#they both smoke yes i believe that with my heart
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little brothers with their tcgs and anime drawings *smh*
#type : fanart#procreate#diluc ragnvindr#serval landau#diluc gi#serval hsr#honkai star rail#genshin impact#they are quite similar don’t they#a menace to the local authorities and such#betrayed too… damn#and lil bros being captains#the difference is that one left while the other one stay#but like… eh its for the best… whatever their decision was#they both smoke yes i believe that with my heart
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Okay okay but hear me out- reader gets assigned on their first solo mission by Price and Ghost is inwardly concerned for them and keeps subtly giving tips to reader about the basics of any mission as way to prepare them
Hi, anon and thank you for requesting this! I made some minor adjustments to the original idea since I got lost in the process once I began writing. Reader is also fully aware of Ghost’s concerns and messes with him.
Fluffy, the usual banter, an emotionally constipated Ghost, yada yada. Enjoy!
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“Again,” Ghost murmurs as he shuffles through the row of tactical knives on the table. He decides on one, picks it up and walks towards you. “What is this?” He asks.
You look up from tying the laces of your boots and redirect your attention at him. He either believes you’re an idiot or doesn’t trust you enough. Either way, it’s not a good sign.
“Good question, Lieutenant,” you reply. “What you’re holding in your hands is a knife. Knives were one of the earliest tools used by humanity to-”
“Cut it out.”
“That’s correct!” you exclaim. “You mainly use one of those to cut stuff.”
A long sigh escapes him, and he throws his head up. He lowers the knife and walks towards the table, scratching the back of his balaclava with the other hand. He takes a few breaths, turns around and lifts the knife again.
“That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.” He growls. “What kind of knife is it?”
“A sharp one.”
“Stop it.”
“You mean stab it?” you ask and continue tying your laces. “Yes. Yes, you can definitely stab with it.”
He throws the knife onto the table and leans on a chair, holding it with both hands. His brows are tied together, and you can see his jaw tightening beneath the balaclava.
“I need you to focus.” He says firmly. “This is not the right time for jokes.”
You stand up and walk towards him, now standing by his side. You grab his shoulder and squeeze it. He doesn’t budge, yet he slowly shakes his head.
“You’re worried.” You state.
“I’m not worried.” He replies. “I don’t know what Price was thinking; the stakes are too high for this to be your first solo mission.”
“So you don’t trust me.”
“Of course I trust you.” He says and lets go of the chair. “It’s just too dangerous for you to go alone.”
“So you are worried.” You whisper with a smirk.
He looks at you with the side of his eye and picks up a map from the table. He spreads it out in front of him.
“Alright,” he says, “let’s go over the route again.”
“Got it,” you nod. “So, what’s the plan?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s the plan?’” He shouts, turning to look at you with wide eyes. “We’ve been through this-”
“-a hundred times now.” You interrupt. “Yet you still want to go over it again and again and again and again.”
“I just need you to be ready.”
“I am ready!”
“Then go on,” he says, pushing the map towards you, “what’s the plan?”
“Alright,” you begin, pointing to a door on the eastern side of the facility. “I’ll start here, at the service entrance. It’s not heavily guarded since they mainly use it for their occasional smoke breaks.”
“But you’ll still need to be cautious,” He adds.
You ignore his remark and continue to outline the route.
“From there,” you say, moving your finger along a series of corridors, “I’ll make my way through the maintenance tunnels. They’re narrow and dark but should provide good cover from security patrols.”
“And when you reach the central hub,” Ghost continues, pointing to a large room at the heart of the facility, “you’ll need to be especially careful since that’s where the security is the tightest. There’s only one entry point, so once you get to this door you should-”
“Knock.”
He slowly turns towards you and gives you a side-eye. “You’re not taking this seriously,” he whispers.
“On the contrary, Lieutenant,” you jest. “I’m deadly serious.”
“Deadly serious?” he scoffs and shakes his head. “You might end up seriously dead if you don’t pay attention.”
You roll your eyes and let out a sigh.
“When I get close to that door,” you say, pointing at the map, “I’ll wait for Soap and Gaz to manipulate the security systems and set off the alarms. Once the commotion is at its highest, I’ll infiltrate the hub, collect the intel, and escape through the ventilation shafts.”
“Right,” he says and folds the map. “Do you have everything you need?”
You turn your attention to yourself, checking your tactical vest, and he does the same. His eyes scan over every piece of equipment on you. He walks around you, tracing his fingers along the edges of your gear, checking for any signs of damage. He reaches out to adjust a loose strap on your vest, ensuring it’s securely fastened.
“You need to make sure everything is secure,” he says as he continues to search each pocket and pouch on you, ensuring that your supplies are well-stocked and easily accessible. “We can’t risk losing any essential gear during the mission.”
You follow him with your eyes and smirk as he inspects you. “Is that what worries you?” You ask. “Losing gear?”
He pauses for a second and meets your eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says as he tightens a buckle on your waist. He takes a few steps back and nods. “Everything looks good,” he concludes.
“Alright,” you nod back and walk towards the door. “Let’s do this.”
“Stay sharp out there!” he shouts.
“Yeah, yeah,” You shout back as you exit the briefing room, “sharp like a knife!”
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#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley x y/n#simon ghost riley#simon riley x you#simon riley x y/n#simon riley x reader#simon riley#cod ghost#simon ghost riley fanfiction#simon ghost riley fic#call of duty#simon ghost riley imagine#ghost call of duty#ghost modern warfare#cod mw ghost
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Screwed Up and Brilliant
Synopsis: Negan is ready for you. Daryl isn’t; and maybe he’ll never be. Negan makes that clear to you tonight.
Details: Negan Smith x fem!reader, Daryl Dixon x fem!reader (mentioned), Negan is a bad guy but there is nuance— at least I hope I accomplished doing so, angst, guilt, forbidden love, probably super stereotypical, reader at the Sanctuary, moral dilemma reader (but you got to understand, they’re both so fine!!), I feel like I need more cws but I can’t think of them and of course, smut, 18+: consensual, unprotected, vague dacryphilia, soft? dom!Negan, lite daddy kink, fingerings, riding, and basically just Negan blowing your brains out… but not in the walker way— the good way, the way we like. Amen.
A/N: Could you believe I started writing this in October or something? This is my first time writing Negan and I’m scared I may not have gotten it right so definitely feel free to give notes! This is set during season 7/8, I’m picturing Negan at the end of 8 and later seasons but there’s something about him older that gives me heart eyes everywhere, but whatever you prefer makes me happy. Anyway, from my heart, and maybe somewhere a little lower, to yours; with love from writella. ♡
You’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million-dollar man; so why is my heart broke?
—— LDR, Million Dollar Man
The space was clean; minimal. The kind that let out no secrets of the owner that inhabited its insides. And of course there were the little things that let out some slight details: the ashtray on the nightstand— a smoking habit; a ring, a metal chain, another of black rope— an unsuspected, albeit small, interest in jewelry; the bottom nightstand closed by a lock—mysterious and cautious, though that was to be expected. It was only reasonable he’d have something he wanted hide. But other than that, Negan’s bedroom was quite unreadable; almost purposefully mundane.
There was a fireplace, a window at the corner, and a bed at the center. It had a dark, brass, rusted headboard that leaned against the wall. Two pillows at either side. The sheets were white, and the large blanket was of fur, a tan or medium brown, it was thick and heavy. Probably unnecessary for the approaching spring heat, but it adored the bed end well; matching the other bronze, or brown, wooden and darker aspects of the room. Even the light from the small fire, though you could see clearly, made everything mildly dim— the Sanctuary wasn’t known for its brightness after all.
And truly, nothing in this bedroom, or in this fortress of a place could be described as anything close to bright. Unless you counted the sun outside in the courtyard, or the largest fireplace that blazed in the main hall, or Negan’s piercing, priceless smile— so pristinely white, so wide it almost looked painful to perform. There was an eeriness to it as well. That was at the forefront, and everyone saw it. With the way he maintained their cleanliness, it was something that could look so pure, so put-together on any other; but on him, its power could scare you into worthlessness. It’s the one he used when he told someone what to do even if they hated it; it’s the one he used when killing someone’s best friend.
It’s also the one he used on the first day he ever spoke to you. The first time that truly mattered, really.
It was during Negan’s first supply gathering at Alexandria.
You still remember it well.
Your faces filled with desolation, but chins held high; you were strong— good at hiding the pain, the fear— only straight, pokered eyes and mouths allowed as everyone silently agreed with you. You had told Negan that Maggie was dead.
The Widow, he had coined her. The wife of your good friend that he killed— so generous a man was Glenn, even when he wasn’t trying to be. And she’s your friend too, brave Maggie. That’s the one he wanted, but as far as he knew, she was gone.
Thank God, you thought, Thank God, yes, indeed, until—
Negan’s eyes glazed over your frame for just a moment too long.
You weren’t speaking anymore. You kept it short enough. He should have turned his attention back to Rick but he didn’t.
Where there was sly roguery in Negan’s eyes, anxiety weld in the looks of all others: Rick’s throat tensed and tightened uneasily, sweat trailing down his curls and onto his forehead; Rosita’s jaw clenched with bitterness, brows furrowing under her green khaki cap with anger; and then there was Gabriel: his eyes turned from solemnity and pretend peacefulness to wide bewilderment. The plan you two exchanged had worked: you would tell Negan of Maggie’s passing, as per your idea, and Gabriel would swiftly solidified your lie by saying he was the one who officiated the short funeral. But then, another problem arose; one where he could be nothing else but helpless in aiding you. What was he, or anyone to do? It was easy to help Maggie, she was more than twenty miles away. But you, you were here. Right in front of him.
“Wait a minute…” Negan’s pointer shakes lightly by his temple, his mind turning curiously. “You.” He said, shooting his finger in the direction of your chest.
His smile, mischievous as ever, only grew wider as a moment passed and he made his realization: “You’re the one with that- tight- grip!” He balled his raised hand into a fist as he said it. A slight snicker came after, proud of his entendre. “My men were tryna put Daryl in the trunk and you latched onto his foot like it was your dying- act- which—” you attempt to lessen the startle in your eyes at his upward hitch in tone, “—it most certainly could have been.”
Negan comes closer now, his face nearing your own, “But you know better now, right?”
Obviously, you did not.
Or you would have stayed home, not given him the chance to remember you as he said he would after your nails could no longer claw into Daryl’s ankle. He was thrashing too much and Negan’s men pushed you away; they were too strong together against the two of you. They kicked dirt in your face for it, held a gun to your head until Negan told them to stop. His point was made with your two friends he had killed, no need for another— especially not one who amused him like you had just done.
‘DAYUM. She is surprisingly strong!’ He had yelled, ignoring the weeping faces of you and the group kneeling in a line on the ground; sweat, blood, and tears dripping everywhere. ‘And I do like ‘em loyal…’ He had given you a once over while telling his men, ‘Hands off, gentlemen,’ and before returning his attention back to Rick, he added, ‘I’ll keep my eye on you.’
And he did.
You made an impression.
Now you’ll pay.
Rick should have told you why he wanted you to stay with Judith. He remembered what Negan said too. He remembered what Negan said to everyone. He couldn’t forget. But maybe it didn’t matter. It was only the start of Negan’s day here. Maybe he would have found you anyway.
Rick would feel it was all his fault nonetheless, but all you could think about is how truly, it was your own, and no one’s at all.
The sun allows glints of wickedness to sparkle in the whites of Negan’s teeth as he continues imparts his demand, “From now on, don’t stop me when I’m giving an order, okay?” It’s like you can hear him underlining his words just with his darkened voice. Turning his waist, he extends his hand to everyone as he finishes, “And that goes for all of you.”
You force your face to remain leveled as he meets your eyes again, that cheshire look returning directly toward you. He curls his head to the side, whispering near your profile, “So… you’re his girl, huh?”
Your mouth becomes slightly agape. You don’t even realize it before you can try to close it. He asked the question of aversion, or at least that’s what you assumed it was to Daryl.
You knew it was just his way, that speaking about things like this might have not been his strong suit. Besides, there were more things to worry about almost all the time, but it still hurt to know that when asked, the only complete and honest answer there could be was no.
Your eyes trail down slowly, desperate to avoid his, and Daryl’s face— a few feet away from you— turning to the side, looking at nothing. He could not hear what was being asked, but maybe Rick did, Rosita and Gabriel too. It was unclear, but their eyes prodded with more tension, more worry, Daryl could register that, and even more so, he could not stand Negan’s face that close to yours; he was probably trying to make an advance on you, scare you, or both. He pretends not to care, but ultimately it’s useless. Negan detects your expression and turns to look at Daryl’s; he notices both failing attempts at impassivity.
“Oh,” he muses, voice returning to its normal volume, “or not, my bad…. I guess that does make more sense though.” He speaks louder now, casually, like he’s a close friend consoling you about your boy troubles, “I personally haven’t been able to hold a conversation with the guy either, and I’m just tryna be friends.”
Daryl was right. Negan was weaseling his way in. He snarls because of it.
Only Dwight hears this and sends him a warning glare.
You feel the sweat beading from your hairline to the nape of your neck. The danger felt from Negan’s presence was as thick as the sun’s heat that shone directly on the cemetery grove. It’s hard to look up and especially to look at him directly for that long as if he truly was the fire in the sky, so you look down again.
Negan pats your shoulder sympathetically, his hand then going to hold up your chin, his thumb tracing your jaw softly.
It makes Daryl’s arms twitch and his stance jerks forward, but he’s pushed back, Dwight beating him on the chest. It’s only once but you can hear it, everyone heard it.
It only makes Negan’s grin become more sly because— there it is— a reaction; an answer. It makes what he’s about to do that much more sweet: “Fuck, darlin’. I’m sorry. Idiot,” he tisks. Then more quietly he adds, “I’m not one though.”
This time it’s for sure: Rick caught that, and Rosita too. They give each other an alarming look as Negan continues to trail over your dispirited form, like a wilted flower. His hand lowers back down to your shoulder, then trails to your arm, to the elbow, and then off of you entirely.
Despite the feeling of Lucille under his grasp telling him he shouldn’t, Rick urges himself to speak before Negan says what they all know is coming. “Negan,” he starts, swallowing the slight shake in his voice, “would you like to see the pantry—”
“Did I ask you to speak, Rick?” Negan states, his frame still positioned in front of you. “I’m thinkin’ here… I’m thinkin’… particularly, that you should come with me.”
Daryl makes a sound that you couldn’t hear, for Dwight was already barking a “Shut up,” at him. Only the swat he gives to Daryl’s shoulder is what is once again heard by all.
You almost choke on your gasp, but you hold it in. Only letting out the faintest sound as you ask, “What?”
“You heard me,” he plainly says. “I mean, what do you even do here anyway?”
You almost felt embarrassed to answer.
“No, I’m askin’. Seriously. Does Rick actually utilize you?”
As you begin, your voice is still quiet, “I… I work in the garden, with the produce… I help tutor the kids… I go on runs, gather supplies. I cook. Help with weapons maintenance, I—” you stop, realizing your grocery list of jobs probably sounds pathetic to him, you’re like a chore boy, “— I do a lot. But everyone does.”
“Hm,” Negan responds, playing with his nails nonchalantly. Your thoughts come to fruition with his next words, “So you’re just everyone’s helper?”
He noticed the sad offense emanating from your eyes, so he raised his hands, “And those are important things to do, I mean it. It must mean you know quite a bit from everyone, that’s smart, and there’s no trouble in it. But… I saw you. I think you can do more.”
“How?” You can still only gasp out your words. “I’m not Maggie. And she’s not here.”
“No.” He brings up one finger, “But you’re clever,” you look at him confused as he brings up his middle finger to join the first, “and quick on your feet, that I now know.” A third and fourth finger comes up, “You’re strong, you’re loyal— things I’ve stated before.” Then the fifth he says with a smug smile, “And you’re a looker, I must admit.” He moves his hand to one side of his mouth, pretending to secretly tell you, “But that’s just a plus,” he winks. “And more importantly, it seems to me that just like most people in Prick’s community, you are undervalued and not paid attention to whereas I see potential.” He says it all so simply, he truly believes he’s offering you so much better that he finally ends by saying: “Hm. Yeah. I think you’ll be much better off with me.”
And so, with no true goodbyes said, in a van you went after Negan’s visit was done. A different one from Daryl’s, of course. Taken away from the first home you had in ages.
Before the trunk door closed, Negan gave you parting words: “You see?” He had said, “I told you I’d remember you, didn’t I?”
The words rang in your ears for the entire ride as they still do now, even more or less than two months later as you sit in his room.
Your heartbeat started to rise little by little as time went on and he hadn’t arrived. With the window allowing you to escape into thought, you were left to think about the last couple of days, and specifically, the last time you were in here:
You were sitting with him on his bed. You had asked if you could talk about anything other than the world you two lived in now, and surprisingly, he obliged. It was nice. Sometime later, he had finally opened that locked drawer.
You heard him suck his teeth, what he was getting seemed lost, which allowed you to take a closer peek inside.
There was a picture of a woman. The first wife? The only real one? You couldn’t tell and you wouldn’t ask, it would have been too much. You didn’t even get a good look at the woman anyway— part of her face was covered and he was fast. But he saw your eyes, so you decided to take note of the books you caught a glimpse of, pretending it was the only thing you saw. You try to think of something to say… It did make sense he was a reader, at least even mildly if that was all it was. The way he describes his ideals, his persuasiveness, his diction— it impressed you, even if you disagreed with a lot of it. It was almost ironic that the only cover you saw was of a dictionary, the more valuable ones probably hidden under. “Is that where you get all your big boy words from?” You asked.
“Some of them,” he joked back, composing himself.
It was strange to almost catch him off guard. It was so unlike him to allow it, but what happened next felt even more surprising.
Whatever he got from the drawer was enclosed in his hand. He put the free one on top of the other as he started, “Now… I don’t want you thinking I’m growing soft on you. I just thought you deserve it because—” and then his voice fades. Even Negan, the ever curse-filled wordsmith, was finding it hard to describe in any other way that he was pleased with something as absurd as you not trying to escape anymore. He knew you would probably think that was the only reason for a gift, but then he opted for something that even you couldn’t help but know was equally true, “You don’t seem to proactively hate me anymore. You’re here. I appreciate it, so I wanted to,” he says sincerely. “That’s all.”
Negan opened his hand, resting the piece in your palm— it was a locket; lovely and rusted floral engravings all over it.
You felt sad that you thought it was beautiful, and even worse for knowing the reasons why he was giving it to you. No wonder his voice had faltered.
You remember the soft shock and awe on your face, how you said thank you and how your face felt so hot when you said it, how he asked you to turn, and how you looked at him from behind you after he put the piece on. He was so close and it felt like he was coming closer. You don’t remember if that part was real, but you can see it so clearly that it must have been. Unfortunately, the only thing you remember for certain is that knock at the door that sent Negan away to handle whatever was going on downstairs.
Had you almost let him kiss you? Would you have liked it? Are you the most deplorable person for even thinking that while Daryl was somewhere else locked up at the time?
“I see they delivered my message.”
You return from your daze, your startle leaving as soon as it comes.
It was just him. There Negan finally was.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to just come in. The door was unlocked.”
“I knew the meeting was gonna go longer than expected; thought you might as well make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to you, “which I see you did, and no—“ you were getting up from his bed, “it’s fine.” Negan sets Lucille near the door. He walks over to you, sitting down on the edge of his bed as well. There is a bit of distance between you two.
“You know, I came back the other day,” he informs, “I was actually going to talk to you last night, but then I heard you tried to leave. Again.” His eyebrows furrow, “We still on that?” He asks. “Thought we had a breakthrough the other night.”
“But after Carl—“
“—Carl,” he interjects, “came here all by his badass self, and for that, I did not lay even my pinky fuckin’ finger on him.” His hand goes to his chest, “I even took him home like a gentleman. And after I got here and found out they put you in a cell without supper, I had you back in your bed before midnight yesterday, so I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”
“Seriously?” Your incredulity is hidden under the softness of your voice as you say it, but it’s cracking.
“As a heart attack. It’s your ex-people who don’t listen. At least I was nice this time.”
You sigh heavily, docility officially fading. You shake your head with a slight chuckle, “That’s hard to believe. Especially if you were gone for most of the day. I know what that means. You had whatever the fuck your version of fun is.”
He grits his teeth, holding his words back. You’ve gotten a little too comfortable with the back talk, and you especially shouldn’t be saying anything after the night you had yesterday, but he allows it.
This time.
Of course, he didn’t like you leaving, but he rather that it was Daryl who escaped than you. And based on the bruises: one on the side of your head, one high on your shoulder— he imagines you might have gotten pushed against a wall— and the light ones that littered in a couple of spots on both your arms— he could tell his men must have been rough with you as they brought you back. He didn’t like that; therefore, he lets you quip. Someone would be getting their own bruises for it some time later anyway. He would take your smartass mouth out on them to cover for it.
“Maybe,” he finally says. “Nothing was undeserved though.”
You breathe in, the back and forth was no use. “What happened yesterday?” You asked, losing the sarcasm. Your eyes peered into his for honesty, hoping to skip the sly replies and get to the truth. “Just tell me what happened at home.”
Home. You knew better than to use that word. In fact, you have just stopped using that word. He let out an exasperated laugh, but skipped the lecture. “You want the truth? Or just the SparkNotes?”
You roll your eyes lightly. You probably don’t even notice you did it. Despite the situation being discussed, it makes Negan’s head turn endearingly— your tone of voice, the things you say, the way you react to him… you still don’t realize how fresh you’ve gotten with him, how comfortable. But he sees it.
“Alright. Well, Spencer’s gone.” He reveals offhandedly, replying to your silence.
Your eyes do not widen, you know what gone means. You simply nod and try to not think about how the now-cleaned bat most likely looked before.
“And don’t tell me that you care,” he says, pretending to interject to your continuing silence. “You gotta know he was a small dick nepo-prick, right?”
You bite the inside of your lip, shaking your head slightly. You won’t give in to a cheap joke even if it was pretty accurate, so he beckons you by name, “C’mon, that was funny.”
Still, you give him nothing.
He sighs; taking off his leather; and sits near you on the bed, his hands cupping the ledge. “Thought we were finally over this quiet thing.”
“A lot has happened this week.”
“Like…” he prodes. He would only talk about it if you brought it up.
Your eyes shut tightly before opening again. You didn’t want to say it, but you had to. “You know what. Daryl.”
He states the fact plainly, “Daryl left you.”
“Are you kidding me?” Your voice is fierce now. You can’t believe it. You won’t. “He’s not that kind of person and this isn’t an easy place to get out of— I obviously know that— he wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I know,” he jeers, “but he did and he didn’t bring you with him. Even though you were found trying to find his cell. That’s some real idiotic bullshit right there, isn’t it? From both of you.”
You glared at him hotly, you wouldn’t give it up, but unfortunately you had no rebuttal. Both of you would just continue on with the same argument, the conversation going nowhere. And not because either side knew they were completely right; in truth, neither of you actually knew what happened the other day. But in this regard, you felt there was no other choice: you believed in Daryl fully.
Because he wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Right?
You continue shaking your head, trying to find something to say in retaliation as you feel your sureness withering. Separating you two was the smartest tactic. You now have nothing to hold onto. “He wouldn’t,” you repeat pathetically, “I don’t believe you.” Unfortunately it’s not quite enough, so he continues with a rant you know all too well.
“You don’t believe me?” He cups the ends of the bed more tightly, positioning himself closer to you. “When I’m the one who gave you the safest roof? Secure food, clean water, access to all these pretty dresses, which, I know you’ve become accustomed to—” and here it comes— “I saved you!”
Saviors and their “saving,” you sneered at it. What bullshit. “You didn’t save me.”
“But I gave you someone to talk to… Huh?” He taunts, waiting for your response but nothing comes. He uses it to his advantage, “You’re quiet cause you know it’s true.”
But you know something too. He says it before you can.
“Or fuck, maybe I just gave myself someone to talk to.”
You pretend you can’t hear the earnesty in it. “Stop,” you scoff. “Don’t treat me like I’m special. I was the second choice.”
“I think with my dick sometimes. You’re the only choice.”
You start to shake your head, your face is flushed; scared, hot, and a little bit of something else that you refuse to let out. Then the tears come— the room feels so big and you two are so close and there are so many feelings you’re trying to push down. “It doesn’t matter,” you say wearily, “You took me. And you took him. You hurt him, I saw his face.” Your voice begins to tremble, almost in unison with the tears that peak out on your eyelids. “And that outfit you put him in. He didn’t even look me in the eye.”
“Stop,” he warns.
“You didn’t even let me see him.”
“He doesn’t notice you.”
“You don’t know us.”
“I know you.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know you’re not happy… What about the other night?”
You ignore him, shaking your head: “You hurt my friends.”
“What about the other night?” He persists, his voice slowly growing louder. “What about every time I let you sit in on my meetings? What about how you have your own room? What about how I actually talk to you?”
“You let him get hurt—” the tears start to fall, there is a quiver in your voice but you still match his near shout, “And you almost killed Carl—”
“Shut up.”
“And you killed Abraham—”
He warns you by name.
“And Glenn! Maggie’s husband—”
“SHUT. UP.”
“The baby won’t have a father, Negan!”
His voice is low and grim as he demands you to “Stop. Now.” Negan grabs the sides of your neck as he says his next line, it comes out brisk and harsh and heavy like his touch as his hand wraps around your neck. “I knew you lied to me.”
Your voice is hushed, feeling his lightly pressed thumbs on the front of your throat as you speak shakily, “I’ve never lied to you.”
“Maybe not since you’ve been here, but did you hear yourself right now?” He pauses, allowing you a second to let it sink in. “You just fucking proved it.”
Your eyes widen at the realization. The baby, you had said. Fuck.
“See? Told you, you were smart.”
And he did. Brave Maggie. Clever you. That was his reason number one.
“You have to get why.”
His voice remains eerily calm. “I do.”
Another tear falls and his thumb presses its pad under your eye, spreading a tear on your face as the next one comes down.
“Negan…” you say. It’s a mix of a warning and a plea but you can’t tell for what, both fear and fire mix together because of his proximity. His touch and stare was dangerous, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was pleased he caught your slip up, thrilled to see you cry, but there was also something about it— his touch, his eyes— that was equally intoxicating. There was something more tender there as well, something you didn’t want to turn away from, he wasn’t as rough as you thought. Nonetheless, your answer to these conflicting feelings are ones of neglect, you stay your course. “You’re a bad person,” you tell him.
“Please,” he whispers back, “just stop.”
His eyes glaze over your features with an intent look you’ve only seen once before, it was that other night in fact. It’s almost gentle, but maybe it’s just pity, so you don’t let it stop you. “But you are.”
“Stop,” he pleads, then it’s hushed, “just stop…” he says, “just stop.” Then he starts coming closer. “Tell me to stop.”
And you know you should get up.
You should, you should, you should, you know it but— you don’t.
You breathe into it.
His lips latch onto yours; your heads tilt; you lock perfectly.
Everything after happens fast, the instantaneous mess of it all: he waited and waited, and of course he would. He was waiting for you to see it, to feel it. He thought the other night was the breakthrough, but no, it was tonight, it was how you didn’t back away just now.
His hand goes lower on your leg, nearing your knees so he can get under your dress, trailing up your thigh, reaching the inner side that’s pressed up to the other one.
His hand on your neck brings you in closer, traveling up to under your chin and jaw, holding you so tight, but so sweetly. All you felt was surprise. He slips his tongue in, it's deep and intense. He brings a velvet warmth that you’d never expect from him. It was paradoxical; a fiery heaven of a feeling.
He starts rubbing your clit over your panties, kissing his way up to your ear as he does so to ask, “When’s the last time someone’s fucked you?”
Your lips are parted, but you cannot speak, so he continues.
“Daryl never did, did he?” He asks in a muffle, continuing to kiss and kiss. “Who was before him?”
Again, no verbal response, but your breath does hitch at his touches. He continues to draw circles, your wetness now slowly dampening the material, making it easier for his finger to place itself between your folds, so he dips his hand under the band. That and his whispering makes you feel a kind of spark that shoots all the way down to where his fingers are touching. The first press of his thumb without any material in between forces a sudden heat to rise that instantly causes a flush of liquid to slip down your hole, it feels messier than it actually is until his fingers go lower spreading it everywhere. You were much wetter than you thought, and you can’t help how good it feels, how easily you’re responding to it.
Negan calls your name, holding in every cocky reply he wanted to give about how wet you are— he needed an answer to his question first. So he looks you in the face, making sure he has your full attention, “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” His words are meant more genuinely than his tone implies. “Not at all during any of this?”
You shake your head small and slowly. No.
He laughs pitifully, he doesn’t mean it rudely, but he just can’t help it. A touch-starved baby at the mercy of his fingertips? “Well, god-damn.”
He felt like a rich man.
He begins to kiss your lips again, now pumping his fingers into you. Your walls tighten. It’s only two, but they’re his. It’s new and exciting. His kiss makes you lean into the bed, the force of his head and tongue going deeper into your mouth guiding you to lay flat as his fingers still play.
“I hope you know how fucking soaked you are,” he finally says. “You need it so bad that it feels this damn good with me only touching you like this?” You can’t help the way your body jerks up and he can’t help but be smug about it. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Your eyes grow vicious at his grin, you almost want to hit him, but you can’t. All you can do is suppress your moan into a quiet whine. He’s so magnetic— his touch feels forbidden but so right; his voice so alluring; and his midas touch pulls you deeper and deeper into a trance, you might as well be turning into gold. Other than the involuntary reactions your body makes as his fingers continue going into your hole, now slowly going in and out as his eye gloss over your body in your favorite dress that you wore the most, you’re left paralyzed; subjected to following his lead. Wherever he wanted to go next, you’d let him.
He takes his fingers from inside of you and you look up quickly. You made sure not to whine at the loss of contact but your eyes couldn’t hide your dismay. All he did was smile and quickly lick away the wetness.
“Just takin’ this off,” he tells you as his hands cross over to the ends of his white t-shirt, slipping it off and onto the ground, one of those small rope chains hitting his chin as he does so.
It was only his shirt but you’re struck by him: to see more of his ever present sun-kissed skin felt almost godly. He was pretty lean, not too lanky like his stature, but not too broad either. Light curves of muscles adorned his chest and shoulders and arms. His chest and abdomen were slightly hairy, a tattoo placed on the upper right side and you finally saw the other tattoos placed on his upper arms more clearly. They looked nice on him. He was so handsome. You felt more wetness peeking out from down below. He looked so big above you.
“Like what you see, beautiful?” That typical snark still laced his voice, but there was a genuinity to it as well. He wanted you to like what you saw; to like him.
His words make your face hot, eyes casting off to the side. It was easier to talk to him when you were mad at him, when it was about home, even just small talk about the Sanctuary; this felt… different. Just like the other night.
You had almost already forgotten that his charm worked this way too; in a kinder way— when his eyes are wide, when his smile is soft, when he calls you sweet names without the irreverent, quip-filled pretenses.
It made you have all the words on the tip your tongue: how handsome and sexy you could say he is, how much you liked his tattoos, even all the greys that littered his hair and beard l, or how, if you had to admit it, you liked that dumb shit-eating grin of his, but all you can do is lightly smile, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at your bashfulness. You finally nod. “Yes,” you say, rolling your eyes, “maybe.”
He starts undoing his belt with a laugh of his own, “Oh I know you’re a fuckin liar if you think I’m a maybe.”
As his pants drop to the floor he takes each hand and places them over your shoulders on the bed to ask, “May I take off the lady’s dress?”
Your eyes widened, your open mouth only letting out a sweet, surprised, and whispered, “Huh?”
“What? Didn’t expect me to be a gentleman?”
You try to compose yourself, calm the fire you feel all throughout your body, and pretend you haven’t already given in completely right when he kissed you. “I just didn’t expect it would be all this slow.”
He laughs inwardly, glad to see the personality he came to know come back after all that happened these past two days. “Just give me a moment,” he jokes back. “You think I’m gonna waste seeing the reaction of you watching my cock spring out just so I can shove it in fast? ” He comes closer, his voice lowers now, “Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re just some doll or a fuck-piece.” The groundedness of his voice is something you’ve never heard before. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already stated that I see you. And truly, I think you’re damn gorgeous.”
Your eyes are stars. How can you even react? He thinks you’re gorgeous and you’re taken aback. “Thank you,” is all you can quietly say.
“You’re welcome.” He responds with eyes that have never looked so honest, so soft. You get lost in them and he has to pull you back, returning to his question, “May I?”
You nod, quick and excitedly, “You can take it off, Negan.”
He grabs your hands and stands you up. You look up at his face and his fingers move to the ends of your dress, pulling it over your head.
The tips of his fingers trace your chest and stomach lightly, delicately touching your skin as if it’s porcelain. He grabs your waist and travels up to take off your bra, then pushes down your wet underwear.
Negan’s cock stirs at the sight, you’re so pretty and so ready for him. “And I didn’t even need to see it to know I was right.” Just like he said, you’re gorgeous.
Negan pushes down his boxers. Cock springing up. Big and veiny with a red tip. He was itching to get inside of you.
And there you were, eyes and mouth open wide, scared and excited all at once. You were intimidated but surprisingly not scared if it would fit or not. You would let him do anything to get himself inside of you, even if it hurt.
“There it is,” he says, pleased with your reaction. He comes closer to your ear now, pushing you down by the hips against the bed once more. “And trust me, if you like that, you won’t fucking believe how I’ll feel inside of you. Just wait.”
“I…” He wanted to make you feel good, you’re almost speechless. “I’m ready.”
“Good.” He says, and then he places himself above you, admiring your glistening folds as he spreads your legs. He already lines himself up, he could look at you forever but he is in no desire to wait any longer. He pushes in. It’s a bit fast, a tight fit, it must have hurt you, but he’s too excited, he can’t help it. He lets out a hum and then a groan at the feeling of your walls enclosing him, and he hears you gasp at his size. He starts to pump into you immediately.
His face hovers over yours. His eyes study your features and he realizes he’s never been this close. Of course he hasn’t, he’s never fucked you, made love to you. He’s just now noticing the way your eyelashes curl, what birthmarks adorn your upper body or not, and how many earrings you may have, but most importantly, he’s noticing the way you react to him: the way your eyebrows might scrunch, or what elicits more pants and squirmings, the way your lips tug tightly against each other or open into ovals and circles depending on what he does, how he thrusts, where he touches, how he moves.
It all makes him slowly speed up. He can’t take it anymore. He kisses your neck and jaw— some kisses sweet, then others that are rough and he begins to pump and pump. Faster and faster.
“Oh,” you choke out before moaning, “ah.”
He continues, loving every facial expression you make until he finally speaks. “Alright. I gave you a break— now tell me how it feels?”
All you can do is whine incoherently.
“Excuse me?” He says more sternly. You know what he wants.
“Negan,” you whine again.
He stops. “Yes?” He asks all too knowingly. “Gonna use your words and tell me how it feels?”
You sigh, taking the hand placed on your hip and moving up toward the ends of your stomach, all the way up to your left breast. You let his hand rest there, feeling the heat and your quickened heartbeat radiating from the area. “You… you feel so good.” Your eyes are watery, “Amazing.”
You got him there, and he almost can’t help but start hammering it in, but then he remembers… he doesn’t have to help it. He could do whatever he wanted, so he does. He squeezes your breast, grinning wildly as he gives you one hard thrust. “Damn right,” he tells you, hearing your yelp before pounding fast.
You had always been quiet but he never quite saw you at a loss for words as you are now. Your mouth is completely open, your eyes threatening to roll back further, making sounds he’s sure you’ve never heard from yourself before. Have you even had it this fast? This big? This great? He knows it couldn’t be. And he’s the one who gets to show you. His eyes gloss over you with pride at the thought.
He grabs your chin to get you to look at him, “Who’s fucking you this good?”
You moan. You weren’t used to this. Your eyes roll back completely as he pounds into you with eye contact.
It makes him groan loudly, his jerks into you, letting out his own moan from the sight. “Oh fuck, baby. Don’t play with me.”
You give in, force yourself to speak, you can’t let this end. “You, Negan!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes!” It’s so hard to speak, it comes out so pathetically.
“Who's making you feel like no one else?”
“You, Negan, it’s you!” Your moan turns into a pant, “It’s you, only you.”
He comes closer, his nose touches yours. His movements slow, but they don’t stop. He’s rocking into you now. “Only me?”
You don’t even think, “Who else? It's only you.”
His teeth sparkle, “Only me.”
“Only you, daddy.”
He laughs cockily, “So Daddy’s making you feel this good?”
“Yes, daddy. So good.”
You feel the groan he makes travel right to your clit, making it throb.
He kisses you, the corners of your lips to your cheek and neck and collarbones and back up again.
He restarts his pumping into you but his head remains close to yours. You decide to wrap one of your arms around his neck, pulling his hair, and the other hand travels down his back, holding him close.
Negan breathes you in, his head near the crux of your neck, hearing every little sweet sound you make that he’s never heard before. It all drives him wild, but then his eyes open. A question comes out that surprises you both: “Am I ruining your life right now?” He quietly asks.
“That doesn’t matter,” you say, breathing heavily from his touches, your eyes are still closed.
“I think it does.”
“You make me feel like no one ever has…” The bliss you feel from his current soft strokes and touches making it hard to speak, your voice is so light. “At least I got to experience it.” You open your eyes now, fingers tracing the cross drawn into his arm, “At least I got to see the real you.”
Your eyes say more than your words do. There’s a yearning and a sadness, an answer to what feels right in this moment, but an insight that there are doubts that could creep up later the more that you think about it.
“Just keep going,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”
You want to see him, you do see him. His head connects with yours again, and you moan into each other's mouths as he keeps pumping. Your legs come up to his hips and you’re not afraid to be loud anymore, to tell him how good it feels, how much you like him.
He takes your hands and places them over your head, crossing his fingers with your. It’s so pure, so lovely even when he’s going so hard down below. You hear your breaths heavy and your bodies slapping and the bed shaking.
You think about his skin, and his scratchy beard against yours, and the way you hate how he can make you smile by making the most ridiculous and raunchy jokes, and the way you love his voice, the way you can’t help but to like the way he cares for you.
“Negan,” you say weakly.
“Yes,” he responds intently.
“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “I think I can.”
“Come for me,” he encourages, moving one of his hands down to rub your clit. “C’mon.”
“I’m gonna come,” you repeat, edging yourself on. Bucking up at his thrusts and his fingers.
“You can do it. Be a good girl. Do it for me.”
You swear the fireplace blazes louder and bigger, lighting up the whole room as you yell out, moaning once more as you orgasm.
Negan finally breaths out after, holding in for so long, and comes after you. His hands place themselves flat on the bed and he pushes in fast, riding out the high.
He scoops you up immediately, holding you in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go.
You two stay there for a moment until you look up. His hand caresses your face, “What is it?”
“I…” you were embarrassed to admit that you weren’t ready for it to all be over yet. “Can I ride you?”
A wiley smile appears on his face. He has to admit, he’s a little shocked you’re ready to go again, but he’d never turn it down. “Well, of course you can, babygirl.”
He flips you over, completely ready, but instantly, you become hesitant, almost overwhelmed. He was the world, not you, yet you were now above him. All the allowance to touch him anywhere you want at your disposal.
He puts his hands under his head, arms flexing. An ever wide smile present as he waits for you to begin. “You asked for it. Don’t get shy on me now.”
Your eyes grow excited again, deciding not to hold back, and you start to rock against him. You place you hands on his chest, feeling him up, touching his biceps, hands going over his tattoos— you could stare at them, at him, for hours. You honestly think you’d lick his whole body if he’d let you. And of course he probably would. To feel big and proud and irresistible while you look like a little desperate freak? You wouldn’t even have to ask him twice. Thinking about it and about how full his cock is making you feel, stretching and reaching all the right places, makes you moan and whine. You bucked your hips wildly, humming and giving him “mmms” because of how yummy it feels. You could do this forever.
“Ah- uh- Negan,” you moan and your stomach caves as you whine again and you hurl forward, continuing to rock but your pace is faltering. It’s becoming too hard and Negan can tell so he takes you by the hips, helping you move. First continuing to let your grind and then pushing you up and down his shaft so you can bounce on him. You push yourself up again, hand on his chest, pushing against it and you bounce along with his help. This was fun. You try to go faster and faster. It felt like being a kid on a playground.
“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Look at who you’re fucking, sweetheart.”
So you do, and moan at the sight of him, “Ohmygod,” you say. “You’re so handsome, Negan.”
He's so proud of you. Enjoying your actions, enjoying your noises. He groans as he sees your breast bounce and it makes you squeeze against him.
“Good girl,” he coos, “finally listening when you’re spoken to, about to make yourself come on daddy’s cock again.”
He starts to rub your clit again and you continue to bounce. It almost hurts because of how overstimulated you’ve become but you don’t tell him to stop. Your hands come to reach the headboard, helping you bounce harder. He tells you again how much of a good girl you are, how he loves that you’re not stopping, then he tells you how dirty and desperate you are for wanting him again after he already made you come. But he’s obsessed. This is all he’s ever wanted since the day he brought you here. His hands trail up from your hips to your waist and breast and back down again. There is nothing more he wants than to fuck you or for you fuck him.
You look down. You both notice your necklace still wrapped around your neck, almost nearing between your breasts, bouncing along with all of you. It reminds you of why you're here, why he gave it to you. It makes you have the realization he had… Was he ruining your life? Were you ruining your own? But how could you be when it all feels this good? It was completely screwed up, but everything felt so magnificently brilliant. His touch is everything, his voice is everything, his body is everything. It makes your hips stutter, it makes you moan, and at last, it makes you come again. You ride your high, going and going and going until you fall into his chest. His hands come to hold you tight thereafter.
Unthinkable bliss is all that is felt for a long moment… then… your head turns to the window. You remember what is out there and what isn’t in here.
A tear falls down your cheek and he realizes what’s happening when it falls onto his shoulder.
It hurts him now. To see you cry. It’s not fun anymore. You feel it, yes. You see what he saw, it’s true. But you aren’t really his wife. You’re nothing that is his at all. You both know that as well.
It takes you a long time to speak, you have to force yourself, but you do. “You have to let me go now.” You say it sternly but there is a sadness to it; a small part of you wants to not mean it even though you completely do, even though you do wish to stay here, to be enveloped by his embrace— you simply cannot forget.
“Mm,” he shakes his head, remaining leveled, “you know too much.”
“I barely know anything,” you say. “And not that anything I do know matters. Knowing the way around the Sanctuary isn’t going to help anyone when I know there is no way we could actually get in…. And what’s more important anyway is that I’m not changing my mind and you’re not either.”
“I’m not.”
“And I can’t. I wouldn’t. And they’re not going to. Never…. And if some of them die…” A whimper almost leaves you but you manage to swallow it, “I have to be by their side, Negan. I can’t only hear about it. I… I can’t see it next to you.”
His lips are pressed firm, his jaw is fixed and tight, almost like he’s grinding down on his teeth. The breath he takes through his nose could be a heavy sigh if he opened his mouth, but he doesn’t. He keeps it all in.
You words and their weight hang in the air for a moment before he finally speaks: “One of my guys that watches the armory doors has a shift that ends at 6:00 am… but at 5:50 I’m going to come up to him and tell him he gets off 10 minutes early that day, that I’ll wait for the next person to come.” He lets his words hang in the air for a moment, your confusion spirals before he keeps going. “It’ll be fucking weird, but he’ll look dumb as shit if he questions me, so he won’t. Then when he’s out of sight, I’ll leave. The next person is coming right at 6. That’s all you get. 10 minutes. A little less really.”
Your eyes round slowly as the stun continues to sink in. He’s… letting you leave.
“You take one gun and one knife. Just one. Don’t make it noticeable. I’m going to check. Then you go out of the back door that’s inside.” He didn’t have to tell you the way. “It should be easy, I know you’ve tried it before.”
You look down, taking in all he says, but then he turns you face to meet his, “If anyone sees you, I’m gonna have to make a show of it when they bring you back. Not what I want. But if I get there before you get out, maybe 5:58, just cause I’m an asshole, just to see you one last time… And if I do, I’m gonna turn you around and you’re stayin’. Fair?”
You nod. It’s small and light. You don’t question any of it, you can’t. “8 minutes.” You respond.
“8 minutes.” His voice is neutral, but underneath there was a tinge of solemnity to it. “8 minutes,” he says under his breath.
“What about now?”
“Now?” He asks. He didn’t think about it. He assumed you would want to go after this, after you got what you wanted. “Well,” he turns to his nightstand, “right now it’s half past 10.” He stares at you for a moment, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. This whole moment has felt so quiet, both eerie and gentle. You still weren’t used to the latter from him, even after what just happened. “You can go if you want. Sleep in your bed for one more night, or…” he stops, “You can stay with me, if you’d like.” His sigh is short and whispered but you both hear it, you feel its weight. “It’s your choice.”
You stare at each other for a moment. Your eyes trail all of his face and the arm that is still holding your own, adorned with all the tattoos and skin you had just fallen for. You wanted to study them and hold onto him forever. And his eyes: they said so much— there were so many little inflections, ones that you had finally read, and so many others you’ve yet to decipher. You desired to know him, but you had to go, so all you decided to do was to hold him. For now, you chose to stay, and hoped that your embrace would transfer the fact that the only reason it would be hard to leave is because of him and only him. You would remember this forever. “8 hours till 8.”
“8 hours till 8, kid.”
You close your eyes tight and nuzzle into his chest, A peace you had never known in the Sanctuary finally subsumed you. You feel free to finally tell him, “Thank you. I really do miss home.”
Home. There it is again. There was no malice in the way you said it, but there was still a pang from your melancholy words that made his heart throb. You missed home. And as peaceful as you looked, and as safely as you held onto him, your words reaffirmed that home was not here and it was not with him— no matter how you looked, and no matter the fact that you were allowing him to hold you for the night, to call you his. In the end, you were not.
He had to finally accept it.
“8 hours till 8,” are your last words until you finally drift to sleep. This would be your last and most tranquil night here. To you, it felt right, almost harmonious, albeit sad. This is how it was and how it was meant to be. You needed it.
But to him, it’s shattering. He doesn’t repeat the phrase back this time because, for once, he has nothing to say. The fire glow of the night has now withered into darkness.
You won.
He lost.
But both your hearts broke.
#negan smith smut#negan smith x reader#negan smith fanfiction#negan smith x you#negan smith x y/n#negan x reader#negan x you#negan x y/n#negan smut#negan fanfiction#the walking dead smut#the walking dead fanfiction#twd smut#twd fanfiction#twd fic#the walking dead#negan smith
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With you, I forget my goddess
So, I have completed Bg3 twice now, but on both runs I’ve romanced Gale (truly shocking, I know) and therefore I had never seen Gale’s non-romance discussion with Tav about the Annals of Karsus.
I recently got to see it, and what surprised me the most is how extremely angry and bitter Gale is about Mystra’s treatment of him. Rightfully and understandably so, but it’s something we do not see or experience in the romance version.
This got me thinking about the difference in Gale’s reactions in the friendship vs romance scenes, why they are different, and also how this relates to the complaints I’ve read about Gale ‘still not being over Mystra even when romancing Tav’.
(Note that I’m mainly going to focus on the portions of each dialogue that relate to Mystra in particular, and I’m not referencing the ‘alternate’ boat scene w/Gale—where he tells you beforehand that he will return the crown to her—since he doesn’t mention Mystra at all there.)
Screencaps below are from @munmomuu’s wonderful video on YouTube. The screencaps take place after Gale has read the Karsus book. If you are romancing him, before you reach this point, the conversation ends because he tells you he wants to discuss it later “in private,” during the boat scene.
But in a friendship run, he will explain what he’s read to you and then begin to make his case for using the crown:
Gale: Some gods may delude themselves into believing they care about their worshippers, but when it comes down to it - we’re all expendable. Children to be appeased, not respected.
Gale: I worshipped Mystra loyally for years, and in that time she granted me the barest sliver of the power I was ready to wield.
Gale: Even with the fate of the world at stake, she had little more to offer me than the means of blowing myself up at a more convenient time. She’s done nothing to help us.
There then comes a dialogue branch where Tav can ask this:
And Gale replies, with understandable bitterness:
Gale: She sent me to die.
Look at how angry he is during this whole exchange, and how he focuses all that anger on the past, and what Mystra has done to him (or not done, as he points out she’s offered them no help at all.)
— — —
Now let’s compare this to his Mystra dialogue in the boat scene:
Gale: I’ve already defied Mystra. Had I followed her command, there’d be nothing left of me but a smoking crater.
Gale: The tadpoles, the orb - these threats to our existence - the gods could aid us if they wished, but instead they cower behind Ao. So let us act ourselves.
Gale: I used to believe Mystra’s forgiveness was worth dying for. But I was wrong. You showed me just how much I have to live for.
Notice how there’s no fiery anger at Mystra here, just Gale’s resigned belief that the Gods have failed them.
So what’s the key component that makes Gale react so differently in each scenario?
It is, of course, Tav.
More specifically, it’s Tav’s love for him, which has clearly helped his heart heal from the trauma that he’s experienced. Yes, Tav’s friendship is extremely important as well, and yes, Gale is still insecure even with Tav’s love (‘you would really prefer me as I am?’) but the extreme bitterness, the anger, all of that is gone. Here, Gale is no longer hung up on Mystra and the past; he’s looking to the future. Because now that he has Tav, what he desires most is to take his life and his fate back from the Gods and into his own hands—with Tav at his side.
The irony is that some people complain about Gale ��not being over Mystra’ while he’s actively romancing Tav, but just look at the difference in the dialogue! Look at how focused he is on Mystra when he is not romancing Tav, and then how she becomes a mere afterthought once Tav has claimed his heart.
I really enjoyed seeing this level of detail. I think it perfectly illustrates Gale’s frame of mind in each scenario, as well as showing the positive impact Tav’s love has on Gale.
And last but not least—it confirms that Gale was not exaggerating when he says this:
Gale: With you, I forget my goddess. I love you.
— — —
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My name
Busy schedules don't allow Y/N and her boyfriend Lando Norris much down time to chill with her friends. But missing a wedding is a no go.
fluffy fluff, wedding, one shot, for the vibes only
It was almost a stroke of luck that Y/N's friends managed to pick a date for their wedding on a day that Lando could attend. This was a rare opportunity, while she accompanied him often during his events or outings, more than often he was unable to be there as her partner on her personal affairs.
Missed family gatherings, friends birthdays and grill parties. She accepted that part of their relationship, with the hope that in the future, it might come to change. They'd been dating for two years now - if she had to pick the brightest days of her life so far, it would in this time frame.
There was lot of excitement in the late summer air. One of her best friends was marrying a guy she became good buddy with over the years. And Lando would finally be joining her, as her partner. No more half smiles following the question "Would Lando join us this time?". These two friends marrying each other were a nice inspiration for the kind of relationship Y/N strived for. And Lando was that for her - a partner, lover, friend and the one to always make her laugh. But some of the people in her life were not convinced that he was good for her, mainly for the lack of his presence. She did not want the opinions of other to spoil their relationship. However, it would be a lie to say that her heart wasn't jumping around with happiness at the prospect of having him join them.
Her friends organized their dream wedding in a lovely estate somewhere in South of France. Small village remote from any city, safe from any prying eyes. It was refreshing from the flashing lights of racing tracks. Eighty people, all mostly friends with each other.
Y/N came in earlier with the main couple, in order to help them put everything in place. Two days of hard work navigating typical struggled of wedding organizing, with tomorrow being the big day. Regular guest were coming in, but she was only waiting for him, counting every minute.
Those prep days were packed with dealing with logistics and all this wedding usually concern. Going back and forth and trying to make everything perfect for the main event. But, she manages to find a moment of solutide to take in the beauty, the smell of late harvest, sun kissed valleys and heavy summer air, that set everything in. Having the bottom of your dress shiver with light breeze is the epitome of bliss. Life was good. And for the main part, she would get to experience all this with her love around her arm.
//
The two getting married? They were something else.
"Babe, what the fuck are these glasses?" said the bride to be as she watched the caterers setting up table for an evening dinner buffet.
"Well, you said yes, to them, remember? Back in May," was how the groom replied hastily. Y/N watched, knowing well enough that the strange looking glasses that were too big for her friends small hands were definitely not what the bride would have picked. She smirked as she watched them bicker playfully.
"They look like some futuristic ashtrays," the bride continued, shooting arrows playfully at he soon to be husband.
"Hm. Isn't that cool?" he said, trying to talk himself out of it. They were both strong opinionated people, so this was not a rare debate.
"No? How do you think this suits our late summer garden vibe?" she said, pointing around to the fields.
"You said yes to them, I remember specifically..." he defended without a beat.
"My mom's going to think we smoke."
"Well...we could use them as ashtrays," he said, inspecting the items.
The bride threw her hands up, not believing the game her "soon to be" was playing. "Babe, we don't smoke!"
He mimicked her hand gesture ironically. "We could start!"
"Just admit you've made a fuck up, honey, and we're good."
"That will never happen. This is all part of the plan."
Y/N observed and chucked, knowing well enough that the best thing to do was to stay out of their way.
A small quiet whisper came from behind Y/N. "Is this how they always act?" Shiver down her spine. She smiled, because she could recognize that voice anywhere. Heard it thousand times in the morning, in the middle of a busy day and on too many late night phone call to count. She turned her head slightly only to find him standing right behind her, his head now resting on her shoulder.
"Hi, muppet," he continued as he wrapped his hands around her, hugging her from behind. "I'm sorry I am a little late. Turbulences held us up."
The two stood there, as young lovers would. Completely wrapped in their own world.
"Did they? I completely lost track, as you see, big problems over here," she said and pointed inconspicuously to the couple still bickering about glasses. It wasn't technically true, she managed to get her phone out every other minute as they were unpacking stuff. But that was too embarrassing to admit.
She finally turned around to give him a welcome kiss, a much needed physical contact after not seeing him for almost three weeks. "Do you think we could take a walk around the garden? I would to get my head clear before facing other people," he said sheepishly. The last few race weekends had been very tough on him.
"I would be more than happy," she replied with a smile.
The scenery was too good to be true. Never ending fields of trees, heavy air sitting on the top of everyone trying to breathe and smell of hot soil and dried leaves cut though it all. They walked hand in hand in silence for a while, the sound of cracking branches accompanying them with every step. These two had spoken a lot in the past few weeks, every day it was either a phone call of few videos shared mapping their separate days. Texting was not good enough for these two. Lando was pretty much touch starved. Even though he was touched by random people more than an average person would be, as some fans felt like it was ok to do so. It made him miss the consensual touch he shared with his girlfriend more than ever. Girlfriend was an interesting word, felt outdated for the feelings he had for her. A small box had been accompanying him whenever he saw her for a while now. But he figured that highjacking someone else's wedding with his own proposal was a bit rude and selfish. He was grateful that this time he did not bring the box with him, as he was not sure he'd be able to resist proposing when he saw how the light reflected from her hair made it all shine, like a fresh jar of honey. A white dress would definitely suit her and his last name as well. He knew she'd want to keep her maiden name too and was more than fine with that. But to add "Norris" behind it was his ultimate goal.
"You seem more quiet than usual," she asked after a moment, being more than capable of reading his face. He was slowly letting go of his stress from the races.
"I'm loosing myself in the thoughts about your dress," he replied cheekily, letting her think he is talking about the teal summer dress she was wearing at the moment.
"Are you, now?" she winked and pulled her dress up slightly, only stopping at her bikini line.
"Oh, you can't do that to me," he said, defeated.
"You sure?" She stopped walking, came closer to him and put her arms around his neck. "But it's been so long since you've touched me," she added, knowing this will set him off. Teasing and seducing him was like a second language to her. She got real close and rubbed her core against his crotch.
"You're asking for trouble, Ms....Y/L/N," he gulped, nearly having a Freudian slip there. He panicked slightly and decided to kiss her immediately. She didn't seem to notice. Once he calmed down a bit he slid his hand down to he legs and the went back up to cup her ass and pulling her dress up again. "I would have you right here and now," he mumbled into their kiss and she smiled. Absolutely in love.
"We'll have to wait until the evening, we have a very nice room..."
"I don't care about that, I want to cum into you right here and now," he continued and bit her upper lip lightly.
"Anyone could walk by," she kept resisting.
"As if I care."
She laughed and broke their kiss. "We have to go now. I still have to help the poor bride with the decorations."
He signed overly dramatically. "You are making my life a living hell, Y/N."
"You can punish me later," she ended and got out of his embrace and started heading back to the estate. "Come on," she instructed as Lando watched her ass as she walked away. Norris. It's going to suit her.
//
Evening marked shared laughter, catching up with many friends, local wine with cheese and hands held under the table. Only once it was really happening did Y/N started to notice how much she needed this. Being able to "show" Lando off to her friends for longer than a short appearance. They got to finally know him, not only listen to stories about him. Oh and he was marvelous that evening. Charming, funny, criminally handsome - and always by her side. He was happy to be there. One of the reason being finally able to listen to the people she spoke about, but also to let loose and not have to think about what he says. These were no sponsors, interviewers or teammates. He loved that they cared about her more than him. It was a nice change. And he was on board with that, enjoying the fact that she was the star and not him.
//
The wedding day had swung by in a blur and suddenly, Y/N and Lando were sitting in a small local chapel, watching her friends making a mark on their relationship.
But Lando was not watching them. He was watching his now girlfriend. With the sight he had in the corner of his eye, the thoughts hanging in the back of his mind were getting louder and louder.
The ceremony was a non serious and cheerful one, the priest making many jokes while still keeping the atmosphere together. As far as ceremonies go, this was an honest one. The only thing to bring people out the holy romantic vibe this gave off was an unapologetically explicit kiss the bride and groom shared as they got wed. It was more like watching drunk teenagers make out. Some people laughed, some people cheered and the rest were slightly mortified. Y/N was one of the people to turn their heads away from the sight, she had known this girl ever since they were kids, this was a little too much. Lando found her reaction amusing, as he had heard many stories of her and her friend to know that she'd witnessed way more extreme things. "Look at you, prude," he whispered to her ear as he watched the bride and groom fight with their tongues.
"I refuse to accept this," Y/N said, keeping it up with the grandmas in the room.
"Well, if this repulses you, then I'm afraid you're going to die of embarrassment at our wedding," he said as if it was no big deal. But to Y/N it was. They had joked about marriage few times, but Lando used a different tone of voice this time. But she had been secretly dreaming about it for a while now.
"You're going to have tie me down if you're planning on doing that," she said, pointing at the pair, not quite sure how to process that he was probably thinking about their marriage too.
"So far, you've never said no to my plans," he winked at her.
Y/N smiled and turned her eyes to the ground. If someone had asked why she smiled so much, she'd say it was because of her friend's wedding. Though it would only be one half of the truth. She held his hand, as they walked out of the church. For some reason, it almost felt like a rehearsal.
#lando norris#lando norris x reader#lando norris x you#lando norris fanfic#ln4 imagine#formula 1#formula one x reader#f1 fanfic#f1 imagine#meet cute#fluff#lando norris fluff#formula 1 fluff#formula 1 fanfic#ln4 x reader#ln4 x y/n#lando norris x y/n
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𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟎𝟎𝟓 — 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀
kinktober day 005 | mermaid!wanda x pirate!reader
as captain of a notorious gang of pirates, you've got a reputation of steel, but when there's a pretty little mermaid presenting herself for you, there's no chance in hell you're not saying yes.
cont. sweet talk, begging, humiliation, overstimulation word count. 2178
kinktober masterlist || main masterlist
“Righto, fellas, so we got sixty ducats – twenty doubloons, is it?” Bucky asks lackadaisically, tossing gold coins up and down with his good hand.
A loud guffaw surrounds the group of you huddled around the campfire. You shake your head with a toothy grin at your right-hand man’s idiocy. Even the least educated pirates in your gang knew what sixty divided by two was.
You reach over and knock the side of Bucky’s head with your bloodied knuckles. “That brain cavity wouldn’t make a drinkin’ cup for a canary, buddy.”
“Aw, kiss my boot, ya fuckin’ cunt-licker,” the dark-haired man grumbles in response, still playing with his shiny gold coins. He playfully punches your arm his prosthetic one.
In record timing, you whip out your dagger from your cow-skin belt and pierce the hole in Bucky’s coin midair, pinning the coin to the nearest tree with a deadly aim.
“Cunt-licker is right,” you say smugly, going to ruffle Bucky’s already shaggy hair. The impressed hoots and jeering taunts at your dagger-throwing skills are all good-hearted, as is the general atmosphere within your gang.
The lot of you were specialists in your craft, the most formidable and deadly in the piracy industry. Five years ago, you had claimed the largest plot of land that was the very island you lived on with your mates. Tu’Au was surrounded by the freshest of ocean water and the most gorgeous of views.
There was also a legend of the mystical mermaids that lived beneath Tu’Au, but you didn’t believe any of that bosh and bullshit about supernatural creatures. You’d believe it when you saw one with your very own eyes.
“Yall’ finish up counting our loot for the day, I’m gonna take a walk by the shore,” you say, adjusting the piece of tobacco between your lips and then dusting off your pants. “Don’t let Buck do the counting.”
“Got it, boss,” Steve answers promptly, ever the loyal one. Bucky rolls his eyes.
Loveable idiots, you think, tossing your hat to the side. Strolling away from the main camp, you finally take a deep inhale of that tobacco, smoke trailing off into the orange sunset.
As you walk along the shore, bare feet on the wet sand, you look up and close your eyes. It was times like these that were simple, times like these that you never wanted to end—
“I said, get away from me! Please, just leave me alone!”
A feminine, desperate cry from the distant ocean has you blinking open your eyes in sudden alertness, darting to the source of the sound.
From a short distance to shore, there is chaos occurring within the waters. What seems to be a muscular, bare-chested man is swimming inhumanly fast towards a significantly smaller-sized woman with long, cascading hair.
Though both of them certainly spoke like regular humans, there was a certain way about their moving in the waters and tremendous presence that had you second-guessing yourself.
“Get back here, you good for nothin’! You’ll make up your mind when I fuckin’ want you to!”
He’s yelling foul words at her, catching up to her already, clearly incredibly unpleased. Suddenly, the man dives down, and you catch sight of a shimmering blue tail above the waters before it disappears.
Hang on a damn moment. Merfolk are real?
But before your brain can process what you truly just saw, the merman reemerges much closer to the mermaid, massive gold spear in a vice grip.
As if a gear was kicked into motion, you sprint towards the water. Kicking up water as you run through the shallow part of the ocean, you stumble but never slow down, eyes set on the target. It’s prey-or-predator right now, either conquer the enemy or die trying.
The said target has got the mermaid in his massive arms, wrapping around her torso and forcefully dragging her back into the deep waters. Her strangled cries get muffled by the water, cries and pleas ringing in your ears.
Just before you dive into the water, your hand flies to that trusty weapon holster, and a sharp dagger flies at the merman with an air-cutting, brutal force. “Y/N bullseye L/N,” you remember Bucky saying with a stupid grin on his face. “Never misses a shot.”
A millisecond before your plunge into the ocean, the stunning blue eyes of the mermaid meet yours, and you lose all the air in your lungs.
You’ve never seen anything like it, never laid your eyes upon such a breathtaking beauty before. Blue eyes deeper than the depths of the ocean, sparkling more than the brightest of glimmering stars,
An agonized cry from the merman hauls you out of your trance. The dagger struck him directly in the right eye, just as expected, just as you had calculated. Opaque red blood comes out in spurts, and his hands release the mermaid and go to clutch at his eye.
Your arms glide in the water, smooth and cutting, bringing you closer to the struggling pair.
Seizing the moment of the merman’s distractedness, you wrap your arms around the mermaid. You immediately notice the way she sinks into your embrace, head drooping to lean against your chest as you struggle to move through the water.
You really try to not think too hard about the lithe body in your arms. It was proving to be an incredibly difficult task.
After your hell of an escapade, you have the mermaid girl propped up against the wet rocks. It takes a while for you to notice that you’re on all fours above her, panting heavily with wide eyes and a drenched white shirt.
When you do realise it, though, you get off her immediately, clearing your throat awkwardly. So much for being a scary pirate.
“You alright?” you ask instead, fiddling with the collar of your white shirt. It had gotten drenched while you were in the water, along with all your clothes and your hair.
You were having a hard time trying to avoid looking at her chest since it was literally in front of you.
“You saved me,” the mermaid finally speaks, eyelashes wet with drops of water, her voice softer and sweeter than you could ever have imagined. You get a bit lost in the delicacy of her red lips as she stares back at you.
“Right,” you answer, your throat suddenly dry.
“What is your name, human?” the mermaid asks, hand going to stroke at the curvature of your jawline that was dotted with droplets of water. The touch was honey-like.
“Y/N. How ‘bout you?”
“Wanda.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Prettier than me?”
“No,” you answer a little too quickly, voice a little hoarser than before. Your eyes dart around to focus on anything but the ethereal mermaid before you, but soon they land on a wound at her tail.
“Oh, shucks, you’re bleeding. I’ll go get bandages an’ stuff from base,” you say, looking at the nasty wound on the tip of Wanda’s tail, incarnadine blood leaking out of it.
“Don’t go,” the mermaid suddenly says, and there’s this little begging lilt to her voice that messes up your brain chemistry. “I mean, mermaids have healing properties, so you don’t have to go,” she mumbles, looking away with her cheeks flushed. Cute.
“That’s cool,” you answer, leaning back to let your hands run over the tip of her tail. Just like she said, the wound heals itself, slowly stitching back that scaly-smooth skin with a magical touch.
You give her tail a long stroke, running your fingers through the little scales that decorate this new thing you’d like to explore.
“Hng,” a little whimper suddenly escapes from the mermaid, and the both of you freeze. It’s a fine line between comedy and erotica.
You rub at her tail again, harder this time, and Wanda lets out a louder moan.
You start massaging her tail, hands spreading out over the sensitive area, kneading gently. Wanda’s face is absolutely flushed, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, the prettiest thing you’d ever seen.
“Kiss me?” she asks, breathlessly, and you don’t have to be told twice.
Warm mouths meet in an inferno of lust, Wanda’s head tilting up to meet yours, your head tilting down to chase hers. The moment you taste the sweetness of her lips, a trigger is flicked inside of your brain, and your body kicks it into overdrive.
Your hands tug off the seashell bra with unbridled haste, flinging it behind you without a care in the world. Wanda squeaks against your lips at your sudden boldness, hands going to encircle the back of your neck.
But that’s before you’re grabbing both her wrists with one hand and pinning it above her head against the wet rock. She moans as your lips make their way down the column of her porcelain, leaving red hickeys into the pale canvas like it was a work of art.
It was true, to a certain extent, because this mermaid before you was a work of art: brown hair splayed onto the wet rock like something out of a Renaissance painting, water droplets across her eyelids, breathing and panting your name, hips moving helplessly under your stronger body, trying to chase a fraction of the pleasure that you’re dangling out of reach.
Your mouth latches on to her supple breasts with eagerness, lips wrapping around her hardened bud. Wanda lets out a shriek when you suck on it, hard. As a mermaid, the sensations and emotions that they felt were many times that of a human, and you were making it no easier for her.
“N-Need you,” Wanda pleads, when you flick at her other pretty pink nipple, admiring how her body arches along with the sensation.
“Need me where?” you ask, a lust-coated rasp in your voice, edged with a tone of teasing that has Wanda’s head spinning.
You finally release her hands, and Wanda grabs your right hand with certainty, sliding it down her shuddering body and scaled tail to where a pussy would be.
Instead, your fingertips find a hot, wet, slit.
“Fuck,” you growl into Wanda’s skin, lost in the sheer thoughts of how much you could ruin her.
“Please?” Wanda begs again, giving you the biggest doe eyes she could. You didn’t need any convincing, anyway.
“All this for me?” You ask, ruthlessly plunging two fingers into her dripping slit. It’s warm and wet, and so tight. Your fingers explore, straightening out then curling in, going in big circles then in smaller ones.
All through your unabashed exploration of Wanda’s cunt, the pretty little mermaid is left completely at your mercy. She’s writhing, never been touched like this before.
“S’ too, too much,” she babbles incoherently when you slide a third finger in, thrusting in and out of her gorgeous little cunt like it’d be the last time you’d get to do this. Because in all honesty, it might be.
That thought alone spurs you on to go even faster, playing with Wanda’s body like a fiddle, making all the right noises with the right fingerings.
“Y/N,” she cries, long fingernails ripping the back of your vest to shreds. You don’t give a damn about it.
Turns out, mermaids have several sweet spots, because you’re finding all of them and breaking her with it.
“Gonna cum already?” you ask, “Needy little thing, hm? Couldn’t even wait five minutes?” Wanda tries to shake her head, but your other hand is stroking the length of her tail.
“Come f’me, sweet thing.”
Those words send her over the edge, snapping the knot that had been building in her belly.
“Y/N!” Wanda screams, a melodious tune, hands clawing at the edges of the rocks, then the back of your neck, all while her head is thrown back. Her tail is flapping in a state of no control, lost in the pleasure you’re feeding her.
Acknowledging the delicious tightening of Wanda’s mermaid slit around your three fingers, you opt to instead go at an even faster pace, fingers thrusting deeper into her body, because you wanted every inch of it.
“Y/N,” Wanda sobs, because she sees stars. Those brilliant blue eyes getting teary with your relentless pace. The tears escape the corners of her eyes and cascade down her cheeks like a waterfall.
It��s a sight you’d imprint into your memory forever, when Wanda’s ocean blue eyes roll into the back of her head and her little mermaid body goes limp in your arms.
You admire her for many moments, at how she had made you fuck her silly, at how she was yours now.
—
“Why’re you smilin’ like a baked possum?” Bucky asks you once you head back to camp. It’s early the next day, still dark out in the wide seas. He’s sprawled out on a wide hammock, sharpening a knife. Steve is cuddled into his chest.
Your lips curve into a stupidly smug smirk. “Not that you would know a dime about pussy, but remember what you said about cunt-lickers?”
kinktober masterlist || main masterlist
#sytoran's kinktober 2023#kinktober#kinktober 2023#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff x reader smut#wanda maximoff#wanda maximoff smut#wanda maximoff x you#wanda maximoff x y/n#wanda x reader#gxg smut#wlw smut#sub wanda maximoff#bottom wanda maximoff#top reader#dom reader
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Romcon Fluff | Ratio accidentally drinks your Love Serum ?!? | Tried to make this into a oneshot but I think it needs 2 more chapters, wdyt shall I continue?
Ruan Mei You accidentally made Veritas fell in love with you and he dislikes this festering feeling you have brought to him
support me on ko-fi ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡
Ruan Mei is one of your closest friends, yet you rarely meet her since most of the time she’s off somewhere pursuing her lifelong pursuit of divinity, yet she never missed gifting you presents for your birthday.
You smile as you carefully untie the silk ribbon on your present, you can’t help but guess whatever is inside is a bottle of perfume because you could already inhale the sweet scent before even opening the intricate wooden box
Once you lift the lid it reveals a beautifully carved glass vial filled with a lavender-coloured liquid, you carefully examine the shimmering liquid in awe, it smells so sweet like a cherry blossom cake, you notice a light blue envelope inside the box
You carefully place the vial back to read open the envelope, there’s a beautifully written letter addressed to you, her sincerest friend
“Dearest friend of mine, Happy belated birthday. Now I have prepared this gift of mine long before your birthday but since I’m currently in the middle of nowhere I have deduced that It’ll reach your doorstep approximately 2 days late and for that, I apologise,” you smile as you read her letter, ah she’s still the same
Upon reading the 3-page long heartfelt letter Ruan Mei reveals that she has been making this rejuvenating serum for you since earlier this year, she said she used your DNA and modified it so for your birthday she gave you an enchantment serum of some sort
She said to pour it into a hot beverage and not too much since it’s a highly concentrated serum, so you decided to brew a cup of tea while you text her thank you. Okay so a little bit goes a long way, you slowly pour the serum into the tea when all of a sudden the bell into your apartment rings, it shakes you and accidentally makes you pour a lot more than you intended to
You quickly flip the vial and close its lid, you silently curse as you put the vial back and rush towards the door, you open the door with a pout on your face, now when you see the person behind it makes you more annoyed than before, Veritas Ratio in the flesh
“Why haven’t you been answering my texts and even my calls ?, your lack of response is going to cost us both substantial damage,” ah yes your assigned partner for the annual Intelligentsia Guild research showcase, where you and the narcissistic prick in front of you are assigned together by the committee
“Damage ?, I was just enjoying my birthday. Our research is not going to somehow dissipate into thin air if I enjoy some time for myself,” you groan, you want to slam your door into that handsome prick’s face, but you can’t because he’ll sue you
He scoffs while looking down on you, without any hesitation he slides into your apartment, at this point you want to just pounce over him, but thankfully you’re in a good mood because your tea is waiting for you-
That entitled motherfucker—
When you turn your body you see him blissfully sipping on your tea, like he’s entitled to it, “Hmm this tea is exquisite, the colour is stunning too where did you get this from ?” he asks as he swirls the cup, your cup
“Veritas Ratio that was my birthday present ?!!” you yell as you storm towards him, you try to pry his hands away from your tea but sadly he’s way taller than you, “Well then I need you to tell the person that gifted you this tea to tell me where they acquire such complex tea blend,”
You’re fuming, you swear that there’s smoke coming off your head like some sort of chimney, he notices this and weirdly he thinks you’re cute, he can’t believe that his heart just skipped a beat when you pout at him, what an unusual feeling
“Stop pouting, you’re making my heart palpitate faster than usual,” Veritas groans which surprised you, what the hell was he saying ?
“What the hell are you implying ?!” you scan his face, somehow this man who is well known to be rude and disrespectful is blushing profusely, what the hell happened here ?!
“You !, can you stop looking that beautiful basking underneath the sunlight it bothers me, I hate it,” he can’t believe he just said that out loud, what the hell is happening with him
“H-huh ?!?, what the fuck is wrong with you Veritas, I rather have you yell at me for fucking up some calculations than whatever this is,” you shriek feeling slightly disgusted and oddly flattered ?!?
“Well do you think I have the slightest idea what made my mind suddenly throw out my rationale out of the window and replace it with you instead ?!,” okay this is starting to freak you out because this feels too real, way too real is this a dream, please be a dream
You start to lightly slap your face to snap yourself out of this horrific nightmare, “This is no dream, I suggest you start to be responsible over this,” he leans forward and reaches out to your hand, he presses it towards his beating heart, he’s serious about how fast it was palpitating-
“W-what do you mean responsible ?!?, for what h-huh ?,” you try to pull your hand away but to no avail, it’s like he glued it down on his firm chest
“For these festering feelings that I don’t enjoy having nor experiencing, it must’ve been the tea I drank because before this I was quite normal when it comes to staring at that captivating face of yours. No, I mean that horrid face of yours that someone enchanted when illuminated by the sun,” Oh nous, it can’t be that tea can it ?
Oh !, Ruan Mei what the hell did you gift ?. Veritas could see your face reduce to a state of emotionless, “Don’t ignore me fool !,” he mutters as he now guides your hand to rest his head against your palm
“S-stop acting weird,” you stutter on your words, your confidence has been drained and now you’re left with red-tinted cheeks, how frustrating
“Can’t help it, I just want you to notice my presence,” he mumbles against your palm, slightly kissing it while talking, Oh my nous, Ruan Mei needs to fix whatever this is or at this rate, he can’t perform his task as your research partner
“Okay okay I need to somehow make an antidote for you,” you take a deep breath trying to think of something, but how can you when he’s there watching you with those puppy eyes
“Please do because, to be frank, I’m extremely uncomfortable with the way I just want to kiss that pink lips of—“ before he can continue you slap his mouth shut with your palm
“Shut up !!, don’t utter any more nonsense, just get out of here and don’t come back until I find a way to fix whatever this is,” you quickly push him towards the door, he’s adamant about staying by making things harder for you
“Can’t I just wait here and assist you? I might miss you if you kick me out, I mean no of course I wouldn’t miss your brilliant mind what am I saying of course I’ll miss you,” this man needs to be stopped, you can’t handle the contradictions that he’s spewing
“What do I need to do for you to get out !,” you huff as you wipe away your sweat, this man weighs like those sculptures he makes
“A kiss on the lips should suffice,” he smirks, why did he smirk?!?, never mind that you can’t deal with this nonsense anymore, you quickly drag him by the collar and press your lips together within a second you pull away from the kiss leaving him happily dumbfounded, you took this chance to hurriedly push him out the door and lock it
What the hell just happened ?!?
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augustine!!! forgive me if this is alr something u wrote in kuwtf but!! i just had a thought come to me !!! did megumi (when he was younger) ever message/text/call reader (or gojo… but i doubt 😭😭) to come and pick him up in the middle of smth he’s rlly not enjoying? like !! him being all hesitant and shy abt it !!! but he’s like “can you pick me up… please” or “… i want to go home” 🥺🥺🥺
“okay, while the kids are with you, you’re the new me. strict, but fair. fun, but still careful—”
“ugh, that sounds so boring,” shoko groans. “i prefer being the cool aunt who looks like she could be their sister.”
“uh oh, it sounds like someone’s already raided our liquor cabinet,” gojo teases, sauntering into the kitchen to steal some of the snacks you’re laying out. “maybe we should have nanami babysit shoko babysitting our kids.”
you bat his hands away, rolling your eyes as he pouts. “that’s not necessary, i believe in her.”
“so…you’re saying i didn’t hear you call nanami first?”
“go get changed,” you mutter, ignoring his question and shoving him back towards the bedroom. he goes, but not without placing a big wet kiss on your cheek first.
megumi, who’d been coming in to find a snack, makes an affronted noise.
shoko throws her arm around him, ruffling his hair. “don’t worry about us! i got your very lengthy text message with all the instructions,” she assures you, waving her phone in front of you. “in bed by nine at the latest, no watching sex and the city, and no ending up in the hospital, prison, or the news.”
“yes. by the way, i ordered some pizza for dinner and left some money so you can take them out for breakfast tomorrow, but please please keep an eye on megumi,” you remind her, swiping the crumbs off your hands and leaning your hip against the counter. “he likes to wander and has a problem with authority.”
“i don’t have a problem with authority,” the boy huffs, ducking out from under shoko’s arm.
“ohhhh, but you do,” gojo chimes in, coming out of the bedroom dressed up in a nice shirt and tie. you slip your arm through his when he offers, letting him lead you toward the door.
“have fun!” you call as satoru kneels to help you slip your heels on.
“not as much fun as you guys will!” shoko calls back. it’s followed by, “say, megumi, have you ever smoked a cigarette before?”
“ieiri!”
“kidding! you’re so gullible.”
_____
“a hotel room with one bed!” you gasp, in awe of the king-sized bed sitting in the center of the room. you seat yourself atop of the luxurious sheets, the silk smooth under your palms. “i forgot what this was like!”
gojo sets both your bags down, smiling. “do you want to order some room service? we could order a nice bottle of champagne, eat some dessert—”
you hum, uncrossing your legs slowly. “i can think of something else you can eat…”
you reach up to grab his tie and tug him closer—
—only for it to come off entirely.
“a clip on tie, satoru? really?”
his cheeks blush a cute, rosy pink. “they’re really hard to tie if you’re not around to help me!”
you toss it to the side, laughing as he pulls you into his arms, aggressively planting kisses all over your face. he walks you back until you both fall onto the bed, his fingers crawling up the hem of your shirt.
“wait, is that my phone vibrating?”
_____
“what if she’s the one, tsumiki?” you hear shoko sigh, exasperated.
“like your one true love?”
“yeah! what’s happening to me? i don’t even believe in that stuff.”
you and gojo exchange an amused look. no wonder megumi had texted.
“have you told utahime any of this?” your wise-beyond-her-years 13 year old asks.
“what? why would i do that?”
“if you don’t tell her how you feel, you’ll both regret it for the rest of your life!”
“utahime and shoko?” gojo whispers. “since when?”
you roll your eyes, swatting at his chest. “since always! you seriously never noticed? she had the biggest crush on her when we were in school.”
“i think i was just too busy looking at you.”
you can’t help the way you smile at that, your heart a butterfly beat in your chest “you need to stop, because we’re here to save megumi and if you keep sweet talking me…”
he tucks himself snugly against your back, setting his chin into the crook of your neck. “i’m more of a hands-on learner, so maybe if you show me what’ll happen—”
“finally,” megumi sighs, relieved.
“whoa,” gojo stops him, tugging on the handle of the backpack over megumi’s shoulder’s. “what’s this for?”
_____
the backpack was for exactly what gojo feared. megumi sleeps soundly between you both in that gorgeous king-sized bed.
“is this what the rest of our lives are gonna look like?” he asks, fingertips brushing your forehead.
“better get used to abstinence, pal.”
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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16
Summary: Your weekend getaway to Indianapolis comes with a boyfriend who's trying to quit smoking, a five-year-old who has difficulty acclimating to new routines, and your own insecurities about your mothering abilities. What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: angst, insecurities about motherhood, lost child, Eddie gets mad at us, discussion of menstrual period/PMS
WC: 7.7k A/N: There is a moment where someone refers to us as Harris's mom; however, she doesn't see us. There is no indication that we resemble Harris in any way.
Chapter 16/20
Divider credit to @saradika Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsonsmum
--
The morning dew still kisses the grass when you arrive at the Munson apartment, hauling your duffel bag up to their half-packed car. Eddie’s leaning into the backseat, only his jean-clad legs visible from your vantage point. Harris stands behind him, watching his dad’s every move earnestly and intently. If you had a camera on you, you’d take a photo of this Kodak moment.
“Hi, boys!” you chirp as enthusiastically, tucking your lips into your mouth to stop yourself from laughing when Eddie bangs his head on the roof of the car. “You okay?”
“Y-Yeah, ‘m good,” he mutters, rubbing at his scalp with one hand, expression somewhere between a grimace and a smile.”Morning, Sweetheart. You sleep well?”
You nod, opening your arms as Harris races towards you for a hug. “What about you guys? Or were you too excited about our super-fun weekend?”
“Daddy snored!” Harris reports with a grin, overjoyed to share what he perceives to be a juicy morsel of gossip.
Eddie gasps in mock-offense, reaching out to take your bag and arranging it amongst his and Harris’s in the trunk. “I did not!”
“Did too!” Harris retorts, turning back to you and adding, “like, so loud!”
You crouch down, and hold a pinky out in front of him. “We’re gonna have to stick together this weekend if we’re going to survive,” returning his smile when he wraps his little finger around yours in a promise.
“Can’t believe my girlfriend is conspiring against me with my own flesh and blood,” Eddie grumbles, eyes widening when he realizes what he’s said; rather, in front of whom he’s said it. His panicked gaze meets yours, and you both anticipate some reaction from Harris, but he’s fortunately unfazed and too fixated on the utter silliness of his dad’s snoring. Eddie clears his throat, determined to change the subject before his son catches on. “I think we’re ready to ship out,” he offers, slamming the trunk shut and pressing down to double-check that it’s closed.
“Snacks?” you ask, running through a mental checklist of necessities.
Eddie holds up a family-size bag of pretzels. “Got ‘em.”
“Water?”
“Backseat,” he points to the floor to the left of Harris’s booster seat–a recent upgrade from his carseat. “Harris will be in charge of that, right, Har?”
“Right!” Harris confirms with a thumbs-up.
“Sounds good. Put him to work,” you tease. Eddie’s heart skips a beat at the playful relationship that you and his son have, swapping smiles and making each other laugh. “Music?”
Eddie juts his chin towards the center console, filled to the brim with cassettes. “Always.”
You cock your eyebrow knowingly before posing your next question, preparing yourself for some visceral response. “Nicotine gum?”
Eddie groans, patting the pack of Nicorette in his pocket. “Unfortunately, yes.” About a week and a half ago, Harris had come home from school crying after the school had put on an assembly about the dangers of smoking. Eddie had been meaning to quit for a long time, but his son worrying over real problems, using words like cancer and heart attack, was what finally pushed him to chuck every pack of cigarettes he owned into the trash.
“Okay,” you smile and clap your hands together, “I think we’re good to go!” You help Harris buckle his seatbelt before climbing into the passenger seat.
The sedan rumbles to life, catching on the second key turn and disrupting the otherwise still morning. “Gentlemen, start your engines!” Eddie roars in an exaggeratedly deep voice, and Harris giggles from the backseat. With Eddie’s hand on the gearshift, you seize the opportunity to squeeze it, light pink tickling his cheeks at your touch.
It’s only thirty minutes into the drive before it starts.
“Daddy, I gotta pee!”
You can practically feel the patience leaving Eddie’s body, fingers tightly gripping the wheel until his knuckles flush white.
“Har Bear, we just hit the road,” he tries, knowing his efforts are fruitless. “Can you hold it?”
“No, it’s a ‘mergency!”
“Fuck,” Eddie swears under his breath. The likelihood of it actually being an emergency is slim to none, but he’s in no mood to risk it. “All right, I’ll pull over at the next rest stop, ‘kay?”
Eddie takes the next exit, parking at a truck stop and nearly falling out of the car in his scramble to get Harris to the bathroom. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters, walking so quickly that Harris nearly trips over his own feet. You quicken your own pace just to keep up with them.
The scent of coffee grabs your attention as soon as you walk in the door, and you make a beeline for the tiny Dunkin Donuts tucked in the corner. The cashier looks as though they could use a shot or two of espresso, eyelids closing under their visor as you give your order. When the boys get back from the bathroom, you present Eddie with a large coffee with far more milk and sugar than your own, and hand a chocolate donut to Harris.
Eddie's eyes shift back and forth from the donut to you before he speaks. “It’s, like, 9 am,” he points out. “He’s gonna be bouncing off the walls if he eats that now.”
Oh. Obviously. What were you thinking, giving an already-hyperactive child pure sugar in the morning? All of the times you’d cringed when parents had sent their kids into school with Cocoa Puffs or some equally sugary cereal, and you’d given his son a chocolate donut for breakfast. “I’m sorry,” you sputter, shaking your head in frustration. “I should’ve asked you first, or saved it for later.”
“‘S fine,” he mutters, heaving an exasperated sigh as Harris takes a giant bite of donut. “At least there’s two of us to chase after him,” he adds with a weak smile.
Harris has devoured nearly the entire donut by the time Eddie’s buckling him back in, chocolate crumbs tucked into the crevices of his mouth. He’s oblivious to your faux pas, and you’d like to keep it that way.
“I really am sorry,” you say again, guilt gnawing in your stomach. “I should’ve known better; I guess I just got excited about our little vacation together.”
Eddie’s grin is more genuine this time. “Me, too, baby.” He sneaks a quick kiss to your cheek when Harris is focused on what remains of his snack. “The whole no-smoking thing has me extra bitter, y’know?”
You know. You definitely know, but you’re not about to point out all of the ways he’s been short-tempered lately. Instead, you relax into your seat and try to brush off your mistake as Eddie turns on the radio and guitar riffs replace the silence.
Eddie rolls down the window as the springtime sun warms the air, and you stretch as the rush of wind cools your body. His curls whip around the base of his neck, dancing in the breeze, and you can’t help but push them out of his face haphazardly.
Your stomach growls, and you’re grateful for the blaring music masking the embarrassingly loud noise. You’d forgotten to grab something for breakfast in your rush to leave your apartment, and coffee is a poor substitute for the most important meal of the day.
You reach down to the bag of pretzels nestled against your feet. “Y’want?” you ask Eddie, who nods and opens his mouth for you to feed it to him while he concentrates on the road. Laughter bubbles up from within you as he takes one from your hand by pinching it between his teeth.
Harris giggles, too. “Daddy, you look like a goat from the zoo!”
“Oh, yeah?” Eddie slides the snack into his mouth and bites down with a crunch, “and what sounds do goats make?”
“Hmm,” Harris ponders this for a moment before bleating a resounding, “maaaah!”
You swivel in your seat to give him a high-five. There’s donut residue on your hand when you pull back. “Smarty pants! I bet you know every animal sound there is.”
You and Eddie rattle off different species as you feed him more pretzels. Harris manages perfect impressions of each, until you call out, “sloth!” and effectively stump him.
“Ms. Sweetheart!” he cackles maniacally, partially because of his sugar rush, you’re sure, “that is so silly!”
“Y’just gotta do everything suuuuper slooooow.” You drag out the last two words to emphasize your point. “Like this: Haaaaarrisssss…caaaaan…youuuuu…haaaaand…meeeeee…aaaaa…waaaaterrrr?” This brings on a fresh round of giggles from the backseat; even extra-bitter Eddie manages a hint of a smile.
Harris grabs a bottle at a snail’s–no, a sloth’s–pace. “Heeere…youuuuu…goooooo!” His pace is far from hurried, and you feel the gentle tap of the plastic cap against your shoulder blade a full thirty seconds later.
“Thaaaaank…youuuuu!” You crack open the bottle of water and take a swig, quenching a thirst only made worse by the salty snack. “Wanna play again? See how many other animal sounds you can do?” you ask, grateful to have found a way to keep him occupied. Before you can close the bottle, Eddie reaches over and snags it, lifting it to his lips.
“Daddy, no!” Harris screeches from the backseat, little hand shooting out in protest, causing Eddie to slam on the brake. Water sloshes over the top of the bottle and onto his pants.
“Shit—what, Har?” he snaps, shoving the now half-empty bottle into the cupholder. He swipes haphazardly at the wet patch on his thigh, darkening the denim as it spreads along the fabric. He gives up with a mumbled, “whatever,” when he realizes he’s only rubbing it in more.
“You’re gonna get her germs,” Harris points out matter-of-factly.
Eddie huffs out a terse chuckle, slightly amused but still irritated. “Yeah, yeah, right,” he mutters, and you take that as a sign to reach back and get him his own bottle.
The remainder of the drive is uneventful, though Eddie has to dip into his Nicorette stash when a maroon Toyota Corolla weaves in and out of lanes at lightning speed and cuts him off. He instinctively reaches for the pack of cigarettes he’d always kept in the console, groaning when he remembers that it’s long gone.
“Good job, baby,” you murmur softly, giving his knee a quick squeeze in approval as he pops a piece of gum into his mouth. “‘M proud of you.”
You pull up to the hotel just after 10 AM, the morning chill has dissipated as the sun’s rays warm the air. The fair weather made the trip smoother, a small miracle if you’d ever seen one. Truthfully, you don’t think Eddie’s frayed nerves can handle a rainy day.
Eddie takes Harris’s hand as you all walk through the parking lot and up to the front desk. A middle-aged concierge greets you, the customer service smile plastered across his face faltering when he clocks Eddie’s ripped jeans and disheveled wind-blown hair.
“Reservation’s under ‘Munson,’” Eddie says to him, not making eye contact; your heart is a sinking stone when you realize that he also noticed the man’s shifting expression. “I called ahead and they said we could check in early.”
The concierge nods. You catch a glimpse of his shiny silver name tag, proudly proclaiming “STU, ASSISTANT MANAGER” gleaming in the overhead fluorescent lighting. “Room 325,” he grunts, handing you and Eddie keys dangling from matching logo-branded chains. Elation is a sunflower blooming in your chest; your first vacation has officially begun. Maybe it’s a little getaway only ninety minutes from home, but it’s a new adventure that you’re taking together.
Eddie flings his and Harris’s shared bag, then yours, onto one of the queen beds with a groan. “We made it!” he announces, flinging an arm over your shoulder. The pads of his fingers brush your upper arm, a tissue-paper light touch that has you soaring.
“Daddy? I gotta pee again,” Harris’s urgency breaks the moment. He’s hopping from one foot to the other, a potty dance if you’ve ever seen one.
“Go for it,” Eddie says, pointing towards the bathroom. He shakes his head when his son sprints the short distance.
Once the door closes, Eddie’s hands are on your hips, tugging you so close that your stomachs touch, your breasts pressed to his chest. His mouth immediately swoops down to your neck, nipping gently at the flesh along your collarbone.
“Hello there,” you manage to speak through a laugh. You’re unable to say more, as he’s pressing his lips to yours in a hungry kiss so fervently that your teeth nearly click together.
“Hi,” he breathes once he’s pulled back, brushing the tip of his nose against your own. “Sorry, y’just look really pretty.”
You wrinkle your nose in confusion. “I’m wearing sweatpants. I don’t even have makeup on.” Truthfully, you’d meant to at least swipe on some mascara, but you were preoccupied making sure that you’d packed everything you needed for the weekend.
“Don’t care,” Eddie mumbles, leaning in for another kiss, “still s’fuckin’ pretty. Don’t know how I’m gonna keep my hands off of you.”
The solution to that problem comes in the form of a flushing toilet and Harris calling out, “I’m done! Gonna wash my hands!”
Eddie throws his head back in frustration before burying his pink-tinged face in his hands. “This, uh, was not exactly how I imagined our first time in a hotel together,” he admits.
“At least he’s washing his hands,” you joke, trying to ward off the throbbing need building in your core. It fails miserably. You want him, need him, to relieve the ache in the way that only he can. You yearn for the way his fingertips dance across your skin, eagerly reaching under your shirt or dipping below your waistband, desperate to make his girl feel good.
The two of you break apart as the bathroom door swings open. You fly across the room and pretend like you’re rifling through your duffel bag while Eddie flops onto the bed. His shirt rides up slightly as he lays down, and you have to fight the urge to bite the exposed sliver of tummy.
“When are we going to the market?” Harris asks, catapulting himself onto the bed and landing next to his dad.
Eddie rolls over and checks the digital alarm clock between the two queen beds. “Doesn’t start for another few hours,” he says. “I was gonna try and take a quick nap before we—”
“I’m not tired!” Harris whines, and you can see in Eddie’s deflated, tense physicality that his already thin patience is wearing down further. “I wanna go now!”
“Hey, Har Bear,” you try, hoping you’re not inserting yourself into the dynamic too forcefully, “why don’t we go on an adventure while Daddy sleeps? We can wake him up when we get back.”
Harris hops down onto the floor and readily slips his hand into yours. “Bye, Daddy!” he calls out, dragging you towards the door. “Me an’ Ms. Sweetheart are having a ‘venture!”
Eddie gives you a weary but grateful smile as he scoots upwards to rest his head on the overstuffed pillow. “Godspeed,” he mumbles into the sheets, already beginning to doze off as he speaks.
The elevator dings and you shuffle into the small space, reaching for the “L” button to bring you down to the lobby.
“I wanna push the button!” Harris laments, and his sudden shriek has you instinctively pulling your hand back before regaining your composure.
Do you correct him? Let him press the button despite raising his voice? Deciding a consequence comes naturally to you in the classroom, but the anxiety of making the wrong choice serves as a massive roadblock. “You have to ask nicely if you want to push the button,” you offer, sending up a silent prayer that this staves off an impending tantrum.
He pouts for a moment before relenting. “Can I push the button?” It’s more grumble than request, but you accept it anyway.
His hand remains tucked safely into yours when you leave the hotel, basking in warm weather. You breathe in for three, breathe out for three. Okay. You can do this. Your job revolves around children; you can survive an afternoon taking care of just one.
Except that one happens to be your boyfriend’s son, and if you mess this up, it could ruin both Munsons’ perceptions of you.
“Where’re we going?” Harris asks, and you realize that you have no earthly idea; to be honest, you’re surprised that he so readily agreed.
”We can go for a walk?” you suggest, pasting on a smile in feigned confidence. “Maybe we can find a playground or something?”
“Okay!” he chirps. He’s fast for someone with little legs, and you have to remind him multiple times to use his walking feet. Yeah, this kid needs to burn off some energy, stat.
To your relief, there’s a playground just a few blocks away, fully equipped with a swing set and a jungle gym. Harris races across the grassy field onto the wood chip-covered area, assessing the space to figure out what he wants to conquer first.
You sit on the bench next to a woman who simultaneously reads a James Patterson novel and keeps an eye on the jungle gym, where a little girl is dangling from the monkey bars, putting one hand in front of the other.
She looks over with a sympathetic smile when you breathe out a long sigh, sinking into the wooden back like a weight has been removed from your shoulders.
“I hear that,” she says with a kind chuckle. “Mine will be tired for about…hmm, five minutes? Just long enough to get her home, and then she’ll be hopping around like the Energizer Bunny.” She shakes her head. “Is yours the same way?”
Yours. The term is peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth, and it takes a beat too long for you to respond. “Y-Yeah, I’m pretty sure he would sleep run if he could.” The stranger laughs at your joke, and you relax a bit. “Sorry, he’s really my boyfriend’s son, and it’s kind of…new to think of him as being mine, too.”
You expect her to pick up and move to a different bench, away from the weird woman who’s baring her soul on the playground, but she just closes her book and turns to you. “Carly is technically my stepdaughter,” she explains in a hushed tone, “but her mom’s not in the picture so, for all intents and purposes, she’s my daughter. No ‘step’ necessary.”
“Is…is it hard?” you ask, the question spilling from your lips in a desperate plea for answers. “Being a stepmom?”
She nods. “Oh, absolutely.” She brushes a strand of hair from her eyes, and you can see a sparkle behind them. “But, trust me, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
Her words, spoken freely of judgment and purely with empathy, alleviate the nervousness burning through you. “Thank you,” you murmur, gratitude forming a lump in your throat that you struggle to swallow.
“Ms. Sweetheart!” Harris shouts from the top of the jungle gym. “Look what I can do!” He hesitates for a moment before reaching out his arms and grabbing onto the metal pole. You stand up to call out a preemptive warning, to get to him before he can fall, but before you can, his chubby hands grip the pole. He hooks his legs around it and slides down expertly, not letting go until his sneakers are firmly planted on the wood chips scattered across the ground.
Pride warms your heart when his eyes lock with yours, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as he awaits your approval. Anticipation reverberates within his little body, and before you can get in a word edgewise, he’s jumping up and down with an excited, “didja see me?”
“You’re amazing!” Your praise floats through the air and envelops him like a long-awaited embrace. “Super brave, too. I don’t think I could do that.”
He furrows his brows before a knowing smile forms on his lips. “Yes, you can! I’ll show you.”
Kind of walked right into that one, you lightly chastise yourself, but you dutifully shuffle towards where he’s already darting up the steps on all fours, hands splayed out for balance.
“C’mon, Ms. Sweetheart!” Harris cheers, waving his fists in the air in earnest, and you simply cannot let the boy down. He easily glides down once more, big brown eyes looking up at you from the ground. “Just like that, see?”
“Right, got it.” You give him a thumbs-up and emulate his movements, holding on tightly to the metal pole and sliding down. You grimace as it squeaks under your grasp, nails on a chalkboard, but your feet reach the ground soon enough.
Harris flings his arms around you, chin digging into your thigh as he gazes up in adoration. “I told you you could do it! Y’just had to try!” His admiration is fleeting; he soon spots another child leap from the swingset to play elsewhere. “Can you push me on the swings?” he pleads, already leading you to the equipment. “I just need a little help getting started, but then ‘m good.”
You hold the chain links dangling from the top of the structure, allowing Harris to maneuver himself onto the rubber seat. He scoots back so his bottom is fully supported and announces, “‘m ready!”
“Hold on tight,” you remind him, more out of routine than necessity, as you pull back the rust-covered chains. You move as far back as you can, double-checking that he hasn’t let go, and release the swing. His squealing giggles are music to your ears, and you push him a few more times before he’s able to take over independently.
His mop of curls defies gravity as he sails back and forth, pumping his legs to gain height. “Ms. Sweetheart?”
“Hm?”
“Do you love my daddy?”
You ponder the thought for a moment. You know exactly how you feel about Eddie; he simultaneously kicks up the butterflies in your stomach and calms every buzzing nerve in your body with just a smile, but you’re unsure how much he wants to tell Harris. You settle on the truth, direct and simple: “yeah, I do love him.”
Harris wastes no time asking a follow-up question. “A lot or a little?”
“A lot,” you answer quickly, realizing the magnitude of your enamoration as you say it aloud. The way Eddie’s kisses wrap you in an armor of safety; you hope your kisses have the same effect on him. “Definitely a lot.”
He hums his acknowledgement. “Grampa Wayne says Daddy loves you a lot, too, but I can’t ask you to be my mommy yet.”
You freeze in place so suddenly that the swing’s momentum nearly knocks you down; you step out of the way just before his sneaker-clad feet can make contact with your torso. “You want me to be your mommy?” you repeat dumbly, still half-convinced that you heard him incorrectly.
“Mhm,” Harris confirms, “but Grampa says that being a mommy is a big ‘sponsibility, and I gotta be patient. That means I gotta wait until Daddy says it’s okay to ask you,” he elaborates matter-of-factly.
This is clearly something they’ve talked about, extensively enough that Harris knows that he shouldn’t say anything about it. You’re temporarily rendered speechless, words failing you as you search for an appropriate response. Do you thank him? Act like you hadn’t heard him? Hope that a sinkhole opens up in the middle of the playground and swallows you whole?
“Th-That’s great, Har,” you manage, shoulders suddenly heavy with the weight of his statement. He goes back to focusing on pumping his legs, leaving you to tend to the anxiety gnawing at your insides.
Motherhood–the term stepmother seems arbitrary, given that Harris’s biological mother has all but dropped off of the face of the Earth–is a terrifying prospect. Any time you try to explain your fears, people just shrug them off, claiming that you’d be a ‘natural,’ that your years of teaching would ultimately ‘pay off’ when you had children of your own. As if teaching and parenting were remotely the same.
To you, the differences are as clear as day. When you’re a parent, there’s no ‘clocking out.’ Your obligations don’t begin at 9 AM and end at 2 PM; they’re twenty-four hours, seven days a week. It’s not the same thing. Not even close.
Before you became a teacher, you had to go to school and take education courses. Read your textbooks cover to cover. Had to do an internship for a semester. You’d had ample opportunities to determine whether or not it was the right job for you. Motherhood doesn’t offer that luxury: you don’t know if you’ll be a good mom until you’ve already chosen to become one.
“Ms. Sweetheart?” You jump out of your skin when you realize that Harris is slowing himself down, scuffed Reeboks scraping against the ground as he comes to a stop. “Can I get ice cream?”
You bite back a laugh. “You just had a donut, silly boy,” you remind him with a gentle ruffle to his curls, trying to keep your tone breezy, “but we can grab some sandwiches. Maybe even get one for Daddy, too?”
His lower lip quivers, making your heart lurch. “B-But–”
“And,” you interject, “we can go out for ice cream after the market. With Daddy.” You hope it’s a promise you can keep.
It was too good to be true. Deep down, you knew it, despite the fleeting victory of getting Harris to eat an actual lunch. His hands were sticky with peanut butter and jelly–you were making a mental note to reassure Eddie that, yes, some had gotten in his mouth–when you’d done the unthinkable. The unimaginable.
You hadn’t let him press the elevator button.
He howls and sinks down to the floor, knees slamming into the linoleum tile and making him scream even louder.
“Buddy, you’ve got peanut–”
“I wanted to press…the…BUTTON!” he shrieks, every minor inconvenience he’s encountered today culminating in what you can only dub the Tantrum of the Decade. The crash from the sugar rush, not going to the market when he wanted to, the lack of ice cream are represented in every fat tear rolling down his reddening cheeks, in every flail of his legs as you try to scoop him up and bring him into the elevator, in every heaving breath. He’s overtired, overwhelmed, and out of his normal routine.
Your own eyes get misty as the metal door slides shut, enclosing you in a small space that seems to shrink with each wail. The kid has the lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer, while you’re drowning in your own pity.
He’s still sobbing when you reach the third floor, and Eddie’s flying out of the room as soon as he hears the sound of his son crying. Curls disheveled from his nap, crust still at the corners of his eyes. I woke him up, you realize. Another nail in the coffin.
“Wh-What happened?” His voice is raised, not in accusation, but just to be heard over Harris yelling. “Did he get hurt?” He takes Harris from your arms, clutching him to his chest in sheer panic. Reflexively, he inspects his boy’s head, arms, and legs for bruising and blood.
You shake your head, afraid that any attempt to speak will have your voice fracturing into pieces, no better than the little boy’s meltdown.
Fortunately, Harris has no problem filling his dad in. “I–wanted–to push–the button–and–she–said–NO!!!” Each word is punctuated with a hitched breath and is angrier than the last.
Eddie looks at you, more puzzled than worried now that he knows his son is unharmed, and a visit to the emergency room is unnecessary.
“His hands were sticky from his sandwich,” you mutter, unable to make eye contact with either Munson. “Oh, um, this is yours,” you add robotically, handing him the bag containing his hoagie, now a darker shade of brown from the grease it’s soaked up. You wince at how stilted you sound, simply going through the motions, not at all like the enthusiastic presentation you’d planned on the walk back to the hotel.
“Thanks.” Not unappreciative, but far from enthusiastic, and you can’t blame him. “Let’s just, uh, let’s just get him in the room.”
The sleepiness consumes Harris after a few more arduous minutes in his dad’s embrace. Eddie rubs circles on his back to calm him down, tiny shh sounds passing through his teeth. Harris begins to catch his breath; hiccups like aftershocks ricochet in his chest, gradually subsiding into soft snores.
“Jesus,” Eddie whispers as he gingerly places him onto the unmade bed, still warm from where he was lying just moments earlier, “that was one hell of a wake-up call.”
You speak at the same volume as him, though you don’t even have to try. Shame buries your voice deep in your diaphragm. “I’m so sorry.” Your right incisor digs into your lower lip as emotion ravishes you. The absence of Harris’s tantruming creates a loud silence that neither of you have the energy to fill.
“I could say the same to you,” Eddie says with a soft chuckle, taking your hand and squeezing it tight as he sits down on your bed. “His meltdowns are no joke.”
“I should’ve just let him press the damn button.” You’re only half-serious, but your stomach sinks when Eddie says nothing; instead, he carefully unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite. A glob of mustard lands on the parchment paper with a soft plop.
He doesn’t disagree. You made a mistake—two mistakes, if you’re counting the donut fiasco—and Eddie saw it. Saw that you’d failed.
“Did you get enough rest?” It’s a feeble attempt to change the subject, and you both know it, but you go for it anyway.
He lets his knee knock into yours. “Never enough, Sweetheart,” he says with a smile, wiping his lips with the flimsy deli napkin. “But, yeah, I got some sleep.” He leans in and murmurs in your ear, “Would’ve been better with you next to me, though.”
You turn so that your nose brushes his. “If I was laying next to you, you wouldn’t be able to sleep,” you quip, stifling your laughter when he takes your cheeks in his hands and smacks a kiss to your lips.
“I would be a perfect gentleman.” He stretches and exposes the happy trail below his navel. “My eyes are up here,” he teases, catching you checking him out. “And you were worried about me.”
The dynamic shifts back to playful and lighthearted, his joke chipping away at the tension that’s been weighing you down.
“Shut up and eat your sandwich, Munson.”
“Yes, dear.”
You’ve showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes, jeans replacing the ratty sweatpants you’d donned earlier. You’d tried to wash the day’s stress down the drain along with the eucalyptus-scented soap suds, and though you don’t feel completely recharged, you’re ready enough to tackle the market.
Still, you can’t stop yourself from murmuring to Eddie, “d’you want me to stay here with Harris? Just in case it’s too much for him?”
He considers it for a moment before shaking his head, shrugging on his denim jacket. “Nah, he got his nap. Should be fine.”
The little boy in question slips one hand into yours and looks up at you with a grin. Eddie had talked to him earlier, reminded him about expressing himself in ways that didn’t hurt people–or their ears–and Harris apologized tearily. All is forgiven; at least between you and him. You still feel an uneasiness with Eddie, though it may be one-sided, as he’d quietly lamented that you two couldn’t shower together.
“We’re goin’ to the market! We’re goin’ to the market!” Harris chants, shuffling on the balls of his feet in a little dance. “Ms. Sweetheart, guess what?”
“What?”
“WE’RE GOIN’ TO THE MARKET!”
“Shocking,” Eddie mutters under his breath, a wry smile on his lips, and you use your free hand to swat at his stomach. “Okay,” he pats the wallet in the side pocket of his jeans, “got the company card, keys, handsome son, beautiful girlfriend…” He glances around the room; this time, he’s either unaware of his slip-up or is unbothered by Harris knowing your relationship status. “Looks like we’re good to go!”
The car ride isn’t too long; it’s only about a ten minute drive before you reach the market. And since you’d remembered to let Harris press the elevator button, it didn’t feel endless.
“Now, Harris,” Eddie says as his son climbs out of the car, hopping onto the parking lot pavement, “the market’s gonna be busy–”
“I know!”
“--so you have to hold my hand, or Ms. Sweetheart’s hand–”
“I know!”
“--the whole time. Got it?”
“Yes!” He’s far too exasperated for a five-year-old, and you have to bite your cheek to keep from laughing. “Can we go in now?”
Eddie obliges and takes Harris’s right hand; you take his left, the three of you walking towards the gigantic building together.
You’d figured it would be crowded, but you’re unprepared for just how overstimulated your senses become upon entering. Vendors shout advertisements for their booths, beckoning potential customers to check out their wares. Snippets of different conversations infiltrate your ears, and you swallow hard to clear your head, though the grainy muzak pumping through the overhead speakers doesn't help.
Immediately, you spot a booth selling secondhand books, and you look at Eddie with a hopeful gaze.
“Go,” he motions with a smile, laughing when you all but skip off to the stack of novels. You don’t want to take too long, as neither Munson has the patience to wait while you peruse your options. A weathered paperback copy of The Grapes of Wrath catches your eye, some pages dog-eared and smelling faintly of stale smoke, and you fish out two quarters from the bottom of your bag and place them in the vendor’s hand.
“Okay,” you breathe when you get back to Eddie and Harris, overwhelmed just by the short walk. You grip Harris’s hand even tighter, all-too protective of him in such a crowded space. “Let’s go get some records!”
Eddie finds a variety of vinyls that he knows will sell at Rock Records—from older classics like Louis Armstrong, Etta James, and Buddy Holly, to more recent gems from Van Halen, Queen, and Michael Jackson.
“Babe, check this out!” he announces gleefully, showing off a copy of Metallica’s Ride the Lightning. “I must’ve listened to this a hundred times when it was released in ‘84.” His enthusiasm is palpable, and you have to wonder if this purchase is for the store or for himself.
To his credit, Harris lasts a full twenty-five minutes before he starts asking for ice cream again. “You promised, renember?”
Eddie grins at him, then at you. “A promise, huh?” He clicks his tongue. “Can’t break that.”
“I think I saw a booth down there that’s sellIng some.” It’s a local shop, and you know one cone will probably cost more than a half-gallon at the grocery store, but you’ll risk the upcharge if it means avoiding a second meltdown today.
“I’ll be right there,” Eddie tells you, eyes flitting back towards a row of booths you’d passed by earlier. “Just get me something with chocolate?”
“What’s the magic word?” Harris interjects.
“Please.” He lays it on thick, throwing you a wink before turning around.
You grab a $5 bill from your back pocket, change from when you’d bought the sandwiches earlier, and approach the ice cream stand.
“Can I please get one cherry chip cone, one chocolate fudge cone, and…what do you want, Har?”
“That!” He points to a giant display of model cars displayed in front of a toy vendor’s booth. “I want the orange one!”
“We can look after,” you reassure him. “First, you have to pick the ice cream flavor you want.”
“Hmm,” he presses on tiptoes to peruse his options before pressing his forefinger to the glass, pointing to cookies ‘n cream, declaring, “that one!”
The vendor hands him his cone, then turns to you and confirms, “just the three cones?”
“Mhm.”
She punches some numbers into the register, expression far too serious for the gig. “That'll be $6.”
Exhaling, you hand her the bill in your palm. There’s no way the stodgy woman is going to cut you a break for the extra dollar. “Give me a sec; I should have a single in my wallet.” You let go of Harris’s hand, fumbling around in your bag until you pull out what you’ve been searching for.
The vendor takes your money and hands you the remaining two cones, already starting to melt with all of the body heat surrounding you.
“Thank you,” you say with a polite smile. “Okay, Har, let’s—” Your blood runs cold when you realize he’s nowhere to be found. “Harris!” you call out, voice shaking on the last syllable, unable to hide how frantic you feel. “Harris!”
Eddie, already on his way from his earlier errand, runs over to you. “Where’s—”
“He was just here!” You push your way through the crowd, accidentally brushing your scoop of cherry chip along someone’s jacket, but there’s no time to apologize.
You and Eddie take turns yelling out his name, bile rising in your throats with each unanswered shout, until you hear somebody ask, “is that your mommy and daddy calling for you?”
Both your and Eddie’s heads swivel towards the conversation, breathing identical sighs of relief when you see the familiar mop of curls in front of the toy car display.
“Oh, thank God.” It comes out in one breath, your chest deflating as you and Eddie rush towards him.
“Harris, what are you doing?” Eddie admonishes him, heart still racing as the surge of adrenaline tapers off. He picks him up, fingers digging into the shirt fabric as he holds him as close as possible, and presses a kiss to his scalp. There will be some sort of consequence later–revoking TV time and a lecture on stranger danger–but for now, there’s only the comfort of knowing he’s safe.
“I just wanted to see the cars,” Harris protests, trying and failing to wriggle from Eddie’s grip. “Can I get the orange one?”
Eddie huffs out an incredulous laugh, astounded that Harris doesn’t understand the seriousness of his actions. “No, you can’t!” he yells, attracting unwanted attention from other shoppers, “and you can’t wander off like that! I told you that you have to stay with one of us the whole time!” He flexes his palm before clenching it into a frustrated fist. “What were you thinking?”
Harris’s eyes fill with tears. “I j-just wanted to s-see them,” he tries again, taken aback by the anger in his dad’s voice. “An’ Ms. Sweetheart was right there!”
The mention of your nickname reminds Eddie of the other adult involved. “You were supposed to be watching him,” he spits, gritting his teeth to keep from raising his voice at you.
You wince at his tone, filled with venom for the first time since his comment about Grandma forgetting you all those months ago. The difference is that, now, you deserve it. Letting go of his hand was careless; at the very least, you should have reminded him to stay put. The early morning donut, the elevator button were menial indiscretions compared to this mistake. There’s no denying that you’d royally messed up.
“I’m so sorry.” Sorry for not keeping a closer eye on Harris. Sorry for waking him up from his nap via a screaming child. Sorry for waltzing into their lives and thinking you had a snowball’s chance in Hell of being a decent parent. The ice cream drips down the cones and onto your hands, pooling in the crevices between your fingers. You dump them in the nearest trash can, neither of you hungry anymore.
You can’t return to the hotel soon enough, and as soon as Eddie puts an episode of Rugrats on TV for Harris, you begin inconspicuously packing your collecting your toiletries from the bathroom to back in your luggage.
“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks from the doorway. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, perplexion wrinkling his brows.
“Going home.”
He presses his forefinger and thumb to his eyelids and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like–”
“No,” you interrupt him, choking down your frustration, “you were right. You trusted me to watch him, and I didn’t.”
“Hey, hey,” Eddie steps forward and puts out a hand to stop you from grabbing your toothbrush, “it was an accident. Things happen in a split second, yeah?” He thinks back to the way Harris had tumbled off of the bed months ago. “We found him, and that’s what matters.”
He’s trying to comfort you, which somehow makes you feel worse. You lost his kid, but he’s focusing on making you feel better.
The next words out of your mouth shatter his heart into pieces: “I think it would be better for everyone if I leave.”
A small puff of air escapes his nostrils, unsurprised but hurt nonetheless. “‘S too much for you, isn’t it?” he mumbles, not even daring to glance in your direction as he says it.
He knows. He knows that you aren’t cut out for this, that you’ll never be the mom Harris needs or deserves. In his own words, he knows it’s too much for you.
You say nothing in return, and your silence is louder than the cartoon squabble just a few feet away.
“Fine, just…just go, then.” He slams one palm on the bathroom sink, the other raking through his hair so forcefully that a few strands come loose. “God, I need a fucking cigarette!” he mutters, jaw clenched.
“I’m so sorry.” It’s all you can think to say. You’ll repeat it over and over again if it rectifies the situation.
“Yeah, whatever.” He starts to leave the room, not even turning back around to say, “I’ll tell Harris you’re not feeling well.” He wants to ask you to call the hotel room when you get home but bites back the request. That’s something one partner asks of another, and you aren’t partners anymore, he realizes bitterly, and it’s his fault. He’d put the responsibility of parenthood on you far too quickly.
He could have insisted that Harris stay and nap with him rather than letting him go to the park. He could have kept Harris by his side while you got the ice cream, or the three of you could have gone together. Instead, he’d just assumed that this was a role you had no qualms about taking on. In his eagerness to build this little family, he’d squandered the foundation before it had even set.
Eddie watches as you walk away, the words wait and don’t go and we can figure this out lurking behind his molars, but he remains silent.
When the door slams behind you, he bites on his thumb. Go after her, some part of him—his conscience, maybe—nags, but he pushes the thought away. He can’t ask you to stick around and be a mom to his son if it isn't truly what you want to do.
He removes his finger from between his teeth and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, temporarily confused when he’s met with some resistance. The tiny brown paper bag crinkles as his fingers make contact with it, and he pulls it out dejectedly.
He’d spotted the necklace while scavenging for record vendors and made a mental note to return to it when you weren’t there to see. A tiny metal heart on a chain that he’d planned to give to you at the end of the trip. It was the reason he’d left you alone with Harris; he’d wanted it to be a surprise.
“Well, that was a fuckin’ waste,” Eddie says to no one in particular, shoving it back in the confines of his pocket. He sits next to Harris, hoping Tommy Pickles’ shenanigans will melt his brain for just a few moments.
The next bus to Hawkins pulled up thirty minutes after your cab arrived at the station. It was the only way to get home, and an embarrassingly large part of you hoped that Eddie and Harris would swing by, enveloping you in a tight hug and promising you that you’re doing a great job. That you’re enough.
That moment remains a daydream, one that replays over and over as you lean your head against the window. It’s all highway from here to your small town, close to three hours on the road because of the intermediate stops, but you’re in no hurry to return. If it hurts now, you can’t imagine the pain when the loneliness sets in.
Of course Eddie wasn’t coming to rescue you; you’d let him down right when he’d needed you. It was all so superficial on your end, thinking that you could be a mother just because you’d taught Harris how to read and have dinner with him and his dad once a week.
Wallowing in pity is too indulgent, too pathetic, but you can’t keep from berating yourself. You’re a preschool teacher; how hard is it to remember to hold a kid’s hand?
Tears slip down your cheeks involuntarily and you swipe at them before your seat partner can notice. The last thing you need is to strike up an emotional conversation with a complete stranger.
And what is it with you and crying today? Getting choked up when Eddie had pointed out the donut mistake, feeling like you were going to have a meltdown alongside Harris, and now this? It’s like you have an endless supply of tears.
The most likely culprit is your run-of-the-mill PMS; you can always count on being overly sensitive on those select few days. You open your bag and take out the pocket calendar where you keep track of important appointments and dates, including your periods.
Today’s April 26. You flip back to March, rifling through the pages until you see that the first day of your last period was the twentieth.
You’re almost a full week late.
--
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ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ
ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ
"…ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ."
Word count: 5,000.
Fandom: House of the Dragon.
Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.
Warnings: Angst, mention of SA!
RELEASE — 14. Him.
“Is all well, my son?” His mother’s voice pierced through the stillness that had ensnared him. He looked up abruptly, struggling to conceal the emotions threatening to break free.
His concentration had vanished like wisps of smoke caught in a draft. He found himself trapped in a labyrinth of anxieties and questions, all revolving around her and the recent unsettling events. The past night had been an interminable whirlwind of unease.
The day had begun with a purpose as clear as the open sky: to persuade her to heed his words. Yet despite his ceaseless efforts, his quest had borne no fruit. She had vanished like a ghost. He had rapped upon her door in vain and then scoured the castle. Each shadowed corner yielded only the hollow echo of his own distress.
“What?”
“You have been rather distracted these past days” she observed softly, yet her frown was imbued with concern and seriousness. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind, striving to offer her the attentiveness she so rightfully deserved.
“Ser Criston Cole has remarked upon your absence from the training sessions” she continued, her tone carrying a subtle undertone of reproach. “We cannot afford to neglect our obligations.”
It was true that since her arrival, he had forsaken the training yard, abandoning the regimen he had diligently maintained. In the past, he had attended every session, morning and afternoon, as though his existence depended on it. He understood his mother’s concern, yet his recent absences seemed to him a minor transgression in the face of his current preoccupations.
“My apologies” he finally said, resuming his breakfast.
“Shall you return to your training once we have concluded here?” she inquired, a slight tension hanging over the table.
His heart ached to continue searching until he found his way back to her, prepared to spend the entire day in earnest supplication if necessary but the expectation in his mother’s face kept him grounded.
Resigned, he nodded, unwilling to add further burden to her shoulders.
“Yes, mother” he affirmed with a note of acquiescence.
At last, disheartened, feeling as though he had exhausted all avenues, he chose to don his training attire—a gesture both of surrender and a final attempt to refocus on something tangible, seeking to reconcile with his duties.
Hours later, the throne room was a display of opulence, its lavish décor setting the stage for the evening’s festivities. As she entered, her demeanor was one of practiced detachment. Her gaze barely flickered in his direction, as if he were but an extra upon the grand stage. He could not blame her for it, given the delicate state they were in.
They took their places, each occupying their designated end. He was seated at one extremity, while she was positioned at the opposite, separated by the length of the table.
Servants moved with efficiency, finalizing the details of the meal. They ensured that each jug brimmed with wine, every plate was aligned with precision, and trays heaped with an array of sumptuous dishes were delivered.
The side of the table where he sat remained steeped in almost sepulchral silence, broken only by the faint clinking of glasses. In contrast, her side buzzed with vibrant laughter and animated conversation, though she didn’t join in. Her displeasure was palpable, even from a distance.
Remorse devoured him; he knew she had longed for this grand celebration, and he had marred it with his own missteps.
Amidst the chatter, a voice rose with levity. “I believe,” he began, drawing all eyes toward him, “that this presents an excellent opportunity for our young ones to seek out their future spouses.” The king smiled benevolently, he casted a fleeting glance at him and Daeron before refocusing on the other side of the table.
The proclamation struck him like a frigid wave. It was not the notion of marriage itself that unsettled him; he had long accepted that it was expected of him, given his station and age. And he had already resolved it. if it could not be with her, then he would remain unwed.
What tormented him was the vision of her, lost in the pursuit of another’s heart. It was an inescapable truth: she was a princess, the cherished offspring of the heir to the throne, and the most enchanting woman across the seven kingdoms.
His recent declaration had created an insurmountable chasm between them—a cruel expanse that not only severed their bond but also pushed her directly towards the waiting arms of the legion of eager admirers. These suitors, swarming like moths to a flame, would drape her in a garland of hollow praise and feigned affections with their glib tongues.
And he could not bear the thought of her near someone who could only offer nothing but mediocrity, knowing that their fleeting admiration paled in comparison to the boundless true reverence he felt for her.
Across the table, Jacaerys’ broke through his spiraling despair. “They will be around her like vultures” he muttered, the disdain in his tone unmistakable.
He caught sight of a faint, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. This time, rather than offering solace, it seemed to seal the truth of his monumental failure—his efforts to win her back had been spectacularly thwarted.
“Perchance that is exactly what we need” Baela interjected, raising her volume above the others.
He wondered whether Baela had already collected the necessary knowledge to and plotted the course to ensure a husband was found for his beloved princess, considering her animosity toward him. Their eyes briefly met, a short encounter filled with such hostility that he could almost feel her desire to strike him down on the spot.
Regrettably, the grand doors swung open, admitting families and courts from every corner. An anticipatory murmur surged through the assembly, filling the space. She, detached, regarded the spectacle with a resignation he found painfully familiar.
His mind meticulously cataloged the array of stares that had already fixed on her, even before crossing the threshold. It was no small number, indeed, it was far easier to count those who had not yet turned their attention her way. Men, women, elders, and youths alike all seemed to regard themselves as entitled to feast their gazes upon her.
The grim realization settled over him like a shroud: the coming week would be an unrelenting vigil, a ceaseless parade of watchful eyes. Aegon, with a look of pity, patted him on the shoulder.
Once the room was filled to capacity, the king set aside his staff, commanding the attention of all present. “Welcome,” he announced, “it is an honor for me to see so many of you here, united in this celebration. On this very day, thirty years past, I took on the great responsibility of ruling the realm. And, together, we have faced challenges, reaped victories, and preserved the peace we hold so dear.”
“Now, as we embark upon these seven days of festivity, I invite you to enjoy the tournaments, the dances, the hunts, and this modest feast” he added with an ironic tone that elicited mirthful laughter. The extravagance of the feast was anything but modest; excess was the order of the day. “May this time together be an opportunity to strengthen our bonds, remember our history, and look to the future with hope” he concluded, raising his goblet and triggering a wave of applause and jubilant cheers. Music soon began marking the official start.
He barely touched the food, unable to take his focus off the incessant attempts of the men around who kept trying to catch her eye.
Families of high renown approached their table, offering gifts and seeking to exchange words with the king. As each new party arrived, he watched her, trying to gauge her responses. Thankfully, she maintained a polite but aloof demeanor. She offered brief pleasantries that were merely acts of protocol before returning to her conversations with Jacaerys or Baela at her sides.
Yet one individual commanded a singular focus, drawing both her interest and that of the king. His arrival was marked by a northern accent so thick and pronounced that it evoked an involuntary roll of the eye from him. The man introduced himself, as though his identity was not already clear.
Beside him, his brother was eagerly recounting the most recent events with an enthusiasm he couldn’t muster. Daeron seemed to be trying to distract him, but his efforts were in vain; he was too caught up in his thoughts, his mind drifting like a vessel lost on a stormy sea.
The younger narrated the defeats and victories of the participants who had marked the preliminary contests the previous day—contests from which he had deliberately absented himself.
Instead of mingling with the throngs, he had paid a visit to the jeweler, retrieving what he had requested, before turning to the deserted training yard for a grueling session. However, the respite he had sought was elusive; the sword strikes proved no match for the frustration.
In truth, the solace he craved lay solely with her.
She, who perpetually eluded his reach, her avoidance growing more resolute with each passing hour. Despite the desperate pleas of his mind, body, and soul, he had restrained himself from seeking her out, dreading that such actions might only drive her further away.
From the elevated dais, the king’s encouraged the remaining competitors.
That afternoon, the very air seemed to hum with tension. From his vantage on the main balcony, he watched the jousting tourney approaching its climax. Since the first light of dawn, the field had been abuzz with frenetic activity—a ceaseless ballet of combatants and horses that had methodically whittled down the competitors. Now, four of the eight finalists would be selected.
His mother had insisted he attend, suggesting that, if only for a single day, he set aside his reservations about such spectacles. Despite the fact that the idea of facing the neighing of horses, the incessant clamor of the crowd, and the scorching heat of the sun did not appeal to him at all, let alone endure the sight of numerous men vying for the princess’s attention, he had promised to be present.
After a breakfast he could barely taste, he found himself there, weighed down by a favor that laid on her lap, its presence a bitter jest that seemed to mock him.
The first finalist to emerge was his uncle, Gwayne, carrying Helaena’s favor. As the representative of House Hightower, he faced a lord of House Tarly. The lengthy battle was one he scarcely managed to follow to its conclusion.
Following this, the white cloak faced a man of House Massey, and yet another victory was claimed by Cole.
Then came a lord of House Corbray, preparing for his bout against the champion of House Redford. Before taking his position, Corwyn Corbray approached, and to his relief, it was Baela who he called. His hands, which had been tightly clenched around the arms of his chair, could finally relax—though the calm was but momentary.
When the northern made his entrance, a tightening knot settled in his stomach.
He rode forward with an unsettling air of assurance, each step of his steed echoing his unwarranted confidence. As he drew near, his imperious demeanor commanded the arena’s attention, and the balcony fell into a breathless, expectant hush.
“I was hoping, if it pleases you, to be honored with your favor, princess” Lord Stark intoned, his voice dripping with presumption that set his teeth on edge. The sheer audacity of his request struck a chord so deep that he felt a primal urge to unleash Vhagar’s wrath upon the starving wolf, reducing him to ash and rid the world of his unwelcome presence.
The idea was intoxicating, yet, he remained tethered by the frail strands of his dwindling restraint.
He stood rooted, paralyzed by helplessness, as she gracefully got up from her seat and glided to the edge of the balcony. The sight of her giving that token to another man was a visceral blow, a dagger aimed directly at his heart with cruel precision.
The sting of defeat was further compounded by the sound of her light, cheerful laughter. “I wish you success, Lord Stark” she said in a melody of condemnation.
Though he had no right to complain, the agony of witnessing her favoring another while he languished in obscurity was a torment beyond bearing that made him yearn to sink into the shadows or vanish from existence entirely.
She turned back with a smile and settled once more into her seat, now perched at the edge as if seeking a better view, while clasping Jacaerys’s hand.
And, as if the day could not grow more excruciating, Lord Stark proceeded to engage in a match against a representative of House Bolton. Despite his fervent hopes and to his deepest dismay, Stark emerged triumphant in the first round, thereby securing his place in the final stage of the tournament.
In the shroud of nocturnal gloom, after a bath that had done little to soothe his frayed nerves, he sat there, the faint moonlight barely piercing through the darkness.
Despite the patience he believed he possessed, the inactivity became intolerable. The vision of her radiant smile directed at another—one he had helped to foster—replayed ceaselessly in his mind. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare.
With a deep sigh, he closed the small wooden case he had been clutching.
He ventured out into the hallway once it was deserted, each step measured and deliberate, barely audible on the floor. He paused before her chamber, his heart pounding with the ferocity of a drum. He rapped softly upon the door, three times, each knock a quiet plea.
The world seemed to hold its breath in that suspended moment of silence. Then, he heard the distant sound of footsteps approaching, the noise quickening his pulse with a heady blend of hope and dread.
The door creaked open abruptly, and the small smile that had graced her lips vanished upon finding him. Her form, once inviting, was hardened with irritation. “Why is it that you are here?”
“Because If I had knocked on the back door, you would have ignored me” he replied, awkwardly attempting to infuse a note of levity into the tense atmosphere.
“Perhaps that is because I would rather not see you at all” she retorted, sharply.
“But I must speak with you” he said, urgency reflected in his eyes. She made a determined attempt to close the door, but he swiftly interjected, placing his foot against it. The look of fury she gave him was intense, yet he continued to plead. “Please, do not shut me out. It is important.”
She looked at him for a minute that felt like an eternity, in conflict. Then, with a resigned sigh, she allowed him entry.
Once inside, she closed the door behind him and turned, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. The relief he had felt at managing to get in swiftly dissipated, replaced by a mounting anxiety with each passing second.
He found himself immobilized by indecision, the right words eluding him.
“I have brought something for you” he murmured, as if the object might serve as a key to unlocking a more amicable dialogue.
“Do you truly believe a gift can make me forget?” She scoffed, glancing briefly at the case before turning her attention to the other side of the room, as if he was a trespasser in her sanctuary.
“Is he courting you?” The question burst forth, raw, more urgently than he had intended, driven by a need to know that bordered on desperation. Her response was a look of exasperation that deepened his sense of inadequacy.
Before he could gather his thoughts to frame a coherent response, she interrupted him with an impatient edge. “Speak quickly” she commanded, her tone brisk as she moved to the table to pour herself a drink. “It is ill-befitting a man to be found in a lady’s chamber at this late hour.” The coldness she exuded was as piercing and unyielding as the frost of the harshest winter.
The woman who had been the epitome of warmth now showed him an opposing face, a testament of how effectively pain could alter someone.
“I am at a loss for how to begin.” Each blink was a battle against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
She tilted her head slightly, her face inscrutable, but a spark of resolve soon crossed her features. “Perhaps,” she said softly, with a hint of purpose, “I may assist you. I shall ask you some questions.”
Before he could voice his hesitation, she had already begun. Her interrogations, delivered with a steely determination, sliced through the stillness of the room, leaving no space for evasion, deceit or half-truths. Her chambers now felt like a field in a war he hadn't prepared for.
“Is she here now, in the castle?” she inquired. He silently pleaded for mercy, but she didn’t relent. “Answer me” she ordered, her tone growing more imperative.
He struggled for a moment, the ache in his chest swelling as grim recollections emerged from the depths of his memory, rendering him smaller than he had felt in a long time.
“No” he uttered, and he observed a fleeting flicker of both relief and disappointment, as though a part of her had hoped for a different answer.
“Was it only once?”
“Yes.”
“Was it… casual?” she asked, her vulnerability laid bare. “Or do your affections for her run deeper?”
“Of course not.” The assurance fell woefully short even to him. “I cannot even recall her name.”
“What?” Her voice rose with indignation, her brows arching in disbelief and he looked at her, powerless, his shoulders drooping. “How is it possible for you to have forgotten her name?”
“I was not in my right mind that night.” Each word he spoke seemed to dig him further into a pit of dishonor, his penance growing ever more profound.
“But you recall her, do you not?” she demanded. He inclined his head in the slightest of nods. “You remember her face, you remember her body” she pressed further, an unyielding assault on his fragile composure. If he could, he would willingly subject himself to the searing flames of dragonfire to erase those haunting memories. “Is she more beautiful than I?”
He met her gaze, his self-loathing deepened as he beheld the seeds of doubt he had sown in her. “No one could ever be” he asserted with conviction, hoping that his earnest words might mend the cracks in her heart.
Yet, his truthful response didn’t help. Her expression remained unmoved, dismissing his effort to soothe her.
“Did you enjoy it?” Her eyes were bored into him, a search for any telltale sign. “Was it worth it, at least?”
“No” he breathed out.
“Have I ever seen her?” she asked, almost shaking with curiosity and desperation, needing to know every detail. “Is she a lady, a servant?”
A flush of mortification crept up his neck, scorching his cheeks as he grappled with the words. With a heavy sigh, fully aware that it would fortify the wall between them, he began. “No… she is…” he faltered, a relentless hammer pounding at his conscience. “She is a… whore.”
The silence that followed was deafening, and he averted his stare, unable to meet her judgment, as humiliation swallowed him whole.
A veneer of profound skepticism clouded her semblant, as though his assurances were mere fragments of an absurd fable rather than the truth. Her brows knitted together, and a sneer of disdain twisted her lips.
With revulsion, she decided that his words were not worthy of belief. Turning away, she faced the window, her posture as stiff as the cold night air. “My Aemond would never engage in such depravity” she proclaimed.
Her words spilled from her lips like an incantation cast to shield her cherished image of him from the harshness of reality—a vision she had clung to with all the fervor of her heart, and for which he would have sacrificed everything to achieve.
For him, witnessing her deny his sin was a cruel bittersweetness. On one hand, it was agonizing to realize the extent of his betrayal had wrought an irreparable wound in her perception of him.
On the other hand, there lay a strange solace. It spoke to a profound understanding of his true self—she could discern that his errors were entirely at odds with the essence of who he was. Her refusal to accept it was, in its own way, a declaration of faith, a hopeful cry.
“It was a moment of weakness” he insisted, unsteady with earnest desperation as he sought to appeal to her compassion.
“A moment of weakness?” she countered with a sharp edge of disillusionment. “Is this what you truly are—a weak man who cannot resist temptation?”
“It was a grievous mistake.”
“A mistake?” she echoed with rising ire, each word a stinging reprimand to his wounded pride. “Did you leave the castle by mistake? Did you venture to Street of Silk by mistake? Did you lavish her with coins by mistake? Do you take me for a fool?”
“I did not know…” he faltered, each utterance deepening his descent into the abyss of his guilt. “It was a… a gift.”
“A gift?” Her incredulous tone resonated with frustration. “What manner of excuse is that?”
“My brother” he explained. “Aegon wanted to help me, with you. As a gift.”
She scrutinized him, her mind attempting to unravel what his words hadn’t fully explained. The flickering light caught the pained shift in her expression before she asked, her voice tinged with trepidation. “When did this… happen?”
He was aware that the answer he was about to give would only worsen the wound and drive the final nail on his coffin. The thought that she would come to learn that the man who had basked in her devoted care had made such disastrous decisions while she stood by him was a suffering of his own crafting.
Especially on that night, when she had bestowed upon him the most beautiful gifts of her affection, when destiny itself seemed to be sealed with a kiss that marked a new journey for them. He recalled with vivid clarity how he left her waiting, how she had knocked on his door, how she had needed him, and he had just laid there, consumed by regrets.
“The last nameday you spent by my side” he finally confessed.
She fell silent, her face a canvas of disbelief as she struggled to process the information. Gradually, her expression contorted into one of pure horror and sorrow, a devastating amalgam that stole his breath away.
The look they shared was a taut cord, stretching painfully between their hearts. He knew with certainty that he shouldn’t draw closer, that she desired neither his closeness nor his touch.
“I am sorry” he murmured in a plea for redemption. “I am deeply sorry.”
Her tears fell in an unrestrained deluge, cascading as if released from a dam. Without warning, she moved hastily toward him. “Oh, Aemond.”
He stood paralyzed, caught at a crossroads, unsure whether to reach out for her or retreating, fearful of causing further harm. Before he could resolve it, she flung herself at him. But rather than seeking refuge on his chest, she enveloped him with a force that defied logic, as though she wished to meld into him entirely. His arms lay ensnared, trapped between their entwined forms.
She grasped his neck, forcing him to bend down so that his cheek rested upon her shoulder.
He remained in that position as she succumbed to her pain, the urgency of her embrace seeming more a desperate attempt to soothe him than a quest for comfort herself. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor this ephemeral return to the closeness he had so missed, even though the circumstances were heart-wrenching.
In a twist of the unexpected, she wept into his ear, her words barely audible through her cries. “Forgive me.”
When he drew away, her face was swollen, her cheeks streaked with the relentless streams that had left her weary. With shaking hands, she cradled his face. “I am sorry” she repeated, her breath erratic.
“Why?” he asked, overwhelmed with confusion.
“For everything I asked, for all the words I spoke. I am so deeply sorry” she replied, breaking into a choked sob. Her lips quivered as she bit them, her eyes shining with heartache. “You do not understand, do you?”
“It was not your fault” she said, sadness wrapped around her every word. “You were just a child.”
Far from clarity, he looked at her, feeling how the lines of bewilderment etched deeper into his features. Words escaped him as a cry of desperation echoed within him.
A shiver of discomfort washed over him. “I was three and ten” he clarified.
“I know” she answered, soft and broken, steeped in compassion. “My darling boy.”
“Old enough to know better” he countered, heavy with a devastating self-criticism and an unrelenting sense of shame.
She shook her head vehemently, filled with sadness, as if she could see further than he could and had reached the core. “And yet, so innocent to not expect the worst.” Her voice was a whisper, a lament.
Suddenly, an avalanche of thoughts began to assail him, a tumultuous storm of clarity crashing over him with an implacable force. The darkness he had long endured, the misery he had inflicted upon himself, was now shattered by a brutal illumination.
Yes, he was a child.
It wasn’t his fault for not being able to foresee it, stop it, overcome it. They were the ones who took from him what was his to have, to give.
The world began to spin with violence. The dizziness descended upon him brutally, turning the air thick and ungraspable, as if the walls were collapsing inward to crush him. Each breath became a monumental effort, a contest against the suffocation. His legs, once firm, could no longer bear the weight of his own existence, almost collapsing beneath him.
His palms and forehead began to pearl with cold sweat, his vision was blurred and a piercing pain began to carve his chest.
With an instinctive sharpness that only the deepest bond can forge, she immediately perceived the gravity of his plight. Her eyes, before veiled in sadness, now blazed with resolute determination, focused to see him through that ordeal.
Gently, she sat him down, her movements imbued with a stable calm grace that seemed to defy the tumult around them, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her worry. Without hesitation, she procured a glass of water, holding it to his lips. “Drink” she urged, with authority and tenderness.
As he drank, she stayed by his side, her hand softly stroking his back, an attempt to dispel the fog that clouded his senses.
“May I sleep with you tonight?” he ventured, emerging in a manifestation of vulnerability.
“Would you prefer us to stay here, or go to your chambers?”
“The truth is” he murmured, admitting a deeper truth that made him feel even more exposed, “I do not like the view from my window.” She nodded softly, her understanding silent.
After a few minutes, she rose, her movements a dance of sadness and empathy, and went to the door, securing it with the latch. The sound was a promise of safety, a barrier against the outside. She then turned to the basin of water, dipping a linen cloth into its coolness.
Unbeknownst to him, his own soul had overflowed, finding its escape through his eye. As she wiped his face with a tenderness that seemed to absorb not just his tears but the very pain that caused them. She dried her own as well, though her stare promised more.
“May I?” she asked gently, as if seeking permission to navigate his fragile state. He nodded, setting the small wooden case aside.
With meticulous care, she removed his jackets and boots, her hands moving with a reverence of a healer tending to a sacred wound.
As he lay down, he was enveloped by the sweet fragrance of roses that lingered in the sheets. When she joined him, the bed became an oasis, where the burden of that long-festering night began to dissolve in the warmth of her proximity.
He had never confided that to another, for no one else could ever hold a candle to her. She, his sweet princess, who had defended to the hilt the child he once was, now gazed upon him with a love so profound it seemed to radiate from the very depths of her soul and cleared the darkest corners of his.
He cautiously lifted his hand to his face. She watched him in silence as he proceeded, slowly liberating him from the barrier that had shielded him from the world and himself, laying bare more than his wound.
Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld.
“You said I could think of it as a piece of sky, or sea, to remind me that I was destined for something greater” he whispered, referring to the sapphire that replaced his lost eye, “I chose to think of it as a part of you, for you are who I am destined to.”
In her, he discovered acceptance—an unwavering flame that had been there for him all along, waiting patiently to be stoked, to be his salvation.
@callsignwidow @purplegardenwhispers @helaenaluvr @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @squidscottjeans @fossface @truly-abysmal @congenialcat @that-girl-named-alex @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark
#aemond targaryen#house of the dragon#aemond targaryen x female reader#aemond targaryen x reader#ewan mitchell#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen fluff#hotd fanfic#aemond x reader#hotd aemond#cregan stark
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4th July - Part 7 - chris sturniolo x femreader
pt1. pt2. pt3. pt4. pt5. pt6.
chris had rolled his eyes at your words, but had kissed you back passionately. when you pulled away he told you he promised he believed you both, and he respected your friendship with carrington. but you couldn’t get the niggling feeling there was something else. you remember his words. you remember him about to say something, or ask you something, when you were at top golf, and yet you couldn't bring yourself to ask him again what it was.
all you held onto was the way you'd carried on making out, him leant against your kitchen table whilst you stood between his legs, his hands roaming your ass and your thighs as you only parted to look each other and let out a laugh.
"we should probably order an uber" you had said in between kisses, he had groaned in protest before giving the back after your thighs a squeeze and pushing himself off the table.
you had finished your drinks and continued chatting as you waited, laughing at everything and anything as you shown him around your house quickly. you saw the way his eyes darkened when you showed him your bedroom, your dark sheets contrast to the white walls and all the things that made it yours. your photos of your friends, the artwork on the walls, he had took it all in with a smile.
you pull up to the bar now however, a comfortable silence on the way there as you text tara and he had rang his brothers to tell them he’d be home late, and as you step out and both stand on the sidewalk before you go inside, he looks down at your hand briefly and you can tell he’s contemplating taking hold of it.
“is it gonna be weird?” he asks, and you frown. “i mean, holding hands? i’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you after a few drinks.”
you smile. “you’ve not been able to take your hands off me sober.”
“preciously" and he moves closer to you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind.
you smile as you spin around in his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. "no, it wont be weird. im pretty everyone saw us at the party."
chris chuckles, but then his face alters a little. "i know, but this feels different now, don't you think?"
your hearts racing as the energy shifts. yes, this does feel different. before it had been harmless flirtatious fun, even the kiss at the party you could have likely passed off. but since you stepped foot in his house yesterday, it felt like so much more.
"yeah, it does."
he looks at you, his eyes darting around your entire face, before he takes a deep breath. you fury your brows, and he's about to open his mouth to say something but he stops, leans forward and drops you a small kiss. you go onto your tip toes, wrapping your arms around him further before pulling away.
"i could just go home, right now." you whisper, the moment of whatever he wanted to say gone. and he chuckles.
"lets go inside for a couple of drinks, and then i'll take you straight home."
you smile. "my place or yours?"
"my brothers aren't at yours."
"enough said." you smile, before spinning out of his embrace and taking his hand, smiling at a few people smoking cigarettes outside before you walk inside. the comforting smell of the small bar that you have grown to love, the chatter of people all around you.
"i feel nervous" chris whispers into your ear, and you let out a laugh.
"these are your friends too" you say.
"i know but -" and he pauses a second, causing you to look at him. and then he stops. the motion jerking you backwards as he pulls on your hand slightly. you're only a few steps into the bar, and you couldn't see your friends when your eyes first wander in here, but you give him a concerned look.
"is everything okay? are you having second thoughts?" you say, your heart in your chest slightly. was this it? was this what he was trying to say earlier, that niggling feeling in the pit of your stomach.
"no." he shakes his head. then laughs. "god, no. not at all."
your heart alters a little. "so what, chris?"
he smiles, pulling you closer to him. "i really really like you, pretty girl." he whispers. your hearts in your throat again. "like, really like you."
"chris-"
he smiles. "you don't have to say it back, its fine. i just ... want you to know."
now you're laughing, and you place your free hand on the side of his neck. "i really fucking like you too, dumbass."
he doesn't say a word, but he kisses your lips with such force you have to grip his neck to stay upright. when he lets go, he's looking at you with an expression on his face you can't read. but it's too late to ask if theres something else on his mind, because the voice of one person in particular lets you know your friends have spotted you.
"HERE THEY ARE!" the voice booms, followed by a cheer from your friends. you know all eyes are on you, its a small bar usually full of local people, yourselves included, and you blush suddenly at the thought of all the eyes on you.
"is he always like this?" chris says, diverting his eyes to the person in question.
"oh," you chuckle. "this is just the start for carrington."
and then you turn around, dragging chris with you as your eyes find the noise. you were right, heads from other tables have turned but everyone is laughing, and you let out a joking wave as you jokingly strut across to your friends, chris' chuckle loud enough for you to hear behind you.
when you reach the table, taras hands are the first to find yours as you pull away from chris, her eyes wide.
"holy fucking shit, i just watched that WHOLE thing by the door." she says, a smile on her face.
"oh, fuck. did you hear us?" you suddenly feel shy, realising you'd completely lost yourself in him.
she shakes her head. "no, but the look on your face. what did he say?"
you turn around to look at him, his arms currently wrapped around jake in a hug, before a beer is slung into his hand by carrington, who he daps up immediately.
"he really fucking likes me, apparently." you can't help the giggle that escapes you. a fucking giggle. you feel 16 again.
"oh my god" tara squeals, and then she reaches across the table and grabs you your favourite cocktail, already ready and waiting for you. you thank her with a smile and take a sip, before warm hands wrap around your waist. turning your head, you instantly roll your eyes with a laugh.
"sorry, my love. did you expect it to be lover boy?" carrington beams down at you.
"he's not my lover boy, carrington" you say, leaning forward and putting the drink down on the table again, before you spin around in carringtons embrace and properly hug him. he chuckles as he lifts you up off the floor, a squeal escaping your lips as you flick your feet up slightly.
"yeah yeah, whatever." he laughs into your ear before placing you down. "he good to you, yeah?"
"carrington" you say, smacking his arm. "we've been on two dates. calm down."
carrington rolls his eyes before he gives your waist a quick squeeze, and then he's off in the other direction. you laugh and shake your head as you turn to tara.
"how much as he had to drink?" you say, reaching forward and grabbing your own drink again.
"oh god, him and johnnie started hours ago." she rolls her eyes, but theres a smirk on her face too as she takes a sip of her drink. "anyway," she says. "back to mr sturniolo." she says with a giggle, grabbing your hand and dragging you to sit a table away from others ears.
but what you don't see is the prying eyes of chris, staring at you with a mix of what could probably look like sadness, but deep down for some reason he knows its jealousy. he takes a sip from his beer as he watches you engage with carrington, his heart jumping slightly when you spin around and embrace him in a hug, so similar to the way you just did outside with him, and he tries to wash down the feeling with a huge gulp. he feels ridiculous, because he knows you and carrington are friends. at the party, he asked you to be sure, because he'd only met carrington once before and knew how close you had become with him in just a short few months. and at your house earlier on, he was caught off guard more than anything. because fuck, chris wanted you. he wanted you so bad he would call it pathetic, actually. he had never in his life felt this way for anyone, and to see another mans hands on you made him feel queasy.
he notices you sit down with tara at a table not too far away, and he can see as you're both leant in together, laughing and giggling as the two of you talk. he hope its about him, the way even from his position he can see you're blushing slightly, but that niggling feeling in the back of his head tells him maybe it isn't.
but of course it is. the margarita tara threw in your hand is already almost gone and you know its because you're feeling giddy. tara listens as you tell her about top golf, as you tell her about the way you know damn well if carrington hadn't have called, you wouldn't be here right now and you'd have probably had sex in every corner of your house, and you admit how badly you want him, in every way possible.
when you finally walk back up to him just a few minutes later, his eyes bore yours the entire way across the small bar until you reach his side, and when you do, his arm wraps around your back and pulls you into him immediately.
"am i going to have to get used to you and tara running off together?" he says, as you replicate his arm and wrap yours arm around his front.
"im afraid, yes" you giggle, the margarita already flushing through your body. he laughs as he bends down to plant a soft kiss on your lips.
"what where you yapping about?" he asks. he knows he has no right to know, and he knows it was risky invading your privacy with such a question, but his heart rate slows down a little once you laugh and lean yourself into his side a little more.
"thats for us to know, and you to find out." you say, before pulling yourself away from him and embracing in a hug with jake and johnnie. chris gulps down the rest of his beer in one, that surge of jealousy running through his body again at the concept of you blushing over another man, and he can't help his actions for the rest of the night.
you know chris had said he wouldn't be able to take his hands off you, but you hadn't realised just how comfortable he would feel in front of all your friends. if you weren't by his side you could see him looking at you every minute or so. if you were by his side, his hand was somewhere on your body, and if you had a quiet moment alone, his lips where always on yours.
"you weren't joking about not being able to keep your hands to yourself" you whisper into his ear as you both stand at the bar now, and his head whips down to look at you immediately, a drunken haze covering his eyes, but just as he's about to say something his eyes look over your shoulder and you instantly turn around, a smile escaping you as carrington comes up close beside you.
what you hadn't caught onto, was that every time chris was staring at you, or every time he had his hands on you, was usually because carrington had had his hands on you not too long before. not that chris doesn't want to touch you anyway, cause god he really does, but he knows he'd likely be less obvious about it if carrington wasn't here too. and he doesn't know why, and he cannot control the way he feels, but maybe its because as much as he wants you, you technically aren't actually his, and you were free to do what you wanted, and those irrational thoughts in his head told him that carrington could likely have you in one swift motion.
"what can i get my girl to drink?" carrington asks, nudging your shoulder. he's far beyond drunk at this point but you do admire the way he can handle himself. you ignore the pet name, at this point this just feels normal for the two of you, but you don't ignore the way chris' fingers start to trace lines against your arm. carrington looks to the side of you and see's chris, and then leans into your ear. "and whats lover boy drinking?"
"carrington" you say, giving his arm a nudge which only erupts him into laughter, which you can't help but follow suit.
chris hand now lands against your elbow, and you feel as he shifts his position slightly so he's standing a little behind you, the corner of his hip pressing into the small of your back.
carrington laughs at you, nudging you back before looking back towards the bar. the barmaid looks at him and is walking over within seconds, and you roll your eyes.
"you dont even need to say anything, that charm of yours is insane" you say, you and chris had been stood here for maybe only two minutes prior, but there was no denying carringtons overall aura always got peoples attention quicker.
"what can i say, baby?" he mocks, giving you a wink.
in the same breath, chris' hip is no longer connected with the small of your back, but instead both his hands are pulling you backwards, slamming you into his chest tightly, before his hands snake around and lift up your t-shirt, a little, letting his thumbs rest just above your waistband.
you're about to turn to look at him, his touch sending goosebumps all around your body, when you feel his mouth close to your ear.
"tell him we're going home" he whisper, and you spin your head around to look at him, his eyes boring into carrington at just the time you hear him speak.
"what you both having?" you hear carrington say, and then it hits you. the touching. the almost clingy behaviour, is because of carrington. a small smirk plays on your lips, before you turn around to meet carringtons eyes.
"i think we're going to head off, actually" you say, and chris dips his finger into the waistband of your jeans after your words. carrington looks you over, before he shrugs and turns back around, paying for the drink he just ordered for himself.
you twist your position ever so slightly to look at chris, and he gives you a smile as he finally removes his hands from your body, a satisfied look across his face.
and its so obvious. he's jealous. he's been jealous all night.
you hadn't paid much attention, but it makes sense. you can't deny that you and carrington are touchy with each other. carringtons love language is most defiantly touch and sometimes you can't help yourself but touch him back. the soft brushes of your hand on his, the random hugs, the shoulder nudges, the close proximity and hand on shoulder as you spoke into each others ear. to you both, and to your friends, its completely platonic, but the reality kicks that regardless of what you say to chris, he still doesn't fully believe you. or maybe he does, and he's trying to prove a point.
when carrington finally turns back around, a drink in hand. you test the waters. you smile, stepping forward away from chris' body, and immediately wrap your arms around carringtons neck. he's drunk and he's simply just carrington, so he throws his arm around your waist. but you cling a little longer than you usually would, before you pull away, dragging your hands down his arms slowly as you do so. a smirk erupts over carringtons face as he holds onto your waist.
"thank you for a great evening" you say, before flicking your hair across your shoulder.
chris laughs behind you.
"you know you're my favourite lady" carrington says, giving your waist a small squeeze. you shrug, acting like its not big deal, and then you finally pull away, turning yourself around to face chris. he's looking at you with such an intense look you can only smirk. his gaze is cut off by carrington, who's holding out his hand to chris to shake it, and you lean back against the bar, arching your back a little so your t-shirt pulls up slightly, and you dim your eyes to look at them both.
"nice to see you man," carrington say, and chris smiles.
"you too"
and then carringtons walking back off over to your group, and chris watches him before he finally divert his eyes to you. you push yourself off the bar, a smirk on your face as you met him in the middle, but you don't touch him.
"you are unbelievable when you are jealous" you say. he smirks.
"and you are unbelievable when you are trying to get a reaction out of me."
you shrug. "i've not idea what you're talking about."
he grabs your hand, pulling you closer to him as he fingers come up to your chin as he nudges you so you're forced to look up at him. your hearts in your mouth as he runs his thumb along your bottom lip.
"remember what i said to you, before i fucked you. in my bed, let me remind you." he eventuates the my and it triggers your memory. but you keep your face neutral, and you look out a shrug. he smirks.
"i said, and quote, oh youre so mine after this"
of course you remembered. how could you forget? that particular sentenced had replayed in your head a 100 times since it happened just yesterday. you smile.
"ah, yes. you never followed up though, did you? it was just words."
he scoffs. "just words?" his grip on your jaw get tighter and you're melting. you're going to literally die under his touch if this teasing and this flirting doesn't end and his lips don't touch yours within the next 20 seconds. but you can't stop yourself.
"i don't recall a moment of you officially making me yours. so from my eyes, im a free woman." but you're looking at him so intensely, that its impossible to miss the way his face switches slightly, and suddenly you're no longer wanting to flirt and you're scared that actually, you've taken it too far. maybe it was too much. you wanted him so bad it was killing you, actually, and you were most defiantly not a free woman. but then he laughs, and he presses his forehead to yours as he drops his hand from your jaw, grabbing hold of your free hand so now both your hands are clasped together.
"i did not want to do this drunk" he starts, and you fear he can hear your heartbeat from here. "i tried to do it earlier, at top golf, but we got interrupted and i felt stupid"
"what, chris?" you say, and you hope he doesn't hear the little shake in your voice. he smiles, pulling his head away from yours and twisting your hands around so he's not just holding them, but he's interlocked each finger with his own.
"i tried to do it earlier, too. but carrington interrupted us and i thought no, maybe this isn't the right time."
"what, chris?" you say again. and he laughs, throwing his head back a little before looking back at you.
"will you actually, genuinely, be mine? i know its quick, but i'm so certain about you. like actually so certain. the way i've felt today watching you, its not normal. so please, will you by my girl?"
you're going to combust, there and then. you don't have words as you crash your lips to his. he's taken by surprise, at first, but then his hands unlock from yours and they're straight to your hair, and your hands are on his waist as you try and reach on your tip toes to kiss him deeper. but its impossible, so you pull away, both breathless slightly, and theres a sweet crimson twinge to his cheeks.
"is that a yes?" he says, and you laugh. you laugh so hard as you throw your arms around his neck.
"of course its a yes, dumbass."
he chuckles as he throws his arms around your back, his thumbs rubbing against you as you linger in his touch for a second, and suddenly being at the bar is the last place you want to be. your mind going to just a few moments before, when he told you to tell carrington you were going home, and you're giddy on top of the already giddy feeling.
"come back to mine, right now" you say, and suddenly his gaze turns different.
"im right behind you" he whispers, before he places a soft kiss on your lips.
and you turn around, oblivious to your friends and not even thinking about saying goodbye, as you drag chris by the hand and outside into the fresh air.
TAGLIST : @spencerstits @chrissturnsss @slut4chriss @valkatriee @sturnsjtop @viiiwwwee @gwennysturniolo @melanch0lybby @sturnioloblues @mattstrombolii @sturnsbella @hearteyes4chris @le4hsblog @nervoussagittarius @chrissypook @sarosfilms @somegirlfromasgard @carringtonsgirlfriend @h3arts4harry @cherib3lla @rebelliousmuse @freshlovah0e @mattslovverr @melaniesturn
#chris sturniolo x reader#sturniolo triplets#matt sturniolo#chris sturniolo fluff#nick sturniolo#chris sturniolo#chris sturniolo smut#matt sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo fanfic#tara yummy#carrington usa#nathan doe#carrington x reader#Jake webber
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more than this (azriel x reader)
summary: after Azriel and reader had a summer together, the last thing Az was expecting was to face her again. (angst).
previous chapter, next chapter
chapter seven
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆
Days passed. Countless days passed. Nothing happened in between them. You woke up, you ate, and you went to sleep. That was it. Emptiness.
Two months ago, thought, it were different. After leaving Helion’s palace, an unbearable pain reigned your heart. You woke up, you cried all day, and you went to sleep. But now you had no more tears left.
Just emptiness.
And constant banging on your head.
Or is it a knock on the door?
Another knock.
Another knock.
You rose from the ground, ungracefully and dizzy. “Go away!” you shout as you walk to the door of the old and poorly lit apartment you had rented. But the knocking doesn’t subside.
“What do y-” But your words fade as you see the person knocking.
“Hi,” she smiles faintly. “It’s been a long time, Y/n.”
You open your mouth. You close it. And you try talking again.
“Elain?”
Her forced smile fades into an empathetic look. Her expressive face has always been easy to read. Her next words are harder to understand, though.
“I really hated you, you know. Utter, raw hate. And maybe I still hate you a bit. But… despite that, you deserve to know more about Azriel.”
She hates you. Understandable. She wants to talk about Azriel. That makes no sense at all.
When you finally manage to word something, you ask her, “Know what?”
“Well - could I come in first? It’s freezing here. And this may take a while.”
You let her in and guide here to the couch. Your mind is blank as you prepare some tea for the both of you. Is still blank when you start mindlessly listening to Elain talk about the weather, your family, and other things you can’t quite hear because your head is full of one clear scream:
Azriel!
“Elain,” you cut her off mid-sentence. “Please, just - what is it that you really came here for? Earlier you said something about Azriel.”
“I know. I know,” she replies softly. She inhales deeply. “I don’t know where to start...”
It was a sad day. Rain kept pouring and I felt lonely in my room. Only the drops of water accompanied me.
Or at least that was until I saw them. Azriel’s shadows. And like smoke warns you about fire. His shadows only meant he was next.
“Do not hide,” I commanded, no longer vulnerable against he who had broken my heart.
Then, he appeared, wearing black clothes, as obscure as his semblance. Sad eyes watched me back. Guilt and tears mixed in their dark color.
“I am not hiding, Elain,” he said, softly as a whisper. “Not anymore.”
The pain in his voice moved me. He sounded miserable. He looked miserable.
I walked to Azriel. Yes, I was mad at him. But that didn’t dismiss the love I still had for him - the worry I felt for him.
The moment I laid a hand on him, barely a touch, he broke. He moved to hug me desperately as he cried and begged for forgiveness.
He confessed what we both knew I knew. That he had been with Y/n that summer. And that he still loved her after it. He said he wished he hadn't hurt me. And that he was sorry. So sorry.
He kept crying for so long it shocked me. He never showed me his feelings, but now, here he was, crying and sobbing as if he had never been touched by sadness before.
Once I accomplished to soothe him a bit, he told me what had happened. He told me trough sobs he had found his mate. He didn’t have to tell me her name. I knew.
I had always known. Since the very first moment he had returned home after summer, I had known there had been someone. And I knew she was much more for him than just a someone. Even if he lied to me. Even if he lied to himself.
But a bond… No lie can conceal the mating bond.
Not even a lie to believe there is one. But he had tried to believe for so long that he would find one in me. In us.
I felt like a disappointment every day that passed and the bond didn’t snap. I felt like that was the only way to prove myself worthy of his love. Had he had known we weren't mates earlier, I knew he wouldn’t have wasted a second on me.
That was Azriel. A male obsessed with finding a mating bond and feeling unloved. It was a vicious circle he had entered. And I had jumped to the spiral with him…
“And so did I,” you say.
Elain's eyes find yours in surprise when she hears you, like as she had been lost in her story. You know that feeling quite well. Memories with Azriel cut bone-deep and are always there to stay and come to the surface whenever they want.
“And so did you,” she breathes. Then she chooses silence, still reeling from her confessions.
You have a feeling that day she’s talking about was the day Azriel had left. The day the bond had snapped. The day you told him…
You inhale deeply. Trying to think of something else.
“Y/n,” she calls. “The truth is, I hate you. You must have guessed that of course; I know I was rude to you when we first met. I pretended I didn't know anything so I could go on hurting you without consequence." She sighs and adds, "And I also hate him. I wish I didn’t, but I hate you both. He’s broken my heart, and you are the main reason as for he has done so. But, I had been thinking these months. About everything. But, especially, about where this anger comes from.”
You watch as she wipes her tears. And your heart breaks for her. But, you can’t do anything, so you just continue listening to what she has to say.
“And the truth is - you’ve just gotten what I always had wished for. A mating bond. It’s the only thing I’ve always wanted since I met Azriel. I hated the thought of being tied to anyone before that. But with Azriel, I wanted nothing else. And now…now I will never have that. Because you have it.”
Silence breaks in through the truths she’s sharing. And you both just sit with them like that. Guilt and sadness filling your heart.
You let Elain take her time, and even though she claims to hate you, her kind eyes tell you she’s thankful for giving her a moment.
“And… well, that though I had for many weeks. That you shared the bond with him and I didn’t. And to go through those weeks, I tried to use something he’d told me. That you hadn’t accepted it. That you hated him. I tried to convince myself that that made us even. I didn’t have the bond, but you, in a way, didn’t either. However, that didn’t do anything to make it better for me. It even made it worse. You had what I would’ve killed for, and you just - didn’t care. You had let him go. And well - I guess that is why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand. You’ve come here because I didn’t accept the bond?” you ask surprised and shocked.
“Yes. And because I want you to accept it.”
Your jaw nearly drops, and you have to close your eyes as you try to make some sense of this. Azriel cheats on her, and she wants for him to have his mating bond accepted by the one girl he’s cheated her with. What -
And not only that. Does she not know how much damage he’s done to you to?
“Elain, but-”
“I know. I know. That day, he told me everything. I know what he did to you. I know you didn’t know about me. That doesn’t make me hate you less. But it also doesn’t mean you don’t love him still.”
“What, but I-
“You deny it?” she asks, her eyebrows accusingly risen.
Of course you don’t. You will never deny loving him. And so you stay silent.
“Listen, I know you are angry at him. A lot. But not half as much he is with himself. He hates himself for what he did to me and for what he did to you. And I know exactly how hard it will be to forgive him, but, you have to. It’s as simple as that.”
“No, no it’s not,” you whisper, almost on the verge of tears.
“It is. You are mated. You love him, and he loves you. And…” She swallows and adds, “He doesn't love you because you are mated, he loved you long before that. Even when he thought it was supposed to be me. It was always you for him. It is that simple.”
Your cheeks are wet and your eyes hurt from shutting them so tightly when you feel her hand on your arm, caressing you like as she held love for you. You think how you could have ever hated this girl.
“Elain.”
“Yes?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for me. Only be sorry for yourself if you let anger ruin the most precious treasure the gods have given you.”
“The mating bond.”
She cocks her head. “No.” You look up to find her eyes. “A soulmate. Someone that, with or without that bond, is made for you. And Azriel is.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh,” she laughs softly.
“But, I don’t think he wants it anymore. I told him some things that-”
“Y/n, listen. Azriel loves you still just as much as you love him. No matter what he did. No matter what you said, your souls are tied. And your love hasn’t gone anywhere. Do not waste it.”
And her clear words make it dawn upon you.
A revelation; You have to go find him. See for yourself that your love still has a chance.
You smile at her, and she returns your smile softly.
The path to here has been difficult and blurry. What Azriel did is not completely amended. His mistakes have been done. And so are yours. But you are ready to forgive, if he is ready to be better. And you know he is. Because now, with this love you let yourself feel for him, the path seems easier and clearer.
You know you both have things to solve, and talk. But love will be there with you every step of the way.
And not only love.
The mating bond.
“Do not waste what so many wish for when they look up to the stars.”
HEY! IF YOU LIKED THIS, YOU CAN CHECK OUT MY AZRIEL MASTERLIST HERE <3
Just one more chapter to goooo. I know our little Azriel hasn't appeared on this one, but he will of course be on the grand finale. Prepare yourselfs for a lovely ending to this story. Hope you liked it as I've loved getting back here to write for More Than This. Please know I much appreciate when you engage with my posts, especially when you comment nice things :) Thanku for reading.
-Characters by Sarah J. Maas
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#azriel x reader#azriel angst#azriel#azriel x female!reader#azriel x you#azriel acotar#azriel shadowsinger#azriel x y/n#acotar fic#azriel fanfic#azriel fic#az imagine#azriel imagine
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→ Somewhere In Your Heart, Ch.2: A New Window
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!reader.
Rating: Explicit.
Setting: Pre-canon; in the early 1980s.
word count: 2.6k.
Warnings/Tags: Abusive relationship, angst, self-care, Ben's potty mouth, dick talk (It's Ben, what do you expect?), implied non/dub-con, power imbalance, misogyny, implied prostitution...
Summary: Soldier Boy lives through the ennui of his peak, but everything is about to change when he has a shift in his heart.
When your manager told you you were to sing side by side with Soldier Boy, you didn't believe him. Despite the fact Jack has a strong proclivity to humour — depraved humour at that, you know he seldom jests about business. Jack has a strict code when it comes to you. His precious little asset. So, when he says you are to sing with America's greatest hero, then you are.
“S-Soldier Boy?” Your voice is but a squeaky hush. You still find it intimidating, albeit quite ironic to say the least.
In spite of your stupor, you curb a scoff and suffice to have a private laugh between you and yourself. You never thought the Soldier Boy would be easy.
Jack smirks, his foxy eyes glimmering, “I had a call with the Legend early this morning, he said Soldier Boy had made a specific request for a collaboration with you. He wants you to stand by his side for his next cover song.”
As you come off it, you realise it really shouldn't have been a surprise to you. The man literally eye-fucked you last night with his rather captivating green eyes. You could perceive the primal desire that seared within them when he spoke and flirted with you. You're used to this kind of reaction from men, of course. You weren't in the entertainment industry for that long, but you've always fancied yourself a quick learner; and Jack made sure you learn faster. The real surprise to you is that Soldier Boy is being subtle about it. You gotta hand it to him, you're rather impressed.
“You seem to have made quite the impression on Soldier Boy last night, sweetheart.” Jack remarks, and you smile slightly, “Thanks to me, of course, I think I taught you well…”
Your smile falters a bit, because you know he's not saying that out of the sheer notion of teasing you. No, of course not, he can't but give himself the credits, he made you after all. You can't deny the fact; he salvaged you from the cruelty of being in the streets years ago, and made you what you've become today. A promising diva with a magnificent ore.
“What should I ever be without you?” You humour him with a smile, as he's always taught you. Do not contradict a man, especially one with power.
“The pole-smoke you had been before I plucked you from the streets.” His smirk widens, and the sly gaze Jack is giving her doesn't settle well in her.
Jack stands up from his seat and saunters down to you. His thumb strokes your lower lip, the unctuous gentleness makes your stomach roil.
“Listen to me, my pretty slut,” He tugs a strand of hair out of your face behind your ear, the maliciousness in his voice is well-coated with perfected inveiglement. His thumb is back to your lower lip, “You will go to Vought, do your supposed rehearsals, and indulge every whim Soldier Boy wants from you… even if he wants to muffle his cuban cigars in your pretty tits” He yanks her jaws up to make you look at him in the eyes, ignoring your small whimper, “Because you and I are both aware that he isn't only after that pretty voice of yours. Don’t you dare fuck this up, understood?”
You swallow the large bile in the back of your throat. Jack smiles at the vehemence of your nod. “Y-Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.” He loosens his grip slightly. “Think of the offers you'll be lavished with after you sing next to Soldier Boy. You'll be one hell of a star, my star. Your pictures will be all over the country, and fuck, who knows, maybe you'd have a chance in L.A. too.”
Your mind floods with snaps of what your future might be. It wanders away, on a red carpet, where your heeled feet would treat with a swagger. Surrounded by camera flashes and ardent fans, just wanting you to look in their direction. And maybe, just maybe, Jack wouldn't be up on your ass anymore.
You shake your head back into the present. “What’s the song gonna be any way?” You ask Jack.
“Who fucking cares?” The latter shrugs, glancing at his wristwatch, “How about you find out yourself? Legend said Vought would send a private car to get you today.”
“So soon?” Your shoulders slump a bit.
“Is that hesitation I'm hearing?” He glares.
“N-No,” You gulp, “I’m just… it's happening a little too fast, don't you think?” Her lips curl in a dither smile.
Jack's frown deepens, “Aren’t you eager to make history?” He snickers, “Of course, a lowly whore like you isn't accustomed to the high steps of the ladder; you've always belonged at the bottom of it. What was I thinking.”
Tears start to burn in your eyes. You wonder why he's always so cruel to you? You always did what he wanted to please him. Before you started to perform at private parties and festivities, Jack used to drag you from an awful club to an even worse club, and exploited your voice and your other talents to fill up his pockets, under the excuse of enlarging and extending your audience; a good entertainer would perform for all of kind of people, he claimed. Promising that you'd make it up the ladder before you even knew it if you kept plugging. But now, and when you're at the threshold of achieving what he's always drilling into you, he is nothing but disparaging.
“No.” Your voice surprises you as it comes out with a defying tone.
“What’d you say?” Jack raises a brow.
“I said no, I don't belong to the bottom of the ladder.”
You expected the backhand slap, but you didn't expect it to make your mouth bleed.
“You’re my slut, my whore, I made you. Don't you dare concur yourself with me.” He seethes.
You grimace at the taste of iron as you swallow your blood silently, tears streaming down your cheeks.
Jack seems to rouse from his fit as his head tilts to the side. “Oh, no no, what’d I do?” He pulls his silky, cerulean handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs it gently on the corner of your mouth.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He murmurs, and you give him a weak, sanguine smile. When he's done, he tells you, “Do cover it up with some makeup; we don't want Soldier Boy to see your pretty face worked up, do we?” He grins, but it's empty of any sliver of sympathy. “Now, shake a leg, would you? Legend said Soldier Boy wanted to see you by noon. We don't want to give them the impression that we're a bunch of slackers, do we?”
You nod meekly.
Ben groans in pleasure, his body shivering in a long lost voraciousness. He wonders if the curl of your lips when you smiled at him and the enchanting glance of your eyes have something to do with that as his load washes abundantly on his hand. He's so engrossed in his high that he doesn't detect the knocks on his door.
“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Legend grouses, his head whipping away the moment he steps into Soldier Boy's bedroom.
The latter only smirks, deft hands tugging his softening cock back in his pants. “What’s the matter? Can't look at what you don't possess?” He drawls smugly, his voice saturated with a satisfied rasp from his recent ecstasy.
“I fucking knocked! Good thing I'm not an enemy.” Legend rolls his eyes behind his shades, “Who woulda thought Soldier Boy could be shanked when he whacked off.” Legend sneers, savouring in having this sleazy clapback at the supe.
Soldier Boy's smik widens, zipping his gear pants, “You’re just saying that because my dick is twice as yours.”
Legend appears to be quite unfazed, “Well, yeah, but I never had a woman who refused an ass-fuck because of it.” He sighs, “Anyway, Ms. (L/N), is here.”
“Fucking finally…” Ben perks up, a huge smile on his face. But the Legend's slight frown makes his eyes roll. “What is it?” It's not like he wants the latter’s approval, but Legend has proven his viewpoints can be useful when it comes to Soldier Boy's career.
“Look, I know the gal has the voice and the looks.” Legend says, “But don't you think she's way… below you?” Ben raises a brow as Legend continues, “There are many better options, just saying…”
Ben clicks his tongue, his temper is starting to fume, “She’s a fucking blast. She has the fucking talent. Isn't it your job to look out for talents?”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’s her or nothin’.” Soldier Boy asserts, and when he reads hesitance on Legend's face, he adds, “You can still have Noir do it if you want to.” He shrugs, "But here you are, you handed it to me, because you know that I get how the job's done, and nobody can pull it off like me.”
“Fine!” Legend acquiesces, it's not like he has much of a choice. “I hope you're fucking right about her.” And you're not only thinking with your dick.
“Atta boy!” Soldier Boy pats his shoulder, “Now we don't want to keep the next diva waiting, do we?”
Your heart is pounding in your chest despite how hard you're trying to maintain your cocksure exterior.
Don't you fuck this up.
Jack's words trill in your head again and again. You close your eyes and huffs an elongated breath through your nostrils. He didn't come with you, but his agonising words never leave you, and the skeptical looks shot in your direction from Vought employees passing by don't make it any better.
What am I doing here?
You question yourself again.
To make history.
Jack's words ring again in your ears.
Although you're too immersed in your thoughts, you notice the blur of green and eagle of a man sauntering down in your way with a couple of men at the either of his side.
Your mask involuntarily slips on your face as your lips concoct a conceited grin that mirrors the cocky smirk on Soldier Boy's face. You stand up to say hello.
“We meet again, honey bun.”
“Pleasure to meet you again, sir.”
Your mustered aplomb starts to waver at the mere sight of him in that green suit; it makes you hold your breath. Soldier Boy himself is standing in front of you in his green glory with his gloved hand extended to you. He looks so different from the man you met yesterday. Maybe because of his supe suit. However, you're glad he isn't wearing the helmet, his revealed face brought some familiarity to the man you met before.
He leans in to press a kiss on your knuckles as you take his offered hand to shake.
“The pleasure is all mine, (Y/N).”
You resist the heat travelling up to your ears. “Thank you, sir.”
“Please, call me Ben.” He says in a somewhat ordering tone and you nod.
Soldier Boy introduces you to Legend and you shake the latter's hand too. The three of you make it to a nearby room to discuss business.
“I’d like to thank Soldier — Ben for giving me such an opportunity to perform by his side. I'm honoured, sir.” You start. “I’m gonna make sure it's worth your while.”
“You’ll sure do, dollface, you'll sure do.” He pours you and himself a glass of liquor, letting Legend pour his own glass which makes you raise a brow. It's still midday. You politely turn down the glass.
You and I are both aware that he isn't only after that pretty voice of yours.
Jack's words ring in your ear. You can clearly picture his smirking face staring at you.
“I was at the wedding last night, y'know,” Legend lights up a cigar as he drawls, “And let me tell ya that recognising a talent when I see or hear it is what pays my bills.” He takes a drag and puffs it out of his nostrils.
You thank him before he asks you about your career, making it feel like it's a job interview or something of the sort. You tell him the story you tell everybody. That you've always had a knack for singing ever since you were a child. And you used to sing at school, then you continued your passion and sang in bars and clubs until Jack beheld one of your performances and took you under his wing ever since. Which it's true, sort of.
“Jack is a good teach, he taught me everything I know to entertain my audience.” Your eyes flit momentarily at Soldier Boy whose eyes never leave you, then you grin back at Legend, “Making him a lot much like you sir. He flushes out the talent when he sees it.”
Legend grins back, taking another waft of his cigar, “Has he ever had you perform for another media before?”
You shake your head, “No, sir, my audience is still limited.”
“Ah, perfect, what could be better than a talented new face,” Legend says, “Well, I think we're all in for a treat, sweetheart. Vought would be happy to introduce you to the public. A pretty new face with a beautiful voice, singing for the first time and next to Soldier Boy. I think that would give you a great privilege if you tipped your cards right…”
“And it can be more than a one-time thing…” Soldier Boy adds, a satisfied grin on his face, but you didn't miss the way Legend's lips twitch.
“Are you trying to employ me, sir?” You raise an eyebrow.
“We’re offering you a chance of a lifetime.” Legend takes another drag, which seems rather an elongated sigh than a normal puff, “Our entertainment business is always happy to make and nurture gifted new faces.”
You stay silent for a moment. This is big. Unbelievably big. You're literally being offered a job at Vought. It's something you wouldn't even dare dreaming about. Jack didn't tell you anything about this.
Don't you fuck it up.
Jack's voice reverberates in the back of your head again.
“But I'm not a supe, sir, how come I'd be useful for the company?” You ask. “And what about Jack?”
You could've sworn you saw the slightest irritation in Soldier Boy's eyes.
“Do you see me with one, sweetheart?” Legend lets out an amused snore, “Yet, here I am.” He splays his arms open in showboat manner. “As for Jack, he'll still be your manager under our terms, of course, as agreed accordingly.”
Your eyebrows furrow. As agreed accordingly? Of course, you scoff internally. He's already sold you out to Vought the moment he sniffed the smell of cash. Well, you can't argue with that really; you owe the man your life. You're his, like her always tells you.
Despite everything being played out of your control, you still insist on having a say in this, or at least to seem so.
“Good,” You smile cordially, “Because I'd have humbly declined your offer hadn't Jack been kept in the picture.”
“Ever did any of blues shit before, dollface?”
You can detect the drastic change in Soldier Boy's tone.
“No, not as of yet.”
“Well, good thing you have someone's been long enough in the trade to teach you some of the ol’ tricks, darlin'.” His teeth bare in a shark like smile that doesn't set well in you.
Your heart paces up as adrenaline rushes through your veins, choosing to accept the challenge, “I’m down for it, Ben.”
🦅 Previous Chapter: Tenderly.
🦅 Next Chapter: Mirrors.
🦅 Somewhere In Your Heart Masterlist.
🦅 Soldier Boy Masterlist.
Taglist: @thebiggerbear, @zepskies, @deanbrainrotwritings, @deansbbyx, @deans-spinster-witch
@venus-haze, @kaleldobrev, @k-slla, @ketchupjasmin, @demodemo909
@mystic-mara, @donniedarkolover, @pepsicolacoochie...
#soldier boy#soldier boy x reader#soldier boy x you#soldier boy x female reader#the boys#soldier boy fanfiction#soldier boy smut#soldier boy x y/n#soldier boy imagine#jensen ackles#soldier boy imagines#soldier boy fic#the boys x reader
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Bad End: No Question
The republic fell slowly, then all at once. Rot building like a creeping cancer, in all the places the shining lights of luxury did not touch. Festering and untreated, all while I could do nothing to stop it. I knew it was coming, could see the story unfolding, yet? Was powerless to stop it.
No one listened.
Why would they? I was just a naive child, spouting nonsense. After all, they all said, they all believed... the Republic Was Forever.
Until it was not. Until it all died. And from the bleeding, screaming, ruin? The Empire came, swallowing everything whole. Right up to the end. While in my head, I knew how the story would unfold. Had tried and tried, to no avail, helpless and small as only children can be, as the tidal wave finally hit.
Believed, even as they lay dying. Even as I watch as the people cheer, as blood ran thick in the streets, clogging the gutters. The luxurites dead. Both guilty and innocent alike. The boot heels, upon the necks of the poor, no longer. Or so their leaders proclaimed...
Easy scapegoats. Obvious targets. The villians for their narrative, pay no mind to what happens next. The money and power, the land. We are HEROS! For the PEOPLE! You can TRUST US.
Ha.
Of course.
All hail the Emperor. Wealthier then any man has ever been. Truely, we are Free.
Yes, when the revolution came, I wasn't with them, my family. My "proper" social circles. That's probably all that spared me. I would have been hunted down, otherwise. Innocent or not. Can't have any of the old power bases lingering about, after all. People might get the idea to rally. Might miss the Old, when the New loses it's shine. Child or not, we can't have THAT, now can we?
The staff and volunteers of the soup kitchen, hid me with the other children as the adults boarded up the windows and doors. I held a young mother's child, looked her in the terrified eyes and swore, on my life, that I would gaurd her daughter with my life. I remember expecting to raise that child. To never see her again. Not alive.
Remember wondering, how far I could stretch the coin, if I pawned the pretty little bits of jewelry my parents gave me. Assuming they weren't ripped right off me, the second we got out. I had plans to hide them. Begun calculations. So many little mouths to feed. We had to stick together. We MUST stick together.
Then it was over.
My "disgrace" of an uncle came for me. Found me in the near ruins of my "silly little project". He was the one who had wanted to work. Had a stable worker lover everyone knew about but no one talked about. He was covered in bit of hay. Smelled strongly of horses. His lover had grabbed him and dragged him to safety, hidden him, desperately, among the stalls.
Out of our entire House...
An entire House, once noble, now wealthy. Out of HUNDREDS of people? Built over centuries, branches upon branches, marriages and adoptions. Wards and in-laws. Newborns to lovers to elders on their deathbeds? Of them all, so few remained. And yet... I could not even blame the servants who abandoned us. Who turned on their Slave Masters in all but technicality. They had been treated so cruely, for so long.
.....but the children? What crime did they commit?
I stood in the ruins of Manor after Manor, great house after great house, and wondered. Would I let this make me a monster too? Was this anger or grief I felt? Would any of us ever be free, from the sickening rot that had crept so slowly into the hearts of these people? Both, the ones I had called kin, and the very people who killed them. But oh... there were so many bodies to bury. So, so many bodies.
Some of them... so very, terribly, small.
But as we put out embers and buried the dead? The oh so glorious empire was rising. A fat and lumberous beast, settling with already groaning bones into the still smoking pit, where the Republic lay dead. And, benevolently, the Emperor saw no reason to kill us. We were informed by pristine letter, hand delivered, as we stood smoke stained and filthy, among the pyres.
At least... thank the gods. At least my Uncle remembered.
He and I, fellow outcasts and trouble makers, he recalled my "nonsense". How it had very much come true. So he took the Emperor's letter. Smiled benignly, with the bland promise of nothing. And gently corralled us few who remained into the only remaining dining hall, to pour over the letters as a House. A Clan. Together.
He looked to me with haunted eyes... and wanted to know.
I phrased it as a vision. It would be easier to swallow that way. Not unheard of, in legend. Not out of the realm of possibility. Just absurdly, absurdly rare. But... did we not live in world shaking times? It would make sense, it felt, that the gods would at least MENTION such things...
A novel, a lifetime ago. We were hardly the Protagonists. Not related in any way. Dramatics and death would surround them. A dark age followed, supposedly, by light. But... was the real world ever so simple? I didn't know. I could name all the players. What would occur.
It would be up to US to protect ourselves.
And we WOULD need to protect ourselves. For the Empire was not a kind place. Nor fair. It was the rot of the Republic laid bare. Without pretense. And soon... the purges would begin.
I was, of course, right. The people's blood soaked victory soon gave way to dismay, as they became targets. Divided. Conquered. Inquisitors, hand chosen by his most graciousness, the Emperor himself. I held my tounge, kept my piece... and hated it. Undermined what I could. Rebuilt my soup kitchen.
Attended court.
Because, of course, all we loyal subjects MUST attend court. Don't we love our Emperor so? See how we fawn! We simper and bask in his greatness! Oh we hang on your every WORD, most royal Majesty! We are entranced! Loyal, loyal subjects, all. Such decadent parties as the people starve.
Didn't my family perish for such similar actions? But, ah, they deserved it. Of course. And THIS is for MORALE!
I sip wine looted from the Redcrest family's cellars. They were dead now. Were proud of their wines. They made them for centuries. There shall never be more bottles, yet frivolous, we drink them away. What crime did they commit? Their workers? I close my eyes and keep my smile fixed.
A pleasant expression, because everything is Fine. Remember who you fight for, survive for, you are the canary in the mine. If you go silent, they know to run. The longer you live, the more people you can help, you can do this. Remember... sometimes rebellion is refusing to die. Refusing to let them pull hope from your desperate, bleeding, claws.
Just smile.
Everything is Fine! See? We're Smiling!
"Such a lonely seat. Not going to dance? Mingle? One might think you're not having fun." Comes from behind me, the voice an almost silibant rasp, rumbling thunder and the whispered hiss of a blade. If ever there was a voice made for threats and the confession of terrible things, it was this. "But how could that be? Such a loyal servant of his Majesty would never be so divisive and disrespectful. You must surely be ill. So, tell me then, your excuse?"
The only reason I do not jump, and splash on more reminder of tragedy right down my front, in a display I can not afford, is that I freeze up. Jumping would look guilty of something. It would not matter that he walks all but silently. That I did not notice him and was startled. That it is a simple, human, reaction. Why am I so JUMPY? Guilty conscious? Perhaps an Inquisitor and I should... Talk.
And dropping my wine? Making a SCENE? Am I seeking to undermine his Majesty?
That's ON TOP of the fact, that... frankly? My House can not AFFORD to replace a wine stained dress. With his Majesty's demands for constant decadence yet performative humility, his hoarding of wealth and demands of tribute? We are barely scrapping by. Most "graciously spared" survivors are.
Not ALLOWED to become lower class. Disappear into the masses and work or live quiet, modest lives. No. We must PROVE our LOYALTY to his Majesty. Constantly. Forever. Right up until we fail and are punished for it. In a sick game, no one can ever hope to win but him.
We are to continue on, as though he did not burn the world down. Yet in revamped parody of what was. Like a social outcast, holding towns hostage, to play out "high school prom" as the MOST popular kid, forever and ever and always more. Or ELSE. Because he never grew up and never got over it. Because people didn't like him. So he'll MAKE them. Kill them if they refuse.
The fifteenth version of this dress. Lace carefully taken off and redone elsewhere, I cycle through "new dresses" and trade with allies who are about my size. Who could possibly afford to meet the man's mad demands? When we are barely feeding are own? When he has seized our assets yet will not let us work?
We are dying.
Painted in what inherited gold, silks, and jewels remain. Terrified. We are dying.
"Nothing to say? How quiet. One might think you are... afraid. But how could that be? You would know, as a loyal servant of his Majesty, that you have nothing to fear from us. No Inquisitor would harm one of the loyal subjects, of our beloved ruler. You are perfectly safe... that is, of course, assuming... you are, in fact, Loyal."
The near shifting of heavy cloth against heavy cloth, the sigh as it slid against armor, markes a deadly presence behind me. Light, almost silent, steps are nearly lost under the music, as he moves. Circling me like a hunter. I force myself to turn towards him instead of shying away. Claw control back of my instinct frozen limbs, with desperate hands. I cannot, CANNOT afford this.
"Ah, but you are sick. Headache, perhaps? The drink too strong?"
Red eyes bore into me from a silver mask. Infamous claws, on hands that have done so much, are tucked behind his back like gentleman, out on a stroll. Bone white robes, over armored black under robes. Monochromatic, blood red, and silver steel.
The Grand Inquisitor.
"Perhaps you've tired yourself. With all that dancing you did not do. So many questions. So few answers. But then, ah, I've been speaking so rudely, my dear. Talking over you. How has your evening been, hmm? Pleasant, I take it?" His voice was as light and almost charming, as a gentle hand; wrapped delicately around the throat. Not squeezing, not yet, just a simple remind that it could. If he did not like, what you had or were about to say. "Come, sit, I insist."
The smile on my face felt like it was a dam under pressure. Like my teeth could only barely held back the screaming in my head. The mask of my expression, covered in hair line fractures, only just holding together as I nodded. Followed along. Hysterical comparisons to the march before firing squads, danced in the back of my head. I shoved them back. Down and far away. I... I had to be present. Alert.
The chandelier's light caught with terrible beauty, on the brutal points of his claws. As he gestured, almost a mockery of the polite gentleman. He would be one, if not for the unspeakable things he had done. He was certainly polite. His etiquette immaculate.
Social dances. A mockery of comfort. Mock, mock, mock. His mere presence, his brutality, desecrated it all. Made profane the familiar. For who? WHO? Could break bread with the butcher of men? Could smile politely and serve them thoughtful bits of nothing? Treat them as your own? Yet... yet we were all to afraid to resist. To refuse.
Did they delight? Forcing us to welcome them, where they clearly were not wanted? Where we could not refuse them? Perverting the purpose of our traditions and our ways? Was... was it funny? Or just another tool to use against us?
Smile, dip your head, a small curtsy or bow. The guest invited sits first, serve drinks, time appropriate food if you have it. In my head I knew each step. The etiquette of the classes and why each was the way it was. He did not reach for the pitcher on the table. Merely settled back into his chair, like a throne.
Was he deliberately breaking the social norm? To create discomfort and pressure me to talk? Did he not know? His past was shrouded in mystery. Perhaps he simply did not feel like it. Who, here, could insist? Shun him for his rudeness?
I tried not to sweat, under his heavy gaze. Did not partake. Sat, back straight, my gentle mask-like smile fixed, as I stared over his shoulder. A pretty doll. Ragged and worn around the edges. Trying desperately to appear The Good And Loyal Citizen, least something... Unfortunate, happen.
"What a lovely dress." He mused into the tense silence, breaking it to brutal shards. "Yet, I can not help but notice the shade. The cut and design. Madame Signe's work, isn't it? It suits you." Everything inside me went cold. It was. But if he recognized it...
"Yet? I can not help but wonder, my dear. Why the lace is in the wrong place? You wouldn't happen to be trying to pass off that dress as something new, would you? Trying to subvert and undermine his Majesty's very clear command? That would be treasonous. And you, such a loyal subject, would never."
He knew.
I didn't know how much he knew, but he DID.
Struggling not to shake, not to give everything away, I lied. Of course, I did. Right through my teeth. I would, I had, and I promised. Straight to the end. Lie and lie, until I had nothing left in me. I know nothing, I know no one, there is nothing here to find. Lies upon lies, all while those I love flee for their lives. Praying to gods I don't think can even hear me, that it will be enough.
The slight tilt of his head somehow projected a sense of mocking indulgence. One long leg crossed the other, lounging like a warlord. The clawed gauntlets on full, gruesome display. Every part of him, from the set of his shoulders to the angle he sat, radiated amusement. As though he were watching a silly little child, playing foolish little games. Getting into mischief, then trying to hide the obvious evidence.
Was I quite done? His silence seem to say. He can wait.
I tilted my chin up with a strength and defiance I did not feel. Yes, I was done. Let come what may. I... I tried.
"So afraid, dear citizen. Acting as though I'm some sort of monster in the night, out to butcher and hunt the innocent. One might get the wrong impression. You might even hurt my feelings." He laughs, a sound that seems to roll and fall dangerously, past grinning teeth. Sharp and deadly. "But of course... I understand, I do. About your dress. You can not help it."
"After all, you have not changed a bit."
....what?
"Still compelled, against all rhyme and reason, to tend to the wretched under classes. The filth and wastrels. Beggars and whores. Instead of purchasing dresses for parties? You, oh loyal Citizen, are of course, exemplifying his Majesty's great Mercy."
That's not what... He KNOWS it's not... Where is he GOING with this?
"Yes, we must make exceptions, perhaps. Have mercy. After all... you had nothing but the best of intentions. And how can I hold that against you? When you can not help what you are? Soft and foolish. So very merciful and giving. Humane."
He dropped the word like it was a joke. Almost snide, laughter haunting the edges of it like a pack of hunting hounds. As though humanity to others, itself, was laughable. What a joke, he seemed to suggest, the mere concept of mercy. Of compassion for the sake of it.
So, why? What game was he playing? If he had to mercy to give me? Why even suggest...?
"Do you remember, the Revolution? That glorious rise, as the old fell away. As shackles were broken. As class lines no longer bound us. As we, both children, sat in the dark?"
Impossible.
No... no it... please, God, it can't....
The music was very far away. Muted, as though through blankets. Conversations becoming indistinct. Memories of stale air and dust. Packed earth beneath me and cold stone pressing against my back. The terrible, uncertain creek, of cheap woods from both the crates and ceiling above us. Everything that COULD be stacked against the doors, was.
Wondering if we would survive fire. If they, in their anger and hate, would think of it. Oh god, oh god, we were just kids-!
White hair, like bone, forever silent and staring. Never came close but showed up every time I did, they noted. A crush. Local boy, they mused. He was too thin. Bruises where there shouldn't be. Scars on skin too young. He didn't run when I went to him, but never came to me. I tried to feed him. Just one more story. So many tragedies, that I could do so little to change. All I had was soup.
"Ah~ there it is. You recognize me now. It's been so long, hasn't it, my dear?" Something pleased and horrifying, curled like spreading poison through his tone. "I am a man, grown, now. Have become quite accomplished, if I do say so myself. Wealthy, influential, well connected. Powerful. No longer weak and unworthy of your time."
"In fact," He leaned forward, as though telling a secret. Almost playful, despite the horror of his words. "It's my turn to control you. To be the powerful one. To have everything while you have nothing."
"I will admit... I have been waiting for this for a very long time. You were so beautiful. Trapped in you wretched blood bought finery, chained to the House that would keep us apart. I knew even then, that I would have you, that I was the ONLY one that could be allowed to have you. No one else. And oh, his Majesty has been so very, very obliging."
Folded papers were withdrawn from his robes. Offered almost carelessly. If it weren't for the intensity of his stare? I would believe he didn't care, how I reacted. With shaking hands. I smooth the pages as I open it. From the desk of the Emperor himself... a... a marriage contract.
"Exactly as I wanted. You'll never escape me again. Smile, my dear."
"We're getting married."
#threepandas#yandere#yandere x reader#yanblr#reader insert#yanderecore#yandere Inquisitor#yandere with a 10 year plan#while you were out stalking YOUR darling#he was putting in the WORK#doing politics and... Asking Questions#fist of the autocratic regime yandere#ya fukkin casuals#terrified reader#she should have RUN#tw revolution#tw death#tw infant deaths implied#tw infant death#fem reader#powerful yandere#power imbalance#dont know what else to put
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•°. *࿐ Sick days || JH86
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Love Lost - Mac Miller, The Temper Trap
Synopsis: Sick days usually aren’t fun. Especially for Jack. He hates them. But you somehow always make it better.
Word count: 1.401
Masterlist
Am I watching the canucks game while writing this? Yes, and stressing over it
When they said that men are always the most dramatic when they catch the common cold, you didn’t believe them. You thought it was an exaggeration. But the way Jack has been acting the past three days? Yeah, it’s not an exaggeration. You’re both curing his cold while nursing your own headache. One that’s been a product of his whining. This man is acting as if he’s on his deathbed, a damsel in distress, a whiny little-. You love him, but you wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of sedating him for a day so that you could get some peace and quiet. You would like to know how Ellen handled him whenever he got sick. It’s almost unbearable.
“Babyyy?”
“Am I dying? It feels like I’m dying.”
“Everything hurts…”
“More medicine? I don’t need it. It’s disgusting.”
“Can you please get me a painkiller? I do need it…”
The need to hit him with a pan to knock him out for a few hours is concerningly high. You’re trying to be patient with him. He’s not feeling well, and not being active, those are things that he hates and you know that. You’re really trying to be patient with him. However, he makes it very hard to when he’s whining every other minute.
You hide yourself in the kitchen to make sure Jack will leave you alone for a minute. You absentmindedly stir canned chicken soup in a small pan. When it starts smoking you take it off the heat and grab a bowl. You pour the soup into the bowl and grab a spoon. You carefully walk to your bedroom with the bowl, a bottle of water, and a pill. You open the door a little wider and walk up to him. He sniffles but manages to crack out a small smile. “There you are. I missed you.” He says softly, making your heart melt. Sick as ever and he still manages to make butterflies flutter. “I was only gone for a minute.” You say gently as you place the bottle and pill on his nightstand. You hold out the bowl of soup. He grimaces at the sight of it. You give him a stern look. “You need to eat something. Otherwise, you won’t get better. And make sure you take a pill after or while you eat.” You can’t help but fuss over him a bit.
He groans in response but takes the bowl from you. He starts eating at a slow pace. You sit by his bedside and watch him eat. Pale, sweaty face, hair pointing in all sorts of directions, and yet he still is so handsome to you. He notices that you’re staring and glances at you. He lets out a raspy chuckle. “There’s nothing noteworthy to stare at right now.” You smile and move his hair out of his face. It’s starting to become a little long again. “There’s plenty to stare at. You’ll always be pretty in my eyes.” His eyes shine at your comment. “Pretty?” He asks with amusement in his voice. You roll your eyes but can’t help but let a grin creep up your face. “Sorry. Handsome.” He smiles triumphantly. “That’s what I thought.”
He soon finishes his bowl of soup. You take it from him and set it aside. You hand him the bottle of water and the small white pill. He takes it from you. You notice how clammy his hands are. You frown as you watch him down the pill followed by big gulps of water. You place the back of your hand against his forehead. Your frown deepens when you feel how warm he still is. He knows better than to fight you back so he lets you do your thing. “Your fever is not letting up. You should get some more rest. That might help.” You say softly. He nods and slides underneath the blankets. He pulls it up to his chin. You gently run a hand through his hair. “I’ll be in the living room. Just holler if you need me.” You say softly. Although, you’re secretly hoping he’ll sleep for a couple of hours. For both of your sakes. “Alright.” He croaks before shutting his eyes. You watch over him until you’re sure he’s fallen asleep. You get up carefully and make your way to the living room.
***
Time passes by quickly when you’re finally able to relax. You check the time on your phone only to realize Jack has been sleeping for a while now. You get up from the couch and quietly walk back towards your bedroom. You peek your head in only to see Jack snoring away without a care in the world. You smile at the sight, happy that he’s getting some rest. You realize that the blanket has slipped down a little. You carefully walk up to him and tuck him back in. You tuck the sides underneath him. Tightly wrapping him up in the blanket. He looks like a burrito. A 5’11 burrito.
You step back and take in the sight. You let out a quiet snicker. You pull out your phone and take a picture. Saving that for later. You look at him one more time before leaving the room and going back to the couch. You throw yourself down onto the couch and look at the picture you’ve taken. You snort. Jack’s going to kill you for sure once he finds out. You send it to the Hughes brothers group chat that Jack has ever so kindly thrown you into.
Another hour passes as you’re peacefully watching something on the television. You laugh at the conversation going on in the group chat. You hear some rustling from the bedroom. You’re about to get up when you hear a hoarse holler. “Baby!” You chuckle, “yeah bub?” He lets out a loud groan. “You did not send that picture in the group chat!” You let out a laugh and make your way towards him. You snicker when you see his phone in his hand. The group chat is still open. “I did. It was way too hilarious to pass up. You were like a burrito. Or should I say a Jackrito? One of a kind.” He pouts at you. “Really? A Jackrito? Was that necessary?” He asks, almost offended by your shenanigans. You snicker. “Yes. It’s funny.” He crosses his arms and huffs. “I don’t find you very amusing right now.” He retorts before he gets into a coughing fit. You pat his back, helping him through it. “You’ll find it amusing when you get better.” He glares at you and shakes his head. He stops coughing. “You’re still in trouble. Don’t forget that, because I certainly won’t.” You let out a snort. “Whatever you say bub.” You look at him affectionately. You suddenly get a great idea. “I should send the picture to your mom.” His eyes widen at what you said. “No!” He exclaims. You burst out into laughter. He huffs and pulls the blanket over him. “I’m glad you are having fun while I’m dying.” You roll your eyes. “Now you’re being dramatic again. For the millionth time, you are not dying Jack. You simply have the common cold.” He lets out a raspy chuckle. He lifts the blanket slightly and pulls you into him. He covers you both with the blanket. “It feels like I’m dying, especially when you aren’t around.” You can’t help but smile at that, despite his theatrics. You can feel yourself getting tired. Even though it isn’t that late yet. The warmth he’s emitting is so comforting. You let yourself fall asleep in his arms.
***
A week later he’s back on his feet. But he transferred his germs to you. You’re as sick as a dog. He walks into your bedroom with a bowl of soup in his hands. “This will make you feel better.” You glare at him. He laughs, “are you still mad at me for getting you sick?” You nod, “what do you think?” He snickers and sets the bowl aside. He sits by your side and rubs your arm tenderly. “I said sorry baby. But…” he trails off. He shows you a cheeky grin. “It’s only the common cold. Don’t be so dramatic. You still want to hit him with a pan. “I hate you.” He rolls his eyes before planting a kiss on your forehead. “I love you too. Get better soon, okay?”
#hockey#nhl#nhl fic#nhl hockey#nhl players#nhl x reader#jack hughes#jack hughes x reader#jack hughes one shot#jack hughes imagine#jh86#new jersey devils#nj devils#blurb#drabble#fluff
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A/n: Let's A Go!
•Viktor Vasko•
Viktor was a large man, a large intimidating man but that did not stop you from falling for him. The one's who weren't close to him didn't know he had a kind heart, they didn't know how gentle and soft he was with you. Sitting on the bar too, you crossed one of your legs over the over. "Hey Viktor?"
A grunt was your reply, sighing you rolled your eyes holding out your hand for him. "Come here."
Placing down the glass he was holding, he took one long stride to you. "Ves?"
Grinning you sat up placing your hands on his cheeks, your thumbs caress his cheek. "Oh nothing! I just wanted you to know that I can hold the whole world in my hands."
Viktor's eye went wide for a moment, glancing away you heard him grumble something under his breath as he pulled you into his chest.
"HA can I get a hug too Viktor!" Rocky chimed in.
A deep growl escaping Viktor's chest as he held you close. "I vill kill him."
•Mordecai Heller•
"Mordecai"
Dropping his pen, Mordecai pulled off his glasses as he looked you over, you were practically vibrating with excitement. "Yes?"
Quickly making your way over to him grasping his cheeks. "I'm holding the whole world in my hands."
Tensing, Mordecai adverted his gaze. He didn't know what to say, how do you even reply to something like that? Scowling, his mind was racing a mild a minute. He knew he could just push you away but then that would only upset you and he didn't want that.
"Hmp."
Accepting his fate, he resigned to rest his head on your chest as you scratched behind his ear.
"Good boy."
•Dorian "Zib" Zibowski•
It was a lazy afternoon in Lackadaisy, the other band members have long since left leaving you and Zib alone. The man's head resting on your lap, a smile on his face as he enjoyed you running your fingers across his ears.
"Zib?"
"Ya Doll?" The cigaret he'd been smoking had long since went out though he opened on if his eyes to look at you.
Humming, you then let your hands cup his cheeks squishing them together. "Nothing too important, I just wanted you to know that I am just holding my whole world in my hands."
Grinning, he disregarded the cigaret sitting up. "That so? Well then? Can you give me a kiss?"
"For you, anything."
"Nice."
•Roark"Rocky"Rickaby•
Rocky was practically vibrating with excitement, he was hoping you'd like this date he set up for you. He's never felt this way about someone, nor did he ever expect for you to return his feelings.
Letting out a small giggle you shook your head as he gave you a small twirl on the dance floor. You were having so much fun. Your heart was pounding in your chest as Rocky pulled you in close. Your hands quickly moving to his cheeks as you gave him a cheeky smile. "Did you know that I am holding the whole world in my hands right now Rock?"
Eyes going wide, it did not take long for Rocky to let out a laugh as he swung you around the dance floor, a happy laugh leaving him. He was so happy, so lucky to have you.
"You're my whole world too!!!"
•Sedgewick "Wick" Alastair Sable•
It was an odd feeling, being in love. Sedgewick never in his life did he think it would happen to him. But there was something about, something he couldn't explain but he liked it.
He loved you.
Heading home, your head rested on his shoulder as you both walked to the car. A soft hum leaving his lips though just as you were about to enter the car Sedgewick pulled you in close, his nose nuzzled yours as he cupped your cheeks gently.
"May I tell you something."
Laughing softly, you shook your head smiling up at him as you lent into his touch.
"I'm holding my whole world right now."
Gazing softening, you quickly buried your face into his chest. "That's supposed to my word you know, can't believe you stole it from me."
"I'll make it up to you, promise."
"You better."
#dorian zibowski#roark rickaby#mordecai#mordecai heller#viktor#viktor vasko#sedgewick sable#Sedgewick sable x reader#wick x reader#viktor vasko x reader#viktor x reader#mordecai heller x reader#mordecai x reader#rocky rickaby#rocky rickaby x reader#rocky x reader#zib x reader#zib zibowski x reader#dorian zibowski x reader#lackadaisy#lackadaisy x reader#lackadaisy mordecai#lackadaisy viktor#lackadaisy zib#lackadaisy rocky#lackadaisy wick
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