#the dread of life but also knowing there's nothing in death to wish for

[5-puthyyy]

River of Life (Agatha x Rio)

AO3 LINK

Word Count: 10k

Summary:

“A gift?” She repeated, stepping forward. The dead witch’s protests were easily ignored now; Death’s only focus was Agatha. Agatha, smiling at her brightly, eyes as bright and wild as her hair.

“A gift. For you,” Agatha revealed, taking her own step forward. Her lips trembled slightly, maybe from the cold or maybe from her nerves, Death does not know. But what she does know is Agatha just killed someone for her.

“Me?” Death breathed out, eyes wide and completely hypnotised by the beautiful gesture done for her.

Agatha attempted to step even closer but realised this was as close as she could get. The tip of her nose was just inches away from Death’s, the proximity immediately causing a shiver to run up her spine. “For you…my love,” she breathed out in confession, eager for Death’s reaction.

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

Death is a simp and Agatha kills witches to court her.

(So also a simp)

WARNINGS! -- (18+ ONLY) SEXUAL CONTENT, ABUSIVE MOTHER (physical and emotional), KILLING AND DEATH

River of Life

The first time Agatha encountered Death was as a mere babe, her eyes piercing swirls of blue, reflecting the dark forest and bright skies in which she was birthed. Her mother knew not of what she was, of what her future held, of the raw, addictive power that would always be within her grasp. But she knew something. Whether it was a feeling, a thought, or a sinister energy, she knew there would be something tragic about her babe as she looked down at her with sweaty hair clinging to rosy cheeks.

“What have I done?” Evanora Harkness whispers, her breath ragged and dull eyes tired yet impossibly wide with a feeling she was far too familiar with. Fear.

Agatha did not know it yet; did not know Magick, the world she was about to be thrown in without guidance, with a mother hellbent on making her suffer for simply existing. An abomination is what Evanora would say to her, over and over again, a twisted lullaby Agatha vowed to never inherit to her own babe, if she wished to have one.

Agatha Harkness does not recall her encounter with Death, but Death could never forget the feeling, the beat, thrum and rhythm of Agatha’s soul surfacing. Death felt the tug and pull but the feeling was new; it was not another soul awaiting collection, not one near the brink refusing to let go. Agatha’s call, to Death, was the complete opposite of the usual despair and dread. And Death made it their mission to figure out why.

Agatha had been on this plane for just a year, perhaps a few weeks more, when she took her first life. Still, centuries later, she remembers nothing of it, just the story her mother used as she degraded her, berated her, villainised her throughout her youth.

The story is a simple one, but oh-so-tragic. Whatever hatred her mother harboured for her grew into something even deeper, darker. There was no going back after that, no saving grace; each time she held her baby in her arms, Evanora struggled to feel an ounce of affection.

How could she for the person that killed her mother?

“Heed my words, Mother. There is something sinister about this child. Please, for my sake, for your babe, keep your distance,” Evanora pleaded, giving her Mother all the warnings she could possibly give.

Her Mother simply smiled at her, warm and understanding. “This child is your child, as you are mine. What you are experiencing is common, my dear. Every mother holds a little contempt for their child. After all, your body has been altered, shared, used for creation. Your identity shifted. You are no longer just Evanora Harkness, no longer just a witch, a member of this coven. You are a mother, first and foremost. And that duty is both a curse, and the highest blessing that the Divine Mother can give.”

It happened the next moon. Agatha wailed in her grandmother’s arms throughout the entire morning, ignoring the Sun’s demand for smiles. Milk? She’d spit it out and wail louder. Sleep? She’d shake the tiredness out of her eyes and wail louder yet. A kiss, a laugh, a smile so desperate for a little quiet; all mere distractions that Agatha was far too clever to fall for. She wanted one thing, and one thing only.

Her grandmother forgot Evanora’s warning. No Magick, she had said. The power may be too much, we are yet to know what she is capable of, yet to understand the effect Magick may have on her.

But the babe was so loud, so demanding, so…so wicked it drove the sanest witch to madness. She had no choice but to attempt to soothe her with Magick, just a quick lulling spell to put her to sleep, the same spell she had used on Evanora as a child. It was the tiniest drop, barely that, not wanting to harm her granddaughter. But all it took was a drop. That’s all it ever took to corrupt.

The wailing stopped, and so did the forest, their little village. The birds seized their squeaking; cows their mooing; horses their whining. At last, she felt as if she could finally breathe. But she would have treasured it more if she knew it would be her last. She began to choke as she sucked the crisp air in, eye snapping open at the swaying trees above. Was there danger nearby? Is this a spell from a witch of her past hellbent on revenge? What could she do to protect the babe in her arms?

She slowly lowered her head in between gasps, dread filling the remainder of her soul the moment she locked eyes with her granddaughter. They were no longer the river blues she had grown to love, but a purple. A shade so vivid it appeared angry and hungry. Hungry for more, and it took–No, she took, took as much as she could get all while sucking on her tiny thumb. The orange power force trailed from fingertip to cheek, the stream turning purple, and she could do nothing to stop it, could do nothing but watch as the flesh of her hand slowly sucked tight until it was nothing but bone.

At the drop of her body, the wailing began again, but it was not from the babe. She remained silent, her need finally fulfilled. Until her eyes landed on green. The colour was bright, welcoming, beautiful on the dress that caught her attention. She was but a child, flapping her hands with wide eyes at the new colour, and she then let out a squeal as another appeared. A purple azalea, sprouting out from inside the green person’s palm.

Agatha made not a single sound as she slept through the night, the flower crushed in her hard grip.

Death was typically impeccable with timing. They could sense it all; when people were ready, what they needed to be ready, when to show up for them. It was always for them. It was never something Death had to think about because it was duty and that was all. That was their…well, not really life, as to have a life means having an end to it and Death has no end. 

It is a burden weighed on their mind at times, on the rare occasion that the world was quiet. A burden, they thought, to not simply have a job but be a job, full of heavy purpose but just one, one thing to do for eternity. Yet be cursed with a mind. A mind capable of boredom, of deeper thought, thoughts that question that very purpose. This cannot be it. There has to be more, there has to be an end, though Death has been here so long they don’t remember the beginning. 

Back to time; time is duty. That is all it has ever been. But it has been a decade since…since that night, and all Death could think about was time. Why does it move slower than a chewing cow?

“By God’s bones…” Death swore, grunting as they strolled through the mist into yet another old man’s bedroom. “What is holding you back, Sir?” They asked in a monotone voice, wanting to move to the next as soon as possible.

The grey man coughed, somehow sounding dry and wet at once, and croaked. “My wife…I cannot leave my wife,” That made it the eighth time Death had heard this one in a night, the twentieth of the day, and the hundredth of the week.

With a deep sigh, Death waved their hand. “Edith will live a happy, safe, and full life. She will be at peace, so you may be.”

He coughed again, lips quivering before he revealed the real reason he could not let go. “She cannot wed another,” Of course. That made it the thirtieth out of the hundred.

Death clenched their jaw in frustration, contemplating what would cross the line of professionalism. Anger took over in the end. “Fine. Watch over her while another man beds her. Weap and suffer for all I care. The door is open for you, good sir, when you realise your wife is not a possession but her very own being! I know, sir, that thought must be entirely shocking to you, but Edith did live a life before you, and she will live another, and another, so long as she weds wilting old men thrice her age like you!”

With that, Death cut through the threshold and lept into the clouds, falling, falling, falling until there was nothing. They landed in a pile of leaves but felt nothing of the impact. They felt nothing, always, destined to serve and nobody can truly serve if they feel. 

The calls never stop, not really, but throughout the aeons, Death had learnt which ones to ignore. Time, again, is an all-powerful source. It can heal anything and everything. It had been a couple of minutes at the most and Death could feel old Jack passing through already having had the time to think about Edith’s happiness and his own need for peace.

But this next call, Death could not ignore, because they had only ever felt that twice. Once, eleven years ago, and another the following year. It hadn’t felt like a soul calling for Death, but a soul calling to Death, with a curiosity, an intrigue so strong it could not be ignored. Their knife ripped through time as they made their way to their destination.

Death chooses to watch. They are an observer, after all, existing only to guide when needed. They choose when to appear, and who to appear to. Being able to play with their form comes with its benefits, the biggest one being the chance to be unseen but still felt.

Step by step, Death moved closer and closer to that curious soul calling to her, until they saw her. Unmistakably, it was her. It was that babe in the forest that took her first kill at the age of one. One turn around the Sun was all it took for this power-hungry witch to yield to her higher calling. Her hair flowed down her back, wavy but not curly, dark but not black.

Death crushed a stick as they stepped closer to see what the girl was tilting her head at on the ground, but before they could get there, the girl’s head swooshed to the side. Their eyes locked. Time had never existed for Death, but if it did, they were sure it would be frozen at this moment.

“Who are you?” The girl demanded an answer, her voice youthful yet holding so much power, authority, the type that can only come with confidence in one’s abilities.

Death remained frozen; their eyes had never been this wide before. “Impossible,” they whispered, for the first time truly surprised. Death was meant to be hidden, they were sure of it. They were so sure, so sure they did not want to be seen by this girl, not yet, not before understanding what made her so different. This only added more questions to Death’s mind; how could she see their form?

Purple flares began to spark at the girl’s fingertips, enough to shake Death out of their daze and fade into a cloud of black-green smoke, but not before catching a glimpse of a bright purple azalea, the stem tucked behind the girl’s ear.

“You have always been a wicked girl,” The words slashing through Agatha’s heart hurt more than the hand slapping her across the face. Her cheek stung, and it would stay bright red at the very least until the Sun drew itself back into hiding. But the sting in her heart, her soul – whatever was left of it anyway with the absence of motherly love in her life – is what made Agatha cower and shrink within herself, turning away from her Mother.

“I did not mean to, Mother. Please…if you could only teach me how to control it,” she pleaded for forgiveness, for her Mother to show her an ounce of mercy and not punish her for something she cannot be blamed for.

But Evanora simply scowled and struck her daughter down again, and again, until she was lying on the ground curled up like a powerless infant. “You must learn to behave the way a witch is expected to! But what else can I expect from you? You are no witch, you have no power of your own. All you have is greed.”

Agatha snapped her head up, revealing her tear-stained cheeks as she yelled. “And all you have is hate! I am your daughter, Mother! Am I–Am I not your flesh and–and your blood?” Her voice cracked as vulnerability broke through, her eyes shining with a desperation to be loved.

Evanora shushed her with a simple look, a dark one that hid any affection she may be holding, any sympathy left in her heart. Crouching down like a predator intimidating its prey, she gripped Agatha’s chin in her hand, fingers digging into sensitive skin, and hissed. “You…are an abomination.”

A gust of wind rushed through the woods powerful enough to push Evanora back a step or two, forcing her hand away from her daughter’s trembling face. The toxic mix of emotions running through Agatha’s body had her too distracted to notice what had just happened; she ignored Evanora’s confusion and curious eyes cautiously analysing the trees around them. 

Standing on shaky feet with soil digging under her nails, Agatha screeched. “I hate you!” The forest shook with her, a few branches ripping off as her purple blasted towards her Mother. The elder is pushed back again, harder this time, her feet dragging the soil and disrupting the flow of grass.

“Enough!” Evanora yelled with weakened authority, her voice trembling with fear, eyebrow twitching at the shiver she could feel running down her spine. This was not just Agatha; there was someone else here, something else, powerful and just as angry if not angrier.

Agatha growled, her blue eyes turning darker as swirls of purple threatened to overtake them. She was close to letting them, so very close to blasting her Mother over and over again until she truly understood the meaning of power, real, raw power. Maybe then she would understand why Agatha was the way she was and why it was an impossible task to control what she had.

Her fingers expertly twirled, playing with her food as she swirled her Magick around, forming a ball. But before she could throw it, a flicker of green caught her attention. Just a gleam, small but so bright in the corner of her vision. She turned nonetheless, distracted as her mind attempted to pinpoint where she remembered that shade from. It only took her a moment to remember and she trailed off into the forest to follow, her trembling Mother’s gasps and protests falling onto deaf ears.

She had walked this forest her entire life, all thirty-five years, and knew it better than most. This was her comfort. The trees could never reject her, abandon her, disregard her like she was nothing. As far as she was concerned, her flesh was hardened wood and blood the sweet maple that runs through these trunks. And, oh, how sweet they were, always sparing a drop for her as she pleased. They did not reject her but please her, bend to her will, sway and rustle her to sleep on the nights she had nowhere to go, no bed to sleep on but the bed of fallen leaves that soaked her tears in. The fourth time, she returned to a bed of azaleas, believing she had grown them with her tears, that her pain held the strongest Magick. So she began to embrace the hurt and let it fuel her.

“Do you know what they signify?”

Agatha spun around towards the husky yet feminine voice but found nothing but an endless forest. She squinted as she scouted the area, eyes swivelling between branches and logs, leaves and bright flowers. She knows this forest and therefore knows all its hiding spots; no one could hide from her here.

It seemed she had found her match. She decided the best way to get them to come out and play was to join the game. “That depends on the colour, dear,” She replies lightly, hands open by her sides, making sure purple swirls were bright enough for her new friend – or enemy – to see. She may be playful, may be a young witch still, but she has power, more than any singular witch could hold.

“Purple?” The voice asked, echoed, lingering while their body disappeared yet again. But before they could, Agatha caught that green again.

Focus, she told herself, her eyes fluttering shut as she honed in her senses. The forest went silent in her ears, hearing nothing but the pounding of her heart. She searched for another, tilting her head as her teeth ground together in frustration.

“I do not have one,” The voice spoke again, this time sounding less playful – just a smidge, but enough for a woman like Agatha to figure out, “A heart, that is. If that is what you are searching for,” They sounded closer this time, just behind her. So close, that Agatha could feel the heat of a body behind her own. Or, rather, energy would be the better word as all she could feel was ice. So incredibly cold it forced a shiver to attack her body.

“Every living being has one,” Agatha replied, taking in a deep breath as she leaned back towards the danger.

A gulp, audible. “And if I dare to tell you the truth, that…that I am not? Living?” 

It took a couple of seconds until Agatha let her eyes fall open, this time finding herself staring into wide eyes. Not just eyes, no, there was nothing ordinary about those eyes, so dark yet bright, deep yet empty, brown, so beautifully brown like the very trunks of those sweet maple trees Agatha loves so dearly. Agatha’s lips stretched into the widest smile she had ever given.

“Death comes for us all.”

Beautiful is all that echoed in Death’s head, over and over again, so loud it cannot be an echo but a scream, a constant reminder to ensure she never forgets how precious she is. ‘She’, being the witch that haunts Death’s silent hours. It used to be quiet in their head on the rare occasion that souls pass through on their own without the need for a guide. Those moments they cherished, being able to think clearly, or not think at all, just…exist. Now Death exists with Agatha, and cannot imagine existing without her.

After revealing themself to the witch, the two became inseparable. Where Agatha walked, Death followed, hiding from everyone else but remaining visible and oh-so beautifully green to Agatha.

“Do you have a name?” Agatha once asked them, building up the courage to ask after a few weeks spent in tension, the two navigating their blossoming…friendship? 

Death waited a moment, leaning back against the tree trunk before shrugging. “Death.”

Agatha rolled those blue eyes and Death cursed her for hiding them away. “No, a real name,” Agatha teased with no harm in her words, just a curiosity glinting in her eyes as she turned to scan Death’s expressionless face.

“That is all I have been known as. All I have known myself as.”

Agatha promptly dropped the topic after that, never mentioning it again. She simply observed. She was always observing, always analysing, measuring, plotting. Her mother called her wicked for it. Death was there for every insult, jaw tight and fists white. They’d step in on occasion, of course without Evanora knowing what was truly happening, but Agatha would cackle a sound so joyful if Death had a heart it would sure flutter in their chest, hard enough to fly out straight into Agatha’s open arms.

“What are you exactly?” Agatha asked, looking down at Death’s soft face in her lap. It took all her self-control to not brush her thumb over Death’s pink lips.

Death huffed and shrugged again. “Death.”

“Lady Death?” Agatha teased, her nails gently scratching underneath Death’s cold jaw.

Death contemplated for a moment. Their form was always changing, their true form not confined to a gender. But the form they had chosen with Agatha was a female one, soft yet dangerously sharp. And she seemed to like it. “Well. If I were to remain a Lady, would you like me more?” They tried to keep desperation leaking from their tone but it was impossible around Agatha given the smirk she gave them. 

“Perhaps.” 

Death sunk their head deeper into Agatha’s soft thighs and thought about being called her. Keeping this form, perhaps choosing to walk this plane and blend in with its people, getting to know them before taking their souls. It could be fun. “Then I will use this form for as long as I live. Which is eternity, I suppose. What a thought.” Death let her thoughts drift as her eyes fluttered shut; no, she cannot ever sleep, but she can rest. It’s only Agatha’s presence that can make her feel this serene. 

Her sweet Agatha let her fingers trail from her cheek to her hair, gently running her fingers through it, hiding it behind her ears to keep her sharp features exposed. “I like you as you are,” She whispered before leaning down and pressing the softest of kisses across Death’s brow.

She froze, expecting to feel tension, fear, discomfort at being touched this way. It had been many centuries since Death had let someone touch her like this, having found little pleasure in exposing her true vulnerability to others, uncomfortable with the thought of loving and wanting just for mortal bodies to inevitably rot. But there is no fear here. She had never been dealt with in such a gentle way, an almost motherly way. It made her feel cared for like never before. When her eyes fluttered back open, they met with the sky and she saw no storm in them.

That day wasn’t any different to another. Death collected body after body – though she was calmer in nature than usual – her mind flickering back to her love. Well, Agatha was not her love. Not yet, anyway, not until Death grew enough courage to ask, to take that step forward as they both gazed into each other’s eyes for hours on end. It was a game, Agatha said, to see who blinks first. The loser gets a flick on the nose. Agatha’s nose always ended up red as a tomato by the time the Sun falls; Death would never blink and risk missing the shift of a swirl of blue, or a cloud forming behind those eyes she has come to crave. 

There is so much life in them, she thinks. And as Death, life was never something that fascinated her. It was something she only took. It was duty. A life ended every second so she never really stopped to think about just how long that life was, what they achieved, what they did during their time. That is what makes it precious; that there is a time, time for it to end. She wonders what Agatha will do with hers.

“I am not ready, please, do not take me away, God, please–”

Death shook her head. “Not God,” she corrected, leaning against the ledge of the open doorway to the Other Side, “Death. It comes for us all, and you must be ready to let go.”

The woman shrieked, wailed, refused to budge from her spot on the soil next to her son. He lay there, dreaming, unaware of his Mother’s passing. The flu took her, was strong enough to take her as it had been the fourth time it attacked her in the month. But she could not afford the help, could not conjure up a spell, knew little of the herb mixtures. She did not eat, did not drink the water other travellers were kind enough to lend; everything must be for her son. She told herself if she were to pass it would be fine as long as he survived, but now that the time has come, she refused to believe it to be true.

Death leaned down behind her, her touch gentle against the woman’s trembling back. “You do not want to see what becomes of the soul that lingers. He would not want to see you as that,” she whispered soothingly, convincingly, “Peace is on the Other Side. And you will reunite soon.”

The woman’s sobs slowly ceased until she was simply stroking his head with a shaking hand, tucking his curled hair behind his ears. The gesture reminded Death of her Agatha. She wanted nothing more than to return to her at that moment, for that hand on her cheek again, the tips of those fingers tracing every bone, structure, curve on her face and she feigned sleep.

“Will he…will he be okay?” She asked, standing up and turning to look Death in the eyes.

Death nodded. “He will. The world does not stop moving, and neither will he.”

Death will always show up when Agatha calls for her. Always. She made a promise to be there, be present, be watching, and she intends to live up to that promise. This call felt different though, there was a twinge of anxiety in her call, a hint of fear, and it immediately terrified her. What if something terrible has happened? What if Agatha was attacked? Was it her Mother again, or worse, the entire coven? It wouldn’t take much for them to turn on her, not with Evanora’s influence. 

What started as a bad mother-daughter relationship had turned into something darker, something wicked, rooted in evil. Death had seen a lot in her lifetime; she is no stranger to cruelty, and that is all she saw in Evanora’s treatment of her flesh and blood. So when she hurried back, revealing herself in Agatha’s forest in a cloud of green smoke, she was surprised to see the witch with a grin on her face. Wide, excited, but also hesitant.

“Agatha? Is everything alright?” Death asked, stepping forward over the broken branches on the ground. With a flick of her hand, they curled together into the soil, new roots twisting and digging in to grow strong in a couple of weeks.

The witch was dressed in a purple gown, a darker shade than usual, with a white one underneath to preserve modesty – though she was thinking nothing but immodest thoughts at the sight of Death with that green cloak she never takes off. Before Agatha could utter a word, Death spun her head to the side, hearing another call.

“She–She did this to me!” The soul yelled at her, emerging from behind a tree. An older woman, hair silky and grey twisted into a braid. She pointed a finger, bony and the tips black at Agatha. 

Death followed the finger’s aim, seeing Agatha’s eyes directly on her, not being able to see the soul of the other witch. “Did you do this?” She asked Agatha who could only grin wider, teeth pearly white. “Why?” There was no judgement in her tone. No anger, disappointment, nothing that a small part of Agatha feared there would be. No, there was only intrigue, a dark look in her brown eyes.

Show me Death, Agatha thought. “A gift,” she whispered, her voice travelling through to Death’s confused ears.

“A gift?” She repeated, stepping forward. The dead witch’s protests were easily ignored now; Death’s only focus was Agatha. Agatha, smiling at her brightly, eyes as bright and wild as her hair.

“A gift. For you,” Agatha revealed, taking her own step forward. Her lips trembled slightly, maybe from the cold or maybe from her nerves, Death does not know. But what she does know is Agatha just killed someone for her.

“Me?” Death breathed out, eyes wide and completely hypnotised by the beautiful gesture done for her.

Agatha attempted to step even closer but realised this was as close as she could get. The tip of her nose was just inches away from Death’s, the proximity immediately causing a shiver to run up her spine. “For you…my love,” she breathed out in confession, eager for Death’s reaction. 

My love. Her love. Agatha’s love. Love, love, love…

“Yours…” Death whispered back, brushing her nose to Agatha’s, the touch making them both jolt inside. It took everything in her, all the power she could hold in her lifeless body to pull away, “But you cannot,” but she did.

Agatha’s hands immediately reached for Death, holding her close before she could flee from this. “I can. I do, my love,” my love, “I want you. Only you, since the moment I gazed into your eyes,” Agatha continued, unable to stop now that she had finally said the words, “Your eyes, my, I simply knew it when they reminded me of my forests, of these trees, those sweet maple trees…I knew that no sweetness would ever match you, my love, my sweet, my life.”

Agatha’s hand, up her neck, both tight yet soft against Death’s jaw. It would take a step, just one, an inch to close the gap, to give in to Agatha’s hot breath and sweet, plump lips. But she cannot. Not when Agatha has her entire life ahead of her, great things to do, power to steal, witches to kill…the things she could do, and all Death was planning to do was watch and admire from afar. She will not hold Agatha Harkness back from greatness.

“I–Agatha, you charm me, warm me so, but I cannot be life, not what I am Death. I am a plague, I cannot be with you for all my time–” 

Her witch shook her head fast, holding Death’s face in her hands. “You do not have to be. I will carry you, like so,” she held Death’s gentle hand to her heart, beating loud and proud for Death to hear.

But she thinks of what it would feel like to have to leave Agatha. To have to step away when another soul calls for her, if another war was to break out and she’d spend weeks away from the one person she wanted to be near. “But I want to. I have never wanted in my existence, Agatha…until you.”

“Then show me,” Agatha breathed, demanded, “Then take me,” Death’s hand curled against Agatha’s chest, crawling up to her pale neck, slowly losing all control over herself at the husky change in Agatha’s voice, “Claim me.”

The last loosened string of her rope of self-control broke by those words, the love and lust in her darkened eyes, the desperate desire dripping out of her tone. Death could no longer hold back, silencing the screaming dead witch with a single swipe of her hand that pushed her through the gateway to the Other Side, leaving Agatha’s hot pants as the only sound in her ears.

First, she didn’t know where to put her hands because she wanted them everywhere, but she settled on one at the waist, pulling Agatha flush against her, and the other at her jaw, holding her face near. She had to gaze into her eyes long enough to memorise the change in them, Agatha no longer holding her feelings back, and the pure adoration was enough for Death to finally break the distance between them.

The moment their lips touched, Death was certain she felt a cosmic shift in the universe; that had to explain why she felt a clench in her entire body, in the empty space her heart was meant to be. Their lips slid together and connected like they were made together and split at creation. As if Death had been here from the creation of the universe for the very sole purpose of waiting and waiting and waiting for Agatha to be here, to be hers.

It was innocent, just two mouths moving against each other, until Death let a tongue slip and Agatha let a moan slip. What became of them was far from innocent. Wandering, gripping hands, a body shoved against a tree, then body shoved against body. Mouth from closed to open, tongues gliding together in an unholy, dangerous dance, and the sounds. The soft ones of Agatha sighing against her lips, the sharp breaths Death had to take in at each scratch of Agatha’s nails, her love’s intoxicating whines when Death pulled back just to look at her before kissing her again.

“You killed for me,” Death whispered, not bothering to hide the love and fascination in her tone.

Agatha pulled back with a shy grin, chewing on her bottom lip which made them look even more enticing. “I am unaccustomed to courting Lady Death herself, so I did the best I could,” she leaned back in to quickly peck Death’s lips, “She was a bad, bad witch.”

Death gulped at her husky tone. “Was she?”

“Mhm,” Agatha nodded, raising a thigh against Death’s hips, forcing their lower halves closer together, “She was a bully, a mean old lady that preyed on youthful, more beautiful witches, babies really, who simply wanted help controlling their magic.”

Death brushed her lips against Agatha’s jaw, leaving a ghost of a kiss on her skin. “And what did she do with them?” Kisses under her jaw, stronger kisses down her neck, a bite at the junction between her neck and shoulder.

Agatha gasped at the sensation of teeth, nails digging into Death’s scalp which the latter found deliciously painful. “Took their power for her own until there was nothing left but flesh and bone.”

“And what did you do?”

“Don’t stop, please, my love,” Agatha whined against Death’s parted lips, legs stretched wide to make room for her lover’s hand.

Death chuckled, low and breathless. “I would stay this way for eternity, if I could.”

She stayed as long as she could; each and every moment she could spare, Death would find herself back in Agatha’s forest, the only place she found comfort. It would always be Agatha’s arms, Agatha’s eyes, Agatha’s legs so long and pretty, always wide open to invite her in. 

“Harder, please,” she begged. The begging was something meant to give power to Death, something that should only happen when Agatha has been teased and frustrated to the point of no return. But her cunning little witch has figured out a way to switch it around. She begs constantly, begs in that whiney tone, moaning it right into Death’s ear before biting down on her neck. She could never resist Agatha like that, and the witch knew it with that telling smirk.

“So warm,” Death muttered against Agatha’s pulse point, having made it a habit to nuzzle her nose right there, right where she could almost feel the throbbing of her heart. And the throbbing of something else.

Agatha clenched around her lover’s fingers, pulling her in deeper. “Please, can you not feel me, dear? How wet you make me, how badly I need you?” Agatha whined again, still teasing but with a hint of real desperation in her voice.

While Death was simply taking her time admiring being this close to Agatha, it seemed her witch had become impatient. With this, she discovered a way to spin this back in her favour…all Death had to do was hold on.

“Oh, I know, my love, you feel so warm around my fingers…” Death curled them a little just to extract a gasp from Agatha’s lips, before pulling away from her neck to shoot her a sinister smirk, “I wonder…Will you feel as warm around my tongue?”

The suggestion alone caused Agatha to let out a filthy moan coated with desperation. Death was too slow to kiss down her sweaty, writhing body, too languid with her kisses and marks over Agatha’s stomach. Agatha could hang on, could beg and beg with that same smirk as she refused to drop the power, until she looked down to see Death’s eyes. Wide, blown, brown, so beautifully powerful yet filled with worship. For her.

“God, please, please, please, I cannot! I cannot wait longer, my love, I need you, I need your tongue, please do not make me wait a moment longer!” Agatha completely broke, her walls tumbling down as she begged, truly begged, without that wicked smirk. 

Finally, Death thought, unblinking as she looked up and relished the image, the sounds, her little witch succumbing to madness for something as simple as a tongue. Her hair, wild and free, frizzed from the heat of their lovemaking; her eyes dark and blown enough to almost hide the blue; her lips, swollen and bruised from their harsh kisses. Death’s hand reached up to gently grip her chest, thumb gently rubbing against a perked nipple. This only made her witch wail louder, arch into her further, wanting all she could take.

“As you wish, my love,” she whispered against her glistening lips before swiping through her slit, immediately moaning at the heavenly taste. Her hand abandoned Agatha’s chest so she could wrap it around her behind, squeezing her impossibly closer.

She had never heard her witch this excited before, this broken, this mad as she thrashed and writhed against Death so hard that the latter had to use her other hand to hold her down. She gently pressed against the patch of hair just under Agatha’s stomach, enough pressure to keep her in place.

This was about Agatha, of course, it was about Agatha’s pleasure, but once Death got a taste? She never wanted to taste anything else ever again. She didn’t dare stop, just as Agatha had wanted, even as her witch cried and pushed at her head, having been pushed over the edge twice already. There would be a day. Death was so sure of it, so sure that there would be a day in the future when this would end, when Agatha would have enough of the disappearing, the Death that always follows, the inability to…to build a life with a family. And she wanted to make sure Agatha would be absolutely ruined for anyone else. No one would be able to make her feel as good as Death could. No one.

Death had Agatha every time and every place she could get her. Against a maple tree with Agatha’s legs wrapped tightly around her waist; in a bed of beautifully vivid azalea flowers Death conjured up; in Agatha’s creaky bed when Death appeared in a cloud of green in the middle of the night. They were tested to their limits to remain quiet that last time, but the thrill of risking Evanora’s angry appearance had Agatha clenching particularly tight against Death’s fingers.

“I wish to give you a name,” her thoughtful witch interrupted the silence between them, “if you would allow it.”

Death scoffed playfully. “Allow? I am not your Mother. Though she should not have the power to control you, anyway,” she added, wrapping her arms just a little tighter around her witch.

Agatha hummed, burrowing her face into Death’s neck. “I love when you are protective over me,” she claimed vulnerably, leaving a gentle kiss against the cold skin she found there. She left another, and another as she trailed her kisses up along Death’s sharp jawline.

Their eyes met, a soft look shared between them as words were shared in silence. 

I will always protect you.

I will always love you for it.

Agatha sighed as she shuffled around in Death’s arms, resting her back on her lover’s chest. They peacefully lay together, watching the gentle stream of the river they stumbled upon.

“Rio…” Agatha mumbled thoughtlessly, on the verge of falling asleep.

Death’s arms tightened. “What was that?”

Agatha lazily hummed, holding Death’s hands in her own. “Rio. It means river. I stumbled upon some travellers once. They taught me a few phrases of their language.”

Death kept her gaze on the stream, watching the water smash against the rocks and tumble into the fallen tree that stretches from one side of the river to the other. Wordlessly, she circles a finger against the back of Agatha’s palm, eyes on the tree as she carefully sprouts a fresh bed of flowers on it.

Agatha let out a soft, fond giggle at the colours. “Rio Vidal. River of life.”

Rio Vidal. Though she is Death and believes she can never be life, upon waking from her nap Agatha claimed Rio rushed into her life like a river, brightening it without a doubt, pulling her from the dark depths of her mind. 

“You are Death, yet I did not know Life until I met you.”

“Must you guide everyone?” Agatha asked curiously, her fingers playing with Rio’s hair. The latter mumbled against Agatha’s naked chest, reluctantly shuffling to rest her chin against Agatha’s stomach.

“Just the ones that require it,” Rio answered, leaving a gentle kiss against a bright purple mark she left just a few minutes ago, “The ones that struggle to let go…or the ones I feel drawn to.” Rio licked a stripe up Agatha’s stomach, so soft for her she could fall asleep in seconds if her body would allow her the privilege.

“You feel drawn to others?” Agatha said with a dramatic gasp, playfully gripping a fistful of Rio’s hair. She pulled her up, Rio reluctant to move so quickly past Agatha’s full, marked chest. Her tongue managed a swipe against a nipple before her lips reached her lover’s.

Rio sighed against Agatha’s lips. “Not like this. I—Never. Never before,” she confessed in a moment of vulnerability, seeking any sign of discomfort in Agatha’s eyes but finding none, nothing but glee.

Agatha connected their lips in a slow, sensual kiss. “Do you feel them?” She pulled back to ask, leaning back in right away.

Rio moaned into the kiss, fingers tightly gripping Agatha’s curves. “Every single one of them,” she whispered.

“How many do you feel now?” Agatha breathed into Rio’s mouth, twisting her hips until their thighs parted for each other, hips slotting together, slick against slick. They both gasped at the sensation, Rio immediately starting a rhythm with a slow, languid roll of her hips.

She wanted to tell the truth, wanted to scream ‘All of them! Every single one passes through like a thousand pricks to my skin’. But she takes one look. One look into those bluest of blues, those that capture the calmest trail of the morning skies and the silkiest glimmer of the gentlest waves so beautifully…so beautifully that she wishes she was not who she was. Wishes she was not The Original Green Witch, Death itself, a higher being burdened with knowledge. Rio wishes she was a simple mortal who knew nothing, for the simple want of being able to look into Agatha’s eyes and then, only then, truly believe that Magick does exist. Because she does.

She settles with, “I only feel you.”

They hadn’t said it just yet. My love at the end of a sentence is one thing, a simple term of endearment, though it does carry a heavy weight between them. But saying the actual words? Acknowledging that this thing between them is real love, a once-in-a-lifetime love? Hell, Rio would go as far as saying soulmates, if she had a soul, that is. They hadn’t said the words yet, though they spend every waking moment together, every moment they can. Though Rio has not taken another lover and she assumes – prays – Agatha has not either.

Clearly, it had been on Agatha’s mind given their next meeting after a week or so apart was tense. Rio felt it the moment she appeared, felt the distance Agatha was forcing between them. She allowed a kiss, and another, but after that she began to stroll aimlessly, trusting the forest to navigate for her. 

Rio followed – she always will – with her hands in a tight clench behind her back. She dared to let her thoughts run into the wildest directions yet. Will Agatha end this? Had she realised she did not want Rio–Death to follow her to the ends of the universe? Had she simply had her fill and–

“It may be,” Agatha suddenly spoke, still keeping her walk, eyes to the soil, “presumptuous of me to think we are something more. Something real and serious—”

Rio could not help but frown, leaping forward to shake Agatha, turn her around and hold her blushed cheeks. “Do you not know how I feel for you? Really?” She truly was in shock at the assumption, now analysing her previous actions. Every passionate kiss, every longing gaze, every gentle touch. How could Agatha doubt her? As if she does not have Death wrapped around her soul.

“Let me finish. Please?” Agatha pleaded and Rio had never been one to resist that, so Agatha nodded and continued with slightly trembling lips, “But I do not care. You may feel what you feel but I am certain of how I feel and I wanted to do this for you. It’s small, really, just a—”

Rio is thrown back to the first time Agatha gifted her something, that old witch’s soul. “A gift? For me?” She couldn’t help but lean in and gently kiss her. Once she pulled back, Agatha’s cheeks were even pinker, eyes bluer.

“Of course, my love,” Agatha allowed Rio another moment of indulgence, sighing into the passionate kiss Rio initiated. Her hands wrapped behind her lover’s neck, nails scratching against her scalp in the way she knows Rio loves.

“You are too good to me,” Rio moaned out as she pulled back for a moment, leaning back in to steal another kiss, but her lips ended up against Agatha’s palm.

It seemed the forest paused with Rio as she waited for Agatha to turn back around. The witch had her back to Death now, her hands swirling her purple Magick until she uncloaked Rio’s gift.

Turning back around, equally as giddy as Rio, Agatha presented her with a box. Rio’s shaking hands took it, held it like it was the most fragile, precious thing to her. It really was beautiful, a dark, forest green with intricate patterns painted purple. She traced them with a finger, gently feeling the bumps. It felt like Magick, like she was conjuring up a spell.

“May I?” Rio asked, hands shaking at this point.

Agatha nodded and with that she unclasped the box, revealing…

A heart. Anatomical, true to size, and the darkest of blacks Rio has seen. It was glossy, shiny, almost slick as if covered in black blood. With parted lips, Rio was ready to thank Agatha, until her words caught in her throat at the sound. A pulse. The pulse was there, loud, throbbing, so loud Rio was sure she’d hear it across the universe. 

“How?” She gasped, unable to take her eyes off it. A shaky finger grazed against the heart, tracing the veins and arteries.

“Magick,” Agatha raised her hand, tender and impossibly sweet against Rio’s cold skin. She warmed instantly at the touch, leaning into it without a second thought. It was hard to move her eyes from her new gift, but Agatha’s hand gently raised her head, and Rio was met with raw honesty, “As long as there is Magick in my veins, as long as my own heart beats…so will yours.”

“You–You did–Agatha, I do not know how to repay you for something like this. You are too good to me, my love, far more than I deserve,” Rio struggled to accept something like this, love like this. It was not something she thought was even allowed for her. It felt wrong, to be Death yet have a love so strong, to feel so strongly.

“Well, if you wish to repay me…” Agatha trailed on playfully, stepping back and leaning against a tree. Her fingers, cunning yet delicate, tug at her dress slowly. The hem rises from her ankles, up, up, up to reveal glistening lips and a patch of dark hair. Agatha bit her bottom lip, failing to hide her seductive grin and giddy anticipation for Death to pounce at her.

Oh, Rio will spend centuries repaying her.

Loving Agatha was unlike anything Rio had ever experienced. It came as naturally as her job, something she did not need to think about but just did. Like loving Agatha was something she was made to do. Rio quickly found that she would love her no matter what. 

Agatha with a sorry-not-sorry smile as Rio collects yet another soul pointing an accusatory finger at her wicked witch. Death simply smiled back, shoving her lover against the nearest tree and punishing her with a wild kiss.

“Yes, punish me, Rio, take me soul…take my virtue…” Agatha would whimper and moan, thrashing against her playfully, her head always coming back with a grin that stretched across her cheeks.

Agatha with angry tears streaking down her face at Rio’s disappearing acts, having missed her dearly, left alone for weeks on end.

“–and you just abandon me when I need you most!” Agatha yelled, screeched, smashed her fists at Rio’s chest, “Just as you promised to never do. Does your word mean nothing?”

“My word means everything,” Rio broke her silence at that, gripping Agatha’s chin in a single hand when she looked away, “No. Look at me while I speak with you, Agatha,” she demanded, risking an authoritative tone against her quick-tempered witch, “My work is not abandonment. It is something I must do, but please, please, my love, believe my words when I say you torture my mind every second I am away from you.”

Agatha rolled her eyes with a scoff. “Oh, you cannot feel pain. Do not take me for a fool, Death.”

“I told you that because I never have. Until you. Until I started to want, and the simple thought of losing what I want…tickles,” she held Agatha’s hand to her stomach, “right here. It’s twisted and rotten. It eats at me, and I do not know what it is–”

“It’s fear.”

“Fear,” Rio repeated, voice softer, almost in a mumble as she contemplated the word, the feeling. It took her a moment but she focused back on Agatha with a sigh and gentle kiss against her pouty, angry lips, “I would sooner abandon my power than walk away from you, my love. You must know this.”

Agatha took a sharp breath at that, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. “Then do it.”

Rio, of course, meant her words in a metaphorical sense. Not because she would not do it in a heartbeat if she could, but because she simply couldn’t. She had been here since the beginning of time, collecting souls that would be lost, aimless and eventually angry without her. There is no replacement for Death; it comes for all, and all means all, past, present and future.

“I wish it were possible,” she whispered, frowning as Agatha pulled back from her yet again, this time moving to the other side of her room, “My love, please, you must know this is something I cannot give,” Rio pleaded, only following her with her eyes, “I have had only one wish and that is to be with you, always, forever,” Agatha continued to ignore her, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out of her small window. Rio knew not what to do to comfort her lover, knowing her deeply enough to see when she needed space. She dropped her head down in defeat, “I will not walk away from you. But I will let you have your moment. Summon me when you–”

Agatha scoffed, sharply turning her head with a glare planted firmly across her brows. “Summon? Oh, of course, you’re just going to disappear yet again–”

Rio sighed heavily with a fond smile. “My love, I will be sitting on the steps outside.”

“Oh.”

“And I will ignore every cry for me. Yours is the only one I care to listen for.”

With that, Rio shut the door gently behind her, stepping down and taking her seat. She must be ready for a numb behind as this would sure be a long wait. She does hear them all the time, constantly. Some are loud, souls screaming for answers, for help. But there are some quiet ones, soft sobbing that can almost feel soothing to hear. She focused on those souls, lulling them from here with whispers of ‘Soon. You will be at peace.’ But Agatha must be at peace first. She will always come first.

“Come to bed, my love,” Agatha’s voice startled Rio who was more than ready to dissociate by listening to her crying souls. It must have been less than an hour, she thought, looking behind her shoulder at her witch now in her bedclothes.

“As you wish,” Rio nodded her head once, following Agatha silently. They moved together routinely, Agatha stripping Rio of her green cloak, dress, leaving her in black undergarments. There is water for them both, though Rio needs none; she always takes a sip just to appease her lover, allowing her to indulge in the fantasy that they are simply Agatha and Rio, two lovers with no higher burden to shoulder.

Agatha sighed, only allowing her tears to fall again once she was safe in Rio’s arms. The latter pulled her closer once she heard the sobs and felt Agatha shake in her arms. Perhaps this is Agatha’s torture, that she only finds comfort in the very arms that are destined to hurt her.

“I hate that I love you,” Agatha sobbed harder, her words breaking a piece of Rio’s black heart. But Death could only shoulder it, dropping a kiss to the top of Agatha’s nest of hair.

“I am angry, my love. Angry that I am what I am, that I cannot be what you need me to be. I wish we were as simple as my love is for you. I wish it were easy, that I were easy. I wish I could hold you like this forever, that you may lay your head on my chest and hear my heart, God, I wish I had one. A real one, just to tell you it beats for you and only you,” Agatha’s breathing slowed as her sobs began to cease, “I let myself dream, sometimes. That I work as a tradesman, and that you are my…You are my wife. That I must leave you and you cry and strike and beg me to stay, and in my dream I…I am able to stay. I do it in a heartbeat, leave my work behind, build us a home, grow crops and trade from our very doorstep so I may spend not a single moment away from you. I dream, and I weep. I weep with want because I have never wanted to be anything other than what I am until I met you, and now…all I ever want to be, Agatha Harkness…is yours.”

Rio knew Agatha had fallen asleep moments ago. She let her tears fall freely.

Unfortunately, a war had broken out halfway across the globe. Long-bearded men with angry features, and thick, sluggish eyebrows, all hellbent on holding on to continue fighting. Rio had already been there for weeks, spending hours and hours on end to convince soul after soul to walk through to the Other Side. At the hundred point, she realised most of these men were only respectful to other men, so she changed her form to something they were bound to bow to. It did speed up the process significantly, but the numbers had been astronomically large so Rio did not return for months. Yet again.

By the time Rio’s head was clear enough to hear Agatha over the other souls, it was too late. She heard her, loud and clear, her cry covered in pure fear and sadness. Rio transported over in seconds, trading the grounds of war for something she feared was worse. Grabbing the nearest tree, she hid behind it just to catch her breath, to close her eyes tight and hope Agatha was safe behind her, safe and her soul still attached to her physical body.

“Mother, please!” Rio turned around at the loud cry, immediately sprinting towards the sound. By the time she reached them, their corpses dropped to the ground, weightless. Agatha stood at the stake, ropes discarded, vivid swirls of her purple Magick clouding around her. She looked…

“Agatha…” Rio whispered, gasped, unable to take her eyes off her.

The witch slowly turned her head, her eyes unrecognisable, purple, and absolutely filled to the brim with power, the sheer force of power sharpening her facial features. “They should have taught me to control it,” she said nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders before cackling louder than before, a wicked sound that had Death stuttering. Was this a test? Had Agatha finally found the bravery to show Rio her true self? One witch at a time until this grand finale.

“Agatha…” she whispered again, slowly descending to her knees. 

Whether it was in fear, disappointment, or loyalty, Agatha did not know. All she knew was power, the power she had just stolen from her coven, from her Mother who had tortured her enough and decided it was time to end Agatha’s life. Fools. Every single one of them.

Facing them was a fearful challenge but facing Rio at this point proved to be more terrifying than anything imaginable. If she were to turn to her and see those eyes filled with defeat, disappointment, even anger? Agatha would not know what to do with herself. How could she continue on a life without her Rio in it?

“Do not dare feel shame for the power you possess,” Rio’s voice was unwavering, strong and sure, “If my power would not kill you, I would…” she paused this time, stuttering.

Agatha turned her head, her eyes flashing purple to her lover. “You would…what?” she asked, getting closer by making a show of floating over the dead bodies with balls of purple in her fists. Rio could not keep her eyes off Agatha, especially as she got close enough for them to share the crisp air of death. The witch gripped Rio’s chin in her hand, eyes dark and dangerous, “Spit it out.”

There was a moment of silence between them, both their eyes wide and lips parted. It is a game of power, Rio thought. That is what love is. You choose to take it or give it up. And in this moment, she wished she had not an ounce of it in her bones. 

“You want power?” Rio husked out, shoving a hand against Agatha’s chest until the witch had fallen into a bed of flowers. Agatha noted there should be nothing but wet soil and broken branches on the ground, but her Green Witch was persistent in her sweetness, “Control?” Rio whispered, making a show of arching her back as she climbed into Agatha’s lap. The witch shook with nerves, lust, and excitement all at once, settling her trembling hands onto Rio’s hips, “Then take it,” Take me.

The cold wind stopped gushing for a moment, waiting for Agatha’s answer, but the witch could only look at Rio and think she really would end up being the Death of her. Their kiss sealed their fate for centuries to come, the path ahead set in stone. Rio had seen the worst of her, had all the warnings of the chaos and destruction bound to come, yet there she was, in Agatha’s lap with her head thrown back in submission.

Rio moaned Agatha’s name with each controlled bite the latter left on her neck. It was an angry scraping of tongue and teeth, lips leaving a brief, gentle kiss as if to soothe the red heat. “That’s it, sweetheart, take me, take all of me,” Rio panted into Agatha’s ears, licking down her neck filthily, rolling her hips against Agatha’s with desperate, untamed desire. Seeing her witch like that, high on power, gifting Rio souls, so dangerous, had driven Rio to madness.

Agatha whined into Rio’s neck at her words, one of her hands finding its way between her lover’s legs. Rio spread them as best as she could in this position, glad she wore a less complicated dress, a green gown of sorts. She bunched it up around her hips, revealing her naked half to Agatha who immediately pounced with her delicate fingers.

“Yes…” Rio hissed, moaned, whimpered as the witch brushed her thumb against her clit, pressing harder with each praise, “Right there,” Rio groaned, “Feels so good, my love, you feel so good.”

Agatha keened at the praise, failing her attempt at hiding how much Rio was affecting her. “More,” tell me more.

“No one will take me like this, only you,” Rio continued between heavy panting and whimpers, “I want no one but you, Agatha. Nobody is as good as you,” Her breath caught in her throat as her witch thrusted dainty, long fingers inside her with little warning. She could feel all of Agatha wrapping around her: her fingers curling; Agatha’s palm pressed against her clit; the distinct scent of lavender and honey gripping her lungs; those eyes, so deep, so beautifully bright and lustfully dark transporting her into the one place she has no access to, “If I had not met you, my love, I would have doubted the existence of Heaven. But you take me there, Gods, take me there, please, Agatha,” Rio’s words had lost their structure, turning into senseless ramblings as she begged and begged for her lover.

Agatha observed in astonishment at the submission, the easy handover of power. “My love…” She mumbled into Rio’s neck, bruising it with her kisses as she slipped another finger to join the other two. With Rio’s gasp, Agatha lifted her thumb to brush over her clit, just a single brush that had Death begging within her grasp.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she moaned filthily, rolling her hips up against Agatha’s touch, seeking, seeking, seeking…

“Will you?” Agatha panted desperately, ending her sentence short, knowing Rio understood her every word, “For me? Will you?” It took less than a minute after that for Rio’s hips to still, back arched up in the air. Agatha could do nothing but thrust again and again, pushing through the throbbing pain in her wrist. Her thumb circled Rio’s clit as she did so, keeping her right there at the top of the cliff for as long as she wished. It was all within her power, her control; she was the one who decided when to give Death life.

Rio’s cheeks turned a bright red, her face flickering back and forth to bones as she lost that little bit of control she had left. “Agatha,” She forced out with a heavy breath of relief, eyes rolling to the back of her skull. Her fingers pressed into the soil, immediately sprouting a bed of purple flowers – violets, Agatha immediately recognised. She tightened, impossibly wet around Agatha’s fingers as a flow of honeyed liquid coats Agatha’s palm. It took everything in Agatha to keep from pulling her palm away and licking until there was not a drop left to spare. But she stayed, stayed there, stayed secure, stayed with Rio until her arch collapsed into the ground and Agatha with her.

They lay there, existing together and only together for a while. While they could. Agatha no longer felt fear, not like she had before. There was nothing but acceptance in her and Rio’s world, which is something she had never experienced before yet is all she ever wanted; undying, unconditional love.

“I love you, Rio Vidal,” she whispered as the stars shone brightly above them.

Rio sighed, happily burying her face into her witch’s neck. “I love you, Agatha Harkness."

masterlist + guidelines

HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED THIS ONE!!

[hellodropbear]

17520 hours.

mapi leon x ingrid engen x daughter (ish)

angst. part of the 'it's time.' series

mapi struggles on the two year anniversary of her best friend's death. Ingrid is right there to help her but she doesn't know how to let her in.

this is a lot more angst than i'm used to posting but i hope you like it.

it was hard to write and partially based on personal experiences so i apologise if it's not very good.

also decided to put it all in one part because i couldn't find a good place to split it!

i hope you enjoy :)

~~~~~~

Two years is a long time. 

Two years is 104 weeks, two years is 730 days. Two birthdays, two christmases, two easters. Two summers and two winters, two new years and two anniversaries. 

Two years is a long time to miss someone. It should be enough time to have moved on. 

But when their daughter is in your care, that seems almost impossible. 

It was everyday that Mapi thought about her best friend, sometimes looking at her daughter and only seeing his eyes staring right back at her. 

The day was one that the Spaniard dreaded, the days becoming quicker and quicker in the lead up, the night before slowing right down as she crawled into bed, tossing and turning as she tried to sleep. 

Isabel was almost two. Still too young to understand that there was anything out of the ordinary in her life, anything that raised any questions. Even if Mapi tried explaining, she was sure that her daughter wouldn’t have the first idea what anything meant. 

She wouldn’t understand that Mapi wasn’t supposed to have her even though she gave birth. She wouldn’t understand that her parents had died because her Mami was right there in front of her. 

It was just a part of parenthood that Mapi had no idea how to conquer. She knew everything else, having spent hours and hours with her head buried in countless baby books, countless books that discussed grief and sadness in children. 

But Isabel wasn’t sad, she wasn’t grieving because she never knew Luis or Isabel. 

There were no books about how to tell a kid about her dead parents. It was a taboo topic, of sorts, one that many stand-in parents were reluctant to discuss with their child, hoping that they would just believe that they were their real parents. It was a bridge most people decided to cross when they had to, not at any point earlier than completely necessary. 

Mapi didn’t want that, she wanted her daughter to know who Luis was, who Isabel was. 

She just didn’t know when or how she should introduce the idea of them. 

But the second anniversary of their death left Mapi in a numb state, entirely torn up on the inside as she tried to decide whether she would take her daughter with her on her annual graveyard visit. It was Mapi’s time to chat to Luis alone, no interruptions, no distractions. 

Because while Isabel lost her parents, Mapi lost her lifelong best friend. 

She lost Luis, who meant everything and more to her. Luis who had moved to Barcelona a few months after her, Luis who watched every single one of her games, the first person to text her after a hard loss or an impressive win. 

She still hadn’t got out of the habit of checking her phone after a match, pain settling deep in her chest as her screen remained bare, his notification forever absent. 

It wasn’t a question of where she would be on the second anniversary. She knew exactly where she would be sat and exactly how she would feel as she stared at that obnoxiously large gravestone, big bold carvings of his name, his date of birth and date of death. 

‘Loving husband, son and friend.’ it read. Not father. ‘A man who lit up the lives of everyone he met.’ It was an understatement, Mapi had thought.

She had spent hours there when Isabel was a newborn, cradling her tiny body in her arms as she sat and silently stared at those few words. Loneliness ate her up, wishing for nothing other than her best friend. 

But her daughter had lit up her world as everything else was crumbling down, single handedly keeping the two of them afloat as Mapi grew tired, the sheer weight of her emotions almost drowning them. 

Isabel was an infant, too young to know anything was different. She was completely enraptured by her mother, smiling and laughing everyday they spent together in their small and stuffy apartment, completely unaware of the anguish that her mother was going through. 

It seemed fitting on the second anniversary of their death, only a couple months before her second birthday that Isabel would finally visit their gravestones. 

Even the thought of the graveyard made her feel uncomfortable, Mapi’s skin crawling at the thought of her best friend beneath her, cold and still. Someone she loved, such a warm and constant presence in her life, lying right there in the ground. 

It made her feel sick. Sick with anger because he was gone too soon. With grief because she never got to say goodbye. With guilt because she got to have the one thing he had always wanted. But mostly sick with the heartbreaking realisation that he was down there, in the flesh. 

Luis was dead. 

~~~~~~

It wasn’t a cold day, but she shivered as she stepped out of the car, the cool breeze prickling her skin as she unclipped a groggy Isabel from the back seat. 

“Where are we, Mami?” 

She looked around at her unfamiliar surroundings in confusion, probably expecting to have woken up in her bed. 

Mapi just hugged her, not trusting her voice to not break if she tried to respond. 

Despite only visiting twice before, the graveyard was familiar, she knew exactly how to get to Luis’ plot. She walked with purpose, not looking at the grave as she laid down the rug, only facing her best friend’s name once she was sat down. 

“This is your Papi, Is.”

Saying it out loud, her daughter in her arms. His daughter in her arms. It felt unusual, it felt uncomfortable. She could feel Isabel looking up at her, the confusion that radiated from the toddler’s body. 

She loosened her arms as Isabel wriggled herself free, waddling towards the stone and placing her hand on it. 

“Papi?”

She looked back at Mapi, a question in her eyes. She was met with tears slipping down her Mami’s face. 

“Mami.”

In an instant, she was back in Mapi’s arms, reaching up and wiping away the tears. 

“No sad, Mami. Brave like lion.”

Mapi nodded, a watery chuckle falling from her mouth. 

“I’m going to talk to your Papi, Is. Is that ok?”

Isabel nodded, settling herself on the rug with her lion toy as Mapi stood up, walking closer to the stone and placing her hand on his name, crouching down so it was at eye level. 

“Meet your daughter, Lu. She has your eyes, you know. She’s funny and smart and entirely the light of my life. I love her so much. More than I ever loved you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone, really. I promise. I promise I’ve tried my best and I hope you’re proud of her. I hope you’re proud of me.”

She bit her lip, unsuccessfully biting back her own tears. 

“It’s been two years, Lu. I don’t know how I have made it through two whole years without you, really. It’s been so… hard. I still expect to see you, to hear from you. Sometimes I think I do, only to realise that it’s not possible. Because you’re dead. You weren’t supposed to die, not so soon. You were supposed to watch your daughter grow, I was supposed to be her really cool aunt that she would go to when you argued, to give her that tattoo when you said no. ”

She let out a strangled chuckle, trying to alleviate some of the pain she felt. They had discussed Mapi’s relationship with the child at length, knowing that the centre back would love the child as her own because she was always with Luis, she would always be around the couple as they raised their child. That wouldn’t have changed if she wasn’t biologically Mapi’s. 

Back then, Mapi had thought she would have been fine with the situation. She knew the baby wasn’t really hers, she knew that she would still be able to watch the baby grow up, that she would still be able to love her. 

It wasn’t a problem that had actually materialised, but they hadn’t expected both Isabel and Luis to die right before she was born. 

“Now I have to discipline her, Luis, which is the one thing I didn’t want to have to do. But she’s such a good girl, she is so intelligent. Like you, really. She knows how I feel all the time, she definitely inherited your emotional intelligence. She loves everyone too, just like you. I was never supposed to be a mother, was I? You were always the paternal one out of the two of us, you were the one who deserved a child. But I am the one that got her.”

She swallows roughly, biting her lip. 

“Oh Luis, you would have loved her so much.”

Very quickly, she is overcome by her tears, collapsing down into herself in sobs. 

It’s all too much, it’s all too hard. 

It’s unfair that her best friend left her, that she was left alone to grow up. Growing up was something they had discussed at length when they were younger. Obviously they were never going to be married, they’d never live together. 

They had dreamt of adjoining houses, doors that connected their backyards. They were going to grow up together, the two of them. Luis would have his wife and a gaggle of kids, Mapi would have her wife and a pack of cats. They’d have their own families but their lives would be so closely connected because they loved each other in the purest way possible. 

A childhood connection, one that grew and grew into adulthood. 

One that was supposed to last a lifetime. 

It did last a lifetime, it lasted Luis’ lifetime. Just not Mapi’s. 

She calmed herself down after a couple minutes, Isabel unsurprisingly noticing her mother’s sadness and crawling into her arms as a source of comfort. 

They sat there for hours, an easy silence settling upon the pair. Mapi was deep in thought, Isabel knew it wasn’t the time for play, it wasn’t the time for her mindless babbling. 

It had been a couple hours when she heard the footsteps, people approaching silently. 

She hadn’t expected to see anyone there, but upon reflection she realised she had been naive - it was the anniversary after all. 

“Maria?”

She hadn’t heard Ane’s voice in two years. The last conversation they had was full of empty promises, of visits to Zaragoza that Mapi knew she would not go on. Promises that they would get to know the child that was growing in Mapi’s stomach, promises that they wouldn’t lose touch. 

They had lost touch, Mapi unable to visit Luis’ home whenever she returned to her parents. Ane and Mikel were in too much pain to see the child, not sure how they could face it. 

“Ane.” She stood up, facing the older woman and allowing herself to be enveloped in her arms. 

“It’s so good to see you, Maria.”

Mapi could only nod, her eyes still watery and her face still red. It had been a long morning. 

She turned to face Mikel, who was staring straight forward, his eyes only softening as Mapi grabbed his hand and kissed it. 

“I have missed you both.” She smiled softly. It was a sad smile, but a real one. 

They were Luis’ parents, of course, but they were her pseudo parents whenever she needed them. They were so close, especially when Mapi and Luis were in their teenage years. 

“Is this… is that her?”

Ane looked down at the curly headed girl, her eyes softening as she watched her play with her toys. 

“Isabel Luisa.” Mapi nodded. “I thought today would be a good day for her to come visit.”

The older woman looked down at the child adoringly, smiling as she looked up at the unfamiliar adults. 

It was a bit awkward for a few moments, as Mapi, Mikel and Ane sat in an uncomfortable silence. 

Mapi excused herself, moving away to the bathrooms but leaving her belongings by the grave. She knew she wanted to talk to them, that they wanted to talk to her. 

She also knew they needed some time alone before they would be able to. 

But she did return, sitting down on her rug right beside the older couple. 

And Ane spoke, her voice soft, her voice sad. 

She told Mapi how grateful she is, how glad she is that she took Isabel in, that she didn’t even question it. How grateful she is that Mapi did everything to make her son happy all throughout his life, from buying him an extra chocolate bar when they were children to carrying his baby for him when he and his wife were unable to do it. 

Ane told her that she had given him his one dream, fatherhood. It was just unlucky that he wasn’t alive to live it. 

There were tears in her eyes as she told her how grateful Luis would be. How much he loved her. How happy he would be that his daughter ended up with the Spaniard, the person he probably trusted the most in the world. 

Mapi nodded her appreciation, sitting with the two adults for a while longer before Isabel grew tired, the sun falling down, the afternoon turning into evening. 

She said a tearful goodbye, collecting her things and standing, Mikel standing up as well and walking her to her car. 

“She looks just like him.” His words were soft, softer than Mapi had ever heard him. “I have thought about you every day, Maria. You and her. I am so relieved to see you here because I worried so much about you. I worried that you wouldn’t be ok, that you’d not be able to raise her. Not because I doubted you, but because I know how hard it is to lose people.”

Mapi nodded softly, looking up at the man. 

“I don’t doubt that you have had a hard time, but I also don’t doubt that you’re a good Mami. A great Mami to this little girl.”

“Thanks, Mikel.”

He nodded, that was all he needed to say. 

It was all he needed to say for Mapi to tear up again, picking Isabel up and holding her in his space. He looked at the Spaniard, who nodded, before placing a soft kiss on her head. 

“Come visit, Maria. When you come home. Bring the little one too.”

Mapi nodded, a smile on her face. 

This time, it wasn’t an empty promise. 

~~~~~~

She got home to an empty apartment. Quiet, dark. She could have texted Ingrid, the Norwegian likely would have come over in an instant, her warm arms right there for endless comfort. 

But she couldn’t bring herself to open her phone, couldn’t bring herself to stand up and walk over to the kitchen table where it was sitting. Instead, she stayed seated, relaxed back on the sofa with tears tracking down her face as she stared blankly at the wall. 

It wasn’t often that she was left alone with her thoughts. Not when she had a chatty toddler to look after, a loving girlfriend who spent every day trying to make Mapi happy. It worked, because Ingrid did make her happy, happier than she’d ever been. 

And Isabel also made her happy, she was the best thing in the Spaniard’s life. 

So why did she feel so sad? Why was Luis’ death still so hard for her to process?

Two years felt like too long to still be so upset about it all. She wondered when it would go away. If it would ever go away. 

His death was something that Mapi didn’t think she would ever be able to comprehend. She was able to live her life as normal again, plastering a smile to cover up the mess that she was on the inside. But it had taken such a long time to even get to that point, despite her daughter’s positive presence.  

Everyone knew how long it had taken. Mapi didn’t think anyone really knew how broken up she still felt about it. A part of her was embarrassed, embarrassed that she still hadn’t gotten over it. Was still yet to move on. 

Even as she thought it over, progress seemed so impossible. The thought of moving on like so many people had told her to do made her feel sick, because how was she supposed to move on when he was everything to her?

She didn’t sleep that night, barely able to smile as she fed Isabel and put her to bed. The toddler knew something was wrong, of course, a frown on her face as Mapi put her down for the evening. 

Isabel had seen Mapi sad before. Lots of times, really, but her mother usually tried her best to hide it from her. She would push the emotions down and far away as she interacted with her kid but Isabel was so perceptive, so in tune with Mapi’s emotions. 

She knew whenever Mapi was sad. It made her feel sad too. 

But Isabel never would have known that her mother was sitting in the same spot on the sofa all night, her mind a rollercoaster of thoughts and emotions, resisting any rest that tried to fall upon her. 

She wasn’t sure if she regretted telling Ingrid that she wanted to be alone for the day, that her girlfriend shouldn’t come over like she usually did. The Spaniard just didn’t know if it would make it better or worse. She didn’t know how to alleviate herself from some of the pain she felt. 

She realised she didn’t know much at all. 

Mapi watched as the sun rose outside, the night becoming morning. The new day arriving along with the sounds of birds chirping, the city happily waking up as the clouds had gone away and the sun had finally come out. 

Two years and one day. 

Her daughter’s whining was audible from her spot in the main room as she woke up. Her daughter’s whining was probably the only thing that would have successfully moved her from her seat. 

“Mami!” Isabel frowned at the sight of her mother as her door opened, dark bags beneath her red and puffy eyes. 

“Good morning, my girl.”

She smiled weakly, kneeling beside her toddler and raking her hand through her hair as Isabel became more aware of her surroundings. 

It was a slow morning; a slow rise from bed and a slow breakfast. The toddler was still in her pyjamas by 10, her hair and teeth remained unbrushed. 

It was no surprise that Ingrid was on the other side of the door at 11, Isabel opening the door when she heard the knocks. The Norwegian had a bright smile on her face as she scooped Isabel up into her arms and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. 

“Mami, Ingrid.” She pointed over at where Mapi was standing, and it was one glance at the Spaniard that told Ingrid that despite her promise that she’d be alright, her girlfriend was definitely not ok. Her smile faded and she frowned slightly, concern etched deep into her features, 

Her steps towards Mapi were tentative, unsure how to approach the situation. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t know Mapi, of course she knew her. She just didn’t know about Mapi’s grief. She had heard from teammates that she hadn’t dealt with the death well, that she had locked herself up in her house for months, over a year. But it was one topic that the Spaniard avoided at all costs, a master of changing the subject whenever it would come up. 

Ingrid never felt like it was her place to pry. 

But now, seeing her girlfriend so… broken, so depleted, it made her regret not being more insistent in those times. Because maybe if they spoke about it then, she would know how to help. 

But in that moment, she had no idea what to do. 

“Maria…” Her voice was quiet. “I’ve missed you.”

Mapi didn’t reply, but she could feel Ingrid’s free arm wrapping around her and she immediately clung onto her girlfriend. She was desperate and Ingrid was a lifeline. 

“Alright. Isabel, do you want to go play with Bagheera for a minute?”

The child nodded as she was placed back on the floor, walking out of the kitchen and into the lounge where the cat was likely waking up from her nap. 

Mapi, still clinging onto the Norwegian’s arm, frowned slightly, still not willing herself to make eye contact with Ingrid. 

“You’re not ok, Mapi, are you?”

She didn’t nod, she didn’t shake her head. Her mouth remained completely sealed. 

But Ingrid knew her well enough to recognise the tears that filled up her eyes, the way her hand trembled against the Norwegian’s skin. 

The brunette softened, her worries confirmed; leaving Mapi alone for the entire previous day was probably one of the worst promises she had ever made. She shouldn’t have agreed to it, not when she knew that Mapi would need her. 

“Ok. It’s ok. You’ll be ok, Maria. I just want you to sit down for me.”

She led her around to the other side of the kitchen bench, sitting down in a seat right beside her and wrapping her arm around the Spaniard’s shoulders. 

The Norwegian could feel herself becoming more and more anxious at Mapi’s almost catatonic state, entirely unequipped and unsure how to deal with it. 

It took half an hour of speaking to Mapi with no response for Ingrid to realise that she couldn’t do anything. A heartbreaking realisation of sorts, but one that she needed to have in order to help her.  

She knew she should be able to do this herself, she wished that it didn’t have to be so hard. But Alexia had been there before Ingrid, Alexia had been there for Mapi during Isabel’s infancy, right after she lost Luis. 

So she sent the Spanish midfielder a quick text, alerting her of the centre back’s state.

She felt guilty as the relief surged through her, Alexia assuring her that she would be there soon. 

However, neither the Spaniard nor the Norwegian could see the toddler’s tears, her quiet whimpers of anxiety and upset. 

Isabel didn’t like seeing Mapi upset, not at all. She was a happy person, usually, a permanent smile on her face, energetic as she played with the toddler. 

But she sat and stroked Bagheera, silent tears streaming down her little face with one thought on her mind. Why was Mami so sad all of a sudden? And why did it make her feel so miserable too?

Alexia arrived in a flurry, her heart dropping at the sight of her friend as she rushed towards her, immediately pulling her into a suffocating hug. 

“Maria, Maria. Come on, please. Say something.” Her voice sounded urgent and Ingrid could only watch, worry and confusion clear on her face. 

With no response, Alexia leaned back, staring straight into Mapi’s eyes. She could read the centre back like a book and her eyes told her everything she needed to know. 

“Ale.”

She frowned, tilting her head at the blonde in front of her. 

“Mapi, breathe. Take a deep breath in.”

Ingrid slipped out of the room as Mapi followed Alexia, breathing in and out slowly until she collapsed into Alexia’s arms, the tears spilling from her eyes easily as she reconnected with reality. 

It was her reaction to sadness, Mapi had realised a few months ago. Disconnecting from the world around her, unable to move, speak. She could barely hear anything, see anything until it was right in front of her face. 

She couldn’t feel anything either, but that was a more common response, something that she couldn’t be pulled out of so easily. 

She hated it, more than anything. Because when she was pulled from her state of disconnect, she felt nothing but terror, an overwhelming sadness that came rushing back as soon as that trap door opened. 

It was like her body was trying to protect her from feeling, the emotions just too much. It would just shut down until she was numb, not really registering that at some point she just had to feel it because there was no way of getting away from those emotions. 

Alexia had seen it all before and she was usually the one to grab Mapi, to shake her out of her headspace and bring her back to reality. 

It was terrifying for her too, especially the first time she witnessed it. 

“Ale.”

Mapi’s sobs had been reduced to quiet whimpers into Alexia’s shoulder after a while, her mind throwing itself through all her thoughts, all her emotions. Luis was gone, Luis had been gone for two years. She has his daughter, her Isabel who she loves so much. Ingrid was here but now she is not, where has Ingrid gone? Alexia, right in front of her, fear visible in the midfielder’s eyes no matter how hard she tried to hide it. 

Luis was gone, Isabel was hers. Ingrid was gone, Alexia was here.

Luis, Isabel, Ingrid, Alexia.

Her four people. 

She felt her breath hitch, Alexia’s arms tightening around her. 

She felt the tears dripping down from her eyes, saturating the fabric of Alexia’s shirt, the wet fabric now uncomfortable to rest her face on. 

She could hear Alexia’s breathing, the sound of her heart racing. 

Feel Alexia’s arms around her, the floor beneath her feet and the chair that she was sitting on. 

Taste the salty tears. Tears of grief, fear, confusion. 

Luis, Isabel, Ingrid, Alexia. 

“Ale, where is Isabel?”

~~~~~~

Ingrid slipped out of the room easily, not needed as Alexia dealt with Mapi’s overwhelming emotions. 

Mapi’s cries were audible from the main room she found herself in, wincing as she walked towards Isabel who was still stroking Bagheera, her movements fluid and repetitive, a consistent cycle that easily could have rubbed a groove into the cat’s black fur. 

The Norwegian couldn’t see the tears that had stained the little girl's face, still spilling from her eyes no matter how hard she tried to blink them away. 

But her shoulders shook unnaturally, a shuddering inhale that had Ingrid picking up her pace and sitting down right beside Isabel and pulling her into her arms as soon as she noticed how upset she was. 

Silently, she placed a thoughtful kiss on the crown of her head, her heart breaking at the silent tears, at Isabel's defeated demeanour. 

No toddler should know how to cry silently. 

"What's wrong, Is?"

At her words, Isabel promptly spun around in Ingrid's arms, collapsing into her and crying audibly, her entire body weight relying on the Norwegian to be held.

"Mami sad, Ingrid. I'm sad too!"

Her voice was broken and Ingrid’s heart dropped at the sound of it. 

It wasn’t hard to leave, understanding that Isabel needed to get out of the apartment, that she needed to be away from the inconsolable Mapi who could still be heard crying in the kitchen. 

So she left, slipping out the front door and carrying Isabel down to the street, holding her tight as she cried, walking over to the park. 

By the time they reached their familiar bench, her cries had weakened, only releasing quiet puffs of air every few moments as she relished in the comfort of Ingrid’s arms. 

The Norwegian sat down, loosening her grip on the toddler and manoeuvring her so that they were looking right at each other. Ingrid’s frown was light and her hands were soft as she reached out and wiped the tears away from Isabel’s wet cheeks, cupping her face when she was done. 

Words failed the defender as she looked at the toddler, her uncanny resemblance to Mapi heightened in her upset state. 

She matched her mother perfectly, Ingrid thought, trying to avoid that voice in the back of her head that she would never be enough. Their smiles were identical and their laughs sounded the same. They both carried the same exasperated sigh, the confused frown and those doe eyes that were impossible to say no to. But they carried the same tears, the same cries. 

Mapi’s emotions were often reflected in her daughter, whether it was happiness, excitement, fear, sadness. Isabel was smart - emotionally intelligent. It was like she always knew exactly how her Mami was feeling, even if she wasn’t old enough to understand why, to understand what those feelings were. 

This was one of those times when she had no idea what this sadness meant. She could clearly feel the sadness, feel her mother was sad. But she wasn’t even two yet, how could she possibly be expected to process those emotions like someone years older?

Ingrid wasn’t bad with kids either. There were heaps of children in her family; cousins, nieces, nephews. She’d been there throughout all of their childhoods, able to comfort them and soothe them enough until their parents came back. 

But Isabel’s sadness was completely new territory, there was no waiting for Mapi to arrive because Ingrid knew she wouldn’t. It was up to her to calm down the child but for the first time, she was completely stumped. 

She didn’t know what she could say to calm her down. She didn’t know how Isabel felt, she was too young to be able to express her emotions, to talk through what she was feeling. 

But this wasn’t a tantrum or a small cry over a minor convenience. This was a meltdown, caused by her overwhelming emotions that she couldn’t quite comprehend. 

“Ingrid…” 

She spoke quietly, leaning into the comfort of the Norwegian’s hands on her face. 

Ingrid nodded, encouraging the child to continue. 

“Why my Papi a rock?” 

The Norwegian’s face softened, her heart sinking as she tried to subtly release an exhale that she had been holding in. 

Unsure what she was going to say, she opened her mouth. But Isabel was too quick, raising her voice another time. 

“Why Mami sad at rock?”

“Is…” 

The child looked up at her, eyes shining with unshed tears, pure innocence reflected in her eyes, her features. 

“Isabel. Your Papi, he’s not a rock. Your Papi was a person, a very good person.”

The child frowned, confusion etched deep into her features. Ingrid thought she seemed entirely too concerned for a not quite two year old. 

“He died before you were born though, Is. Mami is sad today because she misses him. She misses your Papi.”

She doubted Isabel would even understand what she was trying to say. She didn’t know when children were supposed to understand the concept of death, the concept of life. 

Definitely not before the age of two. 

So Ingrid decided to try to move away from the topic, her new goal just to bring a smile back onto Isabel’s face. It was the least she could do, really. 

“But it’s ok, Is, because you have Mami and you have me and you have Alexia and you have Leila and Patri and Pina! You love all of those people don’t you?”

Isabel nodded easily, a smile creeping onto her face. 

“I love them so much. Especially Mami. And you, Ingrid!” 

Ingrid chuckled, her laughs a superficial cover of the anxieties and concern she felt. Because Isabel was right here calming down in her arms, but she had no idea of the state of Mapi, she had no idea how long this happiness would last. 

“And everyone I just mentioned loves you too. And your Papi, he loves you as well but he loves you from somewhere else. You have people everywhere loving you!” 

Ingrid beamed, trying to make the conversation feel more lighthearted. It was a successful attempt, apparently, because Isabel replicated her smile and turned herself around, sitting back down in Ingrid’s lap and leaning into her chest. 

“I love you Ingrid.”

The Norwegian could only smile sadly, planting a thoughtful kiss on Isabel’s head. 

~~~~~~

Mapi’s head was a mess, Alexia had realised. Her emotions all over the place, her priorities set in a weird and confusing line. 

The tears had eventually ran out and she was clearly exhausted, her head in Alexia’s lap as the blonde spoke softly. The familiar Spanish was a comfort to Mapi’s ears, the words meaningful, flooded with emotion.

“You need to worry about what is important right now,” Alexia had murmured, her hands combing through Mapi’s hair. It was reminiscent of how the centre back calmed her own daughter, soft hands and quiet words. 

It was reminiscent of how Mapi’s own mother used to soothe her, nostalgic and comforting. 

“Luis is important, of course he is. But he’s gone, Maria. If you’re going to worry about anything it has to be yourself, it has to be Isabel. You have to think about Ingrid, how to prioritise your relationship on top of everything else.”

Alexia shook her head at that, sighing almost silently. 

“Ingrid will try not to let you focus on her, but you have to try. You have to show her how much you love her like I know you do. That she’s your person.”

Mapi looked up at Alexia, her forehead wrinkling as she frowned. 

“She… she doesn’t know that?”

“She does know that, of course she does. But sometimes you need to put her first. Sometimes she needs you the most. Sometimes, she needs you more than Isabel does. She wants to know all of you, Mapi, even this part. She wants to understand your grief, to know what to do when you are having a hard time. She wants me to look after Isabel while she comforts you because she loves you. You are her person, just like she is yours.”

Mapi frowned again, swallowing back the tears that threatened to fill up her eyes. Because Ingrid was everything to her, of course she was. She was the person that Mapi loved more than anyone, the first person she had ever really and truly fallen in love with. But Alexia was right. More often than not, her attention was pulled away from Ingrid, Isabel making an appearance. Maybe she was hungry, thirsty, tired. She could have been bored or overexcited or maybe she just couldn’t sleep. 

Because Isabel was her baby girl, her last connection to Luis; her last connection to her person before Ingrid. 

It was somewhat painful for Mapi to consider how these small things would have hurt the Norwegian, how they would have all built up over time, building Ingrid’s thick skin, the impenetrable strength and sometimes superficial happiness that the Spaniard wished to break down.

“What do I do, Ale?”

Her voice broke and Alexia pulled her upwards, straight into a hug. 

“You talk to her.”

Mapi nodded, falling back down to her lying position on the sofa, the exhaustion of the day overcoming her despite it only being 12pm. 

Alexia could tell the exact moment she fell asleep, her breathing evening out and her body finally relaxing. 

The midfielder had expected something like this to happen today. She knew that Luis’ death was a date engraved in her friend’s mind, one that could never pass without any upset, any thought. 

It was only the second anniversary so of course it would bring up all of the emotions that were left and ignored two years ago, Mapi’s grief pushed away by the little baby Isabel. The same thing had happened a year ago and the midfielder knew it would happen again in another year. 

Only she hoped she wouldn’t be needed in a years time, similar to how she had hoped that she wasn’t required this year. 

She had been somewhat surprised and just a little bit disappointed when she received Ingrid’s text, having hoped that Mapi finally would have spoken to her girlfriend about it, that Ingrid would have expected it and known exactly what she needed to do. It was abundantly clear, however, that it was not the case. 

Ingrid’s terrified and bewildered facial expression was one piece of evidence, but so was Mapi’s silence, her heavy breathing and her complete refusal to speak while the Norwegian was in the room. 

She was disappointed, really. She felt guilt overcome her as she watched Ingrid slip out of the room, a look of pure defeat written all over her face as she accepted that there was nothing she could do to help Mapi. 

Mapi who was an emotional wreck, who needed support and who just needed to let everything out for once. 

Mapi, who needed her girlfriend’s comfort but didn’t know how to ask for it, couldn’t bring herself to ask for it. 

Alexia knew that the Norwegian would have given it to her without a second thought. 

It was all she could think about as Ingrid walked back through the door, Isabel’s hand tight in hers as her eyes scanned the room and landed on the sleeping Mapi in Alexia’s lap. 

Isabel inspected her quietly, satisfied with her sleeping body on the sofa. She was with Alexia and Alexia made people happy. She was sure Mapi would be happy now, so she scampered out of the lounge and into the laundry where she knew Bagheera would be waiting. 

Ingrid was less convinced, sitting beside Alexia with concern written all over her face. 

“She’ll be alright.” Alexia whispered her words softly, an attempt to make the Norwegian feel better. She didn’t expect Ingrid’s eyes to fill up with tears, her head falling into her hands. 

“Why doesn’t she talk to me about any of this?”

Her voice sounded defeated, frustrated. Her watery eyes looked back up towards Alexia and the midfielder could easily see the anguish in her eyes. 

“She’s bad at talking about it, embarrassed by it. She doesn’t like to feel all these emotions so she just pushes them away. But they come back every now and again and she has no idea how to deal with it. I try telling her that it’s normal, she shouldn’t feel embarrassed but she doesn’t listen. It makes her feel weak, she said. You saw her earlier too, she just shuts down. I think it’s because she just doesn’t know what else she can do so she turns into a robot of sorts, on autopilot to get things done. And then someone will come and see straight through her and it’s like she breaks.”

Alexia’s eyes were watering, her hand coming to rest on Mapi’s head. 

“But she loves you so much, Ingrid. More than I’ve ever seen her love anyone before. I know she wants to talk to you about all this, she wishes she could just let it all out. We’ve discussed it before, what she could say, how she could say it. She’ll call me the next day and say she chickened out, she couldn’t bring herself to go through it all. It’s mentally exhausting, I think.  She used to be so confident in herself, she didn’t care about anything but her happiness and the happiness of the people around her. She was the person who would cheer everyone else up, make us smile and laugh. She’s still that person, that’s the one that we see everyday. But she never learnt how to grieve or how to let other people cheer her up and this is what happened because of it.”

Ingrid was quiet for a few moments, her eyes focussed on Mapi’s sleeping figure. She looked so peaceful, her golden brown hair falling over her face, completely covering her tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes. 

“Why didn’t you help her?”

She knew it wasn’t Alexia’s fault; she knew that the midfielder beside her would have done whatever she thought was right. But part of the Norwegian thought that if she had learned what to do with her emotions two years ago when Luis died, everything would be easier now. Everything would be easier for everyone. 

“She just wouldn’t let us. I regret it every day, Ingrid. ”

~~~~~~

It wasn’t long before Alexia left, leaving Ingrid with a sleeping Mapi and taking the almost two year old back to her house with her. 

They didn’t want Isabel to be able to understand what was going on, they didn’t want her to feel those sad emotions when she was entirely incapable of understanding why she suddenly felt so sad. 

So it was Ingrid’s face that Mapi woke up to, the familiar green piercing straight through her, a sad expression all over her face. 

“Ingrid.”

Her voice was hoarse, her words scratchy and her eyes swollen. It had been a difficult few hours and she felt entirely incapable of having the conversation that she knew Ingrid wanted to have. 

“I don’t know how… how do I even start?”

But it seemed she was wrong as Ingrid shook her head, her arms wrapping the Spaniard up in a tight hug as she sat up from her horizontal position. 

“No, you don’t need to. Not right now. You’re exhausted, physically and emotionally and I don’t want to talk now. I want you to be ok, I want to make you feel ok.”

Mapi didn’t know it, but the Norwegian’s words were exactly what she needed. Ingrid was exactly what she needed. 

Her emotional perception, the unique ability she had to be so aware of how everyone felt at any given time. It was one of her qualities that Mapi loved the most, one of the things that was so intriguing, so alluring about the defender. 

“What can I do to make you feel ok?”

Mapi smiled weakly, trying to bite back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. It wasn’t just sadness this time, but gratitude, love. Because Ingrid was perfect even when the centre back knew she had been the opposite of that. And despite all of Mapi’s own personal flaws, Ingrid still loved her. 

And if everything else fell apart, Mapi knew that her love would be more than enough. 

“You being here makes me feel ok.”

Ingrid smiled into the embrace, only releasing the hug when Mapi’s grip on her loosened. 

“Isabel is at Alexia’s and she will be there all night. She shouldn’t be in this environment when you are so upset, not when she’s so young. So it’s just you and me, whatever you want to do.”

Mapi nodded easily, somewhat relieved that her daughter was away from all this. 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

The evening was a slow one, relaxed and quiet in the calm apartment. They weaved around each other in the kitchen as they cooked with a practised ease, dinner cooked and plated up seamlessly. 

Conversation as they ate was minimal, the Spaniard clearly distracted and the Norwegian happy to focus on her own food. 

“I… I need to talk to you, Ingrid. Not right now, but soon. Maybe tomorrow. I just don’t know how to say what I want to say in a way that makes sense. It’s… hard for me, hard to talk about… it.”

The Norwegian’s attention was captured at the sound of Mapi’s voice, instantly nodding with a comforting smile on her face. 

“I know it’s hard. I don’t want you to feel any pressure to tell me anything.”

But the Spaniard disagreed, shaking her head quickly. 

“It’s not pressure, I want you to know everything.”

Ingrid’s forehead creased, her eyebrows drawing together as she frowned. 

“But why? Why do you want to go through it all again with yet another person if you don’t have to?”

It was Mapi’s turn to frown, her head shaking as she let out a quiet exhale. 

“I haven’t ever gone through everything with anyone. Alexia knows a lot, sure. I know she’s told you what she knows. I want you to know everything. Because I love you more than anything and for you to love me like that you have to know everything, you have to see all my faults, everything that I’m ashamed of.”

Ingrid stopped the tears from forming before they had a chance to materialise in her eyes, but Mapi could tell she was stopping herself from crying by the way her eyes blinked away the invisible tears. 

“What’s wrong?”

Her voice was incredibly soft, her Spanish lilt calming, comforting.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would change the way I love you. I couldn’t love you any more than I do and there’s nothing that will ever make me love you any less. I wish you would understand that sadness and grief isn’t a weakness or a fault, it’s not something to be ashamed of. It’s natural yet it takes a completely different path in every single person. You’re not different, Maria. You’re not weak. The opposite of weak, really. I love you for who you are, because you are funny, you’re kind, you’re caring. You look after people and you’re an incredible mother. I love you because you are strong, one of the strongest people I have ever met. The love I have for you is not… despite anything, there’s nothing that I would change because you’re perfect. So sure, tell me everything because I will listen but it will not change a single thing. Don’t tell me that I can’t love you before I know because I do, so much.”

“Thank you.” Mapi sniffled, her voice thready as she nodded at Ingrid, her eyes dropping back down to her plate in front of her. 

It was exactly what she needed to hear. 

~~~~~~

“Mami!” 

Despite Ingrid’s protests in the kitchen, Isabel bounded into their bedroom, bouncing up onto the bed right beside a sleeping Mapi. 

“Isabel! I said not to wake her up!” 

Ingrid frowned from her spot at the bedroom door, her forehead creasing further at Isabel’s defiant expression. The toddler turned back towards Mapi, shaking her shoulder rapidly. 

“Mami! Mami!” 

Ingrid rolled her eyes, releasing a loud sigh and shaking her head as the Spaniard rolled over, groaning as she opened her eyes. 

The past few days had been rough and Ingrid was sure Mapi hadn’t gotten more than three hours of sleep each day. The Norwegian was awoken constantly by the sound of her cries or her restless movements in the bed, but had stopped asking if she was ok after seeing the guilt on Mapi’s face at waking her up. 

It was an obvious question anyway, Mapi clearly was not ok.

She had been distant, often unfocused. The Norwegian had to take over the parenting ropes and she hadn’t left the Spaniard’s apartment, helping with cooking and cleaning and the other mundane housework that Mapi just didn’t have the energy to do. 

She would say a few words over meals, and quiet murmurs of gratitude throughout the day. Ingrid didn’t know how rapidly her notes app was filling up, full of dot points about how and what she would say to Ingrid. When she could bring up that conversation that she was so desperate yet so hesitant to have. 

“Morning Is.” The Spaniard rolled over, opening her arms up for the toddler as she fell into them, snuggling easily into her mother. 

“Mornin’ Mami!” 

Mapi smiled, looking over at Ingrid in the doorway and motioning for her to come and join them on the bed. Naturally, the Norwegian moved towards them, sitting up beside Mapi and resting her head on the centre back’s shoulder. 

“We were awake very early this morning, weren’t we Is?’

She rolled her eyes as the child nodded and Mapi bit back a laugh, squeezing Isabel softly. 

“You should have woken me.” Mapi smiled, planting a kiss on the side of Ingrid’s head, ignoring her scoff. 

“Ingrid said don’t wake you up, Mami!” Isabel interjected again, looking up at her mother. “But I missed you!” 

Mapi could only chuckle, planting a kiss on her child’s head. “I missed you too, my Is!”

It was a slow day, but one full of quiet laughter and happiness. The small family of three spent the late morning hours in bed, before getting up and heading down to the park and tiring the toddler out. She was exhausted by the time they got back, passing out on the sofa as Ingrid took off her shoes and Mapi scrubbed the mud out of her jacket. 

The girl had been put to bed by the time Mapi had returned from the laundry, Ingrid sat on the sofa with the remote in her hand. 

“What do you want to watch?”

She had heard Mapi walking towards the lounge room, apparently. The Spaniard didn’t enter immediately, instead steadying herself on the doorframe and taking a deep breath. 

The time had come, she realised. She couldn’t justify pushing this conversation away any longer, pretending that she wasn’t thinking about it when truthfully it was at the top of her mind at all times. 

She knew it wasn’t an easy conversation to have and she knew that it was going to be hard to bring it up. But that difficulty won’t ever go away, no matter how long she leaves it. If anything it will get harder over time because time gives her fears and anxieties an opportunity to grow, an opportunity to overcome her. 

And she was completely adamant that that would not happen. She would not be overcome by those terrors ever again. 

She realised she had paused in the doorway for too long when Ingrid turned around, a small frown settling on her face. 

“Are you ok?”

Mapi nodded, forcing a stressed smile onto her face and finally taking those steps inside, sitting herself on the sofa beside Ingrid and taking the remote from her hands. 

“Yes. No, but.. Yeah.” 

“Talk to me.”

And she did. She started at the beginning, all the way back when she was a small child and meeting Luis for the first time. She told Ingrid how they had been glued to each other’s sides forever, how they grew up and nothing ever changed. How grateful she was when Luis followed her to Barcelona, moving into his own apartment just a five minute walk away. 

The Spaniard reminisced on times where they would eat dinner on the floor of his unfinished apartment, takeaway boxes empty but the room still full of happiness and laughter. She showed Ingrid her tattoo, the little girl and boy on the playground that she had gotten to match with Luis. 

It was his first and only tattoo and he had only trusted Mapi to give it to him. She knew she had to get one the same and it was something they had treasured. A secret of sorts, a little thing that almost nobody knew about. 

The centre back explained how he had always been a paternal person, all the way back when they were those little kids on the playground. He would look out for everyone, act all big and strong to protect his friends even when he felt equally as terrified. He was the person that everyone went to as they got a bit older, his emotional nature and calm demeanour always popular among their peers. 

She told Ingrid that she always felt so lucky that even though he was so popular, she was still his best friend. She was always his number one and that only ever changed when Isabel came along. 

Isabel who was just as lovely as her boyfriend, another person that Mapi learned to love. 

Another person who proved time and time again that she was a mother. 

So she lamented on the heartbreak that the young couple experienced when they realised they couldn’t have a child, that parenthood seemed almost impossible. 

She explained her entire thought process to the Norwegian, how she debated with herself whether it was worth it to miss so much football during what could have been her peak years. Whether she would ever feel comfortable around a child that was half of her DNA, a child that she carried for nine months but technically didn’t belong to her. 

But Luis’ happiness was always the most important thing and when he rang her up for the 10th night in a row in tears, her decision was made for her. 

She told Ingrid how long it took to convince the couple to let her carry their child, having to go through the same arguments that she had with herself only weeks earlier, having to come up with rebuttals to their incredibly valid points. 

But it had only taken an emotional monologue from the Spaniard to convince them, all three of them sat in tears as they finally agreed to it. 

She talked her through the IVF process, every high and every low that she experienced. How easy the pregnancy was at the beginning, the only symptom her small bump and minor cravings. 

But she had Luis and she had Isabel at that point, both of them so incredibly grateful that they practically waited on the centre back’s hand and foot. It annoyed her, really, so she had kicked them out of her apartment, told them to only come over if she called them. 

For the most part, they respected that, only visiting once a week unless Mapi called them for the company. 

She admitted how much she regretted that deal, how she wished that she made them sit with her all day every day. 

Maybe then they wouldn’t have been in the car that day, maybe they would have been safe and sound in Mapi’s apartment. 

She couldn’t have known that their trip to Madrid would be fatal, there was no way of being able to foresee that and to stop them from going. 

Tears started to slip down her cheeks as she recalled what they told her over the phone, how both Isabel and Luis had been killed on impact. A drunk driver, it was, a drunk driver who was miraculously left unscathed. 

She talked Ingrid through her thoughts that followed the phone call, after she had sobbed and screamed. Once the tears had finally ceased and an unsettling silence fell upon her apartment. 

She felt lost, she felt alone. She wanted to call Luis because he was the person that made her feel better in these times, he was her company when it felt like her entire world was falling apart. 

But of course she couldn’t call Luis. She should have called someone else, her mother, her brother. Alexia, even. But that would be replacing her best friend, something she couldn’t bring herself to do. Not so soon after he had died. Not when the wound was so fresh, not before she even got the chance to process it. 

She admitted to her girlfriend that she still hadn’t really processed it, that it was still a work in progress. His death was one she would never understand, she didn’t think she ever would fully process the idea that he was gone. 

Ingrid let tears spill from her eyes as Mapi remembered how lonely she was for the next few weeks, how she realised that now she had this child that she was just supposed to be able to raise. How she felt entirely unprepared, unfit to be a mother, unequipped to be able to raise a child to a standard that Luis would be happy with. 

How she doubted herself even before Isabel was born.

When she gave birth it got so much harder, everything seemed so impossible and she couldn’t think about anything else other than that little life in her arms. 

She had fallen in love with the baby immediately, guilt overcoming her at her selfish gratitude that Isabel was a living reminder of Luis, she was someone that Mapi would always have. A living being that literally carried her father around with her. 

She told Ingrid how she saw his eyes as soon as they opened, the tape over her shattered heart doing little to protect it when it was forcefully thrown back on the ground at the reminder of everything she had lost. 

But as she spent more and more time with Isabel, as she watched the little girl grow up she could feel her heart building itself back together, little pieces at a time supergluing themselves together, creating an indestructible structure. 

Isabel had been the reason her heart was being fixed, the reason that she felt like she could finally breathe again, finally reunited with the organ that pumped the blood around her body, the organ that made her feel alive. 

She smiled through the tears as she recalled how alive she felt when Isabel took her first steps, when her first words tumbled right out of her mouth. As the child laughed, as she played with the cat. As she grew up into a child, something for Mapi to love, to be so incredibly proud of. 

Because Luis was gone and that was something that Mapi would never be ok with. 

But he left her the greatest gift of all time, like he knew that his best friend wouldn’t be ok without him. 

And similar to everything else he had done for Mapi through their lives, this gift, his daughter, had made sure that the blood never stopped pumping, that every single fragment of her shattered heart was still there, ready and waiting for its turn to be glued back into place. 

Isabel had done a good job of orchestrating the reconstruction, even if she had no idea what she was doing. 

“But then you came along, Ingrid, and you fixed my heart too.”

~~~~~~

alright this was very long

i've proofread a couple times and kinda hate this but it's as good as it will get :)

please let me know what you think! send me anything else you would like to see as well.

and i apologise for this taking so long, i have been very busy with uni (as usual) but on top of that i had surgery on my knee almost a week ago so am very tired and in a fair amount of pain at the minute

have a good day

[scribblesofagoonerr]

— the haunting nightmares of the past | buddy & monkey: double the trouble

here's a piece of angst for you all to read.

thanks to @alotofpockets for her help a long the way with this one.

summary: the anniversary of monkey's dad's death causes a lot of bad memories of the past to resurface.

pairings: leah williamson x reader!monkey x jordan nobbs x reader!buddy

warnings: talks of past childhood abuse and a lot of heavy angst

"Happy birthday to me," You whispered to yourself, your small voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. 

You sat alone at the table, a card propped up in front of you that had been given to you by a kind elderly lady who lived next door when you returned home from school. 

You jumped in fear as you heard the front door slam shut, feeling yourself tremble as his footsteps neared. 

"Make yourself useful, girl," Your father demanded through slurred speech, cutting the previous silence in the house, you know he'd clearly been down to the pub after work, "What is this?" He eyed the card on the table angrily. 

You trembled with a sense of fear as he picked up and read over the words briefly, "It's... It's a birthday card, Dad," You said as you watched him tear it in half without even thinking and dump it in the bin.

"Birthday card?" Your fathers' voice sneered in disgust, "You don't deserve one of them, you're nothing but a burden in my life!" His words were venomous and your heart sank even more. 

"But... But everyone has a birthday," Your voice was quiet, afraid of his next move, "I'm ten this year, remember?" You couldn’t help the excitement in your voice, you were a young and innocent girl.

"Oh, really?" Your dad wondered, turning to face you while his words seemed more calmer than usual, "Well then I'd better give you your birthday present then, birthday girl." 

You couldn't help but allow your eyes to light up but that was soon disregarded as the man raised his hand, the sound of his slap against your cheek echoing through the room. 

"There's your birthday present," Your dad sneered with pure venom in his voice, "Now make yourself fuckin' useful and grab me another beer!" With his words sharp and demanding, you scurried over to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of beer to hand to him, "Good, at least you can do that. Now get the fuck out of my sight, brat!"

You wake up startled, gasping for breath while your heart pounded in your chest while drenched in a somewhat cold sweat. The remnants of the nightmare of your tenth birthday clung in your mind, so vivid that you remember it just like it was yesterday.

You were beaten that night by a man who you once called your father, it was a memorable birthday for all the wrong reasons.

It was also the birthday that you learnt to never ask to celebrate again.

It’s one of the reasons why you never like to celebrate your birthday, you dread the day completely and want nothing more than to hide away in your bedroom.

Leah and Jordan both found out about that the hard way, but that’s a story to tell another day.

“Stupid damn nightmares,” You mumble to yourself, exhaling a sigh as you take a quick glance at the time on your phone, the words lighting up in white as a faint reminder of the date that it was.

It was the anniversary of the day that your dad died, a whole year ago today.It should have been the day that brought you a sense of relief but you just felt even further lost instead.

Doubtful of being able to sleep again, you sit up in bed and make use of your time by scrolling through your phone until the sun starts to come up, or your favourite little buddy wakes up.

Only a few more hours to wait at least.

You didn’t want to sleep, more so you were afraid of the recurring nightmares that haunt you.

It always seems to be the same one, the stark reminder of your dad towering over you while you tremble in fear in the corner, you wish you could just block it all from your memory.

Oh, if only that was so easy to do so.

You never actually went to the man’s funeral, instead you sat curled up in a heap of blankets and watched your favourite movie with your favourite little buddy.

It was much better than sitting inside a church, surrounded by distant family members who would murmur how sorry they were for his loss.

You weren’t though, you were glad he was dead. You knew he couldn’t hurt you now, you were safe.

“So, we’ve got the day off today,” Leah starts the conversation as you sit in the kitchen the following morning, a bowl of cereal in front of you as you fight to stay awake, “I was thinking that we could go to the park, perhaps?”

You wish you could say you were paying more attention to the blonde but you’re tired and nothing is really going in your head right now.

You feel completely exhausted, the lack of sleep every single night is catching up on you now.

“Monkey! Monkey!” Buddy’s little hands grip onto your arm to try and get your attention, “Will you play with me?”She asks, sweetly.

You want to say yes, however you're just so tired that you want to do nothing more than go back to sleep, but even so you're afraid to do that because the nightmares that plague your memory.

Every single night, that same nightmare.

It’s haunting.

“Maybe a bit later, okay? I’m not… I’m not feeling great,” You admit to the 3 year old.

Of course you know she won’t understand why you feel so sad today, but you can’t cry in front of her. It’s not right.

“Why are you sad?” Buddy questions, confused.

You don’t answer her directly as you gently lift her up to sit her on your lap and show interest in her bear that she has in her hand as you just cuddle her.

“How about we take a trip to the park? It’s a nice day,” Leah repeats, “What do you girls think about that?” She asks.

“Park, Mummy!” Buddy squeals in agreement.

Leah smiles at her mini me’s excitement as she looks at you, “How do you feel about going to the park? It would be a good chance to take Tate for a walk as well,” She gestures to the puppy asleep in his new bed, “Earth to Monkey?” She waves her hand in your face to get your attention.

“Huh,” You jolt in surprise at the hand in front of your face, “What’re we talking about?”

“I was just saying it’s a nice day to go to the park,” Leah repeats her words as she sees your attention is elsewhere, “Monkey, are you okay? You look like you’re ready to fall asleep in your breakfast,” she notes.

“Oh uh yeah, I’m fine,” You stifle a yawn as you nod, “Guess I’m just a bit tired, Le,” You admit to the blonde, starting to pick at the skin around your nails.

Leah tilts her head to the side and frowns in concern, “You’re not sleeping, again?” She questions, knowingly as you bite your bottom lip, hesitant to speak while there's a presence of a 3 year old who doesn’t need to listen to this conversation, “Buddy? Sweetheart, why don’t you go and play with your toys in the living room?” She suggests.

“Okay,” Your favourite little buddy is so eager to agree as she carefully slides herself off your lap and toddles into the living room to allow you two to talk.

You’re grateful for that, you don’t want Buddy to hear about this stuff. She’s too innocent for it.

“What’s goin’ on Monkey?” The blonde questions, concerned as she moves to sit in the seat beside you, “You’re not sleeping?” She repeats.

“No, no, I mean… I try but I just keep on having this stupid recurring nightmare,” You admit quietly, trying to not make it a big deal, “I’m afraid to sleep,” 

“Oh, Monkey,” Leah murmurs in sadness as she leans forward and moves a stray piece of hair out of your face, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” She wonders.

“Dunno,” You confess as you shrug your shoulders.

The blonde exhales a sigh as she smiles sympathetically, “You know I’m here for you, my girl,” She reassures you, “Do you remember when I made that promise all those years ago? I still mean every single word that I said to this day,”

You know that you can trust Leah, she’s safe.

When your dad died last year, you had already been living with Leah, and Jordan as well for quite some time, and the two of them knew everything that happened in the past.

You never had the intention to ever tell either one of them about it though, but they found out one day by accident and you just ended up coming clean.

You told them everything, the couple were people that you felt you could trust. Sure it took a bit to warm up to them at first in a new housing environment, but you had known both of them for years.

You did trust both of them to some extent.

Leah had an aura of calmness around her that you feel safe, it made you open up and tell her what happened.

Her words that he told you do still stick in your brain, even to do this day.

“Ha, I win. Again!” 15 year old you exclaimed, pointing your index finger at Jordan while the two of you were playing Fifa.

So far the score was one-sided, 7 - 1.

Jordan was losing the game terribly.

“What,” The woman groaned in annoyance, “Are you sure you’re not cheating, little one?” She questioned in disbelief about the score.

“Please, how can you cheat at this game?” You couldn’t help but giggle, “I win, fair and square. Sucks to be a loser!” You still wound the woman up.

“I’m not a loser– You’re definitely cheating!” Jordan was quick to fire back and playfully scowled at you from where she sat on the sofa.

“When you two are finished squabbling,” A heavily pregnant Leah appeared in the doorway of the living room with an amused look on her face, “Dinners’ ready.” She stated.

The blonde had your attention at the mention of food, “What’re we havin’?” You wondered.

It was a known fact that Leah couldn’t cook all that well, usually sticking to sticking frozen food in the oven at her convenience.

“You’ll find out when you come and sit down at the table, won’t you?” Leah told you playfully as she looked at the telly, “Really, Jord? Are you letting her win, willingly?” She joked.

“I am not, the little one is good,” Jordan mumbled in disagreement, placing her controller down on the coffee table in front, “Come on kid, let’s go and eat dinner,” She gestured for you to follow.

“But we’re in the middle of a game!” You couldn’t help but whine.

“And the game will still be here when you’re finished,” Leah remarked, laughing a little bit, “Go on and pause it.” She added.

“Fine, alright,” You huffed in the way that a teenager does, before you begrudgingly walked into the kitchen to sit and eat dinner with the two older women, “But I want to play another game afterwards!”

“Don’t worry, Monkey. As soon as you’ve eaten, you can go back and continue to beat Jordan in Fifa,” Leah said, teasing her partner lightly as she ruffled your hair.

The way that you had opened up to them since you started living with them still amazed Leah. The once shy girl that would hide in her room and keep to herself, now so outspoken. She was glad to see you regularly behaving like a regular kid.

Not only were you shy, but in the first few months they would note the way that you would fight to not flinch when somebody came near you. Always afraid that people would treat you the same way that your father had done.

They didn’t understand why, but they knew they had to be patient. The two of them had always suspected things, but nothing was ever confirmed by you. 

You didn’t want to tell them, and they didn’t want to ask.

The constant voice in the back of your mind that everything you did was wrong, was what caused you to freak out the first time you dropped a plate by accident.

You offered to help Jordan dry the dishes up after dinner one evening, when she handed it to you, it had been slippery from the soap and it dropped out of your hands without a chance to even attempt to catch it.

The plate crashed onto the floor with a loud bang and broke into many pieces, you had stood there frozen, afraid of what would happen next.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I will clean it up, I will replace the plate. I am really sorry,” Your hands moved as an instinct to shield your face over your hands when Jordan approached you, “Please don’t hit me,” You pleaded, terrified.

“Hey, it’s alright kid,” Jordan moved to try and rest her hand on your shoulder as you jolted in fear, “It’s just a plate, it can be replaced. There’s no need to be frightened.”

The words weren’t sinking in as you were too wrapped up in your own head to hear what the woman was saying. You felt completely scared.

“What’s going on?” Leah questioned in concern as she walked into the kitchen after she heard the commotion and took in the scene in front of her.

Jordan looked at her with a panicked expression, “She’s scared, Le– I don’t… I don’t know what happened, I tried to reassure her but she’s scared of me Le,” She explained quickly as Leah moved slowly to stand in front of you, “No, Le, don’t. She’s terrified,”

Much to Jordan’s surprise though, when Leah stood in front of you and knelt down to your own height the best she could, you were broken out of the trance that you were in.

“Monkey?” The gentleness in the blonde’s voice got your attention, her eyes were soft in comparison to the harsh and cold eyes your dad often had, “Hey, there you are, cheeky monkey. I thought I’d lost you,” She said, sticking with the gentle approach.

“I’m sorry that I broke the plate,” You murmur the apology to the blonde, “Please don’t be mad,”

“It’s alright my girl, it’s just a plate and they always be replaced,” Leah continued to reassure you, keeping in mind that you felt frightened so she was cautious about things, avoiding enveloping you in a hug and instead just offering her hand out for you to take, “How about we leave Jordan to finish the rest of the washing up and we go and watch a movie, hm?” She suggested.

“But… But the plate is broken, I need to sweep it up,” You told her, looking down at the plate on the floor that is smashed to pieces.

The blonde shakes her head in disagreement, “That doesn’t matter now, okay? We can worry about that later. Let’s just go and watch a movie for now,” She told you gently, keeping her hand held out for you to take, “I’m sure there’s another Marvel film that I haven’t seen yet, isn’t there?”

You felt somewhat calm about the fact that Leah recognised you felt scared and offered comfort, but on your own terms, “Okay,” You agreed, accepting the hand that she held out for you to take, “You haven’t watched Iron Man yet, he’s so cool with the suits he built. I’d love to have one of them to just blast people when I want to do so!”

“What’re we watching then?” Jordan came to join you after she finished the rest of the dishes, weary about your initial fear towards her when you dropped the plate, “Did I miss anything good?” She asks.

“Jordy, you gotta see this!” You insisted, pointing your index finger in the direction of the TV, “Le, rewind it back– Look how cool Iron Man is with his suit, I want his powers! He just goes round blasting things like that!” You started to ramble all about Iron Man and the older woman felt a bit more relaxed, glad to see you weren’t frightened of her.

That was the start of you opening up more, Leah learnt that them by the two of them being patient it did pay off in the end, both Leah and Jordan had to find a newfound interest in the things that you loved but it all worked in the end, and Leah found herself knowing a lot more about these beloved Marvel characters in the long-run.

Anything to make you happy and safe in your new home.

However, you never did tell them the whole truth about your past there and then, you didn’t want them to think any differently of you.

It was easy to fake a cheerful smile and nobody even thought to ask questions now, the memories of your past were just that, memories.

Until that night at dinner where things came to light again.

“I’m gonna make a drink,” You were thirsty and completely forgot about it before sitting down to eat dinner with them both, so you moved from your seat at the table to make it.

“Can you reach or do you need a hand?” Leah teased lightly, poking fun at the fact you were still short.

Sticking your tongue out at her playfully, you walked over to where the glasses were kept, “I can reach, I’m taller than Jordy!” You insisted.

“Wha… Hey!” Jordan playfully scowled at you from where she sat eating her own dinner.

“Be careful,” Leah's maternal instinct kicked in as she watched apprehensively in case you slipped when reaching up high for the glass.

“I can do it,” You continued to insist, standing on your tiptoes with complete concentration on your face to reach one of them, “I’m short, but I’m still capable!”

“Okay shorty I believe you,” Leah joked while still keeping her eyes focused on you as she watched you reach for it, her playfulness in her voice disappearing when she saw your hoodie rise up slightly to show her the jagged scars that littered your back as her eyes widened in horror, “Oh my God,” She murmured quietly.

Jordan had caught onto Leah’s expression and was just as shocked to see it.

“I told you I got the glass Le, there’s no need to be protective,” You couldn’t help but giggle as you successfully reached for the glass and stood back to look at them, noting the concern that they both had, “Wha… I didn’t fall, why’d you both look so horrified?” You continued to wonder, not realising they had seen your scars.

“Monkey,” Leah began to say quietly and fearfully, “Those… Those scars on your back, how did you get them?” She wondered, apprehensively.

“Oh,” You tugged at your jumper automatically to try and hide them making another appearance, “There nothing, it’s just… it’s old stuff,” You told them, quietly.

“Old stuff?” Jordan repeated your words, concern written all over her face.

“Yeah, none of it matters. It’s… It’s the past,” Your not so keen to talk about this topic, trying to push down any memories from resurfacing as you make a drink in hopes that they will drop the subject.

They don’t, unfortunately.

Sitting back at the table with the two of them, you tried to ignore their weary glances as you gulped down your drink of squash, “Can we… Can we not make this out to be such a big deal? Please?” You asked them quietly.

“We need to talk about this Monkey,” Leah told you, gently as she tried to reach out and hold your hand, “Sweetheart, what… where did you get those from?” She asked, rephrasing the question to try and figure out the best approach to get you to open up to them.

“It’s nothing,” You were quick to tell them, “It wasn’t anything that I didn’t deserve,” You added.

Leah continued to look at you in concern as her eyebrows pinched together, “Sweetheart, no, nobody deserves anything like that,” She paused briefly, “Monkey, did somebody hurt you?” She questioned.

“No… Nobody, I fell. Nobody did this!” You continued to insist, but your quick response just made them even more concerned.

“Monkey, these scars don’t look like something that you can get from falling,” Jordan stated, honestly as her eyebrows furrowed, “Where did you get them, kid?” She knew she had to be gentle with her approach, the last that either of them wanted was you to revert back to the afraid girl you once was.

Glancing at Leah, you could tell that she was close to tears although you weren’t sure if it was finding out about this or the hormones, but she was close to crying for sure, “Sweetheart, please, I know you’re scared to tell us, but please, if someones’ hurt you then we need to know so we can protect you!” She insisted, her voice sounding hoarse.

“It… It was my dad,” You admitted to them, “He used to get angry sometimes, but it’s not his fault!” Even though he hurt you, you would still defend him.

It was your own fault what happened to you.

“Your Dad?” Jordan swallowed the lump in her throat at the truth, the two of them always had their suspicions it had something to do with the man, but hearing it aloud left the woman with a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Your… Your dad did this to you?” Leah’s own voice is hitched as the tears she’d been trying to keep at bay were let loose.

“Don’t cry, Le,” You told her, quietly as you moved to roll up your sleeve to show a faint scar from a cigarette burn on your arm from a night where your dad decided to use your arm as an ashtray, “They don’t hurt anymore, see?” You stated, pressing your cool finger against the scar.

Right there in that moment, Leah wanted to pull you into her arms, hold you so tightly and never let go, “Sweetheart,” She murmured, trying to fight against the instinct that she felt in case she spooked you.

“They’re just scars now, nothing else,” You told them, innocently, “It’s not his fault, I’m the one to blame. I was a burden to him,” You admitted.

“No, Monkey, no, you’re not a burden– Screw it,” Leah couldn’t fight against the instinct anymore as she moved off her chair in slow motion due to the fact she was heavily pregnant as she enveloped you in a hug, “You’re not– Listen to me, okay? Your dad… What he did, there’s no excuse for that, none at all. Nothing that happened is your fault, my girl.”

“I made him mad,” You mumbled, now trying to fight back your own tears, “I… I didn’t ever mean to make him so mad though, I did deserve it!”

“You didn’t kid,” Jordan chimed in, feeling a sense of anger for the man.

“No, no, you didn’t, you didn’t deserve any of that at all!” The blonde repeated her words, holding you in her arms the best she could with a swollen belly in the way, “What your dad did, none of it is okay. You were… You are just a kid, don’t think for a single second that any of what that man did to you is your fault,” She stated.

“It’s not?” You asked, confused.

You had always been told it was your fault, it was embedded in your brain that it was.

“No it’s not, my girl,” Leah told you truthfully.

“Oh,” You didn’t know what to say, you were used to being told so differently, so you just did what you think is right and rested your head on her shoulder, staring out at the layout of the kitchen behind you.

“It’s not your fault kid,” Jordan spoke up as she tried to control her own anger she felt for the man, “That man deserves to rot in prison for what he did to you,” Jordan stated, firmly as her hands clenched in anger.

“Jord, no,” Leah whispered as she caught sight of her partner's anger and shook her head to motion that it wasn’t the right time for that, “Monkey is our priority right now. We’ll talk about it another time,” She insisted, firmly.

“You’re right,” Jordan exhaled a sigh and started to be calmer than she was, right now the main priority was on you and making sure that you’re okay, “You don’t need to be scared now, kid. We’ve got you,” She promised, getting up from her seat to rest her hand on your back.

“Jord’s right, Monkey,” Leah told you as she continued to hold you in her arms, “We’ve got you, you’re safe and we… I won’t ever let anybody hurt you again, alright?”

“You… You won’t?” You peered your head up from her shoulder and looked at her cautiously.

“I won’t,” The blonde repeated firmly, “I’m always going to be here to protect you, you don’t need to be scared because I’m here. I’ve got you, my girl.” She told you.

Leah really did keep word, they both did.

The two of them have been there for you a whole lot through the time that you moved in with them 4 years ago just months before your 16th birthday and that hasn’t changed still to this day.

“Do you remember what I told you?” Leah questions, bringing you out of your thoughts that are wrapped up in.

“I do remember,” You tell the blonde quietly in agreement, “It’s just… You were on holiday, I didn’t want to ruin it by you having to worry about me,” 

“You’re my kid, it’s my job to worry about you,” Leah replies without even thinking about it, “And before you say anything else, I wouldn’t have cared if you had ruined it. You need me then I’m here, that’s the way it has been and always will be,”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at her words, a sense of security in your life that the blonde provided time and time again, “I know,” You whisper, a faint smile forming on your lips, “Thank you, I will… I will tell you next time that something is on my mind,” You tell her.

“How long have you not been able to sleep for?” Leah asks, concerned where it should be something that needs to be looked into with your profession in mind.

“A few weeks, I… I just can’t sleep, I try to and then it’s like the same dumb nightmare again,” You mumble, slumping your shoulders, “So then I wake up in a cold sweat and I can’t go back to sleep again,” You add.

“Well I guess that explains why you’ve been falling asleep in random places,” Leah jokes, trying to keep the conversation light despite knowing your true struggle with sleep coming to light, “Does this have something to do with today’s date?” She asks, quietly.

“You remembered,” You look up at her in shock, “I think it might, I keep dreaming about my dad and the day of my tenth birthday.” You admit to her.

“Of course I remembered, I thought that today might be tough for you,” Leah sympathises with you and understands how hard today might be, “We don’t have to go out today, we can stay in… How about we watch a Marvel movie? There’s gotta be one that I haven’t seen yet, huh?” She asks, offering her hand out for you to take.

You can’t help but grin faintly as you remember the memory all those years back, “That’s what you said before,” Pausing, you accept the hand offered out to you and stand up from the chair, “We can watch Black Widow, I love that one!” You declare, not giving her much choice before you drag her into the living room after abandoning your breakfast.

Watching any sort of Marvel movie was definitely worth it in your own opinion.

“Monkey!” Your favourite little buddy cheers as you both walk into the room, “Can you play with me now?” She asks, sweetly.

“How about you come join us on the sofa instead to watch this movie?” You offer, while making yourself comfy on the sofa and tap the space for the 3 year old, who jumps up from the floor and joins you on there with no hesitation.

“What are we watching?” Buddy asks, peering up to look at you curiously.

“Only one of the best Marvel movies ever!” You exclaim, beaming a wide smile.

“That’s what you say about anything Marvel that you watch,” Leah smirks, looking up from her phone with a knowing smirk before she leans over and ruffles your hair.

Unaware to you, Leah is in the middle of texting Jordan to fill her in on what is going on and much to her relief, Jordan just so happens to be in the area and tells her that’s 5 minutes out from their place with snacks in hand.

You don’t even hear the front door open when she enters because you’re so engrossed in the beginning of the film, “This film is just after Civil War, which you haven’t watched yet but there is still time!” You tell your favourite little buddy, of course she doesn’t have a clue what you’re on about though.

“Room for one more?” The familiar accent pulls your attention away from the opening credits as she stands there with a shopping bag full of snacks, “What Marvel movie are we watching this time?” She wonders, plonking herself down on the other side of the sofa where there’s an empty space for her beside you.

You don’t even know the words to express your gratitude right now as you put your arms around her to hug her, “Did you bring sweets?” You ask, cheekily.

“Like that’s even a question,” Jordan remarks playfully, “Of course I did, so many of them!” She adds.

“Well that’s not healthy,” Leah chimes in, rolling her eyes all but used to her ex’s ways, “You’re not eating all of them,” She says, pointing her index finger at you.

“Oh come on, where’s the fun in that,” You grin cheekily and accept a packet of sweets you’re offered, “See, this is why Dobby’s the fun parent and you’re the stern one, Malfoy,” You joke with her.

Jordan faux’s a gasp, “I want to be offended that you called me that, but you said I was fun so I’m gonna let it slide,” She states.

“See? Fun,” You grin, looking between the two women.

Leah rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue, “Alright, alright. Let’s watch the movie,” She tells you, gesturing your attention back to the first scene in it.

“Whatever you say,” You nod in agreement, making yourself comfy from your spot on the sofa in the middle of both Leah and Jordan, head resting on Leah’s lap while your legs dangled over Jordan and of course Buddy has managed to slot herself to lie down in front of you with your arm protectively over her.

Your favourite little Buddy continues to watch the movie in awe, despite some of the more… graphic scenes that there are, “Wow,” she gasps quietly and continues to watch the movie.

“This is Black Widow, she’s cool, we like the Black Widow!” You tell the little one who’s all but glued to your side, “I’m gonna show you all the marvel films. There’s so many, you’re gonna love ‘em, Buddy!” You insist, smiling at her.

You were grateful to be surrounded by Leah and Jordan at that minute, what should have been a dreaded day has now been overshadowed with their ever growing support to get through it not on your own.

You couldn't have more gratitude for your newfound family.

© scribblesofagoonerr

[housetargaryenloyalist]

From a seed grows

Chapter II: Petunia

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Synopsis: To claim a dragon one must be prepared to give up their life, yet this is the one thing you never wished to give up.

Wordcount: 9.6k

Warnings: Canon divergence!! This will not follow canon completely and will mix book with show canon (because I can ❤️), bastardphobia, mention of death and killing, yelling, Jace is a bit hot tempered but so is reader.

Author's note: I'm a bit insecure about this chapter with all the recent happenings in the Jace, plus it's my first really writing this much for one chapter. so I hope you'll like it. Also feedback is super duper appreciated as well as likes and reblogs!

(Future chapters will most likely also be around this lenght)

English is not my first language, apologies for any mistakes.

Happy reading <3

♡Chapter I: Thyme♡

Dragon fire burned hotter than anything else known to man. Bards all throughout Westeros have sung of how the dragon fire of Balerion the Black Dread melted together thousands swords and create the Iron Throne. A testament to the strength of dragons and their riders. It was meant to intimidate enemies and inspire reverence in allies.

Everyone knew that dragonfire burned hot, and now you would experience just how hot firsthand

A most horrid end, yet one fitting for a bastard of Targaryen Lineage most would say. No pyre would be made for you, your body instead burned to ash on the cold beach of Dragonstone, with not a soul to mourn you.

Your eyes were closed as those thoughts surged through your head. It terrified you to be of so little consequence, to be so mortal.

Someone once told you that when death was near you would think back onto your life and all your most important memories.

You would be filled with happiness of your most joyous moments before the Stranger would give you their kiss. Death would be warm, warmer than your bed in Flea Bottom, warmer than a mother's embrace.

At the time you had smiled and cheerless smile , eyes looking into the distance as your hands gripped a black shroud, “that would be nice” you had whispered.

Now you cursed them quietly in your mind. There were no memories drowning you in happiness, no memories to distract you from the ice cold terror that had settles in the pit of your stomach and spread throughout your body. You waited with abated breath for the beast to devour you, you waited for low rumbling followed by a bright burst of flames and then indescribable pain would consume you until there was nothing left to consume.

Silence.

Slowly, you opened your eyes, expecting to see large teeth and open mouth waiting to devour you. Instead, you were met with an intense gaze from emerald eyes. The creature’s gaze was locked onto yours, and for a moment, you could have sworn there was a flicker of recognition, almost as if the dragon was studying you, trying to understand. You didn’t know what to do, lying there, coarse sand digging deeper into crevices of your body and etching more scratches into your skin.

The dragon remained unmoving, letting out an occasional snort as it studied you intensely. Trapped partly underneath its snout you do nothing but observe the creature in similar fashion. Both of you started at one an another, a weird feeling flourished within your chest.

“Why aren’t you killing me?” you whispered, voice hoarse and exhausted. The dragon only coked it’s head slightly, as if to convey they did not understand. You tried to stand up, slowly, with uncertainty tainting every move. First you scooted further away from the dragon’s snout, careful not to touch it and startle it, then you pushed you against the sand to try and stand.

Unfortunately you overestimated your own strength, because as soon as you stood you could feel the unsteadiness of your legs. In a matter of seconds you feel them give out. Out of instinct you reached for something to hold onto.

Callused hands met rough, burning scales. The heat beneath your fingers felt like touching a warm bowl of soup, hot enough to startle but not enough to burn. You let out a shaky breath when you realised what you had done, leaning on the snout of the dragon.

Once again the beast let out a loud snort, much like a horse would make. It startled you, making you release its snout the moment its hot breath engulfed your body.

Your cold body felt cold no more, heating up just from being close to the dragon. Your brows furrowed, confusion settling in your mind. What had happened to the intense fear and terror you were feeling mere minutes prior, yet now you felt a strange comfort wash over you. As if this creature would never hurt you, as if they liked you.

Something primal hidden within you took over, as if centuries of dragon riders that had come before you took your hand and put it on the dragon's snout. First it burned, seared beneath your finger and then it shifted. Fear ebbed away from your being, slowly being replaced with a feeling much like veneration and somehow, you knew what it meant. There, in the dragon’s emerald eyes glistening in the late afternoon sun, you saw yourself.

A bastard with silver hair.

A dragonseed.

A dragon rider.

Beneath your fingers the heat had dissipated, yet there was still power beneath them. You were able to feel it's breathing, knew that with one wrong move your life would be forfeit. Power reverberated beneath the scales, dragon fire of unknown heat was now yours to command.

The longer you held the dragon into submission, the more you felt yours souls intertwine. A rumble resonated from deep within its chest as if acknowledging this newfound bond. Your feelings became more than your own, the paranoia from growing up in Flea bottom became shared with a fear of being hunted by other dragons. Everything you once felt now held a dragon counterpart. You were no longer your own. You were one half of a whole.

And for the first time since gods knows how long,

you were not alone.

The moment did not last, for soon you heard a distant roar much softer, and higher pitch than the one that came from the dragon before you. You whipped your head around towards the direction of Dragonstone castle. There beyond the sand dunes that covered much of the castle from view, you saw a dragon flying towards. Although a much smaller dragon, it was a dragon nonetheless. Behind you your dragon rumbled, raising its head and standing tall behind you. You were but a mere speck in comparison once it stood to its full height.

The dragon roared loud, a warning or a threat, you did not know. The other dragon landed in the distance, far enough not to be immediately eaten and far enough that it would not be consumed by fire.

To see that far you squinted your eyes, the afternoon sun low and bright making it difficult to discern what the dragon looked like or who the figure was walking towards you. As the figure got closer, you readied yourself, hand near your dragon in an attempt to keep it calm.

“Who are you?!” you screamed, your dragon let out a loud snort, dipping its head. The figure did not reply, instead they kept walking closer, their features becoming clearer the closer they got. You saw some hesitation as they got closer, their head turned towards to dragon’s snout. Gauging whether they could get closer or not. You looked to the dragon, “stay calm,” you said, turning back to the man in front of you.

“He won’t understand you,” the man said, his face not an unfamiliar sight. His brown curls were more ruffled than how they had been hours prior, the wind most have messed them up. His hands were once again crossed over the pommel of his sword and his tunic still the same black and red. Jacaerys Velaryon stood there just as arrogant as before, yet there was a fear within his stance.

“what do you want?” He cocked his head to you, perhaps not used to such a blunt way of speaking, “Her grace wishes to speak to you about your”- his eyes went from you to the black scaled beast-”dragon.” He spat the word dragon out as if it was a curse, as if it was something he did not want to say. “What does her grace want with us?” “The queen does not need to explain herself.”

His tone was clipped and you watched as he tightened his grip on the sword. You let out a snort, at the same time your dragon did. Eliciting a most lethal stare from the crown prince. There was no point in arguing you found, he did not like you and he would come to like you any day soon. Besides, you were fatigued, hungry and in pain.

You could not return home to Flea Bottom with a dragon in tow, nor could you stay here on the beach. “Apologies, my prince” you smiled an overtly polite smile as you empathised the words. “I shall gladly speak to the queen.” Sacarsm dripping with every word, even if there was some sincerty in them. His sour expression did not change, he only nodded in response.

“Follow me then,” he said and turned around. You bit your lip to keep laughter a bay, for some reason, you were terribly amused by the sour mood of the prince. “What of the dragon?” you asked as you looked back at the magnificent beast, a part of you already feeling wistful at the notion of parting from it. “Leave it,” the young prince said, “it can fend for itself.” He did not await a response, instead taking off to the same place he came for. “I will see you soon,” you whispered to the dragon, hand reaching out to caress the part of its torso that was closest to you.

The dragon let out a rumble, and in your mind you felt that it was trying to reassure you. With one last pet, you took off to join to prince who had already walked quite far. “Wait for me!” you shouted, and you only got a look of utter annoyance in response.

The prince had walked with you all the way to castle, his dragon flying above you both. His sour disposition did not change, even as you tried to engage him in conversation his replies would be short and clipped which irritated as much as it amused you. “So... what did you mean earlier?” he looked at you with cocked brows, “when you said my dragon could not understand me?” He rolled his eyes as if the answer was as obvious as saying the sky was blue.

“Dragons don’t understand the common tongue.” “Then what do they understand?” you asked, genuinely curious, yet you were able to see that it annoyed him from the way his jaw was set, “They only understand Valyrian.” “That old language?” “Yes," he gritted out.

You hummed in response, “can I learn Valyrian?” He looked sideways as if pondering it before saying, “Perhaps,-” he looked to you, looking over your frame, scrutinising you no doubt-” in due time.” You nodded slowly, not knowing how to respond.

The conversation ended like that, and although you were brimming with questions, you knew that he was not likely to entertain him. Instead you opted to continue forth in silence. Dragonstone grew larger and closer with every step you took. Soon enough you would have others who might be able to answer your questions answers.

Upon entering Dragonstone various guards had flocked to the young prince, awaiting commands, yet the prince turned them all away. He declared that he must escort you himself as the queen wished. You had to restrain yourself from rolling your eyes, all this pompousness was not something you were fond of.

This constrained way of talking, hiding all that you really felt behind petty facades and poisonous words. In Flea Bottom things were brutal, harsh, dangerous, yet when someone disliked you, they made it known. Here it felt as though every step you took was a tender balance between chaos and peace. One wrong word, and you would be ousted from the castle forever. You knew that within these walls you would need to be careful. Play the game, or die.

Your second time walking through Dragonstone felt much different than the first, now you knew what happened underneath the stone floors, knew the bodies that laid in the Dragonpits, perhaps not by name but you had seen their faces. Hope, fear, pride, all human, all mortal and most were now dead.

You wondered how to prince seemed to unaffected, knowing the lives taken. One more reason to add onto your list of “royalty sucks.” The prince walked in front of you which allowed you some leeway to openly gawk at the tapestries and statues you were not allowed to gawk at previously. Death payed well you thought.

Candles illuminated the hallways, casting shadows that danced around your feet as the wind blew the flames into every direction. A storm was brewing the young prince had muttered under his breathe, not meant for your ears to hear.

Storms didn’t scare you, not when you found yourself sheltered between ancient stones that had withered centuries of storms, yet anxiety was a funny feeling. It started clawing its way from the back of your mind all the way to the front. Haunting your mind with the most horrific of scenarios, from the castle collapsing in on itself to a deluge bursting through the heavy doors, drowning all within.

As you passed the occasional window you saw the weather worsen, at first the sky clouded over, the next window you passed had already been stained by drops of rain, and at last window you could no longer clearly see the outside, the rain pouring down hard enough to obscure everything.

Soon the prince came to a standstill in front of large oak doors, opening it with little effort, and you see now how much strength the young prince had. He stood there, in silence, looking at you. Beyond the doors were long, spiralling stairs, the end of them you were able to see from where you stood. You stepped forward with some hesitation, eyes looking up a head to see where the stairs led.

“You are expected on the top floor,” he said, closing the door behind you both. Here within this tower, you could clearly hear the thunder and rain raging outside, adding to the terrifying nature of this place in particular. The prince stepped around you and made his ascent, not bothering to look back to see if you were following. After the prince turned around the first round corner, you snapped out of you slight reverie, quickly hurrying after him.

The walls of the tower were bare, no tapestries or intricate carved design, the only thing you saw were old stones. It was a long ascent, occasionally the stairs would halt and change into even floor and on those small patches of floor there would be two heavy doors. The prince told you those led to private quarters, the higher up the more important the inhabitants.

“Where do I sleep ?” you asked as you passed what you assumed to be the fourth floor, the prince looked to you, down his nose and truly looking down on you., “the queen shall decide that.”

You hummed in response, a part of you not to keen on the prospect of residing in this looming tower, with the way the thunder roared here in a way you had never heard thunder roar.

Soon the stairs came to an end in front of a small door, leading into a hallway with only candles to light your way, the hallway was not long and at the end of you were once again faced with a set of doors. Two Queensguards, silver armour shimmering in the candlelight, stood on either side of it. As the prince moved forward, the guards rushed to open the door. The doors creaked and groaned, alerting all behind them of the impending intrusion.

A grand chamber was revealed to you as the doors opened. In the middle of it stood a large table in an unusual shape, candles were scattered on top of, coating parts of the table in wax. It was a marvellous piece of craftsmanship, with intricate lines and drawings carved into it in way that allowed for them to be illuminated by placing candles underneath it.

The prince stepped forward, “I have brought her, your grace,” he said before making his way towards his mother’s side. Sparing a single glace to you which you replied to with a smile, something the young prince seemingly did not appreciate for all you got in return was a scowl.

The queen extended a soft smile to her son as he made his way to stand closer to her, bypassing all the other lords in the chamber. The mother and son pair whispered briefly amongst themselves, eyes occasionally glancing to you while you pretended you didn’t see it.

Their eyes weren’t the only ones on you, the entire room had made you their object of intrest. Some wore scowls of displeasure, others regarded you with intrigue. After growing up in Flea Bottom where shadows were you best friend, being this visible was unsettling. They looked over your entire garb, your entire being. Examined you silver-blond here, unruly and no longer in the shape of a braid, they scrutinised your lack of violet eyes and most of all, detested that you were not of high born blood. They did not need to speak it aloud, their gazes were enough.

“My lords,” the queen raised her head, her quiet conversation with her son over, “I kindly ask that you leave this chamber.” The words left the room abuzz, some muttered protests under their breaths, other had no such shame. “We shall reconvene on the morrow,” she smiled once again, but it was not a smile of affection, but a smile that screamed not to oppose her, “enjoy your evenings.”

You stepped away from the doors as the hoard of lords approached, talking amongst themselves while glancing at you and the queen. No doubt they felt spurned for not being allowed to be present for the upcoming conversation.

The queen approached you, as her son stood back, eyes watching your every move. “Please sit,” the queen motioned to one of the chairs scattered around the weird table. “My son told me something quite fascinating,” you furrowed your brows, sparing a quick look to the man in question. “He told me that The Cannibal approached you,” as she spoke she filled two goblets with a ruby red liquid, most likely a very expensive sort of wine.

She placed one goblet in front of you, afterwards, taking a sip of her own. All the while her lilac eyes observed you. You had never found yourself in such a scenario and were admittedly at a loss. Before uttering any words, you decided to take a sip of the wine, you couldn’t remember the last time you had any beverage that was not sea water. It tasted sweet, thick and sweet, unlike any other wine you had ever tasted.

As the wine warmed your body, and softened the aches of your bones you spoke up, “If by The Cannibal you mean the black dragon I met, then yes, it did approach me.” The queen looked at you, nodding and taking another sip, then placing her goblet on the table. Her son still boring holes in your figure from where he stood.

“What was the encounter like?” She eventually asked, her eyes brimming with curiosity. Her kindness and patience were unusual to you, for her, the queen, to speak to you with even the tiniest bit of respect was unheard of. It is no wonder she commanded the other lords to take their leave, they would not stand for this familiar sort of talk.

They would pass out to know that you sat on their honourable chairs, imagine what they would think if they knew you had the opportunity to partake of their wine. They might die on the spot. You had to keep yourself from letting out a chuckle at the imagine your mind conjured, instead bringing yourself back to conversation at hand. You looked towards the queen, the awkwardness palatable as she looked at you with expectation.

“The encounter was life altering,” in the distance you heard the prince clear his throat, commanding your attentions. You raised your brow at him, as did his mother. “you are to address the queen by her rightful title,” he said, looking at you as if you had committed the greatest of offence, which you suppose, you kind off did. You huffed out a breath, “Apologies your graces I am not used to the manners of court.” The queen nodded in response, “It is alright,” she picked her goblet back up and drank of it once more.

God you hated this, the silence, the awkwardness, the forced politeness. It made you feel stifled, trapped. However you persisted, there was something they wanted, you could feel it hanging in the air like you could feel the heat from the heart. “So,” the queen continued, “we are to understand that you claimed that dragon?”

You gulped, and nodded, “I suppose that is what happened your grace,” you chuckled lightly after having said it, the notion of having claimed a dragon was still a bit foreign. The queen nodded, as she casted a look towards her son. You looked to her and saw that she was clearly mulling something over in her head, debating and weighing the options in front of her. As she thought, you took another sip of the wine, letting the liquid further ease your mind and buddy. The queen’s eyes soon turned back to you, her mind made up,

“You understand that we are fighting a war,” she asked, looking at you with a gaze full of expectations and a lingering hurt,”we need fighters.” You nodded slowly, knowing where the conversation was going.

“I want to you to fight for my claim with your dragon.”

The words were spoken, the proposition laid bare on the table. You took another sip of the wine, the sweetness of it had faded, coating your tongue in bitterness. Placing the goblet on the table, the thud echoing in the empty room as the queen and her son looked at you, one with expectation, the other with a dull fury.

“What would be in it for me your grace?”

The queen smiled.

Night had come early, partly thanks to the storm that still raged outside your rooms. Rooms that were placed two floors down from those of the royal family, in the middle of the tall tower. A show of gratitude from the queen, you were far enough up in the tower to be respected but not too far up that it would be deemed inappropriate. It suited you perfectly.

The goose-feathered bed was a comfort to your sore, aching and bruised body. The medicinal oils the maids had used for your bath had helped, but now it was up to you to heal yourself.

Being aided in your bath was a most unusual experience, hands different from yours rubbing and scrubbing the dirt off. You soon excused them, feeling to exposed for you liking and although they did an excellent job, you were not one who particularly enjoyed the lavish attention. By now the maids had already come to empty the bath and put it to the side, before asking you whether you desired anything else.

You had sheepishly asked for some food, and they happily obliged. Some moments later you were laying on your bed, with a tray of food placed on your nightstand; bread, cheese, grapes, a goblet and small carafe of water were there to fill your very empty stomach. As you laid there munching on a piece of bread, the events of the day truly dawned on you. What you had done, what you witnessed, the promise you had made.

You closed your eyes, savouring the piece of bread, remembering a time where the only bread you ate was either stale or partly mouldy, gods things have changed. The moon shone throught

With your old dagger you cut through the hard bread, trying your hardest to cut off the part of it that had been tainted by mould. The boy at your table eager to finally have something other than gruel for food. “How were you able to get bread?” he asked as you put a plate in front of him, alongside a bowl of bland soup that was more lukewarm water than anything of sustenance.

You weren’t too keen on replying, knowing that what you did wasn’t exactly lawful. “The baker no longer wanted it,” you replied clipped, as you dipped the bread in the soup. The boy didn’t reply, to busy devouring his bread. Hunger was a nasty feeling, and he had known too much of it. You smiled softly at him, and although the bread wasn’t procured honourable, it was able to feed him which is all that mattered to you.

“The madam has another job for me,” he said in between bites, causing you to pause your eating. “Really?” you furrowed your brows,” she was happy then? With your performance?” He nodded proudly, “very happy.” You smiled at him again, this job would surely put more money in both of your pockets. Money you desperately needed.

“She asked if you considered her offer,” he looked at you, soft lilac eyes filled with expectation. Eyes you never could resist. “I did,”- you took another bite-”I think I’m going to accept.”

You awoke the next morning with knocking at your door, the maids from the previous night entered your room. They carried clothing, fresh water to fill a small basin, and tray of food. First they helped you out of your bed, in your tired state you didn’t say anything as they helped you out of you night shift and into what they described as riding clothes.

They sat you down at the table in front of the hearth, the food to break your fast that was on the tray now laid spread out before you. As you ate, one maid started to straighten your bed, as another cleaned up the tray you had requested the night before. Soon you were left alone, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you took a bit from a piece of bread with jam.

It tasted amazing. You had seen jams in the homes of others, had even been able to taste it years ago yet you never had the luxury of affording it for yourself. Even the juice that accompanied your breakfast tasted expensive, especially due to the fact that the goblet you drank it from seemed to have gold embellishments. If you took one of those goblets and sold it, you would be set for life.

Your mind flashed to the little boy with lilac eyes, how much he would have loved all of this. You took a deep breath and tried to change your train of thought, a difficult tasks but one you had to undergo if you wished to leave the room with your sanity in tact. You grasped at the necklace you found yesterday, tracing over in an effort to soothe yourself and it proved effective. Soon you were out of your room, headed off to chamber of the painted table as the queen had requested last night.

It did not take you long to reach said chamber, having memorised the path when you were traversing it with the prince yesterday. Guards opened the door for you once more, and inside you were met not with councillors, but with three man of various age, the queen, the prince, a knight and men you remembered from the dragonpit. You were the last to arrive.

“My apologies for my later arrival,” you bowed your head, eyes darting up to meet ones of a soft brown. ”your grace.” you added as you saw the fiery glare form, he looked away with you with anger set in his jaw and you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes. The queen nodded, “Apologies accepted.”

you hurried to join the other three, standing next to who you thought to be the youngest. He was a handsome young man, tall with ebony hair and dark hair, and with a beautiful smile he extended towards you as you stood next to him. “Now that you are all gathered here, I thought it imperative we discussed some things.” The man furthest from you with hair half up and a messy beard nodded dutifully, while the one next to him looked bored out of his mind.

The prince standing next to his mothers looked at the man as though he wished to have him burned with his gaze. “You are to train with your dragons, learn the commands so that soon you will be ready to fight.” You gulped, a sliver of anxiety settling in on the bottom of your stomach.

“Y/n,” lilac eyes looked at you, “you will train outside with prince Jacaerys, a dragonkeeper and a few knights. I trust my son will be a great teacher to you,”she smiled as she continued to discuss and divide the roles of the others, however you’re attention was taking. The brown haired prince stared at you, his attention equally diverted. His gaze on you made you want to thwart your own, however your pride would not let you.

Instead of averting your eyes, you looked him in his beautiful brown eyes and smiled. An action that angered him for he immediately looked away, back to his mother. Anger rolled off him in waves, hands clenched on top of the pommel of his sword, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. A small victory for you, but a victory nonetheless. The meeting concluded shortly thereafter.

;With some words of caution and well wishes you were dismissed. Your anxiety had momentarily settled thanks due to your little staring contest, but now it was back tenfold as you followed the prince. “Where are we training?” you asked as you tried to keep up with his fast pace, “somewhere far away from the castle with enough space.” You nodded, “will you be the one to teach my Valyrian?” He looked at you with an annoyed expression, his new role as teacher must not have been one he accepted with much happiness.

“Only the most basic commands.” he looked you up and down,” I doubt you will have much use for more.” At his words you scoffed, “Perhaps I wish to write Valyrian poetry, I can’t very well do that with only basic words” you spat at him in rebuttal, causing him to laugh in disbelief, “Someone like you is not capable of that.” Your nostrils flared at that, “And what is that suppose to mean?!” “It means that you are not a Targaryen” he spat the words out, looking at you as if you were a stain on his shoe. “So what?! You think the non Targaryens don’t write poetry?” “Perhaps they do, but it certainly isn’t in Valyrian.” he stated as though it was a fact,

“And how would you know that my prince?” you asked sarcastically, “I doubt you spent enough time with any non Targaryens to know.” At that he tutted his lips in response, angry at your response. “I don’t need to spend time with them to know,” he said and it made you laugh. “You people have no education. What would you know of poetry, let alone Valyrian poetry?!” You stepped closer to him as a challenge, “And who’s fault is that,” you looked him straight in the eyes, “My prince.”

He did not reply, stunned at your actions. He retreated, seething and walked away from you. What a waste of a gorgeous face, you thought, for it to be wasted on such a personality. You looked to him and saw the distance he had already put between you, anger was a great motivator apparently. You took a deep breath to calm yourself before following in his direction.

“Drakares!” you shouted with full confidence, and the prince tsk’ed at you once again. “Wrong. it’s Drakarys, it has a y sound not an e,” he was annoyed as he tried to teach you the commands, growing more impatient with every mistake you made yet you tried again.

“Draakarys!” He sighed and tsk’ed again, “wrong again, your first a vowel should be shorter, listen closely,” he looked towards where Vermax stood, a safe distance away from you both “Drakarys!”

He said it with great confidence and you both watch as Vermax released fire upon the ground, burning away the grass and insects. The prince looked towards with a smug smile, before saying you should try again. You turned towards where your dragon stood, even further away from you both and also a safe distance from Vermax. You took a deep breath and readied yourself,

“Drakarys!” you commanded, and you watched with pride as the cannibal unleashed a large fire onto the field, you had not felt the heat of Vermax’s flame but the heat of the cannibal’s was unavoidable. You let out a gleeful laugh, proud to have finally done it.

“Did you see that?” you looked at him with happiness and pride, “It worked!” he only spared you a small glance before saying, “it took you long enough.” In an instant, your happiness and pride were trampled upon, and anger surged within you.

“Well fuck you,” you said, walking away towards your dragon, eager to be away from the prince. He stormed after you, “How dare you?!” he shouted as he neared you, “Need I remind you that I am a prince of the realm?!”

You turned to face him, rolling your eyes. “Do not roll your eyes at me!” He shouted, eyes filled with a burning fury. “Why not?” you asked as you stepped closer to him, so close that you were nearly touching his nose with your own, breaths becoming mingled. Your heart beating ferociously due to the proximity, “Will you chop off my head? Feed me to your dragon?” You knew it was reckless, to taunt him so, but this man brought out the worst within you. He did not reply. “Thought so,” you said, ignoring your racing heart.

Breaths uneven as you stood there so close to him, looking into his eyes. His beautiful brown eyes, framed by gorgeous brown curls. Gods, he was unfairly beautiful. It made your heart race and your mind desire things it should not. You almost reached out to tuck away a stray piece of his hair that had blown in his face. The moment broke however when he cleared his throat and took a step back, “perhaps we should take a break for now.” You dropped your hand, hoping he hadn’t noticed what you were thinking of doing.

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” you agreed and walked towards your dragon, as did he. You patted the part of the Cannibal you were able to touch, cooing to him as you felt him growing restless. He was unused to this, the sitting stil, being commanded, everything. It had been a great challenge to get him saddled, it had almost ended with one of the dragonkeepers dying. Yet the bond you shared, however short, was strong. You felt the fear that he held within, and knew it well.

“Just a bit longer big guy,” you smiled up at him, but couldn’t not look him in the eye “I’ll ask if we can try flying now. ” You could almost swear that he responded when he let out a few clicking sounds and rumble from within his chest, near your hand, “Good boy,” you whispered as you gave him one last pat before making your way to the prince who was in deep conversation with his own dragon. “ziry amīvindī nykēla Vermax.”

The language he was speaking sounded strange in your ears, and you knew it must by High Valyrian because he spoke it to his dragon. His tone sounded annoyed, and you thought that whatever he was talking probably pertained to you. “ugh Issa kesīr,” he muttered as he noticed your approaching.

“The Cannibal wants to fly,” Jacaerys looked at you and sighed, ”Very well, let’s try flying.”He walked with you to your dragon and he was even so kind as to stabilise the netting you had climb up. Before you had started training the commands, you had practised sitting on the dragon, when the saddle was still on the ground. He had showed you how to strap in, how to use your buckles and the best way to hold your reigns, even if it was often with annoyance, he still did it.

He had told you to wait for him to fly to you before you were to even attempt the fly command, but you couldn’t wait. Anticipation bloomed within you alongside anxiety and you could feel the dragon brimming with a fiery energy. He wanted to fly, did not even wait for a command before reading himself. As he stretched out his winds you exclaimed “Sōvēs!”

You felt your heart hammer within your chest as the beast moved beneath you, breathing in and out at a rapid pace. It almost felt as though your heart would move so fast as to rip out of your chest. It was exhilarating. The moment your dragon set off, you let out a loud shriek before falling into a fit of hysterical giggles. Soon you were above the sky, holding onto the reigns for dear life as your mighty beast flew through clouds.

A smile was plastered on your face, your heart still beating miles per second. You felt invincible. With a few deep breaths you tried to steady your heartbeat, but it didn’t help much. Adrenaline filled your body and you could feel your hands shake slightly because of it. This ride you let yourself be guided by the cannibal, forgetting the young prince who had just saddled himself.

He was hurrying to get himself in the air, and although he didn’t personally mind if you fell to your death. His mother certainly would. Soon he was chasing after you, his small, young dragon much faster than yours, but you didn’t care. He saw you as he rose above the clouds. Beautiful silver blond hair shimmering in the sun with a wide smile unlike any he had ever seen.

For a moment he allowed himself to look at you unashamed, no other eyes observed him. There in the sky on top of the mighty beast, with the sun shining on you, you looked ethereal. There on his own dragon, he could momentarily shed the burdens on his shoulders. He could almost see all his worries and duties drift away in the wind. His eyes were focused on you, your gleeful laughter, your beauty, and for a moment you were not a bastard and he was not a prince.

You were dragonriders.

Yet reality never waited long to crash back down, he saw your head turn towards him but was not fast enough to turn his own. You were looking at him, and it felt like he was falling through the sky. Your smile fell and you waved at him awkwardly, which he reciprocated equally before turning to face forward, hiding the small hue of pink now dusting his cheeks.

Both dragons flew relatively close to the other, not too close you would be touching on another, but close enough that the riders could see each other. Your heartbeat had calmed down quite a bit, but you could still feel it beating furiously. Never had you ever been so free. If you so desired you could take your mount and fly away, away from this war, away from the arrogant prince. You could fly to Braavos, or Pentos. Anywhere and everywhere was now within your reach.

You looked back to the castle and knew that those thoughts were pretty dreams, you had made a promise. A promise that you would fight in this war, that you would fight for the queen and you knew you couldn’t not break it for it was a promise made to more than Rhaenyra Targaryen, it was also a secret promise you made to him.

“I wonder if you were looking at me now,” you whispered as you looked up further into the sky, hands tight on the reigns, “what would you say?”

No response came.

You had underestimated the strength that dragonriding demanded. The moment your feet touched solid ground, your legs started wobbling whether because of the leftover adrenaline or the simple fact they used more muscle than expected. Jacaerys Velaryon had descended with every grace expected of a prince, and made his way over to you.

No doubt to scold you over your disregard of his direction, or because you didn’t fly as pretty as he did. Whatever it may have been, it didn’t matter. The moment he reached you, your legs gave out and simple fell to the ground with a loud thud. All the scolding he was going to do was forgotten as he tried (and failed) to surpass a laugh at the scene.

“Ha Ha very funny,” you said as you looked up to him, slightly embarrassed at your predicament. “Could you help me up?” you asked, extending your hands to him. He nodded while trying to suppress a smile. He looked pretty like that you thought, he had looked prettiest in the sky with his curls flowing in the wind, the sun casting a glow around him like a halo.

He helped you up quickly, even holding your hands as you steadied yourself. Although both your hands were hidden beneath leather, you could’ve sworn you could feel their warmth. The moment the thought crossed your mind, you pulled them back. “Thank you,” you said, turning away to look at The Cannibal, as he was being unsaddled by a few dragonkeepers, with great effort on their part. They were terrified of the beast, and he was equally as terrified of them.

You could feel it, and even hear it in the tone of his shrieks. “Where will he go now,” you asked to the prince, eyes focused on your beast. “If he wants he can follow us to the caves, but most likely he has his own cave somewhere,” he looked at the beast briefly before turning his eyes to the back of your head, “perhaps he will take you to his lair someday. “

You turned to him, catching his eyes. “I hope so.” He was about to say something when a loud gurgling interrupted him, embarrassment crossed over your features when your realised that it was your stomach. Whatever he was going to say was lost as he laughed once more. “Don’t laugh,” you say, hardly able to suppress your own smile, “Dragon riding is hungry business!” A sentiment that caused him to laugh even harder.

For a moment, all previous hiccups were forgotten and only laughter remained. However the moment did not last long, a knight came from the castle summoning the both of you for supper. Perfect for your gurgling stomach, less perfect for what you thought was a budding friendship between you both. His laughter and smile faded, leaving behind the stoic prince from before. “

We should get going,” he said, “the queen does not like to be kept waiting.” You nodded and followed after him, his shoulders were tense and from the way his lips pursed you could assumed his jaw was equally as tense.

Dinner with the queen was a grand affair. The moment you set foot in your chambers the maids pounced on you to get you ready, your riding garb was thrown off and replaced with hot bath water. They did not give you time to protest, as they scrubbed your body clean and replaced the smell of dragon with the smell of lavender. They then dressed you in a fine dress of dark red fabric, with small dragon details around the cuffs and neckline.

“Curtsy from princess Baela,” one of the maids had said, before starting on your hair. By the end of the full makeover you looked unlike yourself. Dressed in such fine clothing, your hair was let half up and half down, a small braid in the back keeping long tresses out of your eyes. They tried to adorn you with a beautiful necklace made of small rubies, but you refused in favour of the silver necklace you brought from home. A reminder of your humbler beginnings, yet also a harbinger of the new things that came.

Soon you were seated at a grand table, not remember how you even got here with how fast it all went. On your right the seat was empty, on your left was the tall handsome man from this morning. In front of him was another dragonseed, with his hair in a half up ponytail and in front of you was the man with the beard.

“Good evening,” you muttered as you looked to them, your fellow dragonseeds. “Good evening,” the man on your left said, smiling brightly. The man in front of you smiled as well, “Good evening.” However the other man was too occupied with his cup to ever pay attention to the other. The man to your left leaned in closer to you, “my name is Addam,” he said, then motioning towards the man in front of him, “That’s Ulf, and the one next to him is Hugh,” You nodded, “I’m Y/N,” nice to meet you,” Addam smiled even brighter at you, “You’re the one that claimed The Cannibal right? We’ve all been very eager to meet you.”

You nodded at that, “Indeed. And what about you? Who did you claim?” “Seasmoke,” he said, his voice filled with pride, you looked towards Ulf, who now had tuned into the conversation. “I claimed Silverwing! Fast little thing she is,” he smiled smugly at you.

You turned to Hugh who had looked at Ulf with annoyance, before turning to meet your eyes. “Vermithor,” he spoke and he saw as your eyes widened. “The bronze one in the dragonpit?” You asked, bewildered that someone managed to claim that ferocious beast. He smiled a little shyly and nodded, “Yeah that’s the one.”

The conversation came to standstil as the doors opened to reveal the queen herself, wearing her golden crown. Behind her were her son and a young girl you didn’t know, with white curls and dark skin. She was pretty and as she walked you could tell she was a princess. You, Addam and Hugh immediately rose to your feet, whereas Ulf was still to busy examining his cups.

You gave him a pointed look as Hugh muttered “get up.” With clumsy feet he rose from the chair, almost knocking it over. All bowed before the queen and her entourage, although it was with little grace and wobbling knees.

As the queen was seated you were all allowed to sit down once more, servants delivered plates of food. Fruits and vegetables you never had to opportunity to taste, there were even these little bird like things. You had seen them before, but no longer remembered the name.

Ulf was quick to dig in, not waiting for anyone, or for a prayer. A part of you felt slightly annoyed at his rudeness, another part of you wanted to follow his lead. Never in your whole life had you seen this much food. He ate messily, yet you could not really blame him. It was not as though there were schools of etiquette back in Flea Bottom.

Due to Ulf’s impatience the order of things had been slightly altered and you noticed how it didn’t go over well with the royals at the table. The prince looked as though he would rather be dead, and the princess in front of him tried her hardest to remain neutral. The queen smiled tensely as she asked everyone to please dig in. On your plate you had stacked a variety of food, a little bird, beans, some potatoes. You wished to have a taste of everything, to savour every piece, because you knew that this opportunity was a rare one.

“You’ve got to taste the fish,” the man next to you excitedly said with a warm smile. You smiled back at him, “I will,-” you motioned towards your small bird-”but first this.” He nodded, before nudging your shoulders, “Look’s like Ulf is enjoying them,” he laughed along with you as you both watched Ulf absolutely devour the birds. Your laughter drew the stare of the prince, his big brown eyes focused on you and Addam as you conversed with one another.

The staring resulted in a nudge to the foot by the princess in front of him who looked at him with puzzled brows. “More wine here!” Ulf proclaimed, interrupting the conversation between Addam and you, “taming a dragon is thirsty work.” As he said that you rolled your eyes, but you soon regained your composure as you saw the queen grab her cup and stand. Your eyes turned to her, but not for long for Ulf once more spoke up “Oh, and some of these little bird.”

You looked at Addam who was looking at his food, head bowed slightly letting out a sigh. You could tell his was embarrassed in Ulf’s place. You eyes then went back to the queen who looked most displeased.

“A toast,” the queen spoke, “to our new riders.” The whole room fell silent at her words, eyes upon her, cutlery laid to rest. “The four of you are not of noble birth but you have done a thing never dreamed of before now,” All at the table rose their cups, some more enthusiastically then others you noticed as you finally dared to sneak a glance at the prince.

The queen sat back down, and drank the wine, a silent permission of all to do the same. She was however not done with her speech, “I have entrusted you with a power only few have known. And I charge you to take it up with fealty and respect,” she smiled at the four of you, “Serve me well and I will you knights and lady of the realm.” All eyes were on her, before Ulf opened his mouth, much to everyone’s annoyance. “Huh? What do you think of that, boys?” he asked in a slightly mocking manner, “We’ll be knights…just like that.”

The smile on his face made you uncomfortable, the food visible in his mouth. Hugh and Addam did not respond to his words, the later responding only to the queen, “we will not fail you, my queen,” he said, looking away from Ulf and instead towards her.

After Addam, Hugh also spoke up, “What must we do?” He asked nervously. The queen darted her eyes to the side, thinking over her words before responding, “I had thought that the mere fact of you might stay the enemy’s hand.” Her eyes roamed over you all, a slight tone of regret seeping into her voice, “but lord Corlys is right. We must strike while we have the advantage,” she looked briefly towards her son, before returning her gaze to the other, ”and end this war.”

You nodded at her words, knowing that she was right. The enemy might be deterred for but they won’t be for long. If you didn’t strike now, they will. You looked to others, saw as the princess leaner forward slightly in her chair. Her features were covered in slight surprise as the queen continued, “learn your beasts and your commands. You will fly in two days time.”

You took a deep breathe in, gnawing at your bottom teeth. The appetite you had suddenly disappeared with growing anxiety taking its place but she was not done speaking yet. “The strongholds of the usurper, Oldtown and Lannisport, and their armies, all must be subdued,” she put great emphasis on the last words, as she looked each of you in the eyes.

“Alone, without allies, he will have no choice but to surrender.” You understood her reasoning, yet her words implied you would be putting to death hundreds, thousands of people. Innocent people. A thought you apparently shared with the princess, “you wish for us to kill innocents.” “And so many,” Hugh added, a look of disbelief on his face. “It is hard,” the prince interjected,”but it cannot be helped.” The way he spoke about it so calmly made you mimic’s Hugh’s look.

You were no stranger to death, nor to what causes death, yet to have such a responsibility upon your shoulders. It was nauseating. You didn’t speak up, you knew this was expected, you had made a deal after all. In the background you could hear Ulf grunt as the prince and queen exchanged a look. “We must break the will of our enemy,” the queen spoke, “or more will die in a struggle that stretches on without end.” What she said was true, but didn’t ease the guilt that was already weighing on you.

“What about Vhagar?” Addam asked, knowing that none of your dragons were a match for her, safe for maybe The Cannibal but he was not battle trained, not in a way that Vhagar was. The queen leaned forward a slight smile on her lips in an effort to reassure him, “she is fearsome… but she is one dragon. The prince regent cannot defend against all of us.” You wanted to say something, ask about who should face her. You were readying yourself to speak up, but were too late. “I’ll take him on myself,” Ulf said, drunk on wine and good food, “Silverwing’s a goer, she is.”

He waved around his finger to mimic a dragon flying, “we’re afraid of nothing.” Addam looked at him disapprovingly, but Ulf continued, “even if you are.” A sentence that you knew agitated Addam, you could see it in his posture as he spoke, “there will be time enough,”- he turned his head to look Ulf directly in the eye-”to see which one of us is a coward.” Ulf only smiled in response, before turning towards where the servants stood, raising his cups and demanding once more that they bring him more little birds. An act that greatly displeased all the others at the table. The queen tried to reprimand him softly by stating, “A knight will comport himself with grace at the queen’s table.” It didn’t work on Ulf however, who responded, “best make me a knight, then.” A statement that earned him sharp glares from the princess.

“You forget yourself,” the prince stated, “friend.” It was said in a tone that indicated he did not want to be messed with, his jaw was set once more. However the statement had another emotiong to it, as if it was a follow up to a conversation none of you were aware of excpet the prince and Ulf.

Ulf scoffed in response, grabbing his goblet. “ Sense of humour would do you all good,” he said before taking a big swig. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife, and you hoped that the dinner would soon come to an end. A prayer that was answered quickly when the maester entered to room to whisper something into the ear of the queen.

The queen rose from her seat once more, but this time it was not to give a toast. You glanced towards the prince who was staring at his mother, for the first time this evening you really looked at him. His curls had been styled, his tunic a different one from before. This time he had no cape nor any red embellishments.

He looked handsome you thought, and as soon as the thought crossed your mind you looked a way. In the meantime the queen was in deep conversation with the maester and you could only pray that the new was good, but from the looks on either faces, that did not seem the case.

The queen soon turned back to the table, “Addam,” she called, the man looked startled upon hearing his name, “come with me.” In silence Addam followed after her, and you watched them both leave. Ulf finally received his birds, yet your appetite was long gone.

You pushed yourself off your chair, and bowed to the prince and princess, you knew was expected. “I wish to retire to my room,” you said, watching the both of them exchange glances before they nodded. The princess smiled at you, “you may go,” she said and you nodded to her in response.

You walked towards your rooms, your stomach twisted and turned as you mulled over all that had just happened. The inevitable was soon to come. Westeros was at war, a war in which you swore you would participate. A promise you had perhaps made too quickly, yet could not take back.

Blood was already on your hands, were you truly ready to add more?

Tagslist (open)

@madame-fear, @/corruptedcruiser, @rav9n-16, @/blackravena, @kaymej, @burningwitchobject, @/vee-mage, @thenotesapppoet, @benjinotes, @/kitkat1sstuff, @/cxcilla, @alyssa-dayne, @i-padfootblack-things, @seaheaded

(A dash after the @ sign means that I wasn't able to tag your blog for some reason. Sorry💔)

[blingblong55]

Crossing the line -141& König

Picture credit: @ave661 (middle)

Based on a request: I have recently crossed over and I think I may becoming a Konig girlie! I don’t know if you write for him, and I’m sorry if I sent this and you don’t, but what do we think about Konig dating someone who’s in the 141. They don’t see each other very often with work but 141 and Kortac get paired up to do a mission against Makarov and reader introduces Konig to the team?again sorry if you don’t write to him! But I just wanted to say I love your writing and I’m obsessed with your blog!!! Have a great day! ---- F!Reader (don't know what else to write here...so...yeah) ----

-This is written before the death(s) of any character(s) in the franchise-

A/N: welcome to this side love and don't worry, he is on my list of who I write for and apologise for barley doing this for you

A relationship that can only be described as unconventional and riddled with unanswered questions is precisely what exists between you and König. You're part of Task Force 141, while your boyfriend works for KorTac, a Private Military Company, and a rival to your team. Naturally, you've kept this under wraps; no one in 141 knew about him or where he's employed. But today, of all days, was the day you had to bring him into the fold, thanks to Price asking you to introduce your partner so there could be a record on hand should he ever need to be placed under protection. 

As members of Task Force 141, there's always a record – whether they're enemies, allies or even partners of either side. So, when the day finally arrived and you intordiced him, you made it clear that if they respected you, they wouldn't pry into his life. Out of respect for you, they didn't dig into his background, but you knew that trouble was brewing, especially when both Task Force 141 and KorTac had to join forces against a common enemy: Makarov. He'd betrayed KorTac months ago and was now squarely in the crosshairs of Task Force 141. 

"König?" Gaz blurted out the moment he laid eyes on him. It's hard to miss a man his size and Gaz, with his sharp memory, had clocked him straight away, nudging Soap and Price. Before you knew it, Price had pulled you aside, and a wave of dread washed over you. "Your boyfriend... where does he work?" Price asked, his tone demanding the truth. You could only stare back, silently pleading with him not to push it. "Price, don't do this—" you began, but he cut you off. "Where. Does. He. Work?" he pressed, and with a sigh, you gave him a look that said, 'Don't be mad." "He's in the military... KorTac, to be precise,": you admitted, bracing yourself for the fallout. 

Before Price could respond, Ghost was on you, his voice dripping with fury. "You're dating the fucking enemy? You know what they did to us, who they are, and why they do what they do," he snarled, his teeth practically clenched. You turned to face him properly, "Lt, please... don't make a scene out of this," you implored, but he just shook his head in disbelief. "Make a scene? A fucking scene?! What have you told him, kid?" he barked, shoving your shoulder. "Nothing," you insisted, trying to keep your cool. "You're a fuckin' idiot." His tone was filled with anger and disappointment. "You know why we don't pair with them, why this thing is just a one-off, so don't give me this bullshit, don't fucking––" Ghost raged. 

"That's enough," Price interjected stepping in. 

"I love him. I know he'd never betray me. I took an oath when I joined this team, I made a promise to be a good partner to him, but I take my oath seriously, the same one I took when I was brought into this team. I'd never betray the team that's like family to me, but I also can't help loving him," you explained, your voice wavering slightly as you looked between Ghost and Price.  

"You're... in love?" Soap said, sounding almost incredulous. You sighed, wishing this nightmare would end. "Yes, I am," you confirmed. "With that KorTac bloke, yeah?" Gaz added, and you nodded, meeting their questioning gazes. "I'm sorry, alright? I know it's not ideal, but i swear he'd never betray or harm any of you. He knows how much I care about you all. He loves me, and we promised each other we wouldn't do that," you told them earnestly, hoping they'd understand. They exchanged glances, clearly conflicted. "If he hurts you—" Price started. 

"I won't," König said firmly as he walked into the room, and you couldn't help but let out a relieved sigh. 

Someone ought to lock the door before anyone barges in, you thought wryly. 

"I'll be looking into your personal life," Price warned, his gaze fixed on König. "You're welcome to. Investigate all you want, I've got nothing to hide," König replied, meeting Price's stare without flinching. 

As the tension in the room thickened, you could feel the weight of every gaze on you and König. The air was heavy with unspoken doubts, but also a glimmer of something else—perhaps understanding, or at least the hope of it. 

Price took a step back, his expression unreadable. "We'll see about that," he said, his tone softer but still laced with authority. "But understand this: if he steps out of line, if he puts any of us in jeopardy, I won't hesitate to act. Love or not, you're still a part of this team, and this team comes first." You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "I understand, and I wouldn't expect anything less," you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside you. 

Ghost was still fuming, but he kept his distance, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and König. "Don't make me regret this," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. 

König, to his credit, didn't flinch. "You have my word," he said simply, his voice calm and assured. 

Soap and Gaz exchanged a look, and Soap finally broke the silence with a half-hearted grin. "Well, this is going tomake for an interesting debrief, eh?"

The tension in the room eased slightly, the corners of Gaz's mouth twitching in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "You always did know how to keep things lively," he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. 

You allowed yourself a small smile, feeling the tightness in your chest begin to loosen. "What can I say? Never a dull moment." Price nodded, his eyes still on König. "Alright then. We'll take it one step at a time. But remember, we're watching."

With that, the meeting seemed to unofficially adjourn, the mean dispersing with lingering glances at you and König. As the door closed behind the last of them, you let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding. König turned to you, his eyes softening as he took your hand. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, squeezing his hand in return. "Yeah. It could've gone worse." He gave you a small, reassuring smile. "They'll come around."

"Maybe," you said, leaning into him slightly. "But even if they don't, we'll figure it out. Together." He nodded, pulling you close. "Together," he echoed. And as you stood there, the two of you alone in the room that had just moments ago been filled with so much tension, you felt a sense of calm wash over you.

A/N: fixed my writing style so...I hope you enjoyed?

Tags: @liyanahelena @goldenmclaren @ghostslillady @moonsua1 @rvivienner @frazie99 @katybaby00 @spicypicklesoh @viomast @juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @enarien @ikohniik @nobodys-coffee @strawberrychita @sae1kie @Llelannie @Macnches2 @skelletonwitch @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @luvecarson @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @born4biriyani @mychemichalimalance @marshiely @tuihiatus @iruzias @sleepyycatt @noodlezz-bedo @trinthealternate @vampsquerade @azkza @VampyTheGoth

[syndrossi]

Restoration AU: Ned I

Previous part, Bran I, here.

NED 1

Ned was embroiled in discussions with Vayon regarding the additional food stores that would need to be procured to feast the king’s party in accordance with his expectations—and Robert’s expectations certainly tended toward the lavish—when Jory burst into his solar, looking so rattled that Ned rose in alarm, convinced that something had happened to one of the children.

“My lord,” he said. “There are—that is, your son, Bran—”

Before Ned could fear the worst, he caught motion beyond the door frame, and his gaze fell upon the auburn hair of his second-youngest as he poked his head in the door. Robb and Jon had also accompanied Jory, trailing just behind, and they looked as perturbed as his captain of the guard. Robb’s mouth was a hard, harsh line that recalled Cat when she was in full fury, and Jon looked as pale as the direwolf pup he’d named Ghost.

His nerves settled on mild apprehension. “What is it, Jory?”

Jory cast a hesitant look at Vayon. “It is a matter that my lord may wish to discuss in private.”

Ned frowned. Jory and Vayon had known one another for several years now. Enough for his captain and steward to know that he held both of them in high esteem. He was unsure what it meant that Jory should be wary of the man now, but it could be nothing good.

“We can finish attending to the feast preparations later, Vayon,” Ned said. “It seems my sons have found themselves a spot of mischief.”

Robb’s eyes narrowed, further mystifying Ned. His steward inclined his head, then took his leave, and the children crowded into his solar. But rather than just the three he had expected, two more entered behind Robb and Jon, furs wrapped around either of them, and Jory’s own cloak atop that.

Ned’s mouth, which had opened to demand answers of his captain and his son, snapped shut as his gaze fell upon the two strange children, his wits abandoning him for several blank seconds. One, with hair but a shade or two lighter than his own, returned his stare with a wariness that wavered as it went on, taking on the faint sheen of tears. His face was as familiar as his own, as alike to Jon’s as a brother’s would be.

It cannot be.

It was the other child’s appearance, however, that lanced through his shock, turning it icy with dread. Rhaegar Targaryen was fourteen years dead, but Ned had known the prince’s face well, for it had haunted more than a few nightmares since, he and Lyanna both. This child could be the prince’s son—a comparison driven home as Ned glanced from one to the other, finding as many similarities between them as they shared with Jon.

Brothers. They must be, of nearly identical height and build. Twins, perhaps, except that one could be his son, while the other—

How? The children looked to be of an age with his daughters, meaning Rhaegar would have been four or five years dead by the time they were born. Ned himself had seen the mangled skull of his infant son, Aegon, and had the boy lived, he would have been Jon’s age.

And yet that is what they look like. Rhaegar’s sons, four years too young. The son whose death Robert celebrated, and the son whose death he would seek, if he only knew.

As he studied the dark-haired child more closely, subtle differences presented themselves between him and Jon. His eyes were a lighter grey that took on a tinge of purple the longer Ned stared into them, recalling the terror of the first few months of Jon’s life, before his own had darkened to a deep grey. His hair was a shade lighter, its dark brown slightly warmer.

And yet none of that mattered. The Valyrian coloring that House Targaryen had been known for was not uncommon in the Free Cities, but anyone who had ever seen the mad king or his wife and son would recognize their blood in these children. The other child’s coloring would all but invite such comparisons, and there was no greater danger. They could easily be siblings, the three of them.

It cannot be Aerys, nor can it be Rhaegar. Could Rhaella have lived after all to follow her children into hiding? Her remains had been cremated in accordance with Targaryen tradition by the time Dragonstone had been taken. Died in childbed, they had been told. Any whispers of the exiled queen’s survival surely would have made it to their shores.

Yet it was the only possible explanation. Any child of Rhaella’s would look like her slain son. But why would they be here? Why now, as Robert openly travels to Winterfell?

“We found them on the outskirts of the wolfswood, half frozen,” Jory said, breaking the tense silence. “Young Bran spotted them.”

The children were both shivering, Ned realized at last. He managed a smile at his youngest. “Bran, lad, go see if Gage has any soup on—something hot for our guests.”

Disappointment flashed across his son’s face, his curiosity readily apparent, but he cast the two boys a sympathetic look and swallowed his protest. “Yes, Father. I shall bring it myself!”

Once he had gone, Ned turned back to the children. “I am Lord Stark,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “And you are in Castle Winterfell. Who might you be?”

“Is it not plain, Father?” Robb snapped, tensed as though for a fight. “There is no need to make a farce of it, now that you’ve sent Bran away.”

Ned sucked in a breath, feeling a fool as comprehension struck. Jory’s obvious discomfort, Robb’s fury, Jon’s quiet shock—

They think that I…?

Ned stared into his son’s eyes, finding shock and betrayal beneath the anger. A mirthless chuckle rose in his chest and he forced it down. Why should they not, after all? He had soiled his honor once in claiming Jon as his son. The appearance of two children on the outskirts of Winterfell who looked to be his bastard son’s younger brothers offered one obvious explanation.

Denial followed his stalled laughter, smothered just as quickly in the wake of another realization. Deny their relation, and Jon’s apparent kinship to two children of Targaryen features would invite all the questions Ned had feared in the first few years of his son’s life. Why would a boy with no relation to House Targaryen look like one of their long-dead scions?

Suspicious minds would turn to his sister and the man who had kidnapped her. The timing of Jon’s appearance, the fact that Ned had been the one to find her in the Tower of Joy, it would all point to a deadly truth—a treason that Robert would never forgive.

Unless there was another explanation. One that Jory and both of his sons had clearly seized upon, one that would all but guarantee Jon’s safety.

If they were my own bastard sons, Jon’s brothers…

Then there was no possible relation between Jon and Rhaegar Targaryen. How could there be? His brothers would have been born years after the prince’s death, their mother some woman from Lys, perhaps, with the silver-blond hair and purple eyes of Valyria that were so prized in that city. No one would look for House Targaryen in them, if House Stark offered an excuse for their shared resemblance.

To protect Jon, his only option might be to stain his honor beyond recognition. To flaunt these children, as though he had nothing to hide.

“Leave us,” Ned said. “I would speak to these children alone.”

Robb���s face reddened, his son’s outrage whipped to a frenzy. “I will not—”

“That is your lord’s command,” Ned said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. “Go. I will speak to you later.”

His son’s fists clenched, the hurt swimming beneath his anger plain, but he gave a stiff nod. “Come, Snow,” he said to his brother.

Stark, Snow. Names that his sons had taken to calling one another in the past year as they neared manhood, the growing understanding of their differing circumstances wedging itself between them. The names were not spoken unkindly, but Ned caught the barest flinch on Jon’s face this time.

Jory was the last to leave, pausing by the door. “We returned through the Hunter’s Gate, my lord, but we ran across Theon on our way to the keep.”

Ned nodded tersely in understanding. His ward was loud of mouth and held no fondness for Jon. If he too had concluded that the boys were Jon’s bastard brothers, then word would spread quickly through Winterfell. It would reach Cat soon enough, if Robb had not gone to tell her himself, and Ned’s heart clenched. As keen as Robb’s pain and betrayal had been, his wife’s suffering would be far worse.

But the children in the room with him now were a more immediate concern. Ned approached them slowly, testing their reaction. Jon’s young twin had lost none of his earlier wariness, though he did not appear to be frightened of him. And the other child regarded him with a quiet curiosity that was entirely Jon’s.

They are so like him. 

“I am Lord Eddard Stark,” he said again. “What are your names?”

“I am Jon,” said the dark-haired one, and it was all Ned could do not to react. “And this is my twin brother, Raymar.”

Jon and Raymar. Vale names, both, which was no less puzzling than anything else about them. Ned doubted that Rhaella Targaryen had been hiding herself or her sons in the Vale, which had practically served as the heart of the rebellion against her family’s rule.

“We thank you for your house’s kindness, Lord Stark,” Raymar said with a bow of his head.

Neither seemed uncomfortable in the presence of a lord, let alone the Warden of the North. Their composure spoke to an upbringing a highborn child would have.

“And to which house do you belong?” Ned asked, curious if they would answer plainly.

Young Jon shifted slightly to put himself between his brother and Ned, and the twins exchanged an uneasy look that as good as answered his question.

“I would know your true names,” Ned said, keeping his voice gentle. “No harm will come to you.”

Even the way this Jon bit at the inside of his lip was so reminiscent of his own Jon that Ned felt freshly unnerved. “I am Baelon,” he said finally. “And he is Aemon.”

It took him a moment to place the names. Sons of Jaehaerys I. Perhaps Rhaella had wanted to cling to a time in her family’s history when they had been at the height of their power, though these names in particular bore an ill omen. Two heirs to the Iron Throne, both of whom had died before they could claim it—not unlike her firstborn.

Good men, though. That had been their legacy, the princes who should have ruled, rather than the king whose reign had ultimately led to the Targaryens turning on one another, dooming their dragons.

“Why have you come here?”

That was the question upon which everything hinged. Were they a message to Ned? A threat? Had Rhaella learned of her grandson’s fate? But he could not imagine what madness could have taken her to send two young children here to deliver such a message, especially when it could so easily be interpreted as a threat.

“We did not come here by choice, my lord,” Aemon said. “We were taken from our father.”

Ned had been so focused upon their Targaryen heritage that he had not even considered who their father might be. “What is your father’s name?”

The children exchanged another glance, and it was Baelon who spoke. “Daemon.”

Ned could not hide his reaction this time. With Maelys the Monstrous’s death, the Blackfyre line had been thought to be ended at last. The male line, at least. Could there have been a descendent willing to tie himself to the exiled House Targaryen? The benefit for Rhaella Targaryen was plain: the Golden Company was said to be ten-thousand strong and of impeccable discipline—the closest to an army one could hope to hire, as sellswords went.

Rhaella Targaryen gives them the legitimacy they desire, and they offer her the start of an army. And yet—could such an alliance have been formed without whispers eventually reaching Robert’s ears?

And if someone had kidnapped her two sons, the joining of House Blackfyre and Targaryen, then that spoke to yet another plot. Someone who opposed their ambitions?

Someone who also knew, or had guessed, the true circumstances of Jon’s birth?

I am as much a pawn in this game as these children are, Ned thought grimly. As Jon now was.

“What can you tell me about your captors?” he asked.

“We were bound and blinded at first,” Aemon said. “And later made to drink a concoction that ushered us to sleep.”

Dreamwine, mostly like. Or even milk of the poppy. “You remember nothing at all?”

The child shook his head, distress creeping into his voice. “We were with our father and then we were here, alone in the cold and snow.”

“And your mother?” Ned asked, because he had to be sure.

Sorrow settled over them, keenest in Aemon, whose brother answered for them. “Dead.”

Ned watched them carefully. “Rhaella?”

Aemon’s gaze snapped to his, widening in surprise before the child could compose himself. His brother squeezed his hand and gave a silent nod.

Dead. That both simplified and complicated matters, though Ned was not certain precisely how. It made their kidnapping all the more mysterious in its purpose. A power struggle between the queen’s surviving children, perhaps? If her eldest, Viserys, feared that the Golden Company would support their claim over his, due to whatever Blackfyre blood might flow in their veins, then sending them away might have been his answer.

Sending them here could yet be a threat against Jon, or simple coincidence.

A rap at the door startled all three of them, and Ned gestured at them to remain still as he answered it. It was Jory once more, bearing a tray of stew and bread. Apparently Bran had insisted on bringing it himself, but the captain had intercepted the heavy load, judging it best that he take it up instead. Ned nodded his thanks, and brought the tray back into his solar.

“Here,” Ned said, setting it down on the table and beckoning the children over. “You must be hungry.”

Baelon broke off a piece of the bread, handing it to his brother first, then taking a bite of his own. He seemed to relax then. They have been raised to know our customs, at least, Ned thought. Though it pained him that the child had feared they might have been harmed.

Stolen away from their family and abandoned in the snow-covered fields outside the wolfswood, in the heart of a kingdom loyal to the man who had killed their kin, and would gladly see their house erased, down to the last child. That they had remained this composed in his presence was a sign of either great bravery or misunderstanding of the danger they were in.

And given how wary Baelon had been since their arrival, Ned suspected they both knew precisely how much danger they were in—to the point of fabricating names for themselves.

The stew put some color in their cheeks, and the fire had warmed them enough that they were no longer shivering. Ned, who had taken a seat opposite them, fought the urge to sag back against his chair as the throbbing pressure of a headache formed at his temples.

“You seem to understand that you cannot be Baelon and Aemon here,” Ned said once they’d finished their stew and sopped up the remnants with the last of the bread. Both children nodded. “I can protect you until I have found a way to return you home, but until then, I shall require your cooperation.”

They looked to one another once more, but seemed in agreement. “What do you require of us?” Aemon asked.

“You are Raymar,” Ned said. He glanced at Baelon, unnerved yet again at how like his son he looked as he studied Ned back. “You cannot be Jon, as I already have a son named Jon.”

The children blinked in twin surprise, seeming to immediately grasp his intention. “Willam,” Baelon said. “I can be Willam, my lord.”

Another name favored in the Vale, though not uncommon elsewhere. “That is acceptable,” Ned said. Then he took a deep breath. “And you must call me Father.”

x~x~x

Okay but my favorite thing is that Ned giving two more of his bastards Vale names is so very recognizably him, even though he didn't suggest either name to them!

Which POV to write next? Decisions, decisions...

[animeyanderelover]

Hei! This was my request If kidnapped darling(fallen for yandere now but still in denial) waking up one night while yandere is a sleep and says “if only we meet in different situation, maybe we can become a normal couple “ and kiss yandere cheek before fallen back asleep, the twist is, yandere is fake sleeping or wake at some point and hear it, what would yandere do? You can choose yandere of your choice, feel free to reject it if you want, dont forget to take a rest and happy new year A!

Pray for me, I'm having a math exam next week.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, manipulation, abduction

Tags: @shumidehiro @leveyani @izanami78 @kanaosprotector

If only...

Zeref Dragneel

⬛️There is definitely lingering guilt in those black eyes as the Wizard knows that even if his Curse doesn’t work on you, he’s still taken your life away from you. Any normalcy and familiarity has been ripped away from you in favor of quenching his selfish desires. His love is just like his magic, black and all-consuming. He longs for your company, he longs for your love, he longs to be able to show vulnerability when with you, to trust you and find comfort in you for his tragic destiny. Wishes that have been long locked away but resurfaced when he discovered that you were able to withstand his magic and showed him kindness, before the whole abduction of course. That’s how you’ve indirectly been cursed too, cursed to be stuck with an immortal lover who will never let you leave his side.

⬛️Instead you tag along on his long journeys where nothing can harm you under Zeref’s watchful eyes. Plans to escape have been long abandoned since you know that he turns unstable when he can’t find you which is bound to lead to an outburst of his dark magic. You don’t want to trigger such a dreadful event that would kill all life surrounding him except you which would leave you in the aftermath of destruction and death with an enraged yet frantic Zeref rushing to you to see if you’ve been hurt, red eyes glaring scarily at you. He’s never hurt you and he never would, you know that but you also know what he’s capable off and how far he’d be willing to go for you which keeps you from straying away from him.

⬛️Yet there’s also pity that you feel for this man and that guilt only grows the longer you’re stuck with him as you see him more for the lonely and suffering man he is. If he has no reason to be emotionally distressed, the fearsome wizard is a mere clingy and insecure boy who wants affection of which he’s been deprived off for so many years. His long life has gifted him plenty of knowledge which he gladly shares with you if you’re curious about anything, he’s such a great listener as you could talk about nonsense and he’d still listen intently, content with just hearing your voice. His attempts in courting are clumsy yet adorable as you realize that he’s genuinely trying his best despite the situation you’re in because of him. Your feelings remain hidden though as you’re unwilling to forgive him for what he’s done to you as you cling to the grudge you intend to hold.

⬛️Zeref has gotten used to sleeping very little as his curse won’t allow him to die in either case so he spends nights often just getting lost in his thoughts. You’ve amplified the turmoil of thoughts for him yet he insists for you to lay together at nights in favor of the closeness he wants. That’s how he becomes witness of the secret you don’t want him to know but he stays perfectly still despite the fact that he feels his heart picking up it’s pace and warmth filling the aching hole inside his chest. He keeps on pretending until he knows that you’re back to sleeping before he pushes his body closer to yours, mulling your words over in his head. He never lets you know that he heard you that night, content enough to know for now that you deep down love him. He should be able to manipulate your feelings somehow if the knowledge of your feelings alone isn’t enough anymore.

Sigma

��️Sigma, for the lack of a better word, is a mess. You’d have never guessed that a visit in the Sky Casino would end with you permanently stuck there, all because of the man with the bi-colored hair, the owner of this place. You know that there is guilt in him, you just know it and you’ve tried multiple times to use that guilt against him, to convince him to free you yet he always changes the topic. It’s as if he doesn’t want to have this discussion, doesn’t want to hear from you that he’s taken away everything from you. Instead he adorns you with presents and gifts as if trying to change your mind.

☁️Because what you don’t seem to understand is that whilst he’s taken everything away from you, you’ve given him everything. All questions he’s ever had, you’re the answer to all of them. His doubts, his persistent insecurities about his own existence are solved because of your presence. He has finally found a meaning in life as he sees his existence as your lover. You make him a someone but unfortunately you deny him that as you don’t return his feelings which has Sigma turning frantic with passing time, Please, please just acknowledge him once! Don’t just treat him like he’s air!

☁️Sigma shares his own thoughts and insecurities very openly with you. He does so because it’s important for him that you hear about his feelings in hopes that you might understand him better. So you find naturally out about his very unique life that one day just started. He was thrown into this world without any guidance and you begin to understand his struggles more as you can sympathize with some of his thoughts. Sigma is struggling, he always is but everything regarding you will be done with his utmost concentration and energy. He memorizes everything about you to be able to make your new home more comfortable, if you’re feeling unwell he barely rests as he’s constantly worried for you and you know that he’d never harm a hair on your head. He’s always giving 110% for you and anything you ask him for, as long as it doesn’t include leaving him.

☁️It’s rare for him to sleep as he’s workaholic and often too stressed to fall asleep in the first place. That changes when he’s next to you because your presence is soothing for the anxious male. His sleep still is bumpy though as he tends to wake up a lot which is why he hears your words, words that nearly make him choke on his own breath. He’s doing his best to remain still although his body is slightly trembling as a flood of emotions crashes down on him. He feels like he could cry but bites down on his wobbly lip to silence himself, your sleep is more important. As soon as he’s sure that you’re back to sleeping though, he turns around and presses his forehead against your back with tears in his eyes. You don’t know how much those words mean to him because you’ve just admitted that you love him. That’s all he wants, all he needs. Your confession has filled him with new hope, new determination that he hasn’t failed completely in life.

Tokito Muichiro

🌫️With Muichiro you might as well converse with a wall and would have probably better chances than with the Mist Hashira. Why? Because Muichiro never budges, no matter how hard you may try. So stuck is he in his belief that he needs to protect you because of demons, especially if you're anything under a Hashira and even then would he still keep on thinking this way. In all honesty, it is so exhausting and worst of all is that his aloof expression so rarely changes which makes you believe all the more that he doesn't take you seriously. Perhaps in some way or form Muichiro truly does look down on you as he labels you as weak.

🌫️After the return of his memories you would expect him to become a bit better but instead he only grows clingy and paranoid. He's lost his entire family which makes you the only person alive he cherishes and loves and this knowledge blows his behavior out of bounds. He may express his emotions a tad bit better now but it doesn't help you in the least as his delusions get even worse. What was previously just the mere belief that you need him to protect you since he's a Hashira whilst you're weak now is a dedication to only truly protect you as he would without a doubt choose to save you over an entire village of humans. In the end you gained nothing as you're still stuck in the house he keeps you in, only that Muichiro now is at least more semi-aware of the situation but ultimately too paranoid to let you go.

🌫️At least it doesn't feel like you're talking to a stone anymore after his memories have returned as he actually initiates small talk and interactions between you two instead of expecting you to come to him and show your gratitude and affection. By all means, he can return to his cold and distant demeanor any time but now there's almost an innocent and bashful side to him, one that makes you question if this is how he used to be as a child before joining the Hashira. Even in his normally more aloof form can he be more affectionate, grabbing your hands in his own calloused ones and bringing you wild flowers or little presents whenever he returns from home. Does it help you forget everything he has done to you? Absolutely not but his new attitude slowly infects you with romantic feelings for him.

🌫️It's probably a result of all of his Hashira training but Muichiro has an unusual level of awareness of his surroundings even when he's asleep and that's why he hears your silent confession, accompanied by the soft kiss you give him only to turn back around in order to fall back asleep. Perhaps that's why you don't notice the way his normally hazy blue eyes clear up all of a sudden, stare wide-eyed into the darkness of the night. It's a look filled with such astonishment and wonder, perhaps something that he hasn't felt since his carefree days as a child. Muichiro is happy in that moment. Your heart on the other hand drops when he turns around moments later to cuddle closer to you as you realize that he's heard what you just said. He doesn't say anything about it that night nor the days afterwards but you fear that he's taken your words as a confirmation that you do feel happy and loved under his protection.

Mei Mei

💴​Mei Mei is an openly selfish woman and she admits that to her darling from the very beginning. Her darling is such an odd case in the woman's life who so far has seen only material things and money as the most important thing in her life. Whilst she is still looking forward to the potential of people around her and can recognize said potential of such people, there has never been a specific individual who has ever meant more to her. Perhaps that's what spikes her interest so much in you when she starts recognizing her growing feelings for you from a relatively early point on. Perhaps it is that fascination that is ultimately your demise as she decides to keep such a precious darling such as you as you have a worth to you she never anticipated. An emotional worth.

💴​You can not escape her. Her Black Bird Manipulation allows her to have eyes quite possibly everywhere, her brother Ui Ui is absolutely devoted to her and whilst jealous of you because Mei Mei treasures you so much willing to help her to please her and make her happy and then there's the fact that this woman is dirty, dirty rich and money rules after all. The Jujutsu Sorcerer is so condescending whenever you try to outsmart her and escape her, an amused scoff on her beautiful face as she belittles and berates you for thinking that she'd ever let you leave. For thinking that you had a chance in the first place. Why would you even want to work so hard when you can just lean back and let her spoil you rotten as her darling lover.

💴​You're infuriated with her and don't even want all of her presents that much but weirdly enough there's something about Mei Mei that still manages to captivate you. She has a mysterious charm on her, one that makes your heart flutter despite your firm decision to not give in to her. She's a true master of small touches and words, gestures that make your heartbeat pick up it's speed and despite her arrogant impression at times, you know that she is capable of being kind to others, especially to you. You're special for her and you can't deny that little ego boost you receive because of that knowledge. Your emotions get so confused with time as the feeling of her hands brushing against your cheeks and her cool voice with that edge of a teasing lilt always make you feel something you don't want to feel for her. No matter how big her home may be and no matter how much money she spends on you, a cage is still a cage after all.

💴​You wouldn't fully know but Mei Mei has noticed how your walls have started to crumble for quite a while now, noticed the bashful gaze of yours or the heat radiating off of your face. She's a woman who has planned ahead and has worked patiently to get you where you are. So your quiet confession accompanied by the kiss on her cheek aren't anything unexpected but she would by lying if she would claim that it doesn't cause her to grin victoriously and delightfully. She doesn't see the need to let you know that she knows though because truth be told, she enjoys seeing you trying to deny your ever-growing feelings for her. She has already almost reached her goal after all so she can afford to sit back and watch you struggling with your love for her. Your words have still pleased her nonetheless and you notice that she seems to be in a exceptionally good mood after that night.

[dreamingofmarauders]

𝐈'𝐦 𝐒𝐨 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙪𝙧

James Potter x Slytherin!Fem!Reader!

Summary: In which you go back home only to find something dreadful waiting for you there already

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, torture, also blood but nothing extreme, crying, death(s), knives, I think that's it?

Previous Part Series Masterlist Next Part

───※ ·❆· ※───

Over the next week and a half or so, James was there as you recovered. To the surprise of Lily and Molly, you were doing better than they expected, you were healing fast. Of course, only you knew how many times you had been tortured that landed you on the brink of death, and made it back, all in that hellhole you used to call home.

James was constantly asking if you were alright, if you needed something, and even though you had told him not to, James Potter was full of guilt.

Not only had he misjudged you and been rude to you for years, he was the reason you could have lost your life. He had to make it up to you, somehow. And he was glad you two decided to turn back the pages and write a new story, as he found your company very pleasant.

Sirius was completely blown away at the behavior of his best mate. Sure, you had saved James' life, but that didn't mean James had to follow you around like a lost puppy. Sirius had nearly stopped his cold behavior towards you but didn't try to warm up either. Remus merely quietly chuckled to himself at the sight of James and you. It was quite amusing to him, how James had hated your guts but was now wanting to spend quality time with you.

Going into the second week after the incident, you realized you were well enough and had to head home. James however declared he would escort you home, and would not take no for an answer.

"Potter, I'll be fine." You gritted through your teeth. James' constant stubbornness did manage to get on your nerves from time to time.

"No. I am going and that's final." He said, being stubborn as ever.

"Prongs, let L/n go if she says so." Sirius spoke in between, not happy about the newfound connection between the two of you.

James glared at him and gripped your forearm with a tight grip so you couldn't remove his hand, but not tight enough to hurt you.

You sighed in exasperation. "Fine." You said, giving in. You waved goodbye to Remus and Sirius, the latter not giving any response while Remus wished you farewell.

You and James walked out of headquarters before you closed your eyes, imagining your little cottage and the two of you apparated. You felt a wave of nausea hit you as your feet hit the ground and you bent over.

"Are you ok?" James asked with worry, trying to peer at your face.

You waved a hand, "Yeah, I'm fine." You answered, straightening up. However your mouth went dry and fear filled your whole being at the sight before you.

The door to your cottage was wide open, darkness pooling out. Above the building you called home, a colossal skull, composed of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue, etched against the black sky like a constellation.

The Dark Mark

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!" You whimpered, running towards your cottage with James on your tail. You rushed in, halting near your kitchen when you saw a dark red liquid staining the walls. Your breaths began to come out short and quickly, you felt your legs weaken as you leaned against the wall for support.

"This can't be happening." You breathed out, afraid of what you would see if you walked a few more steps in. James came from behind and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, surveying the situation.

"Y/n," He spoke softly, "We should go. I'll let the Order know and they can come and-"

"No." You shook your head as you freed yourself from the young Potter's grip, walking further in.

“Y/n.” James tried but you paid him no heed.

In the middle of the room sat such a heart wrenching sight that crushed your heart and soul entirely.

Your beloved House-Elf, the one companion you had since childhood, the one who healed your wounds, the one who had always made sure you ate and slept properly. The same House-Elf who had stayed by your side no matter how many times you had freed him, the one true friend you had for the longest time.

Dead.

And what broke your heart even more was that he had sacrificed his life, as his body lay lifeless in front of a small bundle of fur, also drowning in a pool of blood. The same puppy you had rescued from the streets only two months prior.

Both of them,

Dead.

You sank to your knees, sobbing your heart out.

"I'm so sorry." You managed to say out in between the heavy sobs escaping your mouth. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you two."

James stood rooted to his spot, reeling in with shock.

You shakily raised your hands out, grabbing the handles of the very metal that was pierced into your friends bodies and pulled them out. You tossed the knives to the side in anger, letting out a scream. At that, James finally snapped out of it and kneeled down beside you, bringing you into his chest.

"I'm so sorry." He said, rubbing your back as you cried.

You two stayed in that position for the next few moments. However a new sound caught both your attention.

Crack!

You pulled away from James' chest, wiping your face as you both exchanged a look.

Someone had just apparated onto the premises.

You both immediately jumped to your feet, wands raised in front of you.

You heard very tiny sounds of the pitter patter of feet and James moved forward, putting himself in front of you. You watched with bated breath over James' shoulder and when the newly arrived came into view, you shrieked, happiness and relief overwhelming you as you pushed past James. You fell onto your knees as you hugged your best friend.

"Willy! You're alive!" You spoke, feeling like your heart would burst.

A bark sounded and a very small bundle of white fur pounced onto you, excitedly licking your face. You picked him up, peppering his face with kisses.

"Hello to you too, my sunshine." You spoke as you hugged your dog, Fluffy, to your chest and pulled in Willy for a hug with your other arm. You were so overwhelmed with joy that tears began to cascade down your face again.

"Mistress, please do not cry. Willy did not mean to make Mistress cry."

You let out a watery laugh.

"How many times have I told you to call me Y/n, Willy?"

The House-Elf's cheeks colored pink. "Sorry, Mistress."

You wiped your tears away and then frowned, turning back to look at the scene in the kitchen.

"But if you're alive then, what's that?" You asked Willy, pointing over your shoulder.

"Those are fake, Mistress." Willy squeaked out. "About two weeks ago, I heard someone apparate and the wards shifted. Willy thought it must be you, Mistress, but it was not. You had told us to run if anyone evil came here, and we did but Willy had a good idea and with magic, Willy made the impostors so the evil people think it is us but Fluffy and Willy were gone and safe."

You let out a happy cry.

"You are an absolute genius, Willy, always have been! But how did you know we were here?"

Willy's ears bounced as he replied, "Willy had put up a new ward that allowed Willy to sense a new arrival if someone passed that ward."

You shook your head, smiling brighter than James had ever seen as you turned around, almost forgetting he was there.

"We need to go back. I need to stay at Headquarters until I can find a new place to shift us all."

James nodded but spoke without realizing, "Of course, but you could come to my place, it's fairly empty."

He mentally slapped himself. You two were at loggerheads two weeks ago and now here he was offering you to stay at his flat.

You smiled, "Thank you for the offer, but it wouldn't be nice of us to intrude, plus," You looked down at the excited puppy in your arms, "Headquarters may be more ideal for Fluffy in terms of space."

James nodded, not trusting himself to speak for if he did, something stupid would escape his mouth again.

James and you went through your cottage, collecting anything of importance and essentials, before apparating back to Headquarters, leaving the cottage in the state it was in case someone came back.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

A/N: Hey everyone! I hope you're all well! This chapter was okay I feel but I'm more excited for the next few chapters, you'll see why when they're out! Take care! <33

Wizard Buddies (Taglist): @quack-quack-snacks @jamespottergf @themarauderswife7 @amethyistheart

[monimccoythings]

For Better or Worse

Third part of The Way We Were Saga. This is from Reader's point of view. Getting ready for the fatal encounter, maybe a chapter more.

Word Count: 1547

Tags: angst, past abusive relationship, alcoholism, violence, blood, past toxic relationship, f!reader.

Part I, Part II

Loving someone like Logan was an arduous task. Yet you still gladly did it. Because you knew that under all that brooding, all that snark and anger, laid a vulnerable heart just wishing to be cared for.

It wasn't hard to be attracted to Logan, you just had to take a look at those huge veiny arms, and all common sense went through the window. But to actually fall in love with him, to slowly tear down the walls he had spent centuries meticulously building, was as hard as it was worth it.

You had always loved him with your entire self, you had given your all without complaining. And you knew he loved you as much in return, even if he didn't know who to properly express it.

The day you gave the 'I do' to each other, was actually one of the happiest in your entire life. You had been married to the most wonderful man to ever walk this earth. And you made sure to tell him so, loving the way his cheeks were suddenly tinted pink.

You were the one to encourage him to join the X-Men, knowing that being around people who were like him and could help him understand his gifts would do him so much good. You liked them, from the very beginning they had been nothing but kind to you, despite you being a human. You knew they would take good care of Logan when you couldn't.

Logan was too proud to admit it, but you knew that deep down he appreciated them as well. Even if he refused to go out there dressed up like a 'Mustard clown' as he called his suit. Sometimes, Logan's pride got the best of him and sneaked out from the mansion, just to go out for a drink with his lovely wife.

Then, one day, everything went to hell.

He had run off again to you, trying to act like the though lone wolf he thought he was. They had called him. Several times, but he refused every single one of those calls.

Until the phone stopped ringing.

When he returned, the only thing he found was death. His friends and colleages' corpses, along those of the students were scattered across the entire mansion. He had been too late.

He lost control.

The guilt and self hate drove him into a downward spiral. Each night you stayed awake , with your heart in your throath, waiting for him to come back home covered in blood and reeking of whiskey. Sometimes you had to drive wherever he was passed out and drag his nearly 500 pound body towards your truck until you felt like you were going to pass out. Other times, he disappeared for days, even weeks, only to come back and act like nothing had happenned. Those were the worst, as you silently waited near the radio for some knews saying he had been found dead or something much worse.

You so desperately wanted to help him heal. If only he trusted you like before.

Logan didn't talk to you at all. Whenever you tried to start a conversation with him, he just grunted in dismissal, and if you tried to push your luck and try to help him open up to you he would smash the bottle he was currently holding against the nearest surface, or tear anything with his claws, making you wince.

You knew he would never hurt you.

You dreaded to think that one day there could be a 'yet' following that statement.

Sometimes you thought he blamed you for him being away that night. You could feel it in the way he made love to you, if that could be called making love. It was rough, animalistic, lacking any affection or emotion.

Yet you continued to support and take care of him, because you loved him and knew he was grieving; ignoring the fact of you were also drowning in your own grief, they had also been your friends, your family, and to think they had found such tragic endings made you lose hope on humankind.

But what really tore your heart was watching your husband self destruct. After months, quietly swallowing your own pain and tears, you found your last straw in a stormy at that dive bar on the road.

You begged him to stop hurting himself so much, you cried, screamed, finally letting out those feelings you had been repressing for so long. You couldn't just stand there and watching him destroy himself.

Apparently, that was the last straw for him as well.

When you felt his claws on your neck, you realised this was no longer the man you had married. A stranger had taken his place.

When he left you, in the middle of the rain, you sank to your knees and cried, actually sobbed your heart out. Completely numb to the cold or the dirt that covered your pijamas. You didn't know that your troubles had just begun.

A couple of weeks later you found those two dreaded lines on the pregnancy test. You cried again, cried tears you didn't know you had left, you cried to the point that your own sorrow would swallow you whole. But this time, those feelings of self pity were short lived. There was a growing life inside you, a tiny life who didn't deserve all the misery and hurt you had endured.

A switch had been flipped in you.

You needed to take action.

Back home, your husband's nefarious reputation had broken havoc in your life. You knew what they called you 'The Bride of the Wolverine', 'The Mistress of the Monster', people looked at you with disgust clearly etched into their faces, someone even insulted you when you walked down the street. Back at your hospital, they had decided to lay you off for 'classified circunstances' as they had called. It would be a matter of days before they kicked you out of the apartment too.

Swallowing your pride, you packed up what little you had left and moved to another place, away from all the pain and suffering. Like hell you were going to allow your kid to go through this too.

Your new neighborhood wasn't exactly the Hamptons, but it was discreet and allowed you and your growing belly to pass unnoticed. A rundown clinic at the end of the street was not exactly the job of your dreams, but at least it would pay the bills. Your child would never lack anything, not on your watch.

You worked hard. Harder than you remembered, taking multiple shifts and not stopping until your pregnancy made it impossible for you to move.

It was tiring doing the work of two all by yourself, it was exhausting and you had to admit that having to push in that baby without anyone to hold your hand or give you soothing words of comfort made you feel lonely than ever.

However, the second you were allowed to hold the little bundle that you had taken nearly six hours to push out of your body, whatever remaining grief in your heart dissipated.

She was perfect. Your little Ava. She was so small, so delicate. You knew from the first moment you saw her you'd never let anything harm her, ever.

Ava grew up happily, she was optimistic, curious and joyful. She loved ice cream, fries, animals and Monster High. There were no signs of the mutant gene on her, eventhough it was still to early for it to manifest. Not that you'd love her any less. But the less features she took from Logan, the better. Who knew what those people could if they found out the infamous Wolverine had reproduced.

And who knew what Logan would do if he ever found out. Maybe the Logan you married would had been esctatic, though would try to hide it under his 'cool guy' persona. It didn't matter because, that Logan was long gone and you had serious doubts he'd ever return.

So for nearly ten years you lived in peace. Or what could be considered as peace given your situation.

Still, fate found a way to screw you over. As always.

─────────────────────ⓧ─────────────────────

Blood ran cold in your veins. It was like watching the Ghost of Christmas Past suddenly appear before you.

He looked older, tired even. As if he had finally relieved himself of he huge weight he carried on his shoulders.

Why was he here? How had he found you? What did he want? Your arm shot backwards, trying as best as you could to shield your little girl from the man accross the street, desperately holding onto the hope that he hadn't seen her yet, despite his enhanced senses.

You quickly rushed her in, claiming to have forgotten something back home. You know you both will be late for school and work, but you didn't dare to get out if he was out there patrolling the streets.

As if this door was enough to stop him.

You peek through the window. For a couple of seconds you don't know what to expect. Would he still be there? Would he come after you? Did you want him to? Fortunately for you, he was gone, although that wasn't enough to calm your racing heart, because, deep down, you knew he had seen her. You had seen the way his eyes had slightly widened, the way his nostrils had flared, the way his mouth had opened slightly in disbelief.

He knew.

[bvidzsoo]

Love Me Like A Rockstar (1)

ー☆ Chapter 1: The death of peace of mind

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: Song Mingi x female reader

ー☆ Warning: light cursing ー☆ Word count: 6.9k ー☆ Genre: university!au, enemies to lovers!au, rockstar!au ー☆ Rating: sfw ー☆ Summary: Love. You wanted none of it. You had already been heartbroken very badly once, you didn't wish to go through that ever again. But the Universe works in intricate ways and, somehow, you found yourself webbed up in a local rockstar's life, Song Mingi. He was everything you expected him to be, yet nothing like you imagined him he would be. What happens when you find mutual understanding and have heartful conversations? Will he be able to break down your walls? Will you be able to chase away his darkness?

A/N: Hii, first chapter is out, hope you all enjoy it! I hope the lyrics aren't confusing, I went ahead and tried out something new with this story, hopefully it's as enjoyable as I planned it out to be. Please do check the playlist as it'll be updated with each chapter and I also advise you listen to the song before or while reading the chapters, it'll have a different feel. Taglist is open, thank you for showing interest! Please leave feedback and enjoy now!

Taglist: @orshii @lovely-red2 @juicy-red @scarfac3 @sunaswifes-blog

⟨Series M.list ⟩

♫Playlist♫

『I made another mistake

Thought I could change, thought I could make it out』

The rustle of paper, the zipping of a pencil case, the drying scent of freshly used paint, and the oily feeling on your fingertips after using acrylics, the slight burn against your middle finger after having held your pencil tightly for hours were all things I was used to, familiar with. I bit my lower lip as my eyes were stuck to my A5 sketchbook, the paper thick, entranced by the black charcoal forming a way too familiar shape. The outline of the person was dark, shadows creeping around his body, faceless. I didn’t have it in me to put too much detail into his face, my mind kept wandering. I was feeling slightly lost. The weather was getting worse day by day, the sky dark, casting a gloomy feel over our heads. It didn’t help that I haven’t slept well for three days in a row, but perhaps that had something to do with the full moon—or so my mother has said while cooking dinner yesterday.

A sigh left my lips as my fingers itched to trace another line against the paper, to perfect the stray strand of light-colored hair falling against the man’s forehead. My shoulders were hunched over and I only now registered the soreness in my neck and lower back, having been sitting at this stool for almost two hours now. When I was drawing, or painting, time seemed to fly by in a wink, leaving me completely oblivious to everything happening around me. It was a means to calm my mind, to soothe my feelings, and a means to existing without wondering, dwelling, or feeling the dread of not being good enough—and perhaps the worst thought which quite often recurred in my scattered mind was that I didn’t know what I would do with myself once I was done with University. Opening an art club for all the art lovers was a small step in feeling a little accomplishment, however, that would be gone as soon as I was out and away from this place. Who would take over then? Were there students who were interested enough, loved art enough, to continue the little legacy I would leave behind? Those were pressing questions in the back of my mind sometimes, and I knew I was worrying about insignificant things, but they felt very crucial to me. If I could leave a little piece of me behind everywhere I went, nobody would be able to forget me, right?

“Bye, Y/N!” The sudden chirping of my name combined with the greeting finally snapped me out of my thoughts and I looked up, a small smile forming on my lips as I waved at the leaving students. They weren’t my students per se, I was only an Art major, but I did view them as my little apprentices. They were ambitious and determined to learn everything they could, eager to contribute as much as they could. I appreciated their effort and felt glad that people like them existed, it gave me hope in humankind. Not that I had much with everything going on in the world, but I could only appreciate and admire those who found a little kindness in their hearts to share with others.

I finally felt like I was done with my drawing as I sat back, rolling my shoulders back and cracking my neck as the last few students left the room, leaving me alone with the approaching girl with a grin on her face. I turned my head and watched her as she giddily approached me, gripping her sketchbook to her chest.

“Wanna see?” She asked with a chuckle and I nodded with a smile, eyes falling on my best friend’s drawing. I instantly recognized the features of the older woman and I chuckled as I took in the smaller version of my best friend, grinning up at her mother as she held a little flower up to her. She never stopped amazing me with her beautiful creations, and I couldn’t help but clap for her briefly.

“This is gorgeous, Seulgi, I’m in love.” I said as I reached my hand out and lightly traced the leaves of the willow tree in the drawing, making my best friend grin happily. She had her hair down today, her black curls falling around her shoulders. Her hair has gotten long, but she didn’t want to cut it, said she liked it more like this. It did suit her and gave her a younger look; her colorful outfits complementing her personality and overall looks well.

“What did you draw?” She asked and I glanced over at my own drawing, sucking my lower lip between my teeth. I really shouldn’t have drawn him again, but doing so brought me comfort. It always did. Despite the heartbreak he left in his wake, Yunho was a person whom I have deeply loved and found shelter in once—my drawings of him only reflected that. I have anticipated Seulgi’s reaction as I took my sketchbook off from the drafting board, turning it around and letting her eyes rake over it as she sighed, giving me a slightly disappointed look as she placed one hand on her hip. I looked away and quickly closed my sketchbook, getting off the stool. My hips and back protested in pain as I stretched my arms overhead, letting out a groan when my stiff muscles strained and vertebras finally popped.

“I thought we agreed you would stop drawing Yunho…” Seulgi trailed off as she watched me start packing away my things into my dark green backpack. Oh, well, she certainly wasn’t wrong, but I got carried away today—I haven’t even realized I was drawing Yunho until I was done with the outline of his body.

“Uh, yeah,” I muttered slightly embarrassed as Seulgi shook her head and closed her own sketchbook, balancing on one leg as she unzipped her backpack and placed it against her thigh, “But we talked about the feeling of comfort today and a place or person whom makes you feel safe and—I got carried away, sorry.”

Seulgi gave me a sympathetic look as she had forced her sketchbook inside her backpack and lowered her leg, swinging her bag around her shoulders, “And you couldn’t have drawn you—mother? Or teddy bear from third grade?”

Her offhanded question made me chuckle as I looked at her amused, my backpack hanging off my shoulders as I only wore one strap.

“Mom would flip if I drew her and made even the smallest mistake. I’d rather avoid getting scolded about making her eyebrow darker than it actually is.” Seulgi and I shared a look before we both started giggling as I recalled the one and only time I drew my mother, swearing to never do it again as she found every single little detail wrong about her features, pointed them out to me, and then proceeded to ignore me for the next three days. Thinking back on it, it is a quite hilarious memory, but back in that moment she made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, talented enough, making me doubt my skills for a very long time. Until I met Seulgi and she started freaking out about my art, calling me phenomenal.

“Yeah, perhaps drawing your mom wouldn’t be the smartest, but seriously, Y/N, how long has it been?” Seulgi seemed to think for a second as we started for the door, “Five years? You certainly should be over Yunho by now.”

Hearing his name left a sour taste in my mouth even if it shouldn’t have. Despite the passing of years he somehow still made me feel bitter about everything that’s happened between us. I hate that feeling, but I couldn’t get rid of it and it was frustrating.

“I am over him.” I muttered as we left the art studio and I locked the door, making Seulgi hum next to me sounding not too convinced. I sighed and rolled my eyes as I pocketed the key, then we started walking down the empty hallway, headed for the exit.  

“Do you have any plans tonight?” Seulgi decided to change the subject as she bounced on the balls of her feet, a huge grin appearing on her lips. I raised my eyebrows at her sudden excitement and thought for a second before I shook my head no. We turned the corner to the left, having arrived in the musical studies department. The hallway was littered with doors on both sides, which were studios for the music majors, private little rooms where they could record and write whatever songs they wanted.

“Cool,” Seulgi grinned and suddenly gripped my hand, her lips falling into a pout, eyes slightly widening. Oh, I knew what was coming next, yet her honey like tone still made me cringe, “Come with me to the Outlaw? Please?”

My eyebrows furrowed hearing the mentioned place. It was famous amongst our university’s students. It was a run down and cheap pub where degenerates gathered to have fun almost every night, drinking their night away, wasting their money and braincells on unimportant things.

“Why would I go there?”

“Because I’m asking?” Seulgi raised an eyebrow, “And because the Noir Zenith are playing tonight and I really want to go—”

“What is a Noir Zenith?” I asked confused, making Seulgi’s eyes widen to the point of bulging out. She looked funny as she let go of my hand and gasped as if I had sworn out her mother or someone she really cared about.

“It’s the coolest band from our university! Are you telling me you haven’t heard of them?” She asked outraged making me laugh, “I’m speechless.”

“Well, you know I don’t waste my time by drinking my sorrows away in a shitty pub surrounded by even shittier people who try to chase fame with scratchy and awful voices. Is the band made up by some music major students?”

“They do not have scratchy and awful voices, Y/N!” Seulgi looked outraged by this point, making me raise my eyebrows in surprise, “God, they are one of the best bands to ever exist—”

“Yeah, right,” I rolled my eyes as we entered the main hall of our university, “Go on and disregard all of the previous phenomenal bands to ever exist, nice one, Seulgi—wait, is this about Wooyoung? Didn’t you say he’s part of a band as well?”

At the mention of said boy all anger and incredulity disappeared from Seulgi’s face and she shrunk back, hiding her face behind her hair, “Yeah, he’s actually a vocalist of the band. Noir Zenith.”

“Oh,” Was all I could say as I watched her push her hair behind her ears, face almost as red as a tomato. I tried not to laugh at my best friend, her crush on the boy painfully obvious, “And I assume you want to go watch them perform tonight?”

Seulgi nodded wordlessly as she pushed open the double doors for us, “At Outlaw?”

She nodded again and I hummed, raking my brain for any plans I had made for tonight, but I found none. I had zero excuses to refuse Seulgi for so I glanced at her as we ascended the few stairs, licking my lips as I dwelled on the idea of being seen at such place. I mean, it couldn’t be that bad, right? After all, it was just a band singing from our university and I would be out of there the second they were done. That sounded pretty reasonable and alright to me, so I hummed, and smiled at Seulgi.

“What time?” Her eyes widened as she whipped her head towards me as we were headed to the bus station.

“Oh, my God!” She shrieked and flung herself at me, almost throwing us off balance, “You’re the best, I love you! Seven, you should be ready at six thirty, and I’ll pick you up and we’ll drive there together—oh, my God, I’m so excited! Wooyoung said they’ll be performing their newest song and he said it’s so fire! Mingi wrote the lyrics, and Wooyoung helped with the chorus, he actually showed me a snippet—do not tell Mingi that—and it was so good, oh, my God—I’m rambling, sorry, but you said yes and I just—”

Seulgi cut herself off with a shriek as she let go of me, leaving me partially deaf as her shrill voice rang through my right ear, making me wince. Of course, I wouldn’t tell Mingi, whoever that was.

“Alright, I’ll be done by six thirty.” I muttered as Seulgi skipped ahead, sitting on the bench by the bus stop, grinning from ear to ear as she took her phone out of her pocket, starting to type furiously. She was probably texting Wooyoung, but I couldn’t be too sure, they had periods when they would talk all day and night, and then periods when they would go radio silent for a week or so. Their relationship was interesting but Seulgi never talked too much about it, having once muttered that if she thought about Wooyoung for too long she’d fall for him—or something like that, I couldn’t be sure, Seulgi says a lot of things which she only half-heartedly means.

『Promises break, need to hear you say

"You're gonna keep it now"』

            The pub was exactly like in the stories of others, and an exact replica of what I had in my mind. Which was bad, so being right here only made it worse as I allowed my eyes to travel to the ceiling, noticing all the uncovered pipes traveling above our heads. The lights were dim and there was almost like a light fog in the air, thankfully there weren’t any foul smells, like cigarettes or something else. The room was spacious, which was the only alright thing I could find about this place, as the walls were made of burgundy brick, a few falling out here and there. The dark wood floor seemed to be rotten in some places and I could only hiss as the front of my boots caught in an uneven plank, sending me slightly forward. Seulgi threw me an amused look before continuing her trot towards—I didn’t know where, but I decided to follow her blindly as I really wasn’t vibing with this place. Posters hung from the brick wall here and there and some graffiti covered it where the bar was. Chairs and tables were littered around the room, all looking quite old in age as I noticed one chair missing a leg, chuckling at the idea of someone toppling over once sitting on it. Seulgi gasped quite loudly and stopped walking for a second, making me crash into her back and throw her an unamused look as she swiftly turned around, lips pressed together and hands cupping her cheeks.

“Do I look alright, Y/N?” She blurted out, eyebrows furrowing, “Or am I too much? Do you think—did I totally miss the vibes with this outfit? I look ridiculous right now, don’t I—”

“No, Seulgi, you don’t.” I decided to cut off my best friend’s panicked rambling, placing my hands on her shoulders. I allowed my eyes to take in her outfit again and I smirked at her as we made eye contact. She was wearing black nylon bomber pants paired with fishnets which were peeking out above the waistband of her pants, her white crop top stopping at the middle of her torso. A black bomber jacket was thrown around her shoulders, matching her pants, and her white boots reached just underneath her knees. She had straightened her long hair and I helped her by making a smokey eye for her, accentuating the depth of her beautiful eyes, sharpening her stare. She looked absolutely gorgeous and I needed her to stop second guessing her outfit, “You look fucking hot and anyone in their right mind would want to devour you right now.”

“You included?” Seulgi flirted cheekily and I pretended to gag as I pushed her playfully away by her arms, making Seulgi laugh as she pushed her hair behind her shoulders, “Alright, I believe you.”

“Very well.” I grinned and allowed her to grip my elbow as the crowd was slightly denser here as we made our way towards the front of the room, headed to where the small stage was. I could see a drum set up on the dark stage, and suddenly I was veered to the left, almost getting whiplash by the force Seulgi pulled me after herself. I took in the people around me and decided that I definitely wasn’t part of this crowd, and it was showing. One, I was painfully sober and they weren’t; two, I certainly missed the point of this being a pub dominated by rock lovers, and my outfit had nothing to do with it. Against my better judgement, I have decided to wear a tight black skirt which barely reached the middle of my thighs, paired with high heel boots which reached my knees. A white tank top peeked through the burgundy long sleeved blouse I wore over it, having discarded my leather jacket in Seulgi’s car out of fear of losing it. All in all, the outfit was awesome, it’s just that it didn’t really match with the place in question I was at. I was slowly starting to regret coming here as we finally stopped walking and Seulgi’s hand, which brought comfort, disappeared from my elbow. I suddenly became aware that we have stopped by a table, and my best friend’s arms were around a guy’s shoulder as the two hugged each other—rather tightly, might I add. I allowed my eyes to fall on the guy and realized, only because Seulgi had shown me countless pictures of him, that it was Wooyoung. The only reason we were here, her crush. I tried to hide my snickering as they pulled away from each other and I have noticed Seulgi’s flushed cheeks, which was probably wise as Seulgi’s eyes were instantly on me, holding a warning in them.

“This is Y/N, my best friend.” She said sweetly as she lightly pushed Wooyoung towards me, “Y/N, this is Wooyoung the—vocalist and guitarist of Noir Zenith.”

“Cool name.” I muttered half-heartedly as Wooyoung extended his hand to shake, I was only speaking because I had to say something if I didn’t want to come off rude. A huge smile broke onto Wooyoung’s face at the praise of his band’s name and he eagerly shook my hand, making me force a smile onto my face when he held my hand for an unnecessary long time. The guy was just around my height and seemed to be buzzing with energy as he tapped his foot against the ground, sneaking glances towards Seulgi before finally facing her. His jawline was sharp and nose high as I took in his profile, his pretty eyes focused on my best friend. His hair was longer at the back and had two colors, black and blonde, it certainly didn’t look bad on him. He seemed to be the only one, besides myself, not dressed fitting for the place, and suddenly I didn’t feel as singled out as I had been moments prior, thankful for the light grey extremely baggy jeans littered with glitter he was wearing and for the grey and black faded out loose shirt hiding his frame. The front was slightly tucked in and a maroon belt held his pants to his hips, matching the color of his sneakers. The guy wore a few earrings and I just heard Seulgi complimenting them, making me chuckle. I knew she wanted to talk to him, so I didn’t bother them and instead looked around again, feeling slightly awkward, before I rested my gaze on the other two sitting at the table.

One guy was looking down at his phone, completely immersed by it as his long fingers were typing quickly, his wavy black hair falling into his eyes. He wore a very intricate white shirt, the material seemed to part at his shoulders and only covered his upper arm, cuffed and puffed out at his wrists, leaving the rest of his arms bare. A black corset like looking fabric was wrapped around his torso, stopping right below his chest and everything was neatly tucked inside black dress pants, an expensive silver chain hanging under the neckline of his shirt. The outfit was something I would’ve never thought of putting together, yet, it looked fabulous on the man and for a few seconds I found myself gawking at him. But I quickly caught myself and looked away awkwardly, hoping that nobody noticed my staring, instead, I found myself looking at the third guy, taking him in. His demeanor screamed confidence as he wore a smirk on his cherry red plush lips, jawline visibly sharp as his head was turned to the side, his nose tall and long. His tan skin glistened underneath the shitty lights of the pub, yet you were able to spot a few covered up blemishes around his jaw. His neck was heavily decorated with silver chains of various dimensions, a shinning silver pick dangling lower on his exposed chest as his black tank top was low cut and form fitting. The guy had a big midnight blue jacket over his frame and it had an interesting design, his jeans ripped at the knee and black like his tank top. Silver chain like bracelets wrapped around his wrists and I found my eyes drawn to his hands as he was pushing his glass from one hand to the other, fingers littered with smaller and bigger rings, the one with a red gem catching my eye. His nails seemed to have dirt scribbled over them, that is, until I looked harder and realized it was chapped black nail polish. I couldn’t deny how nice this guy looked and as I looked back up at his face, I found him looking back at me. My heart somersaulted but I played it off—hopefully my face really didn’t show any emotion—as I steeled my gaze and allowed blankness to settle over my features. His black hair was shorter and fell over his eyes, covering his forehead. The guy’s eyes were sharp and his gaze intimidating as his face remained unexpressive, features cold as he seized me up, suddenly the smirk back on his face. My eyes narrowed as the guy continued watching me smugly, and I just noticed the little something which looked like a smudge of something on his right cheekbone. Did he smudge dirt on it? Was he even aware that it was there? The possibility of him not knowing his perfect face was tainted brought a smirk on my lips and an eyebrow of the guy’s flew up, his gaze almost challenging as our stare down was abruptly stopped by a chair scraping backwards. My gaze went back to the very handsome man and I was surprised by the friendly gaze sent my way.

His features were soft yet sharp at the same time, his eyes big and warm as his lips were plump and looked soft. His skin was tan too and the highlighter reflected off his cheekbones, giving him an ethereal feel. There was a small piercing in his nose and I was slightly alarmed as he suddenly walked around the table, approaching my side. My body tensed and I glanced towards Seulgi, who was deep in conversation with Wooyoung. I assume these three must be friends since they were sitting at the same table.

“I’m Seonghwa, Wooyoung’s friend.” The guy finally spoke up, his voice was definitely softer than I expected it to be, and I reluctantly shook his extended hand.

“My name is Y/N.” I answered politely and retracted my hand from his as fast as I could. Seonghwa continued smiling as he looked towards Seulgi and his own friend, “Oh, uhm, I’m Seulgi’s best friend.”

“I figured,” He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. The aura this outfit gave him certainly didn’t match his current attitude, “Wooyoung mentioned Seulgi coming by and bringing her friend, it’s nice meeting you.”

“Oh, you too.” I offered him a lopsided grin and clasped my hands together in front of myself, Seonghwa’s demeanor not as off putting as most guy’s—or like the other guy’s who just stood up from the table and started approaching us. I watched him, eyes falling on him involuntarily as there was something about him which demanded attention as he came awfully close to Seonghwa and I, towering over the both of us. Seonghwa was a tall guy too, but this third guy’s height seemed to loom even over him, but I didn’t let that affect me in any way as I looked up at him with a bored expression.

“Found another little fan of ours?” I gulped at the hear of his voice, which somehow matched his face, it was deep and slightly raspy, however, the tone he used rubbed me the wrong way. My eyes narrowed at him and before Seonghwa could answer him, I fired an answer his way.

“A fan of yours?” I chuckled drily, “You certainly can’t be as self-centered as to think every female around a mile radius would instantly throw themselves at you, no?”

A beat of silence followed before Seonghwa started snickering, hiding his mouth by his hand as the other guy’s eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t look pleased by my question and he leaned down to be at the same height as me, gaze boring into mine. When his face was blank, his eyes seemed to get sharper and it somehow made my heartbeat pick up, but I ignored it. It was just the adrenaline, the annoyance, probably which threatened to seep through my bloodstream sooner than later.

“And who are you again?” The guy’s voice was quieter, dropped lower as he tried to belittle me with his stupid question, but I just rolled my eyes and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“Don’t think I introduced myself to you before,” I snapped and the guy clicked his tongue, “Who are you, first of all?”

“You don’t know who I am?” His eyebrows suddenly furrowed as confusion washed over his face and for a second—but just that one little second—I thought the guy looked cute as his features softened.

“No, I don’t.” Him lowering himself allowed me to see whatever that was on his cheekbone better, and I could make out that it was some sort of logo, however, I have never seen it before, “And you have some dirt on your face.”

I pointed at my own cheekbone and Seonghwa’s sudden loud laughter alerted Seulgi and Wooyoung as they finally seemed to realize there were others around them, especially me, as Seulgi quickly stepped close and gripped my shoulder.

“That’s not dirt!” The man exclaimed and for someone with such a deep voice, his tone went incredibly high, “That’s my signature, bro.”

“Okay, bro, you’re self-centered, like I said—” Before I could really go off on this guy Seulgi gasped and laughed loudly, awkwardly, as I threw her a small glare.

“Aren’t you two hitting it off right the bat?!” She tried to diffuse the tension as Wooyoung chuckled, amused by the situation as Seonghwa was grinning too, “Y/N, this is Song Mingi, the bass player, singer, producer, lyricist, founder of Noir Zenith—be nice.”

The last part was only whispered to me and my eyebrows furrowed as I looked back at this guy, Mingi, who stood back up straight and threw a glare my way as I scoffed, shrugging my shoulders, “What a waste of talent on such personality.”

Seulgi’s eyes widened to saucers as Wooyoung inhaled loudly before breaking out into an ear-piercing laughter, making me wince, while Seonghwa had to cover his mouth again as he threw his head back and laughed.

“Y/N—that’s—” Seulgi stammered but I hushed her and smirked up at Mingi as he seemed lost for words for a second before his eyes hardened and he pulled his shoulders back, jaw clenching.

“What are you doing here if you don’t even fucking care about our band?” He hissed and for a second the viciousness in his tone took me off guard, but I didn’t let it show as I wrapped my arm around Seulgi’s shoulder and pulled her into my side. She looked mortified and tried speaking again, but I beat her to it—to my pleasure.

“My lovely friend, Seulgi, dragged me here because her and Wooyoung are friends, happy?” I felt Seulgi slightly relax in my grip, but she still subtly poked my side harshly, making me bite my lower lip to keep the groan of pain inside. Wooyoung had stopped laughing, thankfully, and was looking very amused as he punched Mingi’s arm weakly.

“I think you got a little bit humbled, dude.” He whispered loudly—probably on purpose—and Seonghwa giggled again as he quickly adjusted the front pieces of his hair.

“Why would anyone who doesn’t even listen to us come here?” Mingi muttered more to himself as he turned around and sauntered off towards the bar, throwing a glare every so often my way, making me giggle as I found it amusing. Poor dude, couldn’t handle a little humbling, but he definitely needs it.

“Y/N is a little bit—of a bitch—ow!” Seulgi hissed as she rubbed the spot on her arm where I had punched her, “You didn’t let me finish! She’s a bitch, but she’s my bestie and she doesn’t mean harm. I’m sure you guys will charm her by the end of the night.”

Charm me my ass. Maybe Seonghwa and Wooyoung, Mingi not—for sure. Not now or ever. Not that there will be another time and another chance for him to do so.

『It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind

You're in the walls that I made with crosses and frames hanging upside down』

            The music coming through the speakers shook the little pub as I sat at the table the three boys have claimed as theirs earlier. Seulgi was by my side, but she was standing up, and she was jumping to the beat, somehow knowing the lyrics to the band’s newest song. I had a feeling Wooyoung had shown her already everything, but she did ask me not to tell Mingi—to whom now I could associate a face—and I had no desire to speak to him ever again, so she really had nothing to worry about. I couldn’t help but admit that they were good—not that I would ever say that out loud, especially not to Mingi—as the rock music blasted from the stage, purple and white lights illuminating the boys. Mingi stood in the center as he gripped his microphone, face scrunched up and the veins on his neck straining as his raspy voice involuntarily covered my skin in goosebumps.

『For granted, in vain, I took everything I ever cared about』

My fingers were tapping the rhythm of song, chin placed on my palm as I rested my hand on the table, watching each boy with curiosity. They all seemed to have different personalities and styles, yet up on the stage, they blended together and they worked well. Their voices complimented each other, where’s Mingi’s was raspy and low and harsh, Seonghwa’s seemed to be lighter and raspier, but then Wooyoung would jump in and his was powerful and high, and yet it still felt like a soft caress of a whisper at times. Their outfits, despite being so different, also made them look exquisite and gave the band a special and unique touch. As I glanced around I noticed how taken everyone seemed by their music, hanging onto every note they played as Seonghwa played the drums at the left side of the stage and Wooyoung the guitar to Mingi’s right.

『I miss the way you say my name

The way you bend, the way you break』

Mingi was gripping his microphone as his eyes were closed and nose scrunched up, eyebrows furrowing as the words slipped through his lips smoothly, his raspy voice soft and tender, like a steady but soft caress of your cheek, the light flutter of your eyelashes as if he was right by your side, whispering the words to you, trying to seduce you.

『Your makeup running down your face

The way you fuck, the way you taste』

Suddenly his eyes flew open and he looked out onto the crowd, locking his gaze with mine. I was about to grab the glass of water and take a sip, but I froze as a smirk slipped onto his lips, mixing in with his voice and very obviously making him sound smug. My jaw clenched just as the people, especially the girls in the front row, started cheering loudly, enjoying Noir Zenith’s performance. I tried to convince myself that I was just imagining things, but I could’ve sworn Mingi’s gaze remained on me and only me, singing the words from deep withing his chest, all kinds of emotions and feelings plastered over his face as he took his microphone out of its stand and started walking around the stage, crouching down and pointing at the girls close to the stage.

『When the curtains call the time, will we both go home alive?

It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind

When the curtains call the time, will we both be satisfied?

It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind』

They played two more songs after their newest, the crowd going wild as they sang along and I could feel all those unslept nights catching up as my eyes threatened to shut closed at any given time. Seulgi noticed and grew concerned, but I reassured her that I was only tired and would head soon home if she didn’t mind. She insisted I wait at least until the boys finish their performance in order to not be seen rude as I have, probably, already offended them. Not that I would mind, even though Mingi is the only one who actually deserves it.

Once they got off the stage everyone was swarming around them, congratulating them and offering them drinks, and I watched as Seonghwa kindly turned down all of them, meanwhile Mingi carelessly accepted almost all as Wooyoung was pushing his way through the crowd, eager to get back to the table. His cheeks were flushed by the time he reached us and Seulgi sprung onto her feet and went to hug Wooyoung but suddenly paused, looking awkwardly at her feet, until Wooyoung went and pulled her into his embrace instead. Seulgi’s face lit up and she started animatedly talking, but I couldn’t hear as the crowd was loud. Seonghwa seemed to be nowhere as Mingi managed to make his way through the crowd and now was grinning smugly at me, one eyebrow crooked as I rolled my eyes, still not impressed at all by him. He said nothing as he sat down next to me and took a sip of his drink, eyes falling on me. I could see him staring at me from the corner of my eyes, but I ignored him, and instead reached for Seulgi’s jacket to get her car keys so that I could fetch my jacket before leaving. As I felt around her pocket I became aware of two people towering over me as they had stopped behind my chair. I turned my head around and raised my eyebrows at the two girls as they were giggling, waiting for Mingi to notice them. And when he did, that irritating smirk was back on his lips and he greeted the girls with a wide smile, biting his lower lip as they started praising him.

“Mingi you are so cool!” The brunette exclaimed, grinning at him, “I swear to God, this new outfit concept is so hot on you.”

If I could, I would’ve died from the second-hand embarrassment these two girls were giving me, but instead, I decided to stay just a for a little bit longer and see what nonsense they manage to sputter so that I can use it against Mingi later.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you singing so passionately like tonight, Mingi, the new song is so good I’m already obsessed with it.” The blonde chimed in fast, throwing a slight glare towards the brunette. I guess the friendship between them flies out the window the second they step closer to a relatively attractive male—not that Mingi is attractive or good looking.

“Ah, you two…you always know how to flatter me.” I possibly have thrown up a little bit in my mouth because of Mingi’s sultry voice and narrowed eyes—he partially looked like he was about to pass out and partially like he would inhale one of the girls, if not both.

“You so deserve it, Mingi!” The blonde quickly exclaimed and placed a hand on his bicep, “Who is your new song about?”

My breathing faltered for a second as Mingi glanced my way, but then I threw him a glare and rolled my eyes, realizing this was our first time meeting. Why did I even think for a little second that the song could’ve been about me? That sounded crazy, and now I felt crazy as I shook my head and downed the glass of water I have abandoned like half an hour ago.

“Someone who won’t leave your mind and makes you want to crawl up the wall, thoughts filled with them, desiring them like no one else before.” Mingi’s voice dropped a few octaves and I couldn’t help but look over as I smirked, abruptly standing up.

“Oh, girls, not to disappoint but he’s said that to like—three other girls before you two, and I don’t think that’s entirely what the song is about. Or maybe Seonghwa was talking about another song…” In fact, I have lied. Mingi hasn’t talked to anyone since he sat down to the table, but the lie was worth it, because the girls expressions dropped slightly, “You know men are usually more desperate to get laid than women, I suppose it makes them say all kinds of things, doesn’t it, Mingi?”

Mingi’s jaw clenched as the two girls looked unsure as they looked back at him, and he chose to laugh it off as if I have said the funniest joke on Earth, leaning slightly forward as he looked up at me, “I suppose someone wasn’t really paying attention tonight to our performance.”

“Right,” I hummed and stepped around my chair, “I prefer listening to real bands and good music, not to some wannabes wailing to a crowd of drunken and high as fuck university students—have a lovely night!”

I only caught the irritated huff of air Mingi let out as I headed towards the bar, where Seulgi and Wooyoung were talking to some people I didn’t know. I didn’t want to disturb them for long, but I had to tell Seulgi I was leaving and would get my jacket before going home.

『You come and go in waves

Leaving me in your wake』

            By the time I have gotten home it was very late and despite my body feeling tired, my brain was relentlessly swirling with thoughts and replaying tonight’s happenings, so after fifteen minutes of laying in bed and staring up at the dark ceiling I realized sleep wouldn’t come easy neither tonight. I sat up and turned on the lamp on my bedside table and grabbed my smaller and thicker sketchbook, flipping it open to an empty page. I sighed as I grabbed a pencil and pressed it against the paper softly, letting my wrist curve whichever way it wanted as I started doodling, humming to myself a melody which sounded slightly foreign yet somehow familiar. I knew I have heard it before, probably recently, but I couldn’t figure out just which song it was.

『You come and go in waves

Swallowing everything』

It didn’t take me long to have the outline of something, which was starting to look an awful lot like eyes staring back at me, and I continued tracing lines and shading in the spots where depth needed to be added. I licked my lips and narrowed my eyes as I pressed the pencil harder against the paper, tightening the frail lines and finalizing the quick drawing of the eyes. I extended my arm and stared at the eyes, which almost felt like they were glaring at me by how sharp its stare was, and my eyebrows furrowed as I realized the eyes looked nothing like Yunho’s. I couldn’t remember the last time when I drew anyone else that wasn’t Yunho and for some reason that scared me as my eyes bore into my drawing, my humming coming to an abrupt stop when I realized who’s song it was. Noir Zenith. And the drawing, the sharp and glaring eyes, were of Song Mingi’s. I gasped and without a second thought started scrawling at the drawing, heart racing and mind an awfully lot quiet. What was I thinking singing his song and drawing his eyes? But there it was, the answer, I wasn’t thinking. And I was sleep deprived. I needed to sleep, like right now. I threw my sketchbook to the floor and jumped back underneath my blanket, pulling it over my head as I screwed my eyes shut. Sleep, I must.

『Are you satisfied?

Love's the death of peace of mind

Mine

Mine』

❱❱ Next chapter

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Guessing Game

My lovely little Ghost pregnancy not short Drabble.

Word Count: 7.7k

- - -

Moments of silence with your husband were usually tranquil and serene in the comforts of your own home. It was rare for the aura between you both to be fueled with unbridled tension and hesitation to even breathe properly.

The two of you said nothing for the longest time in the sanctuary of your living room, on your comfortable couch. In the silent man’s hand, he held a test, which he proceeded to set down on the coffee table in front of him.

Positive.

A little pink sign on a tiny screen, bright as day, staring at you both like a sore thumb.

That’s supposed to be a good thing, Positives usually mean good things. Happy, joyful, erratic, exciting. Good.

Positives however, can also be scary, terrifying, petrifying.

Your heart sank deep into the bottom of your stomach, a dreadful ache following suit that lingered as every minute passed in this silence.

You hated it, but you didn't know what to say.

It started off as an odd feeling, just a couple of days ago. A bit of dizziness in the morning, a slight queasiness after, but nothing more. You blamed it on allergies, or a migraine due to lack of proper sleep, anything but that single, simple idea of what it could’ve been.

The signs grew more unquestionably obvious with every day passed, the sickness, the shift in your emotions, the sinking feeling as the possibility grew more and more intense with each passing hour.

You went out during a grocery run, and couldn't stop yourself from arriving at a pharmacy, heading towards that one particular aisle containing just what you needed.

You didn’t even know when or how-

You stopped yourself right there. You’d be an absolute fool if you considered finishing that thought for a sentence.

You know how it happened, of course you knew. Question was, you couldn’t exactly remember when. It sort of happened quite often.

Just for good measure, you had also bought three other boxes, which were currently jumbled in your bathroom sink, each revealing the same exact message.

A part of you, a tiny part of you, buried underneath all the stomach burning anxiety and dread of this new onset reality was kind of delighted, excited in fact, bringing forth upon you a wish you never realized you’d forgotten about. One you believed you had no right to have after the life you lived.

To have a baby with the man you loved, truly loved. A fair amount of the population’s absolute dream.

An honest, beautiful dream, but for all you knew, it was only yours. At one point, not once did you ever think if it was his dream as well.

That was until a few weeks ago once it was brought up, during a late-night discussion in bed.

“How do you feel about a baby?”

An honest, curious question had never made the man stiffer in his life, feeling his hands on you grow stiff like dead branches before he released you, catching you completely by surprise.

The both of you were stable, financially at least. Emotionally however, all that bustled through Simon’s head were the great cons that outweighed the pros.

An honest, simple question turned into a forty-minute discussion over both your heavy worries and concerns. His concerns, his fears, his terror of bringing a version of himself to this dangerous, unpredictable world of chaos and death, bred by the man who enjoyed creating such.

You reassured him constantly, by then just wishing to end the topic then and there. An honest question grew too harshly awkward, painfully dragged out at the realization that Simon may not have wanted children at all.

It was a thorn you shouldn’t have pricked your finger on, so you were content to step back and let the topic go.

Simon’s face, brows contorted with distress still, realized your ache at this discussion. You didn’t wish to scare him, and the last thing he wanted was to scare you, which was exactly what he was doing.

When it came to you, his heart softened at the reality of you being the doe eyed mother of his child, born with your love and beauty, your charisma and valor. A headstrong boy or girl with a mother like you to guide them along the way, this world lacked that kind of bond in the places no one dares to check.

“Is this something you want?” Simon finally speaks his mind, concerned over what was going through yours.

Immediately, you begin to release everything, slowly listing out a series of options that came to the top of your head, ones he wasn't expecting to hear. Going to a clinic, figuring out your options, that sort of thing if he didn’t want the baby.

Simon immediately stops you from speaking further.

“Forget about me for just a second,” Simon states, realizing he may have come off too harshly on this matter towards you, potentially giving you the wrong idea.

“What about you?” He asks in a calm, softened tone. Me?

“Is this something you want?”

You hesitate, glancing everywhere but him as your fingers clench at the bedsheets.

His hand takes yours, his other lightly sweeping through your hair. “Tell me the truth. I won’t force this on you.”

You look him in the eyes, those eyes you absolutely adored.

Oftentimes, you hear him say he doesn’t deserve you, but sometimes you can’t help but find him adorable for him being blatantly unaware of when you think in vice versa to this.

His consideration on your behalf melted your heart to its very core.

“I’ve always wanted this, Simon.” You admit, unable to hold back the tears as you look down.

“At one point in my life, I never even thought of it, but lately… “ You huffed out a weak laugh, wiping your soaked cheeks with the back of your fingers.

“I don’t know, I’ve always wanted to be a mom, but there’s so many worries I have.”

“Like what?” He asked.

“If I’d even be a good mom,” you proceeded, the tears continuing to fall. “If I could even take that responsibility, if the man I thought I’d marry when I wanted to grow up would be there alongside me all the way and have a cute little family.”

The dreadful worries began to crowd your head, much against your better judgment. If you’d carry them to full term, if Simon would stay the entire way, if he second guessed and didn’t want the baby any longer, or if something happened to the baby?

He holds you close, cradling your head close. Softly, he hushed against your forehead, his nose pressed against the crown of your hair.

“But, what if you don’t want-“ you proceeded, feeling his head shake against your head.

“No,” he stops you. “Don’t say that, love.”

He goes quiet, growing lost in his thoughts as you continuously sniffle, patiently wiping your eyes repeatedly. His comforting hug felt so stiff, so foreign, so tense. You always melted in his embrace, but the hesitation that flooded your bones prevented you from doing so.

“I don’t know if I can hold that responsibility of bein’ a good father.” He brings himself to admit, a personal truth that hurts even him to exhale it. Maybe it’s the shock still setting in that makes him say this, but it's still pure, brutal honesty.

Your heart sinks at those words. Even if you were to try to convince him that you could physically see him pacing around a pink or blue tinted nursery, swaddling a baby in his broad arms, he’d never see it that way, feeling himself incapable of clutching something so delicate and pure in his hands.

Never did he see himself being a good father, compared to the life he had, but your words gave him a bit of an epiphany.

If the man you wanted to marry during your childhood’s hopeful dreams was going to remain to help raise a beautiful child and have a happy family, that didn’t mean you’d be doing it alone. He’d take on this role, and he wanted to stay beside you, regardless of it all.

A child with your eyes sounded wonderful. It was interesting really, you were thinking the exact same about him, the excitement and anxiety deep down in both your stomachs still.

“But I want to try,” Simon admits, holding your hands securely in his.

- - -

“Can we start this over?” You spoke up, breaking through this painfully tense silence you’ve felt unable to sit through for a second longer.

He quietly nodded, watching you rise up, plucking the test from the coffee table before walking out of the living room.

You stopped in the middle of the hallway, feeling your fingers trembling as your nerves refused to settle.

This wasn’t how you wanted this to go. You wanted to surprise him in some cuter, more innocent way, but he had caught you completely by surprise as you opened the bathroom door, finding Simon standing on the other side.

Seeing his head tilt down and catch a glimpse of that test immediately destroyed every possible opportunity to surprise him, though you knew it was something you couldn’t be disappointed at forever.

Taking a calm breath, you gather up all the excitement you could muster in your body before turning around, quickly heading back towards the living room entryway.

Before you could muster a word, you were met with a strong wall of warm, black shirt clad muscle, your husband enveloping you in his broad arms, clutching you like his only saving grace.

Simon heard your laugh erupt from your lips, this sudden gesture catching you by surprise as you hugged him back, feeling your feet lift off the floor once you secure your arms around his neck.

With your happiness came tears, joining in with your wide smile. Simon’s eyes glistened with pure, raw emotions, consisting of adoration and raw, unfiltered love the second he looked into your eyes before flooding you with passionate kiss after kiss.

He was scared though. He would always be scared, but for now, he turned his walls into open gates, allowing you to flood his very being with warmth and light, feeling the happiest he’s ever been, following second to his proposal to you.

“A little you,” he muffled against your lips after kissing you for a final time.

“A little you,” you repeated with a giggle.

“With those pretty eyes of yours.” You whisper up to him, grazing your free hand against his cheek once he set you down.

“Christ save me if it has your attitude,” He mutters against your forehead before placing another kiss on it, forcing a snort from your nose in amusement.

That night, he brought you flowers and your favorite chocolates, promising to take you out to eat at your favorite restaurant the next evening. Even after all this time, he still wasn’t a fan of public places, but this was such a celebration, he would do it all in the name of you.

5 weeks.

It wasn’t enough for an ultrasound worth seeing to check for something exciting beyond the size of a pearl or rice grain, but now there was something here. Someone there, and it would soon rely on the two of you to protect it, to love and cherish it.

This would mean you would have to be away from your military lifestyle, taking on this new role while Simon continued on with his. You had to admit you were jealous, especially as the wave of maternal thoughts continuously reminded you of this new position.

With this blessing came so many worries. Simon would have to continue his lifestyle, meaning he’d be gone for long periods of time. How could you cope exactly with this? What would happen, especially after the baby was born?

Maybe you were just thinking ahead.

Only time would really tell if you were true to your word of physically and mentally preparing for it.

Your only regret for the moment was not preparing an adorable pregnancy reveal surprise for him, though time will tell if you have a chance to make up for it.

- - -

You were craving s’mores, but not just any s’mores.

You were dying for that crispy, burnt marshmallow taste, but despised the idea of smoke from a campfire, your nose suddenly souring at the thought, and the rainy weather outside had been unforgiving these past few weeks.

You’ve taken to baking a lot lately these past few evenings, scattered along the last few weeks, keeping your area lit up with the warm stovetop light, melding perfectly with the cozy ambience of your kitchen.

Your kitchen had been your experiment room, your science lab, smelling of rich chocolate and burnt marshmallows as you set your clear glass pan onto a heat protected surface, closing your oven with a gloved hand.

A Graham cracker crust, a rich, fudgy brownie filling, and marshmallow fluff that toasted delightfully on top, thanks to the broiler in your oven.

They were just a more aesthetically pleasing version of slutty brownies, delicious looking ones at least.

21 weeks in, the changes were growing ever so obvious. Your abdomen grew a bit plush, but still thankfully secured under the sanctuary of Simon’s gray t-shirt.

Since you woke up this morning, all you craved was brownies. But fuck it, it was a better craving than something sick, like ice cream and soy sauce, or some other horridly confusing craving you discovered other pregnant women had.

Don’t even bother trying it.

“You gonna finish it this time?” Simon piqued as he stood at the other end of your kitchen counter, watching you cut into this delectable creation, hearing the crunch of the graham crackers as fudgy chocolate and gooey marshmallow clung to your knife from the cut.

It was in the oven for about fifty minutes, but the possibility of raw eggs was nothing compared to the amount of sugar in this invention. At the very least, he made sure you had eaten proper, healthier food throughout the day until now, so satisfying this craving wouldn’t truly hurt every now and then.

“Of course, I will,” you looked up at him after plating four sizable slices on the plate, bits of melted marshmallow coating your fingers of your opposite hands. “You think this is all just for me? You’ve wanted s’mores just as much as I have.”

You tilted your head to the stove, gesturing towards the kettle that whistled for attention during your discussion. “I want some of that earl grey tea too, please.”

You say that because he usually doesn’t drink sweetened tea with his desserts, that was his given fancy. Plain tea cuts through the sweetness perfectly.

“Alright, as long as you only eat two of those. That much sugar will drive you up the damn walls.” Simon mentioned while gathering two mugs from the top cupboard, setting them on the counter.

“Bite me, Riley.” You muttered in amusement, clutching hold of the tray with a still gloved hand while making the final cuts to your dessert.

“I have. Can still see it from here, love.” His voice trailed into your ear from behind you as he passed by, his form lightly, yet innocently brushing along your backside to get the earl grey from another cabinet.

You smiled, a tint of color flushing your cheeks as you licked the remnants off the side of the knife before placing it in the sink.

It was silly, really. With sugar, came the surge of arousal. Hormones really loved to mess with your mind and turned you from his ever doting, needy little wife into his ever doting, needy little wife. It was a tough price to pay.

Tough price to pay indeed.

- - -

“Once this baby sees you, an’ once it touches your skin, they’ll see you as their entire perfect world.” His lowered tone rumbled deliciously from his throat, trailing along the skin of your neck in a similar fashion to his hands.

“You’ll be a wonderful little mother.” He mutters this promise to you, this elegant truth, whether your mind allows it to be believable or not.

Simon’s soothing words mumbled along the shell of your ear, his arms secured around you like a shield of comfort, more secure than any soft blanket after being tossed in the dryer.

You were fresh out of a warmed bath, warm enough to sleep in without being scalding, scented with your favorite bath soaps and oils, turning you into a glistening queen as he sat beside the tub to keep you company, talking about anything and everything to your heart’s content until the water was bordering the edges of lukewarm and cold.

You seemed more concerned over how you appeared as time passed, as if Simon would ever view you any less than desirable. He didn't understand this sudden change in attitude at first, viewing you as nothing more than a diamond after spending decades trapped in coal. Pure, utter perfection bred from years of mind melding pressure from the eyes of the world.

Scars or not, your changing body was gorgeous to him, going through a beautiful process to nurture your growing child.

Simon’s war weathered hands worked wonders along your skin, massaging along your shoulders down to your legs, working the muscles that would eventually grow swelled with time. He never minded this, knowing you’d deserve everything you deserve and more for this laborious task of carrying his child.

Old Friends of yours, and the internet of course, recommended that moisturizing was key during pregnancy, to combat those stretch marks.

The sweet almond oil was merely a plus, as well as the vanilla scented cocoa and shea body butter you used to seal in the moisture. You glistened like an absolute goddess, perfuming his dreams as he cradled you close at night.

It was even working on him, his hands always felt a little bit softer after such a routine each evening.

“An’ before you know it, our little kid will be drinkin’ their tea through their sippy cups.”

A small smile tickled the corners of your lips, a short, amused snort leaving your nose from the comment.

There it was, that smile that Simon adored so much.

A part of him knew that this wouldn’t be the last time these raging hormones would drag you down, but what good was a husband if not an anchor to your worries and concerns?

- - -

“Just one sip?”

“No.”

“But Si-“

“No.” Came his firm reply yet again, all while reading through today’s mail.

Wine. You wanted wine. You craved it desperately, but you couldn’t have it.

Whatever idiotic, controversial topic you had read off your phone or heard from one of your girlfriends was something he wished he could rip from your head and shove it back to where it belonged.

He knew you liked wine, particularly sweet ones, and was aware you had very well missed it, but regardless, he was dreadfully against it.

He cut back on cigarettes for his baby, so like hell any single drop of alcohol was going to touch your tongue, even if it was just for a taste.

Simon got you sparkling grape cider after you spent two days complaining, but it wasn’t the same. Who cares? It was sweet and didn’t have alcohol.

“But the doctor said-“

“The bloody doctor’s not here, is he?!” Simon’s voice raised instantly, leaving you stunted as he glared at you from the corner of his eye. Like hell you were going to use that no-good doctor’s words as an excuse.

You groaned, rolling your head back before stomping out of the kitchen.

“Fuck you, Riley!” You shouted at him from down the corridor before shutting yourself in the bedroom.

“Love you as well,” he mutters, gathering the ripped open envelopes in his hands.

The silly stories of men being concerned, if not frightened for their wives’ outbursts sounded absolutely absurd. If anything, he tried his very best to hold back any sign of amusement, any twitch of a smile or accidental huff of laughter at how adorable you looked being irritated over something you couldn't have.

It’s not the worst he’s seen you before, but thinking that now, he wasn't sure if he was speaking too soon.

You’ll get over it.

- - -

“You’ll be a wonderful father, Simon.” You reassured him, remaining by his side as a subtle roar of thunder echoed in the horizon from miles away.

30 weeks, 30 weeks and the broad, physical changes started to set in.

The bump stretched through most of his shirts, but you were more than content to be comfortable in his black hoodie. You found him after dinner outside after he had done the dishes, leaning on his crossed arms against the porch fence, a lit cigarette in his hand as he took in the storm’s afterglow ambience.

You rubbed his forearm soothingly, settling your hand against his open palm as his fingers relaxed from the touch of yours.

You knew he still struggled with the new mentality of this reality.

Every day, you saw it flash across his eyes once or twice a day, leading him to disappear every so often for minutes at a time to gather his bearings. Ten minutes grew into thirty, evolving into him remaining on your front porch for an hour, watching the rain fall merely inches in front of his face.

“I never saw myself bein’ a father,” he admits slowly after such a long silence, his lowered tone almost muffled by the storm.

You nod to his confession, despite the burn in your heart to hear it.

He says this due to his mother’s words, an echo of a memory voicing through his thoughts from so long ago.

“He’s your father and there’s always gonna be a piece of him in you.”

The thought alone was more terrifying than his fear of you going into labor if he wasn’t around.

If the bastard was alive, he’d make sure he’d stay dead in a ditch far from society, making it impossible for him to ever learn of his child’s name, preventing him from even mentioning it in crude vain.

“But seein’ you like this,” He continues on, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze, “Seeing you carry my child, our child I mean, made me realize exactly why.”

You nodded slowly again, feeling a bit more considerate to his truth. He didn’t need to voice it, for it was a truth you’d known for quite a long time. You didn’t need to know a cruel, heatless man to understand that your husband was nothing of the sort, not by a long shot.

“You’re not your father, Simon.” You squeeze his hand as you say these words, feeling his gaze trail to yours.

“You know not what to do, how not to act, and I know it's not going to be easy, but I’m here too,” You gently encourage him, trying your best to keep hopeful for him to see what you saw.

“We’ve got each other, right? And like you said, once they see you, they’re gonna view you as the perfect father.”

Simon wondered how he got so lucky to have a woman like you in his life, sporting a gentle love he had only known from his mother.

Stepping away from the railing, Simon lowered his hand along the smooth fabric shielding your belly. Smoothing his palm against it, his eyes followed your fingers as they trailed along his inked tattoos, mindlessly swirling over the patterns as you stepped closer to him.

“We should get ready for bed. Now come inside, I’m not supposed to be breathing this stuff in.” You softly say to him, meeting his nod as he chucked out the cigarette towards the puddles of mud out in the yard, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You chose to come out here.”

“Because my husband needed his wife and child to remind him how much we love him.”

- - -

“What is that?” You ask from the entryway to the kitchen the next morning, lured in by a new scent melding with the usual aroma of ground coffee and toast.

“Food.” He curtly replied, standing in front of the stove.

The fragrant, slightly spicy smell was delightful to you, but you weren’t sure about what it was. You had an idea, but you dreaded what it could’ve been. Maybe that’s why your husband stood the way he did at the stove, purposely blocking your view from the pan.

“Simon, what is it?” You asked again, your curiosity getting the better of you.

His head craned a little, sparing you a glance over his shoulder, seeing you slightly hidden behind the wall. “You won’t like it.”

“Just tell me what it is.”

“Black pudding.”

“Oh.” The contorted face you made immediately confirmed your views on it.

“Want to try?” Simon offered as he glanced back towards the pan.

“No.” He expected that response. You were content with everything he enjoyed in a full English breakfast except that, everything but that.

“Y’sure?” He piqued while plating both your foods, setting the pan back on the stove before setting one of the plates down on the table. He motioned for you to sit with a tilt of his head, watching you hesitantly approach.

He plated the so-called monstrosity on both your plates, knowing very well you couldn’t deny the hunger, despite being well aware of your thoughts for it. Won’t like it until you try, at least.

“Why does it look like that?” Your nose almost scrunched at it as you sat down.

“Cause it’s made with blood, love.” Simon states while filling up two mugs with hot beverages. “Good for ya.”

The look you gave him made it almost impossible to hide a smile any longer.

“Won’t disappear the longer you keep starin’ at it,” Simon chimed after watching you prod at your eggs once he sat down.

“Why’d you do this to me?’ You looked at him with a bit of a pout, frowning at his held back smirk as you proceeded to put your portion onto his plate. Christ, you’re like a little child with steamed veggies.

“Cause it smells good, yeah?” Damn him for knowing that.

You shrug. “I guess.”

“Won’t cause harm in tryin’ it,” Peering back down at his plate, he worked at his own helping, hopefully taking this opportunity to change your mind on what he viewed as essential to an english breakfast.

“Here.” He offered a tiny amount on the tip of a fork to you. You hesitated, your head retching back like a kid avoiding a foul-tasting medicine.

It looked so horrid to you, even if it did look like charred, sliced sausage, but it smelled incredible.

“C’mon, or I’ll keep ya at the table.”

He sounded so strange when he teased, his jokes as terrible as this blood pudding appeared. Nevertheless, you opened your mouth, accepting the food.

“It’s spicy.” You mutter as you chew slowly. By now, Simon couldn't hold back his amusement any longer, watching you swallow before glancing back at your plate, particularly towards the now vacant spot beside the tomatoes.

“Still hungry?” He pried.

You nodded. There were many other tasty options for you right in front of you, but as you picked up your fork, you refrained from selecting anything else.

“What do you want?” He questioned after noting your continued silence.

“That.” You muttered almost shamefully.

“What?”

“That.” You craned your head to motion at the black pudding still on his plate.

A fraction of a smirk formed on his face as he placed it back onto your plate, a low chuckle leaving him. “Good, right?”

“I guess.” You shrugged before putting a more sizable piece in your mouth, almost looking ashamed to eat it.

You weren’t ashamed for eating a peanut butter sandwich with pickle slices in it. How is this worse?

It was truly amusing, if you weren’t pregnant, you wouldn’t even be in the kitchen at this very moment.

“This a new craving now?” Simon couldn't help asking midway through you popping another piece in your mouth, hearing you muffle in agreement while covering your mouth.

“Our little one’s a true Brit now, yeah?”

“Don’t say that ever again.” You chuckled into your hand, cutting another sizable piece with your fork. Simon couldn’t be more amused and ever so happy that you were his wife and mother to his child.

- - -

The anxiety of the small baby shower that was soon to happen later on in the day prevented you from getting a good night’s rest, so you settled to do your favorite little hobby: baking, at six in the morning.

Specifically, making specialty cupcakes for the party.

Usually, you would’ve used boxed mix for that quick fix, but in this case, you did what you called “doctoring up” the cake mix.

An extra egg, swap the amount of water for milk, and use the good vanilla paste from Mexico.

He walked in on you shutting the oven after checking on the baking goods, the warm vanilla swirling deliciously in the air alongside fresh brewed coffee, lightly fogging up the kitchen window in front of the sink.

Six months.

Six months went by so terribly fast. With every passing day, you beamed with motherhood soon to come, spending your days as comfortable and as lazily as possible.

Those cupcakes would soon eye him every time he opened the fridge later today, making the mystery of the truth grow all the more curious in his head.

Only you knew the true gender, a secret you guarded very well the moment you two were alone after the doctor’s visit.

“You’re banned from the kitchen once I start frosting, you know.” You spoke up, showing him a little smile as you pulled out multiple sticks of butter from the fridge, setting them on the warm stove so they’d come to room temperature faster.

“More concerned for you walkin’ around half asleep.” He approached you, watching you huff and shake your head. “I’m fine-”

“Now now, don’t wanna hear any of it.” Simon gently takes you in his arms from behind, feeling you sigh against his chest before relaxing in his embrace.

Slowly, he trailed his hands down over your belly, cradling the underside of your swollen, unborn child.

His favorite activity, his most cherished act to do during his pastime, regardless of where the two of you were, was to hold them. To rest his hands along where he imagined little hands would press, or little feet that would kick back against.

He’d lightly rest his head against the side of your tummy in silence, feeling your fingers comb through his hair as you watched with content, seeing his facial muscles relax, his brow lowering in various thoughts of how their child would look like. These silly, innocent little thoughts always lulled him to sleep, temporarily banishing any and every harsh, dark thought that threatened to overtake him.

“You sure you wanna do this?” You softly ask, hinting towards the baby shower later this evening.

The baby shower was a shared idea between you and Kate’s wife, who began calling a few times a week to check up on you, taking a sort of maternal role on your behalf, providing a fair amount of support without being overbearing.

He was never one for parties. Public parties, anything that involved more than five people at least. But he knew all who were arriving and worked alongside most of them through thick and thin, they may as well be a sort of second family.

Simon had stepped plenty out of his comfort zone alongside you these past few months, doing grocery runs with you, eating out when neither of you felt like cooking, attending local events so you didn't feel cooped up in the house too often, despite Simon’s silent persistence that he would’ve preferred you to remain at home, except for the occasional doctor’s visit.

This baby shower will be here at home, a nice little event where everyone can have fun and bring the baby gifts. After learning what it meant, he couldn’t rob you of that experience.

“I’ll be alright,” He settles your worries, taking a gentle hold of your shoulders to guide you towards the door. “You need rest, love. Get a few hours to yourself, I’ll wake you for your breakfast.”

“Wait,” You tried to stop your steps, despite Simon insisting you continue walking forward.

“Make sure the cupcakes are taken out after fifteen minutes-”

“Will do.”

“And just set them on the-”

“Heat proof pans,” Simon confirmed, “I know. Go get your rest, love.”

- - -

You’ve never seen Simon so relaxed after a delicious dinner, sitting with most of the men in the living room, sharing a couple of beers, the good beers that Soap had brought for the party, conversing happily over various topics and stories, catching up after some lost time.

Through every shared chuckle, every change in subject between the men, Simon couldn't help but shift his attention over towards his wife, standing with Kate and her beloved, chattering your head off while mindlessly resting your hand over the baby bump.

You looked so vibrant, glowing in extravagant excellence. You wore a loose light pink dress that went past your knees, with comfortable, soft puffy sleeves. Tons of tiny blue flowers decorating the fabric of the skirt, accommodating your pregnant tummy beautifully.

You sipped a sparkling elderflower mocktail, thanks to an elderflower nonalcoholic beverage Simon had gotten you that you actually enjoyed.

Alejandro and Rodolfo arrived around four in the evening, apologizing profusely for being two hours late, but the fact that they even arrived had significantly warmed your heart.

“There’s no way we’d miss this special day, Princesa,” Alejandro stated after sharing a warm, heartfelt hug.

In Rodolfo’s hands he carried a large gift, a baby gift set his sisters had made for you, decorated in various yellows and soft, pastel greens, with kisses of pink and blue, a giant mystery to what the baby’s gender might’ve been. It gladly joined the rest of the presents that piled up in the corner of the room, remaining untouched until a particularly exciting event took place.

Kate’s wife immediately helped take the gift to add towards the pile. She had been an absolute dream with you, being as mindful as Simon, if not more than him, when it came to your needs. Arriving a half hour before the party began, helping with dinner, making sure you didn't stand for so long to rest your sore feet.

She was the apple of Kate’s eye, their relationship making you smile delightfully each chance you could.

“So, what’re you gonna do about the job?” Soap couldn't help but ask Simon, a question lingering in the air like a shadow.

Despite Simon never once minding the fact that he stayed home for you, there was the inevitable possibility that he’d have to go back to work, which meant he’d be far out of his family’s reach.

He hated it, the thought alone shooting a sour taste over his tongue. He couldn't avoid the topic forever, but it was a discussion he’d need to have with you. It wouldn't be a pretty one, but he had to have it at some point.

“Don’t quite know yet, Johnny.” He replied, glancing back over towards his wife before looking towards the Sergeant. “An’ I’d appreciate it if its not brought up again.”

“No no,” Soap held up a hand in calm defense, “I get it. Honest, wouldn't blame ya if you stayed. Doubt she’d let yer ass through the door.”

Simon huffed, slightly joining in on the man’s chuckle. That’s a level of unbridled new mother rage he’s hoping he’d never get to see.

“Are these it?” Gaz called your attention from the kitchen, holding the tray of cupcakes you kept in the freezer.

“Yep! It is.” You cheerfully replied, getting Kate to gather the men towards the dining room, either filling up the limited chairs or standing around. Simon was adamant on giving you a seat to rest in, but after some quick, hushed words, you convinced him to sit down, remaining by his side once the cupcakes were passed out with little napkins.

“So, what’s the game here?” Alejandro questioned, taking the cupcake once you offered it before passing it along to someone else.

“The game is we each take a bite and tally up the color we get. Odd color wins, gentleman. Place your bets now.” Kate announces, hearing Gaz huff while peering towards the Scotsman, muttering a few hushed words.

“Ah ah ah! Not literally, you idiot!” You quickly speak out, going against Soap, who purposely leaned back against his seat to pull out his wallet.

He snickered, purposefully acting the way he did to simply get a rise out of you, finding every chance he could incredibly amusing.

“No bets at my baby shower, John.” You ordered, watching him raise his hands in playful submission.

The man himself wore a dark blue shirt. As blue as the Scottish flag, he had stated after giving you a hug when he arrived. Despite the idea of a boy, he did mention a girl would be just as, if not, even more delightful a thought.

He could see any child the both of you had absolutely loved to death regardless, not only by its parents, but by everyone else who came to show their support.

The man himself offered to begin this little game, the suspense forcing him to chuckle as he bit into the cupcake, causing cold buttercream to smear the tip of his nose.

His eyes significantly widened the second he looked down, quickly turning around for the others to view the small pocket of pink hidden underneath the dome of piped frosting.

A small chorus of laughter and cheers erupted from the table, watching the man gather himself as he set the cupcake down, licking the frosting from his lips.

Gaz was next, helping himself to the cupcake in front of him. He took a more interesting approach, proceeding to bite into the frosting rather than the cake, revealing the purposefully pastel blue dyed frosting, casting a smile upon the man’s face as the color matched the light blue button up he wore.

“Alright! We got a boy!” He announced, chuckling along with a few others before he set it down.

“Unless you’re jestin’ us and hinting that yer havin’ twins.” Soap added in while licking his thumb of frosting after enjoying another bite.

The strain and hesitant laughter that came from you was forced, feeling your hand give Simon’s a decently firm squeeze, quietly reveling in the secret blessing that it wasn’t. It was interesting enough learning from just one, you wouldn't know what you would’ve felt with the possibility of twins.

Up next was Rodolfo, who had worn a white long sleeve, but that didn’t stop him from scoring a dark blue bracelet he had lifted up in defense to failing the dress code, something you didn’t hold against him. He held up his cupcake, presenting it like a trophy to reveal the pocket of blue underneath, cheering with the others.

“Oye, you should sell these. Open up a little bakery,” He proposed before taking another bite, watching you smile and giggle. It was good to see your love for baked goods get appreciated by others. It definitely saved money from buying them elsewhere.

Your altered taste buds despised the store-bought stuff anyway.

Alejandro wore a light pink button up with rolled up sleeves, biting into his cupcake once his turn came around. His eyes widened at the blue frosting, faking a pitiful look of sadness before chuckling it off in amusement.

“Really pushing it on a boy so far!” He chuckled, shortly agreeing with Rodolfo’s comment on how tasty the cupcake was. All it was missing was a hot cup of coffee and he was set.

Kate’s wife wore a pastel pink sweater vest over a white shirt, biting into a pink cupcake to her absolute delight, almost tearing up herself over the welcomed match. Kate herself had gotten a blue cupcake, matching coincidentally well with her blue scarf resting around her neck.

“In our defense,” Kate’s wife states while clutching her beloved’s hand, “We’ll love who they are regardless!”

“They’ll be getting spoiled either way,” Kate added in, chuckling along with the flat-out truth.

Price wore a cerulean shirt, but gladly accepted your request to pin a pink little bow on the far right of his shirt collar.

By now, as the buttercream came to room temperature, a bit of pink tinted frosting clung to his mustache after his bite, but chuckling to the realization of this little mishap didn't bother him in the slightest.

“Well, look at that!” He chuckled as you quickly handed him a few extra napkins. “I’m on the same boat, they’re gettin’ absolutely spoiled by all their aunts and uncles.”

“Sure thing, Gramps.” Gaz pitched, purposely avoiding the captain’s gaze, hiding his smile in his own hand.

“That’s a name they’ll be calling you in about a year or two,” You pitched in, smiling at the smirk that inevitably spread across the captain’s face after the comment.

“Your turn, dear.” Price gestured to you, leaving you to nod along with excitement, despite already knowing the truth.

As basic as it was, you’ve never held so much disdain for this simple vanilla cupcake, this painfully bland dessert, especially when it came to the multiple test cupcakes you’ve made prior.

The toughest challenge was making the buttercream thick and pearly white, hiding the color underneath perfectly.

You’d be more than happy to make any other cupcake rather than this tragically boring mess, leading you to simply tear open the cake in your hands without tasting it, revealing to the crowd the flush of pink underneath vanilla sponge and frosting.

The tally was set.

An even number of four on four so far, all that was left was the final cupcake to break the tie, the final cupcake that sat in front of Simon.

Simon wore dark gray, insisting that it didn’t matter to him what gender the baby was, he’d love them regardless, just as everyone else. He didn’t want to think ahead and assume too fast, too nervous at the high expectations, keeping all those thoughts bottled up until he learned the truth.

He didn't realize just until now how much pressure was placed on his shoulders, being the last man at the table, a plethora of pink and blue cupcakes flooding his eyes, down to the simple, plain cupcake in front of him.

Sweet frosting coated his taste buds once he took a bite, the room dreadfully quiet after this action.

The suspense grew thicker and thicker, all eyes on him as his wife’s hand settled on his right shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze, soothing his heartbeat drumming in his ears.

Licking his lip, he glanced down at the cake in hand, unable to wait any longer.

Right there, in the center of the swirl of thick, smooth buttercream, topped with round pink and blue sprinkles was a soft, flush pastel pink pocket of icing.

Never in his life had he been so delighted to see such a color.

You watched Simon’s eyes light up, almost wider than saucers at the discovery. You stared at him with your hands over your mouth, a bright smile hidden underneath your fingers, your eyes flushed pink with hot tears.

“It’s a girl!” You quickly state towards the others before he could turn it around, watching multiple eyes light up, followed by large amounts of cheers and applause, those who sat rising from their seats instantly.

Simon had risen so fast from his seat, almost causing the furniture to tumble over as he secured you tightly in his arms, feeling your tears of joy dampen his shirt sleeve. His head buried deep into your neck, his light scruff prickling your skin as he purposefully hid his face from everyone who cheered in congratulations.

With your growing belly, Simon found holding you close to be a more endearing action as the days went by. Before the both of you knew it, your little girl would be squeezing between the two of you, urging to join in on such a hug, simply for the surge of attention from her parents.

Your fingers clung to his shirt, your ragged breathing muffled against his shoulder. Beneath the excitement, he heard you mutter to him how much you loved him dearly, repeating these words over and over. In response, he urged you to shift your head just enough so he could take you in a long, heartfelt kiss, before returning to you the same hushed words against your lips.

How you loved each other so. Simon never wanted to be away from you, the thought growing now more than ever.

He remained facing away from the crowd after you were let go, your attention immediately taken aside by Kate’s wife, who trapped you in a tight hug.

“Ya alright?” Soap approached Simon, seeing his refrained stance from the crowd, refusing everyone else to see him this way, teary eyed and emotional, all while keeping quiet.

Simon nodded, sparing yet another glance over towards his wife, smiling as wide as possible, bright tears beading the edges of your eyes, staining your beautifully flushed cheeks as Price took you in a hug, soothing your happy sobs with a comforting rub of your back.

This was better than you had ever hoped for, A wonderful make up for being unable to surprise him the first time.

A girl, a beautiful baby girl.

His future addition to the chamber of his heart, the apple blossom of his eye, his hopeful little dove soaring across an endless sky.

A daughter with the woman he loved most in this world.

For a moment, and just for a moment, he refused to let any dark thought in his mind ruin this happiness that flooded his bones and warmed his haunted spirit, lighting up the darkness like a small pink birthday candle.

He could hardly wait now.

[pooks]

"Alright, fine!" Ichiji snapped and regretted it when Sanji stiffened. He forced himself to take a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Fine...we'll save them, then."

The rain slowly ceased, although they were already soaked to the bone. Luffy, their captain, looked from left to right at the brothers and yet, he said nothing. Perhaps he understood that this particular discussion was between him and Sanji? Who knows when their captain's mind was a puzzle that was impossible to solve?

"We'll do it your way, then." Ichiji said. "But remember this, Sanji. I am not saving Judge or those two ingrates for their sake. Not for them and not for Germa. I'm doing this for you. I would gladly let them rot. I'm not oew Judge anything, not after what he did to Mother, not after what he did to me and certainly not after what he did to you. But I love you more than my own life. If you want to save their pitiful lives, then...I'll do it. For you."

Sanji was the one with a pure heart. His goodness came second to their mother's, whom Ichiji remembers as the symbol of unconditional love.

As for Ichiji...he had always known that he'll burn in hell. He was a sinner. A monster and yet...he wanted to become a human. He was born as an unforgivable monster, he has raised his hands to hurt Sanji and abused him through fists and words. He has spent the last thirteen years atoning for his sins; to cherish, protect and love Sanji and he'll continue to do that until he died.

"Ichiji. You're also a human, you know." Luffy suddenly said with a straight expression directed at the redhead.

He gritted his teeth. Lies...a voice in his mind, which sounded a lot like Judge, hissed. He's lying, you're an irredeemable monster. You're a weapon, Germa's pride and the next king. Your mother is dead because of you...you raised your hands against your brother and watched him waste away in the dungeons. You're a sinner!

"I'm not a human, I'm a monster pretending to be someone else!" Ichiji snapped. "I deserve to be executed for my crimes!"

"Take that back!" Sanji suddenly yelled at him. He jumped up onto his feet with balled fists, trembling shoulders and tears running down his face. "Take those words, you've done more for me than those scum!"

"You don't know anything!" Ichiji shouted at him, ignoring how tears welled up in his eyes. "I beat you up! I yelled at you, insulted you! I kicked you when you were down and crying! I said you were a failure, I said that I hated you and I wished you gone! You're supposed to hate me, you idiot!"

"You don't hate me." Sanji said. "If you hated me...then you wouldn't have taken my hand and escaped to the Orbit with me. You wouldn't have nearly starved to death at that fucking rock! You wouldn't have held me and comforted me everytime I had a nightmare or when I caught a cold! You wouldn't had joined me to become a pirate...and you wouldn't have fought by my side at every fight. You wouldn't have nearly died for my sake...if you hated me." Sanji inhaled shakily and his next words made Ichiji feel cold with dread.

"You wouldn't had made a deal with Judge and let him torture you for six months, if you hated me."

His normally cool temper exploded.

"HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?!" Ichiji bellowed at him with tears running freely down his face. His chest felt tight, breathing felt difficult and images of painful memories, filled with agony and misery, filled his mind. "I made sure that you would never know what I did! Why do you know that?!"

"Reiju told me what you did...after I woke up in the dungeons." Sanji said without missing a beat. "You let yourself become tortured, let Judge do so many experiments on you and abused you as "training". Reiju said that you were willing to endure all that, just so I could be free again."

Sanji's next words became the last strike to shatter the walls Ichiji had built around himself.

"If you really was a monster...then you wouldn't be in so much pain."

Ichiji lost all feeling in his legs, letting his knees collapse and meet the soaked ground. He opened a mouth to speak, but he had no words left. His hands grasped at the wet grass.

Conceal your emotions, don't feel them. Don't show them. Don't feel-

"Niisan." Sanji said, his voice filled with warmth and compassion.

Just like Mother...

Before he knew it, Ichiji was sobbing pitifully like a lost child. Hands flew to his face, covering his mouth and failing to surpress those noises. Years of pent up grief and pain finally caught up to him. He was never allowed to grieve Mother, he couldn't let himself shed tears and mourn the loss. He could remember how much everything hurt when he was strapped down on the examination table, when he screamed in agony and cried for his mother. How it felt like every nerve was set on fire.

"...I want to go home." Ichiji sobbed. "I-I miss my books, my typewriter, all my quills and fountain pens...I miss the aquarium, Brook's violin songs a-and the smell of your cooking. How everyone laughed and joked everyday. I miss the sea breeze and the sound of the ocean waves." He inhaled shakily. "Sanji...I want to go home to the Sunny too..."

Two things happened at once and it took him a long moment to process it.

Sanji had rushed to him, embracing him in his arms and Luffy had taken off his hat, pressing it down on Ichiji's red hair.

The captain nodded firmly and smiled at the two brothers. Not Vinsmoke, but adoptive sons of Red Leg Zeff. His cook and his archivist.

Monkey D. Luffy cracked his knuckles and grinned. "Let's crash the wedding! Then we'll go home!"

[musicalmoritz]

Thoughts on TBHK 120 :D ?

*deep sigh*

Fine, I’ll talk about chapter 120

How are we all doing tonight? Have you all eaten? Gotten those homework assignments in? Anyone else dealing with a massive headache? Anyone else drowning in sibling angst?

When I say this chapter destroyed me I do not mean standard TBHK angst. I mean life-altering fandom angst in which you can never be the same after that point. I’m talking The Death Cure page 250. I’m talking “I swear, Bill.” This chapter…holyyyy shit I need a drink

For a day, I thought it was time for my TBHK hyperfixation to peacefully fade away. I thought I could hop off the train and board the next trip, in which Wicked would take over my brain. Or maybe Interview with the Vampire would be my next stop. Would it finally be time for me to have a full blown Jujutsu Kaisen phase?? Apparently not

This chapter revamped my already thriving TBHK obsession and I am both living for it and dreading it because WHYYYYYYY did they have to come for the one thing that gets me more than anything???? Not the younger sibling dying, I can’t do this. Every post I see abt it feels like getting shot in the stomach. It’s the good kind of angst of course but omgggg it’s so painful. Teru has dedicated his entire life, arguably thrown his life away, to protect Kou. He has ruined his own future because he adores his younger siblings so much. And then he has to be the one to kill Kou in the end (yes I know Kou was already dead but shhhh still). He has to see his baby brother’s corpse at the bottom of a well, that image burned into his mind forever

Throughout every meal they had together, every walk to school in the morning, every mindless rant, every movie night, every petty argument, every trip to the store…do you think Teru ever thought it would come to this?? That one day his little brother would be no more and he would be the one to deliver the finishing blow?? Ughhh it pains me to talk about it. At least we got Aoi being an overprotective girlfriend to Nene. Yuri saves lives

I also love Akane’s development, how he made such a major decision and it had absolutely nothing to do with Aoi. I love how his social awareness has expanded throughout the manga, how he’s come to care about more than the girl he loves. He’s grown so much and I really wish more fans could look past their first impressions to see that…but it’s the rule of stubbornness, if you don’t want to see his growth then you won’t

Anyways the dynamic between the Minamoto siblings is my favorite part of the manga, and Teru and Kou are my favorite characters. It is so important to me to see a healthy, loving sibling dynamic portrayed in media, but I knew that couldn’t come without its share of conflict. It wouldn’t be realistic if things were perfect between them, and in a manga with high stakes like TBHK it wouldn’t be realistic if there weren’t a handful of fakeout deaths. Did not need to see the face Teru would make if he saw Kou’s dead body, but here we are. I am simultaneously eating this chapter up and suffering horribly. What a great day to be a masochist…

Thank you for the ask, I needed a place to dump all these thoughts out that wasn't limited to memes

[loversatthegreatdivide]

Heavy Lies the Heart - Chapter 8

Masterlist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!OC Word Count: 2k Tropes: mutual pining, fluff, angst with a happy ending, royalty Warnings: death Summary: When two second-borns looking for direction meet by chance, can they find purpose in each other? Or will circumstances keep them apart? A/N: I'm going to be real with you guys--this chapter was just for me. It's disgusting, cheesy, romantic nonsense and I absolutely love it. I hope you do too. :)

Writing an amateur poet's love letter was so ridiculous and fun, but I also may have f'ed myself up a little bit. Save me pathetic, handsome, unabashedly romantic gentleman who respects me as a human being with deep thoughts and valued feelings but also compares my eyes to flaked amber in the sunlight and treats me gently like a beautiful flower laid softly on the shrine of a solitary goddess...you're my only hope.

My dearest Beatrice,

These nights we have spent apart have been perhaps the longest of my life.

I had not realized just how completely you had made yourself at home in my heart until you were no longer here with me. I look to the space you have carved in my soul, and I find it empty. You have gone, and taken a piece of me with you.

At night I sit in the windowsill searching the streets below, desperate to see any sign of you waiting there for me. I pray for just a glimpse of your shrouded form, bathed in the silver light of the moon. As I wait, I know I would have forever been happy to be your Leander, swimming across the sea each night, guided by your light.

I have found my days as listless as my nights, waiting to hear any mention of your name. I dread what news time may bring, yet cannot stop myself from wishing the hours to pass as minutes. Time may yet be my enemy, but it still remains the one bridge that leads me to you.

I hope you are well my darling. I see an image of you sat alone with your worries, and it haunts my every thought. I hope to find some relief in the knowledge that my family will be with you soon, even if I cannot be. I hope your brief time with them will bring some measure of comfort to you, as they have comforted me.

When my mother and sisters return, I pray they bring good news. But know that no matter what, my feelings will not waiver. I am willing to stand steadfast against any tide we may yet face, so long as it is your wish to stand alongside me.

I worry now that perhaps my lack of interest in the movements of the aristocracy may have translated poorly. You must know that my distaste for their grandstanding, their rigid adherence to proprietary, and their many pointless rules means nothing in the face of my feelings for you. So now I shall be clear, so that there can be no misunderstandings between us.

I love you Beatrice. I will love you for as long as you will have me, and then one hundred lifetimes more.

Yours eternally,

Benedict

---

Beatrice sat in her nightdress, curled up in the armchair nearest the windows of her room. She clutched Benedict's letter close to her chest as she gazed out across the moonlit garden. It looked so similar to the place where she and Benedict had first met. It was not so long ago, yet it felt like a lifetime had past since then.

She turned her attention back to the letter. In the dim candlelight it was difficult to make out his flourished words, but that hardly mattered. Beatrice had read it so many times already that she could all but recite it word for word. She ran her fingers over the last line, smiling as she thought of the man that had written it.

I love you.

She wrapped her arms around her legs, pressing her forehead io her knees as she blushed. She could hardly contain the emotions that threatened to burst forth from her chest. Even having read it dozens of times, she could hardly believe it was real. And so she read it once more, then again, only to make sure she was not dreaming.

The feelings between them had always been clear. She did not need words to know Benedict cared for her. But to have it articulated so beautifully? To have him decalre it so boldly? That was a different thing entirely. Perhaps it was best then that it was written and not spoken. If she had heard it first from his lips, she surely would have perished in an instant--her heart too overcome with feeling to possibly be contained.

Her letter expressed her worries and her desires. Now she almost felt foolish thinking of the words she had written, having believed his choice rushed. And perhaps, regretted. Still, they needed to be said all the same, and now she could rest soundly knowing she had not in some way entrapped him in a life he did not want.

She prayed they would be allowed to see each other soon, but resolved herself to do whatever she must if she was not. She would see him again, no matter what.

She sighed, taking one last look out into the night before readying herself for bed.

As she laid in the dark, Benedict's letter tucked safely under her pilllow, she smiled to herself. She drifted off to sleep, knowing she would have sweet dreams.

---

My Dearest Benedict,

I hope this letter finds you in comfort and good health.

I have wished desperately to visit you these past nights. I have longed to be near you, to see your face and to hear your voice. The thought of never seeing you again forever stalks my every days and nights.

We spoke so little about my deception before we were forced to part. I know you have assured me all is well, but even so I must beg your forgiveness just once more. It was a crime committed completely for my own selfish desires, and I made you my unwitting accomplice.

And while I cannot in good conscious condone my actions, nor can I condemn them. For if I had been honest from the start, I believe we would never have been able to grow to know each other so well. For that time we spent free of society's eyes and expectations, I will apologize, I will accept the consequences, but I will never regret.

I know you must be worried for what is to come. The truth of it is I do not know myself. There are many possibilities, all reliant on many choices made by many people who care very little for the hearts involved. Ultimately, it comes down to this: Will I be permitted to see you again and if so, will you wish to see me?

I have not forgotten what you said as we danced. That you were willing to openly pursue me in spite of my title and any trouble that may follow. I was glad to hear you say so, gladder still for you to show your resolve and declare your intentions to all with every dance we shared. But I ever worry I have put you in a difficult situation, where you made a choice in the heat and haste of a moment, and now feel you must continue to honor your word and protect my feelings.

It is the knowing you care for me, but yet surely not wanting the burdens that I will place upon you, that haunts me so. That you may one day wake to a feeling of resentment towards me for your confinement, and wish in vain for release. I know you to be a free soul my dearest, and you do not belong shakled to a crown. And so I wish to be clear that I would never disparage you, even if it should be that you choose to place your freedom first.

But if this is to be the time I lay bare all my truths, I shall do so in full and know for certain I have said all I wished to. Then, regardless of what outcome the future holds, I can live contented by the knowledge that I have spoken every wish that lives in my heart.

I love you, Benedict. I have loved you since the night we met, and I will continue loving you every night and every day that follows for the rest of our lives and beyond. Whatever choice is made, regardless of who makes it, know that my feelings for you will never change.

And while it is so that I would never blame you for chosing to live your life a free man, the truth is I desperately ache for you to instead choose to spend it locked away with me. Together in a prison made for two, with no direction or purpose other than to be forever by each other's side.

I find I am only filled with such selfish thoughts when I am with you, and so it is with such selfishness that I reveal my deepest wish. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you, my love, forever and always until the day we die.

Yours always,

Beatrice

---

Benedict sat on the windowsill, reading over the letter held tightly in his hands.

While in his own letter he had chosen to make his feelings know beyond all doubt, he had not expected Beatrice would do the same. It is not that he questioned her love for him, but even so it made it no less of a shock to see it written so bodly in her own hand.

Benedict had of course been certain she shared his feelings, but Beatiece was by nature more reserved than others. Certainly more than he had ever been. Her feelings had never been uncertain, but even when they were alone it was clear that she held herself back.

Not that he minded, of course. He found her shyness enduring, and never considered her in any way insincere. Quite the opposite; he truly thought her to be the most genuine person he had ever met.

So it was not a surprise that Beatrice felt she had to be so forthcoming with her concerns for him.

That she had been so worried for him in spite of her own feelings was an unwelcome revelation. Benedict had never wanted her to feel pain over any aspect of their relationship. And that she knew his choice, but still wished to convey he was not bound by to it made his heart ache. He felt it all the more when he considered that she did so in direct opposition to her own feelings, all for his sake.

But then she had followed it all with such a bold declaration of her love. Whatever pain he held was lessened considerably by her uncharacteristicly assertive words. Despite her feelings of guilt for her actions and the weight she believed she had placed upon him, she still chose to make her wishes known.

Beatrice loved him, and she had made it clear she wanted his love in return.

Benedict was soothed then in the knowledge that she had received his letter. Whatever worry she had about his choice were surely dispelled the moment she read it. There could now be no doubt between them that they both desired the same thing.

He only hoped this separation would end soon, so that he might show her the depths of his resolve.

He loved her, and she loved him. Regardless of what choice was made by others, he had already made his decision.

Benedict smiled as he folded the letter gently, sliding it back into the safety of its envelope. He prayed, as always, that tomorrow would be the day he received the news he so desperately longed to hear. But if he must continue waiting for a word that he could see her again, he would do so safe in the knowledge that Beatrice now knew his true feelings. And that wherever she was, she was waiting for him too.

----------

Tags: @empressnatsume @sarahskywalker-amidala @may-and-lay @asterizee @g4ns3y @bubblegumcat229 @mhmoony @mmmunson @iamcailin08 @mads198-9

[phramboise]

— risqué mistress of morbidity:: captainjohnpricexfemale!reader

In my tavern, my muse, leaves me longing, as he quiets my insanity's wild ruse.

tags and warnings: 18+, price and bartender!reader, reader is also smoking and drinking; he denies eye connection, both are madly alone, kissing, choking(?), vague smut, no aftercare, depictions of breakdown and depression, touch starved reader, touch starved price, implied cheating, death. one time thing with a stranger that visits for a drink.

read the dry salvages after to give this post another perspective, to see a happier closure (!), or his view.

wordcount: 4.1k

;;

A little city, or not quite, not even a town. Some place between other little places. The kind that keeps you in front of the radio, listening through channels to find one that works, or the kind that makes you wonder how people who live here spend their days with. Rarely a vehicle glides down the road, throwing pebbles around the one-line asphalt, and even rarer does one stop in front of this pub to walk in. Still, roads smell of dust, soot and grease; ground dry and deserted, feels like the sun stays right in the middle of the unsure sky the entire day. Not moving, not a cloud over it for it to blink­­ ─always hazy, even indoors, even when it’s dark outside. A hit stench that sticks behind your neck, one that hogs your vision, one that feels like the breath you take needs to be a lot deeper for it to feel enough.

Slow, banal, monotonous; makes one think of one simple thing for days for there’s nothing else this place offers you to do, to think about. A stale life, one with no surprises. Where days feel long, years feel short. Hours are slow, and weeks are even slower, without one noticing, -but maybe with one noticing, noticing but not having the will in oneself for putting it to a stop- how the life, however fast or slow it might be, is still yours, and you are watching it away, for here leaves no wish, nor will.

Not to say that the man who now walks in the pub is simple -maybe his clothes, indigo rinse jeans, a fleece are- but even in such attire, he looks.. jarring, debonair, taking the air off the small tavern, suffocating -makes her take a big sigh before catching her breath. The place feels as it gets smaller as he makes his presence known, with a terrific aura oozing out of his frame, even glancing from the door his eyes are clear when looking inside. Dark blue landmines, the sea she always wished to see one day but never will, but she knows, if she were to see it, it would be of the colour of his eyes. The sweltering sun hits the sideline of his face for a sliver of a second as he steps in, the sun kisses his hair, bathes his brunette in golden rays, skin turning tan. She lifts her head off the counter, leaving the dry towel to her side to see who would step into this pub that has only her inside. And sees him. And meets his unavoidable mercy.

After that -after she looks away- there’s this haze in her head, an unease that dreads her, a cloud between thought and morals, and a ringing in her ears, vertigo, a pressure when having a long trip. She turns back to the counter, trying to avoid the impossible.

─that is, before he finds himself a seat next to the counter, slanting over it before asking for a whiskey, adding neat right after.

Glencairn winces in her hand as she places the glass in front of him, before giving the drink a firm twirl.

The goldenest burnished copper, a soothing sherry, a hint of warming smoke. Oloroso & oak. She even eyes the quaich on the glass shelves.

Lee Hazlewood in the background, the whiskey works his inhibitions away, it seems. His eyes linger longer on her with each sip, but each looks away after a moment on her body and never meets her eyes, as if such capable-looking man is afraid of simple connection, never suggestive. Maybe he’s looking at her only because nothing ever moves in this dead bar, but she prefers to think otherwise, and is free to dream. One hand dives in his hair, fingers graze on his forehead while the other holds a thick cigar, turning his head down as he takes drags of it between his thick fingers. He looks as if he finds comfort in smoke, and for his comfort in a smoke, she wants to take it to herself.

The cigar between his lips seems like a mockery of her own desire, knowing it can lovingly touch and feel between his lips and her lips just aren’t able.

Not one to fall into compulsions on his intuitions, he is. He shifts in his seat, stretching his leg out to take out his wallet. Windows open, so he tucks the paper under the tulip glass.

Five minutes, if not more. No talk, not a glance.

“I can have you another? On me?

This is ridiculous, needy, she thinks. A bartender asking to give a free drink, and the customer not attentive. He looks like he has nothing better to do anyway, he looks like he’s going to go somewhere unwanted after. Unwilled, to an infinite wrath, or an infinite despair. A silent man, he looks like he finds comfort in silence too. No defeat in silence, no rejection. A man who looks like he knows that it’s only the time that heals, and not the memory. Just a man, it’s what she sees, who looks like any other man, but not quite.

The quiet man does not object, and she fixes a drink with the sleight of her hand. “Forgive me, but you look rather… tense. Can I help you in a way?”

The fingers tapping on the wooden countertop miss their next beat, stop their steady pattern for a second. He doesn’t need to lift his head, look up to her to see that she’s speaking to her, he doesn’t bother anyway.

When there are two people who are strangers alone, only the one who wishes for a talk feels awkward. The other doesn’t notice, doesn’t want to talk. He looks down at his drink, the narrow-mouthed tulip, at the linted lifelines in the palm of his hand. Turning his palm against the counter, he looks at the cuts on his tanned skin. At some point he even reaches for his pocket, shifts in his barstool to take something out his pocket, and looking askance, she sees the split corner of the glossy paper, no wonder a polaroid. Only a second, before he secures it back in his pocket. Worn and irritated, it’s clear he had it with him for long enough. She can’t get a glimpse of the picture but has guesses on who that might be. The owner of the ring on his finger, perhaps? She curses the woman whom she never met, as if she’s to blame. She knows this man didn’t come here for the reason she has in mind, but she tries to deceive herself, reassure herself, make a consensus, a false one at that. It’s easy to justify, to blame her impurity on her id. Because who would come to a bar in the middle of nowhere at this time of the day? Only for a drink? Not likely if you ask her.

“This is enough.” He says, swirling the glass he lazily holds with a twirl of his wrist. It was on you, remember?

Rarely one comes here, but never once someone gives this answer to her question. Any other man, what she sees, and each time that other man looks like every other man, with trivial thoughts of every other man on their minds. Same minds dressed in different skins. This is another man.

Any other man thinks, she’s given me a drink, a sly smirk on his indifferent, indiscreet face. A young woman offering me of all men -as if there’s someone else around to compare- a drink? And she has plenty else to offer, no? This man, the another, looks like a man who is not in need of a proposal, looks satiated, even with the remorse of his sulken face. He looks like a man who has everything with nothing to lose. Like a man who seizes how transient she is, who wouldn’t be interested in her if she was a ghost of his wildest dreams.

Maybe that’s why, she doesn’t remember asking a question twice, she remembers when she hadn’t, when other men already had the proposal themselves, many of them she remembers rejecting. But never she remembers being rejected, never remembers simple defeat.

─So, she persists, dainty steps walk over, towards the customer side of the counter. Nervous, but slow enough to make it obscure, slow enough to notice her own breath, light as air as she walks next to him. I only want you to relax, no other reason.

She’s skeptic that he’d pull away, but alas, she’s also insistent, and he does not squirm nor he moves. Doesn’t tell her to stop, doesn’t tell her off. He doesn’t even grunt in efforts to mean something, to dismiss her. That’s her answer, she feels the tense muscles under her almost sweaty palms -nervous as she does -, gives a squeeze before daringly trying to snake her hands along his neck. Then gives another.

Then once more, and one more, until he slants back, until she hears a groan of relief out his hoarse throat, does she rubs his shoulders. Can I keep going?, mutters her, earning no yes, no no, but a little hum, it comes out as a withering moan out his lips, fainter than he planned to make it sound. Each rub inches her closer, until her breath kisses his nape, her front pressing right behind his back.

He looks capable, enough so, she wonders what kind of woman would leave him unsatisfied back home, she even wishes to be such lady, leaning over his shoulder slightly to not startle him away from compulsion, but enough to remind herself of the silver band on his finger, lambent in the midday sun. No reason to stop. Soon she leans her head down, down and her hair embraces his, as he tilts his head equally back, eyes closed. She clicks her tongue, rubbing it inside along her teeth as she looks down at him, and his short hair meets her skin through her v-neck.

A plea rolls out of his mouth, a growl, a promise of a whine, he tries to protest but is in the last sips of conviction. He puts his hand on her shoulder, he does, but he does not stop her. Only one way this goes, and now they both know it. One proposes quite openly, and the other subliminally accepts.

“I only want you to relax…”

With his head resting on her breasts and her supporting him, he only relaxes a little more on the stool, his breathing slowing and slowing. Heavier, bated. His eyes closed; his cheek feels against her breastbone.

This girl, undeniably smells like his lover. Talks like her too. Hearing the suggestive delivery of her voice, an immediate animal presence with incredible luring power, she whispers something simple, something she probably already said to many others who came here before his turn, but her voice, her fluid, languorous movement, just moves him in. Erotic and subliminal, but she’s not to blame. Him? He’s practically starving for some affection, and she’s warm. She feels like the warmth in a haze that holds you in bed early in the morning, an unhurried mist of comfort, all with terrifying seduction. Thus, he closes his eyes, to feel her but to see someone other.

He curses himself.

A little tug on his arm, and a brush of her lips along his jaw, is an overt invitation, for him to follow. And with a shaky breath, he does.

…

Through the water-stained mirror of the open lid of the locker, she watches his face as his hand wraps around her throat, rough fingers dragging along her supple skin, thumb searching for her life under its warm pad. Thumping harder and even palpitating with each beat, it’s ridiculous, she feels his warm breath as his lips inch closer right under her ear. His eyes trail along her hair, over the features of her face, every spot but her eyes as if she doesn’t have any, what she notices also is he doesn’t look at himself over the mirror too -as if he hates the sight, this charade that he plays. Then again, would a cherished person be in a staff room of a dusty bar? Only she sees the mirror, and only she feels what’s felt now. Him?.. Face indifferent, only his breath speaks.

She ignores it, just like she does with the fact that they don’t even know their names.

Palm leaves her throat, and she whines as his knuckles brush down her nape, taking her necklace off. It would be such romantic sight if he were to meet her eyes, she thinks. A kiss to her cheek, and a smile as he unclasps the chain. Some sweet whisper along her name. She even contemplates, would he let her if she were to snake her fingers towards his chin, lift it up to see his eyes that never see hers?

She does not risk it, for she feels like he’d pull away and leave her here. Behind.

Distant eyes are no matter, for the hands are what she cherishes. Even when obligatory, even when it’s mandatory. Hands are hands, and they are warm, warm but not burning on her skin, not sickening and twisting in her head -easing some vertigo. Oh, how she wished to get sick so that someone would take care of her, even when out of pity, even fake, even without looking in her eyes. The envy when she sees a damsel in distress, with her company along her, a crave for a wound for someone to heal. They don’t see her when looking at her, they see someone else. Still… She can close hers, and pretend. How she wished for a brush, of a touch, a graze, a squeeze, a straddle even intended to hurt her... For so, she wouldn’t stop. This is another man, and this is not only touch.

Don't mind my desperation.

—Let me hold you, not just for vacation.

Until he notices, she’s under his mercy, one hand enough the grasp her supple neck, holding tight, a little too tight to enjoy -him the executioner, and she would lovingly be the sacrificial lamb- for she’d be something then. And she’d feel warm hands on her. Isn’t this the reason for every other man anyway?

Instinct and desire, his rough hands scrape towards her chest, thumb presses on the notch between her clavicles, forehead resting on her shoulder as she leans back, hand on his wrist as she leads his hesitant touch further, through the loose buttons of her linen shirt.

It’s torment to be this slow, a hiss leaves her as she turns back, pulling the collar of his jacket in a fist, her bare back meets the cold of the metal door of the locker, goosebumps on her skin as her lips find his jaw, pressing against him, unzipping as he leans against her with his forearm resting next to her head, trapping her between his broad physique and the door behind her. She’d usually hear whispers by now, promises to never keep, on how good it will feel for her, never teaching her things she doesn’t know- along with some praises and sometimes with fool words. Out filthy mouths, with a sharp tone, turning her off in how unnatural and forced they sound. Now she imagines how his voice she only heard when he was ordering his whiskey would be a perfect candidate, etching prayers into her skin, voice husky and deeper than usual, in desire, and the thought burns an image between her thighs. Between little groans, she tries to matchmake words.

His large hold gropes the back of her head as she kisses his chest through the black t-shirt he has on, sliding his arms off the jacket, leaving it on the floor as she walks him back, the zipper makes a sound on the tiles off the personnel room. Her nails graze his jaw, he turns his head away as she moves to his lips, pressing her head to his neck further. What’s sex without a taste? Can fulfilment ever feel as deep as a kiss? Vexed for attention, she begs his lips, rising on her feet, rubbing hers all over his face, nibbling his skin just under his ear, tongue tracing right after, a cool blow of her breath as he looks up at the ceiling, holding onto some sort of sanity, holding onto her. He only threads his arm along her nape, pulling her to his chest, his teeth graze the strap of her bra, tugging it down, his lips light on her shoulder, it’s a kiss —only if she accepts.

Forget about her already, you’ve been too far to compensate. Seal us with a kiss and forget about her, or don’t.

Don’t forget about her, just kiss me. Kiss me as you’d kiss her.

It’s raw and as clean as an almost abandoned pub could be, the back of his legs touch the couch as she pushes him onto it, and not him pulling her back with her, he watches her body as she undresses, putting on a needy show, spreads his legs as he shifts comfortable on his seat. She doesn’t ask for another kiss after, only moves towards him as he fiddles with his belt, unbuckling as she moves her lips, kissing him through his underwear, lips on his happy trail, moving upwards as her hand moves his t-shirt upwards, he helps her take it off, before pulling her on his lap with arms holding her to himself, close to him. Sweet girl. Hands on her knees move up, up to her thighs, hooking her underwear with his thumb on his way to her spine, palm open on her back as he buries his forehead on the side of her face, pressing his nose into her skin, his stubble burning on her core.

Nothing to know about one another, no explanation, no justification, but it keeps on. A mutual tension, a strange exhilaration, they’re both dancing around something with no name, something that gets her heart racing, stirring and swelling inside her. For a moment, she dares to dream, to think beyond the moment as she grinds her hips against his. Of something more, of this once more, somewhere else, a future of endless moments of this. An abyss of something… she wants more of. Strange, unsure, unknown. Not really recalling what she does, she just tries to feel more of his skin against hers.

She feels him move, his hand coming to her chin, thumb caressing her bottom lip, tugging it down with enough force as he tilts his head, finally about to seam the inches. The pulse on her throat quickens, she looks at him, but his eyes are already closed, so she mirrors, leans into his touch, parts her lips as she feels his, with a hum blooming on her chest to kiss his lips, he just lets it happen, leads it. The rush in her veins dulls the chill of the wedding band that brushes her back as he slides to a more comfortable position, pressing her chest to his. It’s a gentle kiss, patient, yet she feels the unshakeable core of stoicism behind too. He’s always in control, emotions controlled and calculated. Not the greediest, but he kisses like he knows when to let them take over, both of her and himself. And her, she holds him like she begged something above for him to kiss her, and the way she kisses him back, it’s clear she did.

In the moment, she fails to read the engravings of his initials on the dog tag around his neck as the chain goosebumps its way on her chest. Each kiss of his leaves an indentation of his lips in intensity on her body. Each kiss that travels her thighs, so does his tongue. Each kiss gets her ensnared, trapped, she feels as if he’s holding his voices back, but when he does not, when little muffled curses with letters moaned out —telling her to keep doing what she does, they fall into her ears, takes root in her soul, sprouts inside her stomach, she lets them grow. Voracious, alive, relentless in lustful abandon. He tastes her in an unbridled display of passion. Never met her, but he fucks her like he missed her.

…

Her figure follows his as he pulls back, a heavy warmth now leaving itself to the sun’s. The difference is the latter is sickening, and unwelcomed, yet he still is on his feet, hastily looking around for his clothes as she lays, reclined, pulling the sheet over her, watching his back, muscles moving in rhythmic fashion, before he covers it with his t-shirt. Not holding her anymore. But when he sits at the edge of the worn couch to tie his boots, she at least feels his weight through the sunken cushion. She could savour it.

“Would you visit again?”

I’d wait.

She blinks once, licking the taste of his skin on her lips. Hopeful, alas, she knows the answer already.

He moves onto the other boot, type that men in field work would wear. Not even sighs, as if she hadn’t asked him something, as if he’s alone at this personnel room with nothing to consider. As if she’s gone in the wind, used and thrown away. As if he’s leaving no one behind. A fantasy unwind in summer breeze. Gets on his feet, on his way to leave.

And as if not having his answer loud and clear, and having the audacity, she pleads. As if she just didn’t fuck with a married man. A married man whom she knows not the name of.

But she knows he belongs to someone else.

“Right, your wife!?” She wipes the passion off her lips on the back of her hand then. “You should’ve thought about her before you decided to fuck me!”

He stands a second, petrified, judging in his mind if she’s worth turning back to answer, and when he decides, he turns halfway before her, looking at her with a mocking squint of his eyes, which trail up and down on her, belittling her. Brows furrow, meeting his lashes before he speaks. Voice low, lower than a whisper, but still is assertive, only the tone of it enough to put her back in her place. Almost a threat, and as sure as the sun outside.

She sees his thumb playing with the band on his ring finger, mad in rage she spoke about his wife; she wishes she never asked, afraid he would just walk up to her and do something that wouldn’t give her a choice to object. She wonders of the times where she needed to speak up but didn’t, and when she needs to shut up she never is able.

It’s the only time, for a sliver of a second before he meets her eyes.

He mercies her an answer, nonetheless. Maybe for she'd eased some of his own distress, silenced some insanity.

“She’s dead.”

…

The vertigo he brought stays after his leave.

She bites and scrapes the polish off her bitten nails, until the skin around is red and throbbing and her teeth are frail, when there’s this familiar chemical taste down the pit of her stomach. She hates it.

She’s not sure how many minutes passed, but getting off the couch to speak back, to shout and break stuff, she finds the things back in their usual order, and even the seat she pulled him off from stands neatly tucked under the counter, the parking lot empty once more, the scent he brought with him gone. The only remnants are a stub and an empty glencairn, which keeps a banknote under its diligent tulip to keep it secure. Not a number, not a thing she gets to keep, no memoir. As if he’d never been in here, as if no one visited today either, and it was only a fragment of her tainted imagination. Only the ghost of his lips imprinted on the glass keeps his now gone presence real as she lifts it to her lips, before feeling the inside of the bar to grab her slim cigarettes to try what she saw him do.

Can I ever not think about you?

;

the dry salvages

[tma-reader-inserts]

Gerard Keay x Lonely Avatar! Reader

Tw: suicidal thoughts; mentioned character death

XXX

You missed Michael. You missed him so much you ached. You missed his breezy laugh and fun sweaters and how he always made tea for the two of you every morning. You missed your best friend, and his absence weighed on you like a stone.

You never worked together exactly; but you were an assistant to Elias, and you took the same route home every day and he was just so friendly it was hard not spend time with the sweet and sensitive man.

You didn’t have many friends. Hardly any except for Michael. And by extension, you were on friendly terms with Gerard Keay, who worked closely with Micheal and Miss Robinson on several statement cases. You were… intrigued by Gerard. Michael had encouraged you several times to “go for it”, to suck down your cowardice and just asked the attractive book-burner out for drinks; but you were so, so awkward; even more bumbling than Blackwood.

It felt like a miracle Elias hasn’t fired you yet. You assume it’s because you’ve memorized his coffee order and know exactly where to buy the biscuits he enjoys so much. You really didn’t do much in the was of assisting. You help take names and numbers of potential statement givers, arranged for them to meet an archivist or archivist assistance, fetch coffee and teas, and mostly just sit at the desk in front of Elias’s office and look busy. Whatever papers Elias gives you usually are meant for someone else and all you do is have the building’s mail system bring them to the specific person, so you don’t really do any actual filing.

Well, it’s a living.

A small reprieve from the hum drum of your boring work life was Michael and his fun stories.

Now you don’t even have that.

You wore all black for three weeks in mourning when you realized Michael wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t the first assistant to disappear, but it was the first that affected you. Elias and Gertrude said nothing about the change of your attire and attitude.

You also haven’t seen Gerard in ages. You had seen him once in passing as he exited the building while you were walking up to the stairs, smoking heavily with a dark look on his face. You have to assume he knows of Michael, you couldn’t imagine telling him, and Gerard always seems to know about everything that happens in the Institute. He eyed you briefly, in your dark clothes and somber expression, and he gave you a pitying look before walking in the opposite direction.

Not a word was exchanged, and you had felt so utterly and horribly alone since.

The loneliness creeps into your chest cavity, hollows it out and curls in there like a fog on a pier. Michael was gone, Gerard hasn’t been back in so long, and you were so alone.

Elias briefly checks up on you, asks about your morning walk and compliments your new shoes, wishes you a peaceful weekend and lends you an umbrella when it’s storming. But he’s no friend, and you are under no delusions that you are replaceable to him if needed.

You had no family to turn to. No more friends. Even the stray cat you were feeding regrettably was hit by a car. You felt so desolate and solitary.

You used to cry about it frequently. Every night even, especially after Micheal’s disappearance. But now you can’t even bring yourself to shed tears, they dried long ago; now all you have is the cold knowledge that you have nothing, and that nobody wants you.

When Gerard comes to the Institute again, you don’t even see him at first. You used to jump at the chance to even look upon the handsome man with his badly dyed hair and plethora of tattoos, but now when you hear the other people in the office tittering over his arrival, you just… acknowledge he’s there in the building. You don’t feel excitement or dread or anything. You meant nothing to Gerard, why would he visit you? You don’t even leave your desk to see him.

You felt it again, the loneliness. The heavy fog settling in your brain where you just stare ahead and register nothing going on around you, not processing anything, just barely existing.

Maybe you’ll kill your self today, your thoughts muse in the back of your mind. Death must be nice. To not have to worry about anything; not about friends dying or abandoning you, about poor strays on the street, about perfectly distant bosses and co workers…

It’d be easy; people kill themselves all the time. The Institute was a rather tall building. A drop from there would surely end you; and you know where all the key copies were to get access to the roof.

You had to cross a bridge over a river to get to work; on your way home you could easily crawl over the railing if you wanted.

You were suddenly acutely aware of the sleeping pills in your apartment, ones you bought months ago to aid with your insomnia. It’d be like taking a long rest, like going to bed.

Someone was shaking your shoulders, someone was saying your name with a rising pitch of desperateness. You felt your office chair swivel to face a dark mass and warm warm hands cupped your face.

Rough thumbs wiped away at the hot tears settling on your face. When your vision focused, you saw Gerard. Black lipstick, teased hair, tattoos and dark, wide, worried eyes.

He says your name again and it sound like it aches in his throat to say it.

Several long moments were in silence as the book-burner wiped your face with his finger and smoothed your hair down, eyes darting around your figure as if to search for an injury.

Finally, your voice croaked. “Hi…”

A sigh of relief escapes him, he visibly sags. Hands rest on your shoulders heavily. “Hey. You were crying, did something happen?”

A part of you wants to be enraged. Of course something happened. Micheal is probably dead. The cat that sleeps in your apartment all winter is dead. You want to be dead. You want to carve out your insides so your body reflects how you feel and this whole time he wasn’t there-

But you can’t even feel the anger within you anymore. The burning spite inside you is snuffed out by the chill of your indifference of the situation.

“… I’m fine…” you eventually mutter, looking to your desk. The files on the surface were meant to be sent out ages ago, you should really get on that.

Don’t want to leave your replacement a messy desk after all.

You see Gerard flinch in your peripheral. “Listen- I’ve been meaning to talk to you…”

He smells like cigarettes and sweat, and you briefly realized you will miss that smell when you kill yourself. He flinched again.

“It’s really kind of important, um, can we talk about it over drinks? Right after you get off?”

This stalls your brain. Sure, suicide was a sudden desire, but it felt like the right decision to make. Drinks would just put off the inevitable.

Gerard’s hands came back up to your face again, warm and solid. “Please?”

… you’ve never heard Gerard Keay say please before. At least not earnestly. Usually it was sarcastic and in annoyance. The sincerity of the word casts off whatever dregs of the fog were left, and now you were hyper aware of yourself and your surroundings.

Your cheeks were wet; when did you start to cry? And your hands were balled up into fists so tight your knuckles changed colors. Your mouth was incredibly dry and your jaw aches which how tightly you were clenching your teeth.

Gerard’s presence was warm, comforting. It almost make you choke a sob, and you felt very suddenly the desire to spill every thought about your plans to kill yourself to him, and the only thing that stopped you was social graces and the idea that Elias was right behind the door beside you both and could probably hear you.

“Drinks?” You inquire, blinking away the swell of cold tears in your eyes “um, it’s Tuesday, though-“

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just-just say you’ll come. I’ll walk with you after work.”

It sounded more like a plan for himself but you were always so weak willed you didn’t have it in yourself to contest him. So you nodded. Gerard smiles and breathes out a long breath, like he was holding it in. “Good.” He concludes, rising up from his crouching position and removing his hand from your face. “Good. I’ll see you at five.”

He almost turns to leave, before staring hard at Elias’s door. Thick rubber soles squeaked slightly as he steps even closer to you. He looks down at you, eyes wide and searching. One of his black painted finer nails prodded at your fist until it was pulled apart and relaxed by his ministrations.

“Hey…” he sighs, “I’m… I am sorry for not coming back to you sooner.”

A small frown pulls at your mouth. You never meant to make Gerard feel guilty. “It’s fine.” You assure, voice soft.

His eyes alight with sadness. “It’s not. It’s not okay, you need to know that.” He stresses, before finally turning and leaving.

As soon as the door to the hallway close, Elias’s door opens.

He says something about a meeting he has tomorrow with a Board member, a Mr. Lukas, and he asks you to be sure to brew strong coffee for the gentleman when he arrives tomorrow.

You nod, and plan on maybe killing yourself later in the week; to make it easier on everyone.

—

Five pm rolls around at a snails pace, but surely and dutifully, Gerard is there at the door to the exit, waiting for you.

He looks… not stressed, just anxious. Like he’s itching to leave the building as soon as you’re within reach. And that’s exactly what he does. The second he saw you his face erupts into a smile and one of his pale, tattooed hands reached out and gently grabs your elbow, pulling through the front door and down the steps to the road as he sings praises about the bar the two of you were going to; nothing too stuffy but not overtly casual, and he promises that the cocktails are unique and the music they play is a far better selection than most.

You knew from his description he was probably taking you to a goth bar; you didn’t really mind. The idea of strong drinks and black painted walls and sad music almost seemed like a comfort to you.

The hand on your elbow migrates down to your wrist, and finally your hand. His grip was sturdy, and he never let your digits go, squeezing slightly whenever he thought the two of you might get separated.

Gerard was always affectionate with you before. Casually playing with your hair whenever he passed by you in the hallway, placing a hand on your shoulder as you laugh along with Michael over the latest office mishaps, even a few times bringing his lips to your knuckles when you handed him a well appreciated cup of tea whenever he was staying late at the Institute. The touching was not foreign territory, but it felt like forever since you’ve been there, like walking through your childhood house after having been moved out for decades.

When you finally make it to the bar, which was in fact a hole in the wall goth bar, Gerard lead you to the darken back corner, and huddled up next to you comfortably, as if you’ve done this a thousand times before, like it was a regular thing. His arm was heavy and warm around your shoulders and he handed you a cocktail menu.

True to his word, they all had fairly spooky names and sounded tasty. You didn’t even really know which to pick, but Gerry points to one that seems like it’ll suit your taste just fine. You almost titter at how well he knows you, before swallowing down your excitement. You could just be an easy read.

You don’t even order for yourself; as soon as the waitress, decked in black and spiked black hair, came over, Gerard ordered for himself and you, his voice lilting and he seemed utterly uninterested in even looking at the woman, rather eyeing you as he moves some hair out of your face as he spoke.

While the drinks were being made, he fusses over you, asking small conversational questions like, “How is Elias treating you?” and, “You’ve been sleeping well, I hope?”

After weeks of no one even asking after your health you flush under the attention, answering each question softly and as briefly as you can surmise, shy and bashful as Gerard’s dark eyes roam your face and observes your mouth every time you opened your lips to answer. He nods along and occasionally his hand rubs your shoulder.

You feel like he’s avoiding the obvious. Avoiding Michael. Maybe the loss was felt as keenly for him as you felt it. Maybe he was just as wrecked by the blond’s disappearance and is trying to find solace and common ground in you.

When the drinks do come, the goth man removes his arm from your shoulders and sets a napkin in front of you, moving your cocktail onto it without prompt. A tense moment of silence settles now that you’re alone again, and Gerard heaves a heavy sigh.

“I never should have left you alone for so long after he left.” He chokes out, eyes searching your face for your reactions to his words. When not a muscle twitches in your expression, Gerard continues. “I was… hurting. I was angry, and it had nothing to do with you but I was acting ugly and I didn’t want you to see that side of me.”

You nod, ready to let forgiveness slip past your lips when he cuts you off.

“It wasn’t okay of me, it’s not alright. I should have never, ever, let you go through that alone.” He looks so regretful, so sorrowful, it made your heart ache; it was one of the strongest emotions you’ve felt in a while. “I- I don’t even know how to make it up to you, for abandoning you like that.”

The earnestness in his voice makes you stall. You’re not the kind of person people seek forgiveness from. You just got walked over and forgotten and you were used to it. To have anyone, especially someone as high up and composed as Gerard, beseech you for amnesty, seemed to fully pull you from whatever slump you’ve been in these past few weeks.

Your face finally emoted; you frowned and your eyebrows drew together in sympathy, and you shouldered the darkly dressed man. “Drinks is a good start, but I don’t want you beating yourself up over it. You’re here now.” You tried really hard to show that all was forgiven. “Just… try not and leave me again for so long?”

It felt silly to even ask, like a child begging their parent to return safely from a business trip.

Gerard looked at you very seriously, one of his hands coming to yours that were clasped in your lap. “Not as long as I live.”

—

The night was a blur, your drinks were consumed and you’re not entirely sure when you kissed Gerard on the cheek in gratitude or when he kissed your shoulder in fondness but somehow the two you ended up just… kissing in the dark alley next to the bar.

Gerard was all consuming; the way he leaned into you, how his thumb ran over the pulse in your wrist with one hand and his other thumb pressed into your jugular. He smelled like cigarettes and old books up close, he felt warm and heavy against you, how he sighed and moaned when you grabbed onto the lapels of his leather duster to pull him in closer. Every time you opened your eyes all you saw was his dark and brooding set gaze at you from behind heavy lids and the sight was too much for your heart to handle so you close them again, Gerard pulling you closer.

Any closer and you’d become one.

Maybe you wouldn’t be so lonely then.

His head ducks down, nosing your neck and the hand the occupied your throat drops down to your waist. A hot tongue licks your pulse and you gasp, eyes rolling in the back of your head. A black jean clad leg slips between yours, and you’re effectively pinned against the brick wall.

“Missed you…” he moaned, teeth scraping against your skin. “Missed seeing you, being around you, talking to you…” a hand snaked around and pulled you closer by the small of your back. “Fuck me for leaving.”

You gasp and groan, and come to the realisation. That Gerard was a talker, and that you were easily swayed by words. You didn’t even realise that Gerard even liked you this way until about twenty minutes ago. How long has he harboured a crush on you? Had he thought of kissing you often? As often as you thought of kissing him?

He said other things, salacious things, directly in you ear as his hands moved up and down your body, hot breath puffing against the shell of your ear as he occasionally dipped down to kiss you or give you love bites along your neck.

You desperately wanted to do something besides just being there, allowing yourself to be kissed and bitten and wooed. You wanted to move, kiss back, make Gerard as flustered as you were; but the skin to skin contact, the affection, the confirmation of attraction overwhelmed you so much you almost choked up.

In fact you did.

A small sob crashed through your lips as tears welled in your eyes.

The sound causes Gerard to straighten up, and he quickly took in the sight of you crying and stepped away from you, concern of his face.

“Shit- I’m sorry.” He rushes out. “Fuck I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

The separation makes you feel cold and lonely again and your stomach swoops in dread because Gerard, beautiful, wonderful Gerard, is now looking at you like some fragile breakable thing and you just can’t stand the idea that you’ve ruined all the ground you covered in the last hour, and that after this he’ll never want to talk to you again. Boys don’t like people who cry when you kiss them.

Fog begins to seep into the alley, coming off from the street and the dead end a few yards away from you. You don’t try to comprehend how fog just manifested from no where, you just sob again because Gerard was going to shun you out for being too damn weird and unapproachable.

You babbled apologies, heart clenching, trying to verbalise that you were fine, that he didn’t do anything wrong, just that you were fucked up about everything and he should probably just ignore you forever after this.

The fog became thicker and you shiver at the coldness it brings. You sob again, hiding your face in your hands so you can stop looking at the man’s beautiful and worried face.

God, you wished that the wall would swallow you up entirely; you wished you could just disappear and stop being such a nuisance; you should’ve just gone home and killed yourself.

So a brief second, the sound of the air about you had changed. The music leaking through the wall stopped, cars were no longer passing by the mouth of the alley, you didn’t hear the wind shake the plastic lid to the dumpster, you even stopped hearing Gerard’s breath in front of you. The silence was deafening, frightening. For that second, you felt utterly, terribly alone. Like you were the only person in the entire world.

And just as soon as the sounds of the world were gone, they were back. Cars hitting the puddle on the road, early aught goth music seeping through the brick, and Gerard saying your name with desperation.

Warm warm hands clasp your shoulders and you finally peer through your fingers to see the man, lipstick smudged and hair frizzy from the fog. He eyes looked wild, fearful, and he gripped your person so tightly like a life line, like you’d runaway if he let go.

Gerard says your name very lowly. And your sobbing ceased at his tone. Oh god, he was going to yell at you or something, you were certain. He was going to call you a freak and that he never should have even bothered with you in the first place-

“You need to breathe.” He commands. “Look at me, and breathe; be here with me right now, get out of your head.”

Your eyes dart wildly around the alley, not wanting to meet his gaze. God, why couldn’t just be normal for once-

A small pang of pain snapped across your brow, right between your eyes.

You look ludicrously to Gerard, eyes moist from tear and voice shaking from crying. “Did you just flick me?” You warbled.

“Yes.” He admits readily. “Now, calm down.”

His word sounded normal but felt… staticky in your ears. Like tv fuzz was playing just under his voice.

Almost instantly your breathing evened out and you no longer felt the desire to cry; your mind wasn’t filled with self-hateful thought but now just focused on Gerard, who was watching you carefully.

Reaching into the pocket of his duster, he pulls out handkerchief, and wipes at your face, sighing. He looked expressionless, and you feared the worse.

“I’m… I’m not great at this.” He says softly, stowing the cloth back into his coat. “I always go too fast, I’m told, It’s just-“ he screws his lips together as he thinks. “I- I feel like if I left you alone for too long, you’d forget about me, and I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I’ve lost interest in you, I didn’t even think that I’d, well, overwhelm you like I did.”

You swallow thickly, considering his words.

“I never knew you were interested in me.” Was all you can say.

Gerard sighs. “Yeah, I’m piecing that together now.” He winces. “I had it in my head that this was a long time coming for both of us, I never stop to think that I might be surprising you with my sudden infatuation. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth is already opening to forgive him when he silences you with a cool look.

“I… must’ve freaked you out pretty badly, huh?” He questions, moving closer to you, but refraining from touching you again.

“It’s not that you freaked me out,” you’re quick to answer, “it’s just… yeah, it came out of nowhere to me.” He looks down casted and you wait a moment before speaking again. “I like you so much, Gerry.” You confess, voice creaking with emotion. “I’ve just been so lonely, and it’s hard for me to think that you’d like me too.”

He looks to you, sympathetic. And he nods to himself before extending one hand to yours, gently grasping your fingers.

“How about we do this a little more properly?” He suggests. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

You almost laugh at how hopeful he looks, like you would say no.

The idea of dinner was nice, but the thought of going back to your empty apartment scares you now. Being alone again scares you; the idea of someone not watching you scares you because what if you get lost in your own head again and this time the silence wouldn’t disappear after a second.

“Tonight?” You ask, stomach twisting. It’s wasn’t exactly early evening any more, by all rights he could deny you.

He nods, decisively and eagerly. “My place?” He suggests.

A smile fights its way across your face. “Scary movies too?”

Highly amused, Gerard smiles, and pretends to think for a moment. “Well, if we do that, you might be too scared to go home by yourself.” He reasons.

“Sounds like I’ll need to sleep over, then.”

“Brilliant.”