Everything, for a blissful moment, froze.

Then it all came crashing down.

The buzzing filled every single inch of your nerves, tickling in ways that should be illegal, especially as the animatronic - the traitor - began moving to trace the spot as if you could concentrate in the letters being written over all the incoherent babbles and pleas that generously painted the laughter taking over your senses.

You already knew the word that was being written, and was very aware that said one didn’t need all the scratches being delivered to the arch of your feet, or the scribbles that attacked without mercy the balls of your feet and digged under and in between your toes, wiggling and tickling and tickling there without a care in the word.

“I will write it again.” Moon basically purred, sounding too much like the perfect personification of a very smug cat. “Pay attention, gigglebug.”

Before you could protest the fingers were once again traveling across your soles, repeating the attacks and now focusing on all the weak spots they found in their way, fishing plentiful of squeals, squeals, yelps, giggles, titters and snorts in their way.

Everything stayed like that for a few pieces of time. Laughing filling the air, buzzing and tickling taking over every sense. The melodious symphony fulfilling hearts.

And then it stopped.

Moon chuckled, once again rubbing the spot so the ghost tickle feeling would disappear faster, even if your remanent tittering laughter still stretched between you both.

“Did you discover the word?” 

You opened your eyes, wiping a few tears that escaped and trying to look chastising at the robot in front of you, although your burrowed frown didn’t hold any heat, especially with the wide smile still blossoming on your face, shining eyes staring directly at him.

Moon only chuckled more.

“Alright, alright. Troublemaker. But one day you’ll have to admit that you love it.~” 

Before you could answer with a snarky remark, the animatronic surprised you by picking you up and laying down on the couch, letting you rest on his chest.

“Game is not over. One more sentence.” It was an affirmation, but you lived enough with him to recognize the questioning tune in his words.

“No more.” You established.

He grumbled. You were pretty sure that if he could pout, he would.

Silence.

“Gentle tickles…?” 

A sigh left your lungs at the hopeful feeling in his voice.

“… Sssstarlight?”

And how could you ever say no to that?

“Ok. But only light ones.” You agreed. Because when it came to Sun and Moon you had a piece of butter in the place that should be your heart, as it seems.

Moon began carelessly grazing the tip of his fingers on your back, the tickles just light enough to make one or two giggles jump here and there, a pleasant feeling of comfort and softness spreading and relaxing your muscles, making them melt and a warmth to blossom on your chest.

So caring. So comfortable. So soft…

Your mind began drifting away, breaths coming out more steadily, thoughts becoming less and less coherent as the minutes passed by.

You only realized Moon’s plan too late, when your conscience was already slipping away and the tiredness of the day was already catching up.

That freaking cheater.

Well, at least it was probably already late enough that a quick nap wouldn’t hurt.

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 3 of 6

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Summary: Confronting the stark reality of their disparities, Éomer and Éorhild resign themselves to the belief that their paths shall never intertwine again. However, unforeseen developments at Meduseld present Éorhild with a fresh opportunity—one that has the potential to either elate her or become the wellspring of profound sorrow.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Word count: 8,888

Note: This feels a bit more like a filler chapter, but I promise that it's important!

Read it on AO3 here.

Unlike most mornings, Éorhild was not roused with ease when Tidrun nudged her awake for her to assume her shift.  With a groan, she withdrew her head beneath the sheepskin, tousling her locks into a matted mess. She harboured no desire to emerge from the comforting isolation of her straw bed, longing for nothing more than to evade conversation with anyone. Aware that she was entrusted with a position at the royal household's breakfast service, she anticipated that the mere sound of Éomer’s voice would shatter her composure.

After all, the flow of tears shed the previous night rendered her eyes so tender that opening them seemed an unsurmountable endeavour. They stung and itched, instigating a longing for ice to deflate and soothe them despite her limbs and joints already stiffened by the biting cold in the servants’ quarters. The hearth’s fire had been neglected by the night maids, and the stooped silhouettes bore witness to it.

Every fibre of her being ached — her body, heart, soul. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Why rouse from slumber to meander through the day and yearn for the sweet respite of bedtime when all feelings are dulled and dimmed? Why exert effort when nobody would take notice? Why, oh why, love when her heart was fated to be torn asunder by the forbidden?

As pragmatic and assured as she had been when reminding the prince of their reality, emphasising his duty to wed Lady Lothíriel to secure Rohan’s future with a queen and heirs, she now regretted her grounded perspective. A profound despair boiled within her, prompting her to cast aside all traces of reason and crawl to Éomer’s quarters, where she would implore and beg him to flee the realm with her. Away from Meduseld, away from duty, away from the social fortress dividing them. They could forge a new abode together, a sanctuary where they would be granted the unrestrained expression of their affection. Gone would be the fear of beholding him! No longer would she be plagued by the dread of being discovered holding his hand. They would be liberated. Free to touch. Free to love.

Tidrun hushed something to lure her from the embrace of her bed. The syllables swirled and danced across the gap between the two maids but dissipated long before they graced Éorhild’s ears. Without deigning to request a repetition, she stirred with a nonchalant grunt, shedding the sheepskin from her figure with a swift flick of her foot. At her sight, there was a subtle recoil from the other servant, who tried vainly to contain the involuntary gasp passing her parted lips.

‘By all that is sacred, Éorhild, what has happened to you?’ she enquired, her genuine concern etched onto her traits and a hand veiling her ample bosom. ‘You look as though you have not found rest in centuries!’

Irritated by Tidrun’s comment, which only intensified her wish to withdraw from social interactions, Éorhild offered a shrug as a sole response, stifling a yawn. As her fingers traversed through her hair, they encountered stubborn knots obstructing their passage. With feeble momentum, she dragged herself upright, shuddering as the soles of her feet were met by the iciness of the stone floor.

After retrieving her clean uniform from the wardrobe that had been replenished overnight, she tiptoed to the shared washroom, mumbling greetings to her friends who were winding down after diligently scrubbing, sweeping, ironing and folding all night. She handed a well-worn bar of soap that had been forgotten on the table to one of her colleagues immersed in bathwater. The other maid sat with her legs hooked over the edge of the wooden tub, her calves dripping onto the floor.

Indeed, the sole distinction between that morning and all the others from the past sixteen years lay in the silent yet devastating heartbreak that gripped Éorhild. The passing of the torch from the night maids to the cooks and morning servants unfolded as it always did — an everlasting design, unyielding to change. A gentle nudge from the next occupant of her bed would serve as her wake-up call. One or two of the servants would parade or bathe in the nude in the washroom as they unwind before retiring for some well-deserved rest. Balwinë, perennially forgetful, would seek her soap or towel — when not both at once.

Éorhild’s ritual had long been bereft of spontaneity. It operated with unsurprising precision, each step occurring almost at the same hour as the previous morning. Anticipating the night maids’ sloth, she unfailingly bathed before bed, also driven by a desire to keep the straw bed neat between uses. Upon awakening, she would make a brief visit to the privy, followed by a thorough wash of her hands, mouth, and face. Then, once adorned in her uniform, a mere pass of a comb through her hair was required before she proceeded to feast on seasonal fruit in the kitchens.

Always the same cycle. Never anything new.

For the past moons, Éomer had been a delightful disruption in this routine. Not that he would partake in it, of course, but his haunting Éorhild’s mind provided another reason for her to rise every morning. The sole thought of pouring his wine, laundering his tunics and ensuring their impeccable care would make her heart flutter with excitement. Even more vigorously would it beat later in the evening when she would enter the Golden Hall and find him by the hearth, eagerly awaiting to exchange pleasantries and laughter.

But those days were gone. Now, she had to live in fear of their embraces and kisses being discovered, even though they would exert every effort to maintain a distance between each other. There was dread in hearing footsteps near the door of the maids’ room, preparing her for the prospect of surrender if the visitor happened to be a guard arresting her before her execution. The image was clear as day: the gleaming blade of Herugrim poised in the sunlight above her exposed neck, followed by its swift descent that would sever her head from her slumped shoulders in one clean slash.

As Éorhild’s fingers crept up around her neck, she cast a defeated glance towards the window, behind which a vibrant sunrise was unfurling. Was he thinking about her? Did his sleep mirror the turmoil that troubled her own? Did he lie in his bed reminiscing about their first kiss? Did he shed a tear for her?

Or had he briskly cast her from his thoughts altogether, erasing any semblance of their friendship from his memory?

Catching herself with tears brimming in her eyes, she drew a sharp breath and followed her routine. When he exited the washroom, a group of maids stood by the revived flames in the hearth, palms extended for warmth, as they gossiped in hushed tones, careful not to disturb the others.

‘… not found?’

Éorhild trudged towards the door, apprehending her duties at the breakfast service. She yearned to negotiate with one of her fellow workers, willing to shoulder another day of work on top of her own if it meant that she could evade being in Éomer’s presence at breakfast. Yet she had to resign to face reality. One day or another, she would have to cross his path again. What difference did it make, whether it was on that day or within a month? The pain within her heart would remain unchanged.

Kneeling on the floor to lace up her leather slippers, which she retrieved from a row of shoes by the door, one of the maids engaged in the conversation around the fire called out her name. Refusing to partake in any gossip, she ignored her, pretending not to have heard her at all. As she spoke anyway, she deflected her attention to the common bristle brush, running it against the tip of her shoe to rid it of dirt and grime. And with it, pieces of moss from the hillside escapade with Éomer.

‘… guard exiled!’

Tapping the bristles against the doorpost, Éorhild placed the brush back where she found it before leaving for the kitchens. On her way, she overheard whispers and gasps from the household staff, yet she found no inclination to listen. With each step, her pace weighed heavier, as though she was marching inexorably to her own doom.

‘… a replacement?’

‘Oh, Béma preserve her!’

Using the edge of her hand, she pushed the door to the kitchen open. Inside, several cooks were already engrossed around the stoves, seasoning meat or toasting bread in sizzling oil. Others stood hunched over cutting planks, slicing fresh bread whose aroma filled the air, and arranging the slices into a lavish woven basket. Éorhild nodded at one of them, who greeted her with a brief hand wave. Pulling her headscarf from her pocket, she kept her back to the wall and concealed her hair underneath the thin linen.

‘It is going to be a normal day,’ she silently attempted to comfort herself as her heart thundered inside her chest and her stomach churned. She was aware that upon exiting the kitchen, Éomer would be seated in the hall beside his uncle. ‘There is no reason to worry. Nobody will know we ever kissed if we do not speak to one another.’

Yet once she came to face the fruit basket from which the maids were allowed to help themselves, a lump formed in her throat. A violent heave in her stomach seized her, causing her to stumble back. All colours drained from her cheeks as she pressed the pads of her fingers against her lips as if to stave off the urge to retch. All sounds from the kitchen were dulled by the overwhelming pounding of her heart echoing in her ears. Her fingers clawed at her shirt, but much to her relief, the nausea subsided as promptly as it had come.

‘Éorhild?’ a voice called out to her. Her eyes searched frantically for its source and locked with Mildrid, one of the senior maids tasked with setting up a presentable fruit basket for the royal family. The woman rushed to her side and held her firmly by the waist, touching her forehead with the back of her fingers. ‘Dearie, you are as pale as the first snow! Are you feeling well?’

‘Yes, Mil,’ she responded with an audible gulp, fearing that her dizziness might return. ‘I believe that I moved too fast. My night has not been the most restorative.’

‘Obviously not; your eyes are red beacons. Well, if you say that you are fine, I will trust you, but if your state persists, you must inform me right away.’

‘I promise, Mil. But you know me, I am too tough for any ailment.’

Mildrid chuckled and patted her shoulders before returning to her task. At least, she had believed her. Éorhild sighed and eyed the untouched fruit she had intended to eat. Visibly, her sorrow was such that it affected her appetite. Contemplating sinking her teeth through the skin and indulging in its juicy flesh triggered another wave of nausea.

She resigned herself to the prospect of hunger. She could endure an hour or two more of it; surely, she would regain some of her ravenousness once duty would disperse the royal family from the table.

Éorhild assisted Mildrid with preparing baskets and arrangements destined for the hall once the table was set. Before long, the kitchen door opened, and Edelmer, the chamberlain, made his solemn appearance.

‘Their Majesties King Théoden and Lady Éowyn have graced the Golden Hall,’ he heralded. ‘Before you enquire about the rumours that have spread among our kin this morning, we must await further orders from the king. No decision can be made without his approbation. Now, their breakfast service must commence.’

Before Éorhild could seek an explanation from Mildrid, as she found herself unsure of what Edelmer could mean, the older woman thrust a pitcher of cider into her hands.

‘Oversee the serving of beverages this morning, dearie,’ she chimed. ‘If the sight of food makes you swoon, I will not have you do so in front of the king.’

She nodded in response, steeling herself before marching out. Thankfully, only the king and Lady Éowyn were present; Edelmer did not mention Éomer. Would he attend at all, or would he forgo his meal to avoid her?

Oh, how she longed to chastise herself and deliver a resounding strike across her own cheek for entertaining such ideas. She had existed merely as a backdrop in Éomer’s life for so long. It was quite implausible for her to occupy his mind and trouble it with her absence as much as she was distraught by the end of their friendship.

When she entered the hall with her head low, she instantly discerned the tension in the king’s demeanour. His fists rested heavily on the wooden table, his thumbs twitching and repeatedly pressing against his curled index. Somehow, the prolonged silence bore a heaviness more pronounced than on ordinary days. It was rare that the king would utter a word at the start of the maids’ morning parade, but his stillness was usually ceremonious. But this time, it was disturbed by the muffled gritting of his teeth as he clenched his jaw. He did not pay the servants much mind when they lined up and bowed respectfully before covering the table with the various treats and delicacies prepared with utter devotion. Only Éowyn thanked them.

Éorhild approached the table and poured cider into the lady’s cup, careful not to spill it onto her fingers. She retreated to the frame of one of the arches behind her, awaiting any shift in the king’s demeanour that would signal his desire for a drink. It would not happen for a few minutes; King Théoden always made a point of devouring meat and a slice of bread before indulging in a beverage to quench his thirst and soothe his parched throat.

‘Uncle,’ Éowyn spoke, ‘please tell me that the gossip in our halls is false. Surely you did not administer such harsh judgement!’

Théoden picked a slice of bread and tossed it into his plate.

‘Our law is our law, Éowyn,’ his voice echoed throughout the lofty hall, carrying its sternness. ‘If anything, I have been nothing but merciful.’

Éorhild stared at the table’s feet, her curiosity piqued. Listening to the king’s conversations was always something she did, but it was merely to detect any shift in his tone or words that would betray thirst or hunger, which she could solve by filling his goblet or presenting him with food. This time, it appeared that something was amiss in Meduseld. Something ominous and noticeably troubling the Lady of Rohan.

Her speculations drifted to Éomer’s absence at the table, and her heart raced anew. Could it be that the guard had, in fact, detected her presence under the prince’s mantle the previous night and denounced her? If any punishment had been meted out against the king’s nephew, then it would explain his niece’s anxiety.

It could also signify an impending risk of her being arrested at any moment.

As her throat constricted with the weight of what this dreadful notion entailed, footsteps resounded beneath the opposite arches, prompting a visible relaxation in the king’s body language.

‘Ah, Éomer, there you are,’ he exclaimed.

Éorhild stiffened, meticulously counting every breath she took to anchor herself and keep another wave of nausea at bay. A chair was drawn out from underneath the table in a screech, and the prince sat with a heavy sigh. A moment passed before Mildrid gently elbowed her with a subtle chin jerk to alert her to him holding out his cup. Éorhild murmured an apology and stepped forth to tip the pitcher over his goblet with a trembling hand. She pressed a folded napkin against the container’s beak to blot any stray drop and joined the servants’ rank again.

‘So,’ the king started, ‘did you oversee what I told you to?’

‘Yes, uncle. The girl’s room has been cleared of all her belongings, and she has vacated the premises.’

‘Very well,’ Théoden said before marking a pause to savour his relief. ‘Tell me, had you observed any similar impudence from the girl?’

‘No, uncle. I was just as surprised to learn of it as you were.’

A sharp thump caused by a raging fist made all the cutlery laid out on the table clatter, and cups threatened to tumble. Servants, king and prince jolted from Éowyn’s outburst as her strained breathing disrupted the ensuing stillness.

‘I cannot believe that you are letting this happen! Both of you!’ she chided. Éorhild could perceive from the uncomfortable shuffling of Éomer’s feet that his sister’s reprimand humbled him. ‘She is but a girl, not yet eighteen if I am to trust Dúnhild!’

‘Éowyn, be still,’ the king’s voice rose in irritation. ‘She betrayed her oath and, as such, she must face the consequences of her actions. I showed enough mercy considering that he was a guard and not a courtier.’

A scoff escaped the lady’s throat.

‘There have been much worse affronts committed in this court that were not met with such drastic and cruel measures, uncle. Do you not remember Lord Gammer, who struck his wife unconscious for merely drinking more mead than he had allowed her during our annual banquet? You pardoned him with little more than a slap on the wrist!’

‘This was a different situation entirely.’

‘Indeed, because I found myself stitching the wound on her scalp that night. She could have been gravely injured had her son not caught her!’

‘Precisely. She could have. Yet she did not.’

Éowyn groaned in frustration and seemed to turn to her brother as if to bid him an unspoken plea for his support. Éomer did not respond. He evaded eye contact, sipping at his cider.

‘I know that all our maids swear an oath upon entering our service,’ the lady conceded through gritted teeth, toying with a piece of fruit on her plate without ever bringing it to her mouth, ‘but there was nothing inherently wrong with her action. Éomer had relieved her of her duties when it occurred, and Fréagar had already left his post. None of it was disruptive to their work!’

Théoden slammed his fist on the table in turn, mirroring his niece’s indignation. She froze and stared at the king, anticipating his following words.

‘An oath sworn is ineffable, and it is about time that you understand it if you are to marry Faramir,’ he retaliated, raising a finger to halt her from speaking before she could even open her mouth. ‘Our tradition is simple. Maids are not to take lovers of any kind. Neither affairs nor husbands. They pledge to remain celibate for a reason. I should have had her executed for her betrayal, but I decided to opt for leniency, considering that Fréagar was but a guard.’

‘How dare you call their humiliation and banishment from Edoras lenient? Théodil was but an orphaned girl when Hilda presented her to us when her previous employer passed. She was born within our ramparts; she has nowhere else to go.’

‘Let it serve as a warning to all the other maids who might wish to commit the same crime.’

Éowyn’s chair dragged against the stone as she rose to her feet, tossing her napkin onto the table.

‘Times are immune to change in this wretched land, it seems,’ she hissed. ‘I no longer wish to speak of it. You know my opinion on the matter, and I have no say in your decisions. I will not share your meals for the rest of the day. Good day.’

With these words, the Lady of Rohan stormed out of the hall, returning to her chambers with her maid, Dúnhild, in tow. Once she was out of sight, the king sank back against his chair and sighed, tapping his cup as a cue that he desired to indulge in some cider. While Éorhild tended to him, another servant carried Éowyn’s chair back to the kitchen and cleared her unfinished plate.

‘Do not mind your sister’s antics,’ Théoden huffed, waving a dismissive hand. ‘You are well aware of her proclivity for overreaction. As much as I love her, I find myself wondering whether I have indulged her too much over the years and inhibited her maturation in the process.’

Without emitting as much as a sound, Éomer responded with a mere shrug, holding his cup before his face. From where she stood, Éorhild could discern his white knuckles as he clasped the silver receptacle, which seemed to elude the king. Underneath the table, the prince’s leg shook up and down, attesting to his disapproval of his uncle’s stance and the insult against Éowyn. Yet, he did not voice it.

Fright gripped Éorhild now that she comprehended the situation. Later that morning, Mildrid explained that Théodil, Éomer’s chambermaid whom Hámer sought the previous night, had neglected to attend a small gathering in the servants’ quarters to celebrate the birthday of one of the younger girls employed at Meduseld. It could have remained unnoticed had the chambermaid and the girl not been close friends. Assuming that Théodil might have lost track of time, one of the maids visited her private chamber on the opposite wing of the Golden Hall, only to find the room empty and the bed untouched. After an unfruitful hour-long search, the servants had alerted some guards, who aided them in their endeavour. It took them another hour to discover Théodil and Fréagar in the throes of passion behind the stables. Éomer had been instantly notified, and the king was sent for.

Within just a few moments, the chambermaid and the guard had been banished from the capital for life for their actions. They were allowed the night to collect their belongings and return equipment and uniforms. By the early hours of the day, they were expected to disappear from Meduseld, forbidden to bid farewell to their fellow maids and guards.

Fear surged into Éorhild’s veins as she stood there, eyes riveted to the ground, and perspiration forming in the hollow of her palm rendered her grip on the jug of cider unstable. To remain inconspicuous, she had to clench her teeth to muffle their clattering as her whole body quivered from her sheer mortification at the odds of being denounced for what happened between her and the prince. All hope dwindled as she surrendered to panic and imagined Éomer incriminating her should she ever do something that displeased him — a prospect now heightened by the sudden pressure she shouldered. Flashes of her vision for her execution resurfaced, nearly blinding her and almost prompting the pitcher to slip from her fingers and shatter at her feet.

Éomer would never do that. Hopefully, he had appreciated her enough to spare her life. At least, that was a comforting thought.

Théoden held out his goblet, and Éorhild summoned what she perceived as a tremendous effort merely to advance and pour the amber-coloured nectar.

‘Now there remains one issue on our plate,’ the king spoke, raising his hand when the cup was only about half-full. The maid bowed and stepped away again under the prince’s stern yet fond watch. ‘We must find a replacement for that foolish girl. I will ask Edelmer to survey the maids and choose the most apt one. We must only hope that the new servant will be up to the task and not let herself be corrupted by frivolous guards.’

Furtive but knowing glances were exchanged between the maids, who endeavoured to maintain their composure. This was no ordinary opportunity for them. Becoming a chambermaid to one of the royals entailed several benefits. Allowances were increased, thus enabling them to afford more than the simplest products at the merchants’ stalls. For the younger ones who were still bound to a family, it meant sending a portion of their wages to support their parents and siblings and, therefore, honouring their name. Tasks were fewer and demanded less time, provided the maid displayed efficiency and thoroughness, granting her more moments for recreation. Her status within the hierarchy of household staff was favoured, as some daunting duties could no longer be demanded of her. If, after one month in Éomer’s care, he still found satisfaction in her service, she could renounce her previous oath as a regular servant and swear a new one.

Many were the speculations surrounding this new oath. Unlike the vows that Éorhild once made, those of a chambermaid were never pronounced publicly. Royals often tailored their demands from their new personal servants based on the relationship they developed with them and their own needs. As such, no oath resembled another. For this reason, they were usually made to the royal and, if permitted, a magistrate who could produce a written record of what was promised, should the need arise. Tales of old once spoke of a prince who instructed his chambermaid to vow to strike him if he ever came to be too harsh on his children. Legend had it that the maid only raised her hand once on the prince, and he never again displayed such behaviour towards his heirs, such had his guilt been.

Of course, this was but a legend. Whenever a chambermaid position would open, many of the younger servants would seek to claim it in hopes of securing an arrangement with the noble they served and ridding themselves of their celibacy vows. Many harboured dreams of dalliance with noblemen from distant towns in Rohan and Gondor during their visits, while others would find satisfaction in encountering a handsome ostler and guiding them through the city during their leisure hours before stealing kisses in the hall’s shadows.

But all of that required the royal family’s approbation, and the chance for it to happen was meagre. Not that the royals found it a revolting thought in itself, but rather because they bore weightier concerns on their minds than the celibacy — or lack thereof — of their maids. Some rulers who were more bound to traditions categorically refused to let it happen, for they believed that a good servant was unmarried, childless, and solely devoted to the care of the royal house and its children.

In the peculiar case of Théodil, no new oath had been sworn due to the war, when she assumed the duties of her predecessor, slain during the Battle of the Hornburg. Consequently, she remained bound by her earlier vows, and her liaison with Fréagar yielded disastrous consequences.

Éomer drank the last of his cider and placed the goblet on the table, his gaze fixed upon it for a fleeting moment, lost in contemplation.

‘There is no need to trouble good Edelmer, uncle,’ his baritone voice rose. ‘If you will allow me, I want to choose my chambermaid. One whom I can trust.’

‘That is certainly a strange request,’ Théoden scoffed. ‘Edelmer knows them better than anyone in this palace.’

‘And I do not deny it at all. Only there is one servant in particular whose talents are wasted here. She has been happily serving us for a long time and has done so outstandingly. In all sixteen years of her tending to us, I have never noted a single mistake on her part. She is most excellent.’

Éorhild’s complexion lost all its hues, and she stood frozen. This time, her trembling hands were too unstable to maintain a firm grip on the jug’s handle. Before she even realised that she had let it slip, Mildrid caught it just in the nick of time, saving it from shattering on the floor. The older woman placed it back in her hands and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, a silent indication that she was ordering her to return to bed once the king and the prince finished their breakfast.

Yet she paid no attention to her, offering neither nod nor acknowledgement. Éomer’s words echoed within the walls of her mind, reverberating and filling her with newfound dread.

This could not be happening.

She must have misunderstood.

Béma, please let it be a delusion.

Théoden reclined in his chair and eyed his nephew over a slice of cheese.

‘If you are so sure of yourself, then name her, and we shall fetch her.’

Éomer glanced over the king’s shoulder and witnessed the panic exuding from the young woman’s demeanour. Despite her averted gaze, he knew her well enough to sense that his desire to bring her closer to him again was instilling fear within her. She needed not to speak nor move to convey it.

No harm would befall her. He would ensure that. Any soul audacious enough to stand between them or lay a finger on her would never know peace until Éomer dealt with them. Jealousy and possessiveness were not ingrained in his nature. However, in the course of the previous months, a profound connection had formed between them, one that he cherished to the extent of willingly sacrificing the whole world for her well-being. Within a heartbeat, he would forsake throne and crown. He would relinquish his wealth and armour for a single night in her arms. He would crawl through the mud and soil his name to build a home for her to enjoy with his blood, sweat and tears.

Valar, she needed only ask.

The prince held out his hand towards her, although she remained unaware of it.

‘Her name is Éorhild. She is behind you.’

Théoden raised a discerning eyebrow, and his pupils followed the direction indicated by his nephew. As he scrutinised each maid, anticipating the right one to step forward and introduce herself, Mildrid discreetly nudged Éorhild in the ribs. Lost in thought, her mind was reduced to little more than entangled questions and what she pictured to be the worst outcomes of becoming a chambermaid. The tap extracted her from the mess of it all, and she advanced, bowing ceremoniously.

She could not allow it to diminish her. Though uncertain of the next step in her fate, she resigned herself to this unexpected turn of events. Answers would come to her in time.

‘Your Majesty,’ she spoke with the usual solemn tone she reserved for the House of Éorl.

‘Speak your name again, child,’ Théoden demanded.

‘Éorhild, my liege.’

The king inspected her without leaving the comfort of his chair. A heavy silence lingered for a few moments as the young woman remained bowed in deference.

‘I recognise you,’ he uttered with a deliberate nod, ‘although you have grown since our last encounter. You are the orphan from the Westfold that Hilda insisted on taking in, are you not? The woman nearly begged me. Well. As much as I trusted Hilda, it seems that one of her former pupils caused quite a stir at court last night. I hope you are intelligent enough to abstain from causing such trouble again.’

‘Indeed, I am the child you speak of. If Your Grace grants me a position in the prince’s care, you can rest assured that he will not lack anything. The discomfort of a bed shall never haunt his slumber, for I shall always strive to keep it neat.’

A fond smile graced Éomer’s lips; much to his relief, it remained unnoticed by the king. Théoden considered the servant’s words, running his thumb along his beard.

‘Are you aware that the role of chambermaid is rather different from what you might expect at this court, young Éorhild?’ he enquired with an eyebrow raised. ‘In addition to overseeing the cleanliness of the prince’s chambers, you would also serve as his lady-in-waiting. Your responsibilities would extend to rousing him, dressing him and tending to his attire. Remind him of the duties ahead and accompany him if he demands it. Should his meals occur at a different time than ours, you must ensure he receives his sustenance.’

As Théoden detailed the expectations for the role she was being thrown into, the lump in Éorhild’s throat swelled, making every new breath an ordeal. Her shoulders slumped underneath the weight of what was to come. Upon hearing Éomer name her, she had dared to hope that her contact with him would be confined to the mundane tasks of changing his bedlinen and tending to his chambers. The prospect of becoming his lady-in-waiting, however, brought forth a tumult of anxiety manifesting in a violent churn of her stomach. Nausea, the likes of which had seized her in the kitchens, resurfaced, and the pinching of her lips stood as the only obstacle to her heaving over Meduseld’s floor.

Éorhild’s sanity drowned under her raging thoughts, each capricious wave bringing a heavy burden of anguish and uncertainty that submerged even her pleading hand reaching out for safety. She felt like a ship steering into a storm, at the mercy of the tempest within her heart. Being so intimately involved in Éomer’s daily life was both a dream and a nightmare, and she struggled to bring her feet back to solid ground where she had to fear neither heartache nor losing her head.

Oh, what to do?

Théoden cleared his throat upon her lingering silence, growing impatient as the girl remained hunched over her knees. His fingers drummed on the table as irritation tinted his eyes and tensed his traits. As for Éomer, his concern grew as he discerned the encroaching pallor upon her face. Her petrified demeanour tugged at the strings of his heart as he conceded the delicate decision before her.

All he wanted in this instant was to draw her into the comfort of his arms.

‘Well, girl, do you accept this task?’ Théoden urged. ‘Speak!’

Éorhild drew in a sharp breath and clutched the jug.

‘I accept, your Majesty.’

‘Ah, I was beginning to think that you were mute! Very well. As with any chambermaid, your initiation involves a one-month trial period, effective immediately. If my nephew is satisfied with your service, then he will have you swear the oath. If not, you will be allowed back as a simple maid.’

‘Thank you, your Majesty. I shall work hard not to disappoint the prince.’

Théoden gestured with his hand, signalling for her to stand upright. The young woman obeyed, keeping her head bowed.

‘Edelmer?’ the king summoned the chamberlain, who promptly appeared at his side. ‘Accompany Éorhild to her new quarters and guide her through what is expected of her. Show her all there is to know.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘And Éorhild,’ the monarch continued, turning to her instead, ‘it is no longer required of you to avert your eyes in our presence. Behold your prince.’

There it was — the moment when she was granted permission to gaze upon the man she coveted. She lifted her chin with gradual deliberation until her eyes met Éomer’s. Rosy hues dotted her warming cheeks as her pupils traced the delicate lines of his face, which she had believed she would never have the chance to admire again.

And just before she caught herself staring, she bowed once more.

‘At last, my prince graces my view,’ she spoke up in appreciation, prompting Théoden to grin in utter amusement. ‘It is an honour I shall never take for granted, as it is to behold my king.’

‘This is certainly devotion if I have ever witnessed it,’ the king laughed. ‘Go and start your initiation. I will have you replaced for the tasks you were initially assigned to.’

‘At your command, Your Grace.’

Mildrid retrieved the pitcher from her hands and offered her arm a congratulatory squeeze. She observed Éorhild as the latter followed the chamberlain to the servants’ quarters to collect her scant belongings. As the maids lounging on the straw mats caught her sifting through the folded uniforms, searching for those adorned with her designated colours embroidered inside the hem, they congregated around her, curious about her impending departure. When Edelmer proclaimed the good news, a blend of celebration and envy emanated from the women. Some displayed authentic joy at her ascension to a better function after so many years of selfless and arduous work; others, more restrained, buried their hopes of liberating themselves from the celibacy vows and the curiosity of gazing upon the royal family.

Éorhild, still rattled by this unexpected change, hardly uttered a word. While the others swarmed her with their questions — especially curious about why the prince would name her in particular — she freed her blond mane from the headscarf and flattened the fabric upon the icy tiles. Setting the uniforms and a few possessions at its centre, she then tied up the corners, forming a bundle. Edelmer carried it for her as she let her fellow maids drown her in warm embraces and well wishes while she humbly thanked each and every one of them, holding their hands or pressing her forehead to theirs as they so often did to support one another through the years.

She departed with a heart divided, torn between the promise of a new opportunity at Éomer’s side and the wrenching sensation of leaving the life she had led since she was twelve.

If only Hilda were still there to guide her. In her typical ways, she would fondly pinch her cheek and punctuate her sentences with léofeon, an antiquated Rohirric term akin to ‘darling’. All the while, she would coax her to the kitchen for a hearty feast of comforting delights she would craft from loose ingredients, some you would never expect to go together so well and yet would taste divine. Hilda’s culinary talents remained unmatched, missed by maids and royal family alike.

In the stillness beyond the reach of curious ears, Hilda would tenderly cradle Éorhild’s head upon her lap while combing her hair and weaving braids into it. A patient listener, she never let her interest waver as the young woman would unburden her heart, and she would never disrupt the thread of shared confidences. Then, once Éorhild brought back to the sanctuary of reassurance, Hilda would impart her wisdom.  She would encourage her to pursue what her heart desired and bestow upon her the most precious counsel life could offer.

No soul was ever lost if sheltered beneath Hilda’s wing.

How might she have perceived her former protégée now entangled in the allure of the prince? So desperately enamoured with him that she broke sacred rules in the king’s back?

There was no doubt that she would have strongly disapproved of it. She not only condemned her heart to endless suffering from an impossible love, but she was also losing sight of what truly mattered. A perilous path that would inevitably cause her downfall.

Yet, Éorhild kept following Edelmer to her new quarters, located merely two doors from Éomer’s. While far from luxurious, they offered privacy at the very least. Upon seeing the solitary bed nestled against the wall, elevated on feet and enclosing an actual mattress, the realisation struck her. In sixteen years, she had never spent a night alone.

She wondered if she was even capable of it. How does one find the relief of warmth without companions to huddle together with? How does one awake without the gentle nudge of a chambermate? Can one surrender to the enticing embrace of slumber when there is no sound to be perceived, whether it be groans or snores?

Éorhild had to figure it out on her own. Novelty certainly did not limit itself to the duties at hand.

As Edelmer stepped outside to grant her time to settle in her new quarters, she stood there in bewilderment, with nothing but the clothes on her back to accompany her. Her old uniforms had been taken away, and the chamberlain only needed to retrieve Théodil’s chambermaid clothes in hopes that they, too, would fit her successor. So, having nothing to do, she idled away the minutes by observing her new surroundings.

For a maid’s chamber, the main bedroom was wide enough to allow movement. With its headboard pressed to the wooden panels covering the wall, the bed faced a chest of drawers with ornate brass handles. Placed on top, two handheld candle holders adorned with half-burnt white sticks awaited their new owner. Trickling drops along their lengths were momentarily immortalised once touched by the cold until they would eventually vanish in the flame's heat. They rested upon a linen doily embroidered with traditional Rohirric patterns in golden thread. Éorhild admired it, brushing her fingertips against the curves and overlapping lines, smiling as she recalled watching Hilda create it when she was younger.

Opposite the door, a narrow window overlooking the valley enabled just enough light to penetrate the room and enfold anything or anyone standing in its beam with its warm mantle. A potted flower graced the thin windowsill, its drooping petals visibly as delighted about the arrival of winter as Éorhild herself. It was probably one of Théodil’s belongings, one discarded or forgotten in the rush of her departure.

On the left side of the room, the nearest corner encroached a sturdy chest, while, next to the window, a simple door opened onto a cramped washroom. Barely enough room existed for a tub, sheltered beneath a shelf adorned with a few towels and a supply of soap bars swathed in leaves. Behind the door, carved into the floor and digging underneath the palace, there was a pipe covered with a hatch through which she could dispose of her waste, a feature that the servants’ quarters lacked. Tossing the contents of chamber pots through the tiny windows that seldom allowed their arms to go through without spilling now seemed a thing from the past.

Life was about to change in ways she had not anticipated. It had all come so fast, at absolute breakneck speed. As she stood by the window to admire the view, Éorhild sighed and wrapped her arms around herself.

Behind her, the door creaked open, and Edelmer appeared with a stack of different uniforms balanced on his forearm. Once they ensured they were comfortable enough for her to wear, the chamberlain showed her all she needed to know about her new duties. She proceeded to strip the prince’s bed from its sheets, replacing them with clean bedlinen that Théodil had scented with dried flowers from the valley. The following hours she spent washing, hanging, dusting, wiping, and sweeping, regarding each task with the utmost seriousness. With a resolve she did not imagine herself capable of demonstrating, she forbade her inner turmoil from disrupting the thoroughness of her labour. Not a single surface was left with so much as a speck of dust. Not an inch of the wooden floor was left unpolished and dull. Not a wrinkle from the pressed bedsheets was allowed to persist. She departed the prince’s room in no time, leaving chambers more immaculate than they had ever been.

Soon enough, there were no more tasks for her to complete, considering that Éomer had been called out to survey the garrison at the city gates. In such circumstances, Edelmer sat her down around a cup of steaming herbal tea and detailed the lady-in-waiting part of her role, patiently answering her questions and advising her on how to proceed.

A few hours later, Éorhild emerged from the washroom, enveloped in the lingering fragrance of perfumed bathwater. Dressed in simple brown robes, she sat on the windowsill and rested her head against the icy glass. Outside, the world had come to a standstill as the moon rose into the sky, a beacon of light and hope in an otherwise cold and lonely night. Unable to quell her cruel thoughts, she could not help but remember that at the same hour a mere day prior, she was safe in Éomer’s embrace, her lips pressed against his. And there she was, thrust into a dance she was not quite sure she could follow, stumbling on her own feet.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her brooding, instantly bringing her solace. Solitude was clearly not her natural state. Shifting her weight to her dangling leg and standing up from the windowsill, she readjusted the belt around her waist and turned to the door.

‘Come in.’

Her relief was short-lived. At the doorstep stood the prince himself with his breastplate tucked under his arm. His brow glistened with perspiration in the halo of the candlelight as he stepped inside.

Éomer retained his striking handsomeness.

‘I hope that I am not disturbing your peace,’ he murmured. ‘I was merely wondering if you would grant me a moment to speak to you.’

With a tightening sensation gripping her chest, she stiffened and offered him a bow, which seemed to displease him.

‘You are the prince, my lord; if you wish to speak, you need only say the word.’

‘Éorhild, please…’

The new chambermaid stood upright again and stared at him with pleading eyes, growing mistier by the second as he graced her sight.

‘What have you done, my lord?’ she blurted out as he shut the door behind him and placed the breastplate on top of her coffer. Her voice quivered with an unyielding tremor, laying bare the concealed pain within. ‘Do you revel in causing me such torment?’

Éomer recoiled in surprise at such accusations.

‘How dare you indict me for such nonsense!’ his voice retorted, bearing a similar trace of anguish to her own. He did not raise it out of fear of being overheard and condemning her with his own indiscretion. ‘Éorhild, if you believe for a moment that I would wish to cause you pain, then perhaps you do not know me nearly as well as you claim.’

‘Then why summon me to your personal service when fully aware of the grief it inflicts upon my soul?’

As tears descended upon her cheeks, he could not restrain himself. He drew near and tucked her head under his chin, holding her close to his heart. Unable to maintain her composure any longer, Éorhild wept openly against his chest, leaving damp marks on the collar of his padded shirt. Heartbroken yet striving to console her, the prince wove his hands through her hair, fondling her scalp and shoulder.

Éomer squeezed his eyes shut until colourful spots danced under his eyelids. Even after allowing his vulnerability to be exposed in front of her the night before, he was determined not to appear weak in her presence again. Partly a matter of pride, having been raised with the harmful idea that men never weep, his main concern was that he did not wish to further her agony. If she were to witness how devastated he indeed was, would it not compel her to tend to his wounded heart, casting aside her own pain until it became too burdensome for her to bear? Éorhild was inherently selfless, and he wished not to exploit it or permit her to neglect her own well-being.

He had inflicted too much pain upon her already.

Éorhild clung desperately to his shirt, tears soaking the fabric as she found herself too feeble to cease her sobbing.

‘I cannot do this, my lord,’ she hiccupped. ‘Spending every moment by your side when my heart desires you so! Torment. It is truly nothing but torment!’

Éomer pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, then leant back, his gaze locking onto hers.

‘I should never have named you; I realise this now,’ he sighed, wiping her drenched face with his thumbs. ‘How selfish of me! All I intended was to keep seeing you without the court’s scrutiny while keeping you safe from gossip, should the events of last night be discovered and denounced. Quite stupidly, I believed that by keeping you by my side, I could offer you my protection against the consequences they would entail, but I did not consider your pain.’

His arms enfolded her anew, and salty drops dotted her hair as his apparent serenity collapsed under the weight of their situation. Sinking his teeth into his lower lip, he joined her in weeping, unable to hold back.

‘Forgive me, beloved Éorhild. I cannot breathe when you are far from me.’

And so, they stood in the middle of her chambers, broken heart to broken heart. Their knuckles hurt from holding each other so dearly, unwilling to restrain their strength in their embrace, reluctant to let go. Despite all that had occurred, both admitted that taking this moment to grieve their stillborn love brought much-coveted balm to their souls.

When they parted, hurriedly drying their faces with the cuffs of their sleeves, Éomer took her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a light kiss upon her knuckles.

‘I shall not force you to accept this role that I forced upon you. This choice remains yours and yours alone. Should you refuse the opportunity, I would not hold it against you.’

With his sight still blurred by his tears, Éomer loosened his grip on her fingers, letting her hand naturally slip out from his grasp. Before bowing to her, he collected his armour from the trunk in the corner and tucked it under his arm.

‘All I demand from you, Éorhild, is to consider it.’

Leaving these words lingering in the air, the prince exited, closing the door behind him. As he moved to his quarters, his steps bore the burden on his heart. Meanwhile, as Éorhild’s world crumbled, she sank to her knees, cradling herself. She bowed over her knees to press her forehead to the cold floor as tears flowed freely once more.

It was a restless night, as it was to be expected. It was odd to lie in a bed without being inadvertently kicked by a squirming neighbour while the other was snoring into her ear. Of course, it was not the sole reason for such agitation. Twisting and turning upon the mattress, she pondered the benefits of her new position, disregarding the advantages that held no importance to her. Changes in her social status and the possibility of renouncing her celibacy vows she deemed dreary matters.

Éomer raised a good point when he mentioned being able to provide her with his protection if anybody found out about the embraces and kisses they shared on the hillside. So long as their accuser lacked the king's support, the prince’s testimony would prevail, as would his blade should anybody attempt to carry out justice without proper trial.

On the other hand, spending all this time by his side would undoubtedly prove to be a challenge during the first weeks, at the very least. Éorhild wondered whether she could summon the strength to be in such proximity to him while attempting to forget him and move on. So far, her upcoming nights seemed destined to be induced by the exhaustion from shedding tears in the cold embrace of her lonely bed.

Luckily, she could always refuse. Éomer granted her the opportunity to do so, and perhaps that was better for her. She only needed to alert the chamberlain, who would then notify the king. A temporary chambermaid would be appointed until Théoden and Edelmer agreed on her and Théodil’s succession. She would retrieve the maids’ chamber and blissfully complete the mundane tasks she had grown so fond of, even when they were not always pleasant to tackle.

When the morning sun ascended from behind the mountains, Éorhild swung her legs off the bed and meticulously arranged the linens. She adjusted her morning routine to the unfamiliar quarters, a temporary dwelling that she was not fated to occupy for long. Clothed and clean, she braced herself for a regular day; her thoughts gravitated around the tasks initially assigned to her.

As she marched towards the kitchens, her step was lighter, as was her heart. At last, she had settled her mind on what she deemed the best choice and was determined to adhere to it. When she opened the door to the cooks’ station, she saw Edelmer overseeing the planning for the royal family’s upcoming meals. With a decided step, she approached the chamberlain.

Shortly after, an elated Éorhild grappled with a door, her hands laden with the result of her first completed duty. She deftly balanced her burden against her hip, swiftly turning the shiny brass knob before slithering inside the room. Halting merely a few steps in, she gazed fondly ahead of her.

Éorhild admired the sleeping form in its lavish bed, huddled underneath the covers. Cascading golden locks streamed upon the pillows, wild yet still silky — she could tell. A soft snore filled the room, prompting her lips to twitch into a beaming grin.

Tiptoeing nearer, she placed the tray she held between her hands upon the nearest nightstand, cluttered with letters and playing cards. Carefully nudging them away with the wooden platter, she ensured that the latter was stable enough on the surface before walking away. She bypassed the bed and drew back the curtains, inviting the sunshine to spill into the room, illuminating the face of the deep sleeper.

‘Good morning, my good prince,’ she chimed, instantly causing his eyes to flutter open and his lips to curve into a grateful smile. ‘You must awake. There is a long day ahead of us.’

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