#this will NOT be the last time he talks about violently tonguing things such as Reese's cups. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rememberwren · 4 months ago

Text

A Dichotomy of Thought || 10

Prior and future chapters here.

A visitor in the park.

CW: domestic violence, rape, ableist language, homophobic slurs (f-word), internalized ableism, suicidal ideation, mention of burning.

It seems cruel that such terrible things must happen at moments when you are your happiest. There’s logic in it, sure—there can be no joy without pain, and happiness is bracketed on either side by sadness—but logic and cruelty don’t have to live apart from each other. In fact, you would often say they are married.

Your boyfriend stands over you, blotting out the sun like a raincloud come to pour down on the briefest moment of peace you have felt in the last several days. Everything about him is innocuous: his clothes, his posture, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he stares down at you with unspeakable fondness in his eyes.

“Hi honey,” he says. “How was work?”

Johnny goes to stand, but your boyfriend is quicker, banging his shin violently against Johnny’s knee. Johnny sucks in a breath as the pain winds him, body bowing over to protect his most vulnerable areas.

“Don’t stand on my account,” your boyfriend says to his crumpled figure. “Did I get the right knee? I did, didn’t I? I wasn’t sure if it was the right or the left—“

“Hey!” you bellow, the volume of your own voice surprising you. You stand between them, put both hands against your boyfriend’s chest, and push. He nearly goes sprawling on the sidewalk, only barely managing to get his feet under him in time. You point a shaking finger in his face. “You don’t fucking touch him!”

“An accident,” he laughs, lifting his hands. “I stumbled into him. It could have happened to anybody.”

“Yer a fucking cunt,” Johnny groans, both hands gripping his thigh above his knee, knuckles pale. “And so’s yer mother. Syphilis-infected-cocksucking bitch.”

“Not nice,” your boyfriend says mildly, shoving his hands back into his pocket. “Do you kiss my fiancé with that mouth?”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” you hiss. All three of you quiet down as an older couple inches by, hand in weathered hand. When they are a safe distance away, you ask: “How did you know I was here? Were you following me?”

“I can’t reveal all my secrets,” he says, lowering his voice to a dangerous timber, one that promises violence. “The same way you’re not willing to give up all of yours. You thought I wouldn’t notice you coming home late all the time? Do I look stupid?”

Johnny makes a sound, some kind of wounded laugh that only serves to put you on edge even more. You can imagine his answer—but he doesn’t know your boyfriend. He doesn’t know the kind of grim, intelligent cruelty that is wielded against you every day. Johnny is hot headed and craving violence, but he’s in no condition to experience it.

You have to protect him.

“We can talk about it at home,” you mutter, making sure to keep between the two men who seem eager for each other’s blood. Your boyfriend tongues his cheek, eyeing Johnny, weighing his options.

“Come on,” you say, louder. Reaching out, you grip his arm, nails digging into his skin. He doesn’t even flinch. But after an endless moment of waiting for further provocation from Johnny, he decides Johnny isn’t worth his time. He laces his fingers in yours and pulls you along, further away from the bench, from Johnny, from the sunlight.

“Get in the car,” he says, walking to the driver’s side.

“You’re not supposed to drive.”

“I won’t say it again.”

He won’t, either. You know him. So instead you slip into the passenger seat. There’s no worse feeling than being in an enclosed space with him. The air feels heavy and oppressive, weighing you down. At the same time, your body buzzes with adrenalin, preparing for pain. You numbly buckle your seatbelt while he starts the car.

“How long have you been cheating on me with that cripple next door?” he asks calmly.

“I’m not.”

The calm snaps, nothing but a thin sheet of icy veneer over a deep, dark lake of fury.

“Don’t—lie—to—me,” he says through his teeth. He holds out a hand and wiggles his fingers. “Phone. Hand it over. You’ve lost your privileges.”

“I don’t have it,” you lie. “It’s at work.”

“You really do,” he says, staring at you with borderline awe. “You think I’m a fucking idiot, don’t you? Oh, baby. Oh, honey. You’re in for it. How do you think I fucking found you? Give me the goddamn phone.”

You shake your head. You can’t give it up. Not when it’s the only safe way for Simon to contact you.

He reaches for your hand. The two of you struggle as you try to avoid his touch, briefly banging your knuckles on the car window, but then he has your hand in his grasp, and he takes your smallest finger and wrenches it back, back—you feel the pop, pain lancing through your hand all the way to your wrist.

You screech.

“Give me the phone,” he says, letting you cradle the misshapen hand against your breast. You grit your teeth, tears dripping off your chin. When he reaches for your hand again, you break and turn out your pockets, handing over your last lifeline. He takes the phone and beats it against the dashboard, again and again and again until the screen is a spider’s web of cracks, glass littering your knees.

He hands you back the broken phone.

“You broke my fucking finger,” you cry, voice warbling embarrassingly.

“You broke your own finger by not listening to me the first time,” he says, tossing the phone in your lap when you don’t take it. He puts the car in reverse. “Don’t blame me for your mistakes, baby.”

The two of you spend five hours in the emergency room together. This is an integral part of the experience; when he hurts you, he has to heal you.

Your pinky isn’t broken, only dislocated. They set it and splint it and warn you that it could take months to feel normal again, like you know at all what that word means. Beneath the tinny lights of the exam room, your makeup job must be failing, because the nurse asks your boyfriend to step out so that she can ask you a few questions alone.

This isn’t your first time in the emergency room, and you know the rules. You stick to your story (the one he had stitched together on the drive to the ER) even without your boyfriend’s oppressive presence looming over your shoulder. The nurse gives you a look that is both professional and pitying. You spend the rest of the visit refusing to meet her eyes, chewing on the nails of your good hand.

“Could you be any more suspicious?” your boyfriend asks mildly while the two of you leave. He waves to one of the nurses, who gives back a cheerful little salute.

Making friends wherever he goes; that’s your boyfriend.

Walking into your apartment is like walking into another world.

Everything has been upended: the couch cushions, the silverware drawers, the chairs at the table. DVD’s have been removed from their boxes. Even the fucking lamps have had their lampshades removed. The bathroom and bedroom doors have been taken off their hinges and laid neatly against one another in the bedroom.

“You weren’t the only one busy today,” he says, relishing in your grim expression. “You know the drill. Clean up. Then we’ll go to bed.”

This is an old trick of his that you know well. He tore the place apart searching for contraband—but he knows that even he isn’t all-powerful. Now he waits to see where you will rush to clean up first, where your anxious mind will take you, desperate to find out if he’s found whatever you’ve been hiding. Once it was money. Another time, a business card for a lawyer.

This time, a lighter that’s not your own.

You’re smarter now, though. You don’t go straight for your sock drawer where the lighter is hidden. You begin at the northernmost point of the apartment and clean north to south, east to west, methodical, your hand throbbing as the anesthetic wears off.

It is deeply late by the time you make it to the bedroom to find your clothes strewn across the bed. Your eyes burn with exhaustion, body aching from a long day at work (and a longer day after work). You can’t help but think of Johnny as you clean, tucking clothes back into their drawers, putting clothes back on their hangers. Did he make it home safely? Did he finally message Simon? Did he try to walk home? Thinking about Johnny out alone in the dark makes your stomach turn unpleasantly.

Sock drawer now. Most of these are still in the dresser, though some have been pushed out into the floor in your boyfriend’s search for ammunition to use against you. You pick up the few outliers and stuff them back into the drawer.

No lighter.

It’s not there. You know even as you continue to search without hope, rifling through your paired socks as subtly as you can. This is all just another game. He’s found the lighter and has just been waiting for you to notice it’s gone so that he can torment you with it. Maybe he’ll flick the spark wheel (the way Johnny can’t—God, Johnny, please be okay—) and hold the flame to your skin or your hair—

You touch something hard, plastic. Your breath catches. It’s there. It’s still there, tucked inside a pair of socks. He hadn’t found it. Relief rises up in you so poignantly that tears fill your eyes, even as you force yourself to shut the drawer and move on to another part of the room, feeling your boyfriend’s presence at the door, watching.

The lighter was so little, but it meant so much. You couldn’t even put into words why. Because it was Johnny’s, maybe. Because it was yours, now. Because it was one thing your boyfriend hadn’t put his hands on and destroyed or claimed as his own. Nothing belonged to you—not your money, not your body, nothing. Except maybe that silly lighter.

You wait until after he fucks you to speak, stubbornly maintaining your silence even through the pain and humiliation he inflicts on you. There’s something even worse about the way he draws your body against his afterwards, an arm looped possessively over your waist, the imitation of a loving cuddle.

“I want to break up,” you say.

He gives a long-suffering sigh, breath rustling your hair. “Keep dreaming, baby.”

The words won’t stop tripping out of your mouth.

“I mean it. I hate you—and you hate me. All we do is fight and hurt each other. Why…” you get choked up, swallow past the lump in your throat. “We don’t have to do this anymore. You can’t possibly be happy. Is this really how you want to live the rest of your life? Tormenting me?”

He is quiet for longer than you expect. You hold your breath, tears dripping from your eyes and over the bridge of your nose, down into your pillowcase. Maybe he’s thinking about it. Maybe he’s really considering it.

At last, he says: “Don’t ever think that there’s anywhere else in the world…anything else I’d rather be, than right where I am.”

Your heart plummets.

“Now go to sleep,” he says, kissing your neck. “You work in the morning.”

The sun goes down before Simon finds him. Johnny sits shivering on the bench where you left him, his eyes red rimmed and unseeing even when he hears the familiar footsteps of his lover against the pavement.

Simon sits next to him where you once sat, and for a long time, neither of them speaks. When Johnny finally breaks the silence, his voice is rough from hours of crying and disuse.

“I brought her here,” he says.

Simon nods. He knows. Of course he knows.

“I think she liked it,” Johnny adds, trying to find any brightness in the dark that encompasses him.

But all at once the tears come back, his throat burning, head throbbing. He bends at the waist, elbow on his thigh, and shakes, trying to keep his crying quiet, still clinging to the remnants of a dignity that God tears more from his grasp every day. When Simon’s warm arm wraps around him, it just makes him cry harder, even as he leans into the heat of the other man like a flower bends toward the sun.

“I’m useless,” Johnny weeps. “Fuckin’ useless. He showed up and just—took her, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop him. Even you think I’m useless—druggin’ me to keep me from getting in your way. I can’t dress myself, can’t tie my own shoes. What fucking good am I, as a human being? What’s the good in being alive if I have to live like this?”

Simon says nothing. Johnny leans up, letting the moonlight wash over his tear-soaked face. He wipes at his cheeks.

“You can’t be happy, either,” he says, taking in the solemn lines of Simon’s face, the shadows under his eyes. Simon looks older than his age, and Johnny knows who is responsible, who has aged him. Terrified to know the answer, he asks: “Is this how you want to live? With an overgrown child as your lover? One who can’t remember where he took off his shoes? Who needs you to, to cut up his food and button his shirts?”

“If that’s how it’s going to be,” says Simon simply. “If that’s how I get to be with you. Then yeah, Johnny. I’m solid.”

Johnny shakes his head. He can’t even find the energy within him to be angry. All that’s left is disbelief. “You can’t mean that.”

“I mean it. I—“ Simon ducks his head. “—I never should have put those pills in your juice. I should have trusted you. I wish I could take that back.”

Johnny sniffs wetly. It’s as close to an apology as he’s ever heard Simon give, and it makes no small amount of guilt bloom in Johnny’s aching chest.

“You were right not to trust me,” says Johnny. “I was lying.”

“I know,” says Simon. He reaches down and laces his fingers with Johnny’s one hand. “But I want to be a man who trusts you, even if I’m wrong.”

Johnny is quiet for a long time, turning those words over in his head. A painful longing rises up in his chest, one he hasn’t felt since the days when he was still in the 141, days when he could barely breathe for wanting the man beside him so badly. When they’d had to love each other in secret, and it felt like he would happily have given anything if it meant they didn’t have to hide anymore.

I miss you, he thinks. I miss myself. Leaning in, he lays his cheek against Simon’s shoulder.

“Are we gonna make it?” he wonders quietly, watching the last of the fireflies twinkle around the dim park. Soon it will be too cold for them. Soon it will be too cold for Johnny.

“Whatever we do, we’ll do it together,” Simon promises, laying his temple against Johnny’s head.

He waits until you are asleep to creep out of the bed. There is no rest for him—not when he gets in these restless, paranoid moods. Not when he has a hunch to follow.

Quietly, he drifts through the apartment like a ghost. Everything is back in its place, but he tries to think of anywhere he might have missed to search. You are hiding something; he knows it. He knows you. You’re see-through to him, predictable in a way that used to thrill him but now just irritates.

“Where is it?” he mutters, standing in the living room, turning a slow circle.

Was the lighter really all you’d been hiding? That stupid piece of plastic and metal? He’d found it easily and decided it served him better left in its place. Let you think that he had missed it. Let you think that he was slipping.

“I’m sharper than ever, baby,” he mutters to himself in the darkness.

Halfheartedly, he searches a few places that he had already gone through: checking some of the mugs on the top shelf in the kitchen, feeling beneath the table in the foyer for anything taped beneath it.

He thinks about the cripple next door while he does it. Johnny. A problem, if he’s ever seen one. Him and his boyfriend both. What two faggots want with you, he can’t imagine—good Samaritans, perhaps? Well they would find out in good time what happened to people who put their noses where they didn’t belong.

Regardless, he doesn’t like it. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Sighing, he braces his hands against the table, resting his weight against it. If he’d known that this building would cause so much trouble, he never would have moved you in here. Not that the two of you had been swimming in options.

Your keys on the table catch his eye, but he doesn’t know why. He nudges them with his hand, metal dragging over the wood. On a whim, he counts them.

There is an extra key.

His brows lift. He picks up the keys and goes through them one by one, wracking his brain to remember what each one is for. At last he’s left with a single unfamiliar key. One that looks identical to the key to their apartment. A duplicate? he wonders. For when she’s locked out?

But no, the keys are different. Just similar.

An idea tickles at the back of his brain, but he’s never been the kind of man to ignore his instincts. He goes to the door without bothering to slip on his shoes, and steps silently out into the hallway. At this time of night, there is no one out and about, no one peeking at him from their doors. On silent feet, he pads to his neighbor’s door and grips the knob. Locked.

He slips the key into the lock—and it opens.

Oh that little bitch. Fury rises up in him until he can taste it in the back of his throat. He wants to go and wake you, take a fistful of your hair and drag you out into the hallway for all your nosy neighbors to see, wants to hear that shriek of pain you give when he hurts you so unexpectedly—

But no. He has to be smart.

He locks 5C’s door again, checks the handle, then slips back into his apartment. There will be no rest for him tonight. Not when there is so much to think about.

#ghoap x reader #dichotomy of thought

412 notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 1 year ago

Text

Part 5 (it’s getting out of control) of Charmed Slasher Simon.

Part 4 is here. (Master list coming soon)

(Slight warning for a coworker being a bit of a pushy creep but Simon handles it)

“Riiiiileyyyy.”

Ah, that’s your naughty voice. It means he’s going to want to do awful, terrible things to you out of pure endearment for your cheek.

He turns, arches an eyebrow as you nearly skip up to him. Your hair is shorter.

“New haircut?” he asks as if his fingers aren’t twitching to bury in it and pull your head back.

“Yup! Thought about dyeing it orange, but decided it would clash with my flat.”

He snorts, gives in to the urge to curl a strand around his finger, watches it bounce back into place. You don’t seem to mind, sticking your cute little tongue out at him. (If you’re not careful, he’s going to put you on your knees and have you wrap it around his cock right there.)

“Sensible choice,” he replies, “yellow is more your color.”

You giggle, aren’t bothered by his flat, almost inflectionless tone. “You think?”

“Highlighter yellow. Or maybe banana.”

“Hey, I like bananas!”

He smirks. “Oh yeah? Big ones?”

You shove at him, face going hot. He doesn’t move an inch, not that you were trying hard. Touchy little thing. You remind him of those little birds that flutter around lions, picking and pecking right under their noses, amusing themselves with death.

“Don’t be icky, Riley.”

“Icky.”

“Gross nasty.”

“We’re name calling now?”

“It’s not name calling if it’s true.”

He clicks his tongue, ushers you into the building.

“There a reason for the new hair?” he asks, eyeing it. It’s pretty, don’t get him wrong. But he didn’t know you were getting your hair cut today.

“Fancy office party tonight,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “My stylist just managed to get me in, but now I’ve gotta rush to get ready.”

“Now who said you could go out?”

“What are you gonna do, stop me?” you laugh, clearly thinking he’s teasing. He’s not. If you looked at his face, you’d know it. But you’re busy fussing with your keys, trying to unlock your door.

“I might.”

“Oh, you stop,” you huff, shaking your head. “It’s not even movie night!”

He’s been coming over once a week to watch a movie and drink with you. One of you picks the movie, the other picks the takeaway. He always chooses a horror movie, likes how your eyes water when you get truly scared. You refuse to watch slashers (haven’t told ‘Riley’ why) but you’ll indulge paranormal ones.

It’s not movie night - those are on Saturdays. This is Friday.

“What if I just kidnap you?” he asks. “Keep you in all weekend?”

You hum as if in thought, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Could I go back to work on Monday?”

“Have to see how I’m feeling on Sunday.”

You giggle. “A tempting offer, but you’ll have to settle for kidnapping me just for Saturday.”

“I don’t think you understand how kidnapping works.”

“I’d be a terrible hostage,” you say. He arches an eyebrow, inviting you to continue. “I have to pee when I’m nervous, I’d be talking their ear off - and! I cry like, so much.”

Oh he knows. He thinks of tears running down your pretty face when he cums.

“Some kidnappers like the crying. Theyre sadists.”

You scrunch your face. “But it’s like… gross crying. Total mess. And I make dying seal noises.”

No, you don’t, not in his experience with you at least. But he’s not going to explain that to you.

“Didn’t you have something to get ready for?” he asks because he’s violently wrestling the urge to make good on his threat.

“Fuck!” You glance at your watch, brows scrunching. “If I’m late, I’m blaming you, Riley Simmons.”

“Oh no.”

You stick your tongue out at him one last time and disappear behind your door.

—

He hears you come back at 11:30, has been waiting up. Pauses when he hears two sets of footsteps, a man’s voice talking to you. A wave of bloodlust nearly drowns his better sense.

You brought someone home from a work event? Did you lie to him and go on a date?

“Well, thanks for walking me to my door, Brandon.”

“Was happy to. Don’t want anyone snatching you up off the street now, do we?” An annoying laugh. Yours sounding a little flat and strained joining him.

“Oh, hey, mind if I come in?” Brandon asks. So casually, as if the yes is expected.

Simon’s hands ball into tight fists.

“Ah, it’s pretty late…”

“Well, that’s what Saturday is for, right?”

Oh. That little roach. Simon’s going to hang him by his own guts.

“I have plans tomorrow, actually.”

Good girl.

“That’s alright,” Brandon persists. “Just one drink. Least you can do since I went out of my way, right?”

“I mean, you didn’t have to, I would have been fine.”

There’s some genuine annoyance in your voice this time. Simon’s proud.

“Nah, what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you go home after having drinks?” Brandon chuckles.

“I didn’t have that many - and anyway I’m here now, so…”

“And so am I. At least a little something for my troubles?”

And Simon hears just the slightest, faintest ruffle of clothes.

That’s enough.

Simon yanks his door open and steps out. You’re nearly pancaked to your own door, head snapping to him with relief.

“Riley!”

Brandon takes a step back, expression stormy. Simon almost laughs. Little prick is barely taller than you, has done hard work maybe twice in his life. His hands look softer than yours. And he’s wearing a sweater vest.

“Did we wake you up?” you ask.

Simon saunters down the hall towards you. The closer he gets, the more nervous Brandon gets. But you seem to relax a bit more with each step, even shift towards him.

Very good girl.

“Was already up.” He doesn’t look away from Brandon, radiating menace.

You hum in understanding - know Simon keeps late hours. Brandon clears his still-intact throat and you jolt a bit, expression wilting.

“Oh, um. Riley this is my coworker. Brandon, this is Riley, my neighbor.”

“How do you do?” Brandon replies stiffly.

Simon’s not playing along.

“You try to push her again, someone will be pushing you in a wheelchair the rest of your life. Understand?”

Brandon sputters while your eyes go adorably wide, expression caught between horror and gratitude. Like you don’t know if you should be condoning his threats.

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Not yet, but you will if I see you here again, yeah?”

Brandon’s face drains of blood. You press your lips together.

“Now get the fuck out. I’ve got her from here.”

Brandon, worm that he is, scurries away with a hasty “see you Monday”. You don’t reply, too busy blinking up at Simon with parted lips.

He chucks you gently under the chin, eyes narrowing in amusement.

“Off to bed. I’m kidnapping you tomorrow.”

You audibly swallow, then nod.

“Thank you.”

“Good manners.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

#thoughts™️#cod #my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #reader fic #slasher ghost #charmed ghost #final girl reader

1K notes · View notes

daydreaming-in-olympus · 1 year ago

Text

— 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑.

pairing: clarisse la rue x fem!reader (daughter of athena) summary: clarisse won’t let anyone bad-mouth you. unfortunately, her methods often get violent fairly quickly, leaving you to patch her up.

word count: 426 (drabble)

author’s note: aaaaahh first time writing for clarisse! constructive criticism & reblogs are always appreciated <3

“hey! be gentle!”

you rolled your eyes, pressing the napkin soaked with betadine into clarisse’s knuckles as she involuntarily flinched at the sting. “should’ve thought about that before you punched michael yew.”

“you didn’t hear the things he said,” clarisse protested, her eyebrows scrunching together. “sweetheart, i can’t sit by while he’s shit-talking you. you know that.”

“clar, i think it’s really sweet that you stick up for me every time someone says something, but i just wish you didn’t have to split the skin on your knuckles to do so. also, i don’t care what michael says about me. the fact that he’s too scared to say it to my face is reassurance enough.” you continued carefully wrapping the last few strips of gauze loosely around her injured fist. “not every problem has to be settled with conflict, babe.”

“and this is why i’m the daughter of ares and you’re the daughter of athena. someone’s gotta fight enough for the both of us, right?” she leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against your forehead.

you let out a disapproving hum and tied the ends of the gauze. “there, you’re all done.” you gave her forearm a small pat, gathering the contents of the first aid kit that had been strewn around you both. you noticed her staring at you expectantly and looked up, tilting your head. “yes?”

“don’t i get a get-well-soon kiss?” she feigned innocence, fluttering her lashes and holding out her hand like a self-pitying puppy. you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. gods, you loved your girlfriend with all your heart, but she could not give puppy eyes to save her life. she looked more like a shocked rugby player that had just seen the worst comments on social media thirsting over them.

“fine. but just so you know, i’m quite pissed at-” you didn’t get to complete your sentence because she grabbed your waist and pulled you in, pressing her lips to yours. her watermelon-flavoured chapstick mixed with your cherry lip gloss on your tongue, sending dizzying electric rushes straight into your brain.

“still pissed?” clarisse asked, pulling back with a smirk. you raised your eyebrows at her, gingerly taking her hand and bringing it up to your lips. you pressed your lips against the topmost layer of gauze gently, over and over, so the rose-tinted lip marks left behind overlapped each other.

“there. that should be enough get-well-soon kisses for you, right?”

she chuckled softly as she examined your masterpiece, then snaked her arms around you once more.

“never.”

#riordanverse x reader #pjo x reader #percy jackson x reader #clarisse la rue #clarisse pjo #clarisse my beloved #clarisse x reader #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x fem!reader #daughter of athena reader #pjo books #pjo tv show #clarisse la rue drabble #pjo drabble

652 notes · View notes

dreamingkitsunewrites · 2 months ago

Text

✧♬•¨a.k.a. What Getting Wasted with GRUNGE BOYFRIEND!CHOSO feels like✧♬• (PT2)

Pt1 here. Inspired Moodboard here

Warning tags: suggestive, mentions of alcohol and weed, nsfw (pin, receiving f!oral)

♬ Inspired by 'I like the way you kiss me' by Artemas ♬

Pt 3?? (I feel like the last? part of this series will be the smuttiest one, already got ideas😏)

✧Grunge! Choso who became Grunge Boyfriend! Choso after you two spent the rest of the night together, wandering around the city. As the sun was about to rise, you were seated on a swing, in the middle of a deserted playground of a local park, talking about your personal stories and venting about how being different by showing your authenticity automathically makes you a weirdo in this fucked up society... Lulled by the lazy back and forth of the swing, you smiled at the sight of your matching platform Doc Martens. Shortly after enjoying the sunrise together, he walked you back home. Standing outside your door, his brows furrowed as you start rummaging through your bag, in search of your dark lipstick.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who looked like about to pass out as you grabbed his wrist and started writing your phone number on his forearm with your matte lipstick, along with a clear invitation: text me if you wanna be my boyfriend. "Don't worry it will last enough 'till you make it home...it should be long lasting..." You giggled to yourself and placed a final peck on his pale lips, making sure to leave a stain.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who did text you back as soon as he calmed down his nerves, but still couldn't believe he could call you his now...the mere thought sending chills of anticipation down his spine: he layed in bed for hours, smiling goofily at the ceiling and already fucking his fist while picturing all the naughty things he would have done to you from the following day on, finally able to show the whole world you were nothing but HIS now...

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who never felt alone anymore after you two got together, becoming the cool 'Big Bro' in your friends' circle. He feels contempt every Friday and Saturday night, when you all stumble loudly out of the club together, messing around the underground subway station at 3am. A persistent whistle echoing in your ears until morning from the loud music, pumping through the imposing speakers.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who loves sloppily making out with you, no matter the situation: holding you on the subway seat on the way home with his strong hands on your waist, totally unbothered by other people watching your tongues connecting shamefully with a sticky line of saliva, or laying on top of your tiny sexy body on the old, worn down couch at your pal's place, ending up groaning against your swollen lips and grinding his needy hips on yours whenever your black-polished nails scratched his sensitive scalp ever so slightly.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who fucks you missionary style with gritted teeth when he dives into your velvety depths for the first time, trying desperately not to cum instantly and paint your walls white with his hot seed. He instantly develops an addiction to the lewd, wet sounds your small, warm cunt makes when it swallows his fat dick over and over again at every frantic thrust. He finds his little piece of heaven between your thighs and he feels higher than he ever was when he reaches his climax, quivering and whimpering pathetically as a torrent of tiny pearls of cum erupted violently from his pinky, swollen tip, adorning your chest with a sticky necklace of his cum.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who collapses his whole body weight on you as he fights hard to catch his breath again after tasting the sweetness of your pussy. With his heartbeat slowly coming back to its usual pace, he looks up to you with adoring puppy eyes, meeting your warm smile and asking you if you too enjoyed it. When you nod and cup his face in your palms, he kisses you slowly, savouring every little whine and sigh you confess to his lips.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who just wanna be your sweetheart and treats you like a princess during the day -showering you with cute plushy animals and smothering you with kisses- just to press your head further into his pillow as he hits it desperately from the back, holding onto to you and leaving marks on your soft buttocks, as he physically cannot resist drilling your cunt when he sees you ass up, face down for him on his bed. He compliments you continuously, telling you how much he loves you and how he deep he wants to feel you. He nuts everytime you call him 'your sweet good boyfriend', moaning words of encouragement as you feel your walls flutter wildly with your impending orgasm.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso whose hazed expressions are priceless when you try weed together for the first time, buying it from a guy who offered you some at the exit of the club. His glassy eyed stare makes him appear even cuter and kissable, while he inhales deeply and drag after drag lets go of any inhibition, confessing the depths of his adoration to you: he lazily repeats he would do ANYTHING for you, he would fight ANYONE to keep you safe in his arms, his pretty beautiful angelic girlfriend, the only one he wants to feel laying her head on his shoulder while staring outside the window on the subway train...

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who wakes up on the cold floor of your antics the morning after with a great headache from all the alcohol and the weed of the previous night. He blushes furiously when you show him the video of his sweet, stammering confession, but he doesn't deny a single word...

Thanks for reading this far, reblogs and comments are appreciated! 🙏

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso whose favourite remedy for bad hangovers like this one, is to lock the whole world outside of the door and spend the whole day with you, listening to Nirvana and Radiohead from your vintage vinyl record player in your antic with his head buried for hours between your thighs.

Taglist: @lemonlimecrystal-blog @lordbelkamort @viviennevianna @verydreamerfairy

162 notes · View notes

cobaltperun · 1 month ago

Text

Eternal Flame (11) - Way Down We Go

Jenna Ortega x Female Reader

Summary: For her it’s a passion, for you it’s an accident. And as she continues shining brighter and brighter with each role you are left mesmerized, drawn to her flame and cherishing every time she lets herself be vulnerable with you.

Spotify playlist

Masterlist / First Part / Previous part / Next Part

Word Count: 9.2k

-Do you dare to look him her right in the eyes?-

A day before New Year's Eve has never been this miserable for Jenna. She spent days basically silent, aside from answering questions when asked, and even then, her answers were short. She could see the worry in her family whenever they looked at her, a sense of pity and confusion. Every time she looked at any of her family members she could see the same loon on their faces, and she knew they were wondering what the fuck happened, because when she left their home on that horrible day she left excited, eager to see you and then she came back in the early morning hours her heart broken and not willing to talk. And no matter what her parents or siblings asked she remained silent, not even mentioning your name. She guessed there was some blessing in all of this, since you didn't get the chance to exchange numbers with anyone, because they were desperately trying to get some information about what happened.

She knew for a fact that her mother and her sister sent you messages on Instagram, but she also knew that you didn't touch it for the last couple of days. Ever since she found out about you fighting, actually, that ‘last active on’ kept being stubbornly set to the day after Christmas. If Jenna wasn't feeling the way she was feeling right now she would have been worried. She would have called you, she would have asked you how you were doing, but she wasn't stupid, she knew this secret coming out hurt you a lot.

Yet she still felt like she got hurt more. You left her in the dark about something that important, you let her fall for you so hard this distance was tearing her apart now.

Her parents came into her room a bit after another skipped dinner. She just wasn't in the mood to eat anything, unless she absolutely had to, as if everything else wasn’t already making her parents worried. If they knew she barely slept and how often she cried she imagined her parents would have gone crazy with worry.

Her mom sat down on her bed as her dad sat down on the chair at the table. The looks on their faces told her everything, they weren't leaving until they found out what happened. And the worst thing about it was that whatever they were thinking happened didn't happen. Oh, it would have been so much easier if, for example, she caught you in bed with another girl, or if you happened to tell her you were just leading her on all these months. But no, you had to be involved in something so violent, and in her eyes so inhuman that it made her question everything she knew about you.

“Jenna, honey, we can't stand this anymore. You need to tell us what happened,” her mom pleaded, and Jenna pushed herself to sit up in her bed and leaned against the headboard.

“Y/N,” speaking you name felt heavy on her tongue. A strange mix of longing and hurt colliding within her. “She is part of an underground fight club,” it still felt surreal to even say it, to speak it into reality, yet that was the truth and she saw the shock of her parents faces. “She has been fighting for four years now.”

There, she told them. And deep down she knew this would be the end of the two of you.

Her mom covered her mouth with her hand, distraught and frankly disturbed. by what she just heard, yet it was her dad's reaction that caught her off guard, as he slammed his fist on the table and buried his face in his hands.

“Why would she-” her mom began but before she could even finish the question her dad interrupted her.

“It doesn't matter why. Jenna, you are not going to see her ever again,” her dad decided and despite everything she felt, all the anger over you hiding it, all the pain and how betrayed she felt, it all didn't matter when she heard those words. Those words still hurt. The very thought that she would never see you again, that this would be how the end of everything between you, before it could even get a chance to start, made tears fall down her cheeks. She sobbed uncontrollably, unable to stop even if she tried to fight her tears. Jenna understood that there was no way to fix this. Her parents would stay united on this, she would be forced to choose between her family and her love for you and as much as that would hurt her she would choose her parents each and every time.

“Edward, we might want to consider hearing the girl out. Jenna said four years, right? That’s when her parents dies, she's been through a lot and she seems like a sweet girl,” her mom said that more for Jenna’s sake rather than your own. While her dad chose to be practical she understood, perhaps better than anyone in Jenna’s family, just how much Jenna loved you, how attached she got to you, and how much this decision hurt her. “At least for Jenna's sake.”

But her dad just shook his head, not willing to agree with her mom on this. “This is precisely for Jenna’s sake. That girl,” he wouldn’t even say your name. “Chose violence for whatever reason. She went and chose to fight knowing any punch she throws might end up seriously hurting or even killing her opponent,” he looked at her mom sternly. “Do you really want Jenna to be with someone like that? Even if she never seriously hurts someone, how long will it take until her temper gets the better of her and she hurts Jenna?” he asked furiously.

“Y/N would never,” Jenna tried to defend you, because as horrible and frightening as you fighting sounded, she never, for one single moment, thought that sometime in the future you could actually physically assault her.

“You don't know that, Jenna. You don't know what I've seen, it's one thing to hear about it on the news or from someone, it's a whole other story to get called somewhere and see a woman beaten up black and blue by the guy she swore would never hit her. How many times did it turn out that the girl whose body was found was murdered by a partner who abused her? How many of those cases don't even get reported because she thinks they will get better?” he argued, fearing the possibility of you turning to violence, of your jobs making it more difficult for Jenna to escape that relationship. Fearing that one day he and her mom would get a call that you did something to Jenna because you got angry. “They don't get better. They learned that violence can solve their problems and they use it. Ask your mother! Ask how many people she had to treat knowing full well it's because her partner hits her, and yet she can't do anything, because she won't report that piece of shit.”

Her mom hung her head and looked to the side. “Your father is right, Jenna. Oh, I don't know what happened in that girl's life to make her go down that path, but in the end it doesn't matter. She's been through some things, we've seen that during the lunch when she said she lost her parents we understand that,” her mom stopped her before she could argue in your favor.

“And we really do, and we are sorry for her,” her dad added to that “And she might not ever raise her hand against you, but it's a might Jenna,” he tried to soften the blow, to make it hurt less.

“We just don't want to see you in a relationship that might turn abusive,” her mom finished and though the tears kept falling, her parents hugged her, and Jenna knew she couldn't argue against it. You were gentle, you were compassionate, but what would happen if you got angry. Like actually angry? Would you seek to resolve that anger through violence and would she or someone she loved be on the receiving end of that? Before her parents came in she was just afraid of the fact that you chose to go and fight, and she truly didn’t think you could ever get violent with her. Yet now? After everything they said, the doubt in her mind grew stronger.

With those thoughts in mind Jenna gave up on you right then and there

~X~

Ten days have passed since you last saw Jenna. Ten days since you've been active on any kind of social media, ten days since you decided that on the tenth day you will get on a plane and go to Coachella and that you will try and explain yourself to Jenna.

You subconsciously took hold of Jenna's ring around your neck, your thumb gently brushing over it. By now you must have held it like this for so long and so many times, that the memory of it got imprinted upon your skin, to the point where you would be able to recognize it in the countless other rings by touch alone. It was the closest thing to connection between you and Jenna you still had left, and a part of you feared that she might ask for it back, but you couldn't take it off.

And as you looked outside the window as the plane took off the memories of days long past flooded your mind.

~X~ September 2016 ~X~

Lately your parents have been going through a rough period in their marriage. There have been some old wounds reopening these past few months, and sure they kept you about as far away from all of it as possible, but you could still see the tension between them. But, they were adamant on staying together for your sake, even if their own personal relationship wasn't the best, hell it was probably at an all-time low. Even today as all three of you finally got to sit down together in public and tried to basically force a sense of normality in your family life, you could feel that unspoken unresolved mistrust and to a certain extent even some disdain for one another.

You’ve been thinking of the appropriate moment to share the news, and well, it looked like there was no better time than now. “Oh yeah, apparently a trailer for Logan is going to drop soon,” you told them knowing they were very much excited about the movie finally coming out. If there was one thing they could still agree on it was being happy and excited for you, for anything good happening in your life. Your dad, who's been sitting on the opposite side of the table reached out and patted you on the hand, squeezing it lightly with a proud look in his eyes as your mom pulled you in for a one-armed hug and for a moment you almost forgot that there were some issues going on between them. They looked at each other with a sense of fondness you haven't seen in a while between them, happiness and their mutual bond once more ignited by you being there to pull them back together.

“This calls for a celebration,” your mom said excitedly, proud of you, much like she always was and your dad wholeheartedly agreed with that.

“Great! I'm going to just go to the counter and see if they have any desserts available,” you hopped to your feet, not really wanting to call waiter over, instead you wanted to give them a moment to maybe let them privately speak to each other. To maybe reconcile at least a bit, and from the corner of your eye you could see them smiling together as you walked over to the counter, flooded with the sense of hope and excitement for the future. Logan would come out in roughly half a year from now, maybe by then your parents could get over their issues, then you could finish high school maybe you would get back into acting while pursuing a college degree. Anything really, as long as you would have a fulfilling life with them by your side for many, many years to come.

And if they had to separate, you just hoped they would still stay on good terms enough for both of them to be by your side in those special moments, instead of having to celebrate each thing twice.

You came up to the counter and with a grin on your face addressed the woman behind it. “Hi, I was wondering if you have any desserts available? Maybe something with plenty of vanilla in it?” you didn’t even have to put on your most charming grin, it was there naturally, and it seemed your happiness was contagious as the woman smiled back at you. Both of your parents really liked vanilla and generally lighter sweets, neither of them was all that into chocolate, so you hoped there was something that would suit their tastes.

“Of course, let me just show you the menu,” the woman replied, and you've just flipped through the pages, contemplating between several cakes, not even paying attention to the sound of horn blaring outside of the restaurant. You were blissfully unaware of the danger rapidly approaching until it happened.

Before that moment you thought things like this would feel like they were in slow motion, like time would slow down just for you, and you would take it all in one detail at a time. But, no. It happened in an instant, a truck came crashing through the glass walls of the restaurant, running over several tables filled with people, your parents included. In one instant all you could hear was the sound of screaming, and the fire alarm ringing in your ears, and you couldn't even scream you just rushed forward only for someone to grab you and hold you back as you trashed in their arms, calling out to your parents. Yet there was no response.

There would never again be a response no matter how loud you cried out for them.

The only response anyone got from that tragedy was the truck driver, stumbling out of his truck, clearly on drugs, and without a single scratch on his body. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he just waved it off. Including your parents who would later succumb to their wounds, he killed nine people, and all he had to say was: ‘Shit, I’m sorry.’

~X~

Following that moment everything felt like a blur, fragmented memories, feeling almost like they weren’t happening to you, like you were just on an autopilot. In a cruel twist of fate you were given a glimmer of hope, as the doctors came out bringing the news that your parents were still alive, but in a coma and that's they sustained so many injuries that even if they woke up they would likely never even be able to move again, that the damages would be permanent. They offered hope, Mayo Clinic in Rochester, in Minnesota, but it would cost a lot to transport them and then to treat them over there, but they promised the best doctors the money I could afford.

And that was the only thing that mattered to you.

You sold the apartment within two days, paid for them to be transported to the hospital while you rented a tiny apartment in Rochester so you could be close to them. You didn’t even consider it at the time, but the absence cost you a year in high school. Day by day, one meeting with the doctors after another, you found yourself just watching the money disappear in front of your eyes. At this rate within a month, you wouldn't even be able to meet your own basic needs, let alone pay for the medical bills.

For two weeks you wallowed in despair and hopelessness of the situation. You had enough money for two more weeks and then it would all run out. You saw no solution in sight, you could call Hugh, but then you would just be in debt, because as much as you figured he wouldn't be asking you to pay it back to him you couldn't live with yourself knowing you asked for that kind of money from him. And it would only delay the inevitable, sooner rather than later you would need to take care of the money problems yourself.

You finally got up, leaving the apartment for something other than going to the hospital or grabbing the minimal groceries you absolutely needed to sustain yourself for the first time since the accident. What you needed right now was to just go and get your mind off of things, maybe get a workout in and do some martial arts. You hoped that would bring you some clarity of mind, get your blood pumping and maybe clear your mind enough to start thinking about solutions instead of just waiting for the inevitable moment when the money would run out.

You went into the first gym you found that was focused on martial arts. You went inside, paid for the time you would be spending there, and getting all the information you would need. And the first thing you went to was the punching bag. It felt natural. Hitting the bag, landing strike after strike, unrelenting and each one just as powerful as the last one, driven by despair and frustration and the urge to let go of all of the negative feelings within you. It felt good to release it all, to just for a brief moment find a moment of rest. You didn’t even notice that over the course of the ninety minutes you spent at the gym you ended up catching someone’s eye.

~X~

A week later you were once again in your parents’ hospital room, with the doctor standing near your mother's bed. Your parents looked horrible, they looked like the empty husks of themselves, bandaged up, the different kinds of tubes attached to them keeping them alive. Your mother lost her arm, even if she somehow woke up and made a full recovery, she could never be a pilot again and deep down you knew that would just shatter her. And they would both have scars, both from the accident and surgeries they were going through.

“Is there any progress?” you asked, trying your best to stay strong and put on this act of a strong individual that could handle the truth, that the doctors didn't need to take it easy on you because you were still sixteen, and that he could just tell you how it really was.

“I'm afraid not. At this point, maybe you should just consider giving up on them. The treatment would cost a lot of money and there's a 99% chance it would just be all for nothing anyway,” the doctor's words still shook you to the core despite the act you were trying to put on.

“But there's a 1% chance that they will wake up, right?” you asked, your voice cracking once you spoke the last word.

“You could always hope for a miracle, but I wouldn't hold on to those odds,” the doctor told you and just left you there to your own thoughts and circumstances, and for the first time in your entire life you truly felt empty. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. All your life you saw your parents as these almost heroic figures, capable of solving any problem, always having everything under control.

Now that it was your turn to do that for them, you just couldn't. You were failing them, and there was nothing you could do.

You walked out of the hospital back to the gym, losing who knows how many hours in there, repeatedly gone through the motions of different martial arts you've picked up on over the years since doing Logan. Only to then move back to the punching bag, until it almost felt like your knuckles would bleed and then you felt someone tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned around, keeping your guard up but not immediately swinging your fist at whoever was behind you. And you just saw a man standing there, looking at you almost curiously, surprised and generally taken aback by the what you imagined was the empty stare in your eyes.

“You look like you can fight,” he commented and you just shrugged. Fighting neither attracted you nor solved anything. While you loved martial arts as a way to stay focused and as a way to practice self-control and stay in shape the idea of a fight, the idea of actually using this strength and skills you obtained to hurt someone made you sick. You hated the idea of violence and fights in reality. Fights as entertainment, in, say movies, were fine, they didn’t happen, no one was hurt making that entertainment, but that’s where you drew the line, and anything other than that kind of fighting made you feel genuinely disturbed.

“Would you like to earn some money with those skills?” he proposed and as desperate as you were you had to come to terms with the fact that you would handle feeling sick, if it would help your parents.

“What do you mean?” you asked but it was already clear, both to this man and to you that you were already in. He didn't know why, he might never ask why, and he would never need to know why, he just saw that you were willing to do it, and saw that you were skilled enough. And it just so happened that you desperately needed money. That was all he needed to know.

“I help organize these fights in several states. Each fighter earns $1000 for participating in a fight and if you win you get $3000 more,” this was almost too good to be true, but you didn't ask questions, you didn't care about how legal or right this all was. Or how you would get around the fact that you were a woman, hell not even a woman, a sixteen year old girl about to go and fight adults. And none of that mattered, not to you, not when you were suddenly given a chance to learn the money needed save your parents’ lives.

“How often do you organize these fights?” you asked, willing to go to a fight this very moment.

The man had a satisfied grin on his face. “Every two weeks, we would need to sign a contract to make sure you follow a couple of simple rules, but other than that you're free to fight as often as you want, stop whenever you want,” that wasn't enough, every two weeks wasn't enough. Even on a good month that would be $12,000, assuming you can win all three fights and that would not be enough to cover the medical bills as well as your own bills no matter how much you restrain yourself from spending money.

“I need more fights,” you told him plain and simple and he laughed, knowing has struck gold with you.

“You could always fight in different states. Other than in Minnesota I organize fights in Colorado and Montana, so if you're really up for being in pain, you could have up to six fights a month. Hell, I'll personally get you there,” he offered and you could do the math it would be anywhere between 6,000 and 24,000 depending on how often you could win. And that might just be enough to save their lives.

Still, it all sounded too good to be true. Even if in reality this would mean dangerous fights in which you could easily get hurt. “What’s in it for you?” you asked, skeptical about this deal now. There was a chance this was all a trick, there was a chance you were walking into something that could end up ruining your life or ending it all together, but at this point what did you even have left to lose, you were desperate and you had to risk it.

“Money, if my fighter wins, I get a nice cut of the money earned from the fights,” he pointed at the punching bag. “I've seen you hitting that punching bag for quite a long time, and with lots of force. Your form is good, and you've got speed. You might be a girl but I've got a good feeling about you kid, I think we can both get rich together.”

You didn’t care one bit about getting rich, but it didn't matter. He offered you his hand and you shook it, sealing the deal and making the decision that would influence your life for years to come.

~X~

A fist collided with your side, and you dropped to your knees only to get another punch right to the side of your head. Just for a moment you thought you bit off more than you could chew, but before another hit could land on you, you managed to scramble to your feet and avoid it in the last moment.

You couldn't lose your first fight, if you lost it that would only mean you would keep losing again and again, because if you couldn't win at your best, at your healthiest, what chances would you have the next time. There wouldn't be enough time to recover, there would barely be any days between the fights. You would keep losing and the money you would get for it wouldn’t be nearly enough.

You hated all of this, the smell of sweat and blood and alcohol and everything else that was permeating the air in this damned building. You hated every single moment of the fight, you hated the feel of your fists colliding with a human body, you hated the pain caused by the hits you took, you damn near threw up when you traded blows what's the person in front of you whose face you didn't and you would never know. But whose face you just slammed your fist into, even if the mask and the glove lowered the impact slightly. You just narrowly ducked under a kick and managed to tackle the guy in front of you to the floor. And you hesitated enough for him to kick you off him, maybe you could have won right then and there, maybe you could have landed a punch that would end the battle, but no… You pulled your punches, afraid of their consequences, you didn't hit the right places, you knew how to fight, you knew what could happen, and you restrained yourself.

And for that restraint you paid in pain as your back hit the steel fence of the cage and it rattled behind you from the force of the impact. You could feel nothing but pain, so strong you nearly fell to the floor. One moment you were leaning your head back, trying to recover even a tiny bit, the next you opened your eyes and saw a knee approaching your head and almost by instinct you dodged it, getting back up on shaky feet. You managed to dodge it and spun around, kicking the opponent right into the fence. Between his momentum, your kick and other hits you managed to land on him, it all seemed to be enough, and he said ‘stop’ ending the fight.

You stumbled back as your victory was announced and with it your nickname for these fights, The Mad Dog, because after all those hits you took, you got up again and again until your enemy was down on the floor unable to keep going.

You hated every single thing about it, yourself included, but just for a while this money would be enough to solve what you believed was unsolvable.

Four days later, on Friday, you were back home in Denver for another fight. Then on Thursday next week you were in Montana, only to come back to Minnesota on Monday for yet another fight.

So, the cycle began and after each fight you came back to the tiny apartment more and more physically broken, but somehow you kept winning, pushed by some unnatural, bizarre force driving you to just keep getting up no matter how much it hurt.

~X~

And then it happened roughly nine weeks after you began fighting thirteen wins out of thirteen fights, your body just gave up on you in the fourteenth one. A kick to the head you barely saw coming knocked you off your feet and right to the floor, and you tried, you desperately tried to get up. Yet your enemy didn't even come back after you, he didn't try to finish the fight, he already knew it was over.

You clenched your fists, desperately trying to get up on your knees. You had to get up, you had parents to save and yet it didn't matter, you just dropped back onto the floor blacking out.

You woke up, startled, about 15 minutes later on the bed in the makeshift infirmary the club had for people who didn’t know when to quit the fight. Losing consciousness also meant losing $500, because the fighter didn’t know when to stop and would have to pay for the minimal treatment the club provided.

“You know, kid, I don't know what's driving you to keep coming to these fights as often as you do. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful. I earned quite a bit of money because of your wins, but you keep doing this and you'll end up getting yourself killed. Skip a fight or two, come back in two weeks. Let your body rest a bit,” the same man that offered you these fights, the man who you later learned was named Davis, told you when he noticed you were awake.

“I can't. I need these,” you were barely ahead all of the bills you were meant to pay. Even with Davis making sure you arrived to these fights and paying for your plane ticket it didn't help much. You were barely a month ahead on the bills and you feared this loss would only start a chain of losses. And if you took two weeks off and then lost again there was a good chance you would need to stop the treatment and let them die.

“Why? I really have to ask, sure, we said you're eighteen in the contract but you're sixteen, you don't do drugs, you don't drink, you are actually a genuinely good kid. Why do you need to do this?” he was actually curious, it wasn't that you spent a lot of time talking to Davis, you barely knew anything about him, and he barely knew anything about you. He simply got curious, so he asked.

“I need to pay medical bills, my parents are in a coma,” you said and he seems genuinely taken aback by that.

He hummed. “That explains the way you fight. That desperation isn't something you see in someone just looking for a quick cash,” he paused for a moment and then just shrugged. “Let them die, kid. Even if they wake up I doubt they'll be able to live with themselves knowing what you did.”

That struck a nerve and you got up, ignoring the pain you felt, and you just stormed off to be anywhere but here.

“No parent worth being a parent would forgive themselves if their child was ruining their health just to keep them alive. They wake up and you tell them what you're doing and they are going to wish they never even survived whatever put them in a coma!” he exclaimed, his voice reaching you. Deep down you knew it was probably true, and you despised knowing that that would definitely be their reaction once they wake up and they find out. They would be broken and hurting more from what you've done to yourself them from what happened to them.

But in your mind, it would all be worth it as long as they could wake up, as long as they could just at least one more time respond when you called them.

~X~

You walked down the streets of Denver, stumbling over your own feet, shivering as the snow began falling. The entire place was covered in a thin layer of snow and it was somehow colder than it was supposed to be in late November. You didn't even know where to go, you couldn't go to Barbara's place, that would only let her know you were too far gone, too involved in these fights. Then she would only be worried about you. But you also no longer had your apartment, you sold it. If you were lucky you might stumble upon some motel that had an empty room or something and stay the night before going back to Minnesota.

The sound of wings frantically flapping made you pause and look down to see a bird, stuck to a metal pipe because its legs froze there, and you just dropped down. You sat down, cradling the bird as you wrapped your hand around the pipe ignoring the cold, and it calmed down in your hand and you just glanced down finally realizing you got to a bridge, not that far from where your apartment used to be and so not that far from where Barbara lived.

And there in that cold you just sat, watching the snow fall on you as the heat from your palm set the bird free. You managed to smile despite yourself, despite the circumstances you were in, and despite the pain you felt as you pulled the bird away from the pipe. “There you go, you can fly right? Off you go, buddy,” and you let it go, letting it fly away, hopefully it wouldn't get stuck again.

You tried to get up, but your legs just couldn't move, and you dropped back down to the ground. “Shit,” you cursed under your breath. It was too cold and to the people passing by you looked like a drunk, so they didn’t pay attention to you.

You could just close your eyes right here, just rest. It was cold, lonely, as you thought about your parents, if you let them die then why did you even do all of this to begin with? These fights had to be worth something, right? What was it worth it, if you couldn't do anything for them? If you couldn't save them despite the fact that you went and sacrificed your health, that you've taken so many hits and lost count of how many bruises you had by now, then all you would be left with would be the failure.

“Get up,” you pushed your body one more time, but just like in the fight you just couldn't get up. “Oh, fuck,” you nearly cried out, desperately trying to find some strength still left in your body. You couldn't, your body wouldn’t listen to you. It's been so long since you've rested, since you took a moment to recover. So, you just closed your eyes, hoping you could try again soon enough, if only you took a moment. It would be fine if you just stopped, just for a little while, just for 10 minutes. Your arms dropped to the sides of your body, and you hung your head low.

“Hey, are you OK?” the voice sounded so far away, even if you could feel the hands on your shoulders shaking you slightly. “Wake up. Hey- Oh my God! Y/N, what are you doing here?! Come on, come on, you need to get up. Dear Lord, what even happened to you? Wait I'll, I'll call Richard,” that name, that voice, they both sounded familiar and you managed to open your eyes, your vision blurry, but you saw the woman kneeling in front of you was Barbara's mother, Sophia.

Shit, this was not good. You couldn’t let Barbara find out like this.

“I'm fine, just need a minute,” you tried to get up again, but you just slipped back down.

“Oh, thank God you're awake!” Sophia said, frantically calling her husband. It was too late now, she wouldn’t let you go and even if she did you doubted that you could even move properly and so you just lost consciousness.

~X~

When you're next woke up you saw Barbara kneeling next to the bed you were lying in, tears staining her face as she slept there with a blanket barely covering her back. You tried to sit up, to cover her if not wake her up and tell her to go to sleep, but the sharp pain made you fall right back down and it startled the girl awake.

“Y/N, you're awake!” she cried out and threw herself at you, hugging you tightly and you cried out in pain despite all the effort you put in not to do that. “Shit, I'm so sorry!” Barbara pulled away as if burnt and you could see tears once again streaming down her face. “What were you thinking you dumbass? Why? What's all this?” she asked her, voice trembling as she motioned toward your body, pointing at all the bruises that were now bandaged up and taken care of and you figured it was a small miracle that they didn't take you to the hospital because you didn’t have the money to pay for those medical bills as well. And you certainly couldn't explain the state your body was in to the doctors.

“I needed the money for treatment, I’ve been fighting,” you said and she just dropped her hands, defeated. You didn't need to explained that fighting wasn't some form of expression, a way to say you've been doing your best to get the money needed, you were quite literal and seeing as your bruises made that impossible to hide from Barbara or her family.

“That's just,” she paused. “You're sixteen, you are a kid, this isn't what you're supposed to be doing,” she dropped to her knees next to your bed and just hung head low. “It's not fair.”

“They have no one else to do it, it has to be me,” you thought of every solution, considered every option when you realized your body was not going to be able to take it for as long as you’d need it to. You couldn't get a job, not the one paying enough, anyway. You were sixteen, you didn't even finish high school, you would be forced to work minimum wage and that would barely be enough to sustain you let alone pay for the expensive medical bills. And borrowing money from Hugh would only mean you had a debt to pay for a treatment that quite possibly wouldn't even work.

Not to mention Hugh had his own treatment to deal with, he needed to focus on his skin cancer, and he had enough visits to the hospitals on his own. He didn't need this piled up on him as well.

“I don't know what to do,” Barbara said and you let out hollow laugh. You didn’t quite know what to do either, you were way past your limits. “I called Hugh, maybe you'll listen to him, because I know you. I can't talk you out of this,” and your heart sank. “You need to stop, Y/N, you need to find another way.”

“I can't,” you closed your eyes, refusing to let yourself cry even though your body desperately needed that release.

Less than an hour later Hugh came in rushing into Barbara's room, and you managed to sit up, as he stood there, mere feet away from you. His eyes were filled with so much compassion and you just felt like you didn’t deserve it. You caused all this pain, and it likely was all for nothing.

“Guess you know,” you said and there was no need for anyone to directly state what you've been doing, everyone present, Barbara, her parents, Hugh, they all knew what you've been doing.

“How do I help you?” was the first thing Hugh asked and your eyes widened. You expected anger, disappointment, judgment, you expected questions, him demanding the answer to why you did it. You didn't expect him to just ask you how he could help you, and you managed to get up and hugged him, finally letting the tears fall down your face. You barely released any of the pent-up emotions but you released some and that was a relief beyond any other you could have hoped for.

“I'm afraid,” you admitted for the first time since the accident happened. And Hugh had every right to be angry at you. You never even told him what happened, you lied to Barbara, saying you told him, so he didn't know up until tonight or today or whatever day it was right now. Hugh had no idea any of this was happening, and instead of feeling like you kept something that important from him, he just held you close letting you cry in his arms.

“I'm here now,” his voice shook as he said that, promising you the kind of support one could truly only expect from a parent.

And you believed him

~X~

A week and a half later you still haven't gone back to the fights. Not that it really mattered, you were still in pain. Hugh made you get a check-up, and it turned out several of your ribs were cracked throughout the duration of the battles you participated in, and there were some other minor issues, things that would get better as long as you took enough rest and took your medicine. But there was no doubt that if you went and continued at the same pace of the fights you were in, that sooner rather than later some hit would do irreversible damage to your body.

So, you didn't go back.

Hugh was with you, sitting in the doctor's office as you looked at the test results of your parents. They were no different from the ones from two weeks ago, there was no improvement, no matter what treatment the doctors tried.

“At this point I regret to inform you that there is no chance that your parents will wake up. Continuing this will only prolong your entire suffering. The best option for all three of you is to unplug the machines,” the doctor spoke with about as much compassion as one could expect from the man who often had to give these kinds of news to the family.

“Can't you say it with a bit more compassion? She's just a kid!” Hugh demanded, growing angry at the man.

“Mr. Jackman, this girl's been holding on to the slim chance that maybe the treatment would work for three months now. Foolishly going and putting her own life at risk. I don’t know how she got to do it, but if you want to save her life, she has to let them go,” the doctor said and you felt as if lightning struck you.

“Can I see them? Just one more time?” you asked, your voice quiet and you were the verge of breaking and giving up. The doctor nodded and let you go to their room following closely behind with Hugh.

They waited outside the room, giving you the privacy you so desperately needed as you just looked at them. Frail and thin from the months they've been like this. The doctors were right, even if they woke up the recovery would be nothing short of hell and you just began apologizing again and again and again knowing this was the only way things could proceed.

You approached your father's bed. “Dad,” you tried, desperately hoping he would give you some sign that he heard you, anything to make you keep fighting, but there was none. You turned to the other bed. “Mom, please I really need to talk to you. To both of you,” this wasn't some kind of movie where voice of a loved one could overcome the odds, they remained silent, unmoving. The only signs of life for either of them were the sounds of machines keeping them alive. You pulled away the expression on your face a mask of ice while you desperately tried to keep yourself in one piece.

You walked out and looked at the doctor. “Thank you for trying, let them rest now.”

The only thoughts that went through your head as you went and signed the papers was: ‘Worthless piece of shit, you couldn’t do anything.’

~X~ January 2021 ~X~

You arrived at Coachella, rented a car and drove to Jenna's place hoping she would be there at her parents’ house. You parked in front of her driveway and stepped outside of the car. You took a deep breath and pulled out your phone and called her for the first time since she found out you were involved in fights. She didn't pick up, so you went and left a voice message. “I'm outside your home, please Jenna, just hear me out. I know I hurt you, I know you feel betrayed and afraid, but at least listen to what I have to tell you,” you looked up toward her window and saw her there looking right at you as she listened to the message you left.

There and then she just shook her head, and you understood that talking to her wasn't going to be as easy as you hoped it would be. You could have just left right then and there, but this meant a lot to you, and you just couldn't give up on it that easily.

The front door of her house opened and instead of Jenna, who was still in her room looking from the window, her father came out.

“Get the hell off my property.” he demanded, as furious as you expected him to be.

You leaned back against the car, your hands in your pockets. “I know Jenna told you what I've been involved in. I know what you're thinking. I just want to talk to her,” he was her father, but you felt no need to explain yourself to him. At the end of the day this was between Jenna and you and besides, you figured that no matter what you said to him it wouldn't change his mind. He didn't know you, the only things he knew about you were things Jenna told him and the few interactions you had with him when you were last here.

But Edward wasn't even in the mood to talk. “Leave right this moment or else,” you met his eyes, refusing to look away or back down as the two of you got into a bit of a staring contest, neither of you backing away.

“Or else what?” you stepped away from the car and stepped right onto their driveway. Immediately he pulled out a gun and you just stared at the barrel pointed right at your chest. “Quit bluffing, you shoot me and you’ll only cause more problems for Jenna,” you said and even took a step closer so the barrel pressed right against you. You turned to the window, seeing the horrified look on Jenna's face, well, you couldn't quite see it clearly, but you could see her hands covering her mouth. “You are scaring Jenna.”

“What do you want? You want me to just let you go inside and sweet talk your way into Jenna forgiving you? Let you take advantage of how much she loves you and then when she says one wrong word the next thing she’ll feel is a punch to her face,” Edward snarled furiously and you felt anger at those words. At the judgment passed upon you without giving you a chance to even speak your mind, to even try and explain yourself, he put the label on you and you once again found yourself looking toward Jenna. For a brief moment you wondered if after all these days that was what she thought about you.

The initial reaction, sure, you understood that. The nature of the fights you were involved with would imply you were capable of that. That you got used to violence to the point that it would be a natural response to you. But did she truly believe that after the initial shock wore off? You knew this revelation shook the very foundations of what she thought of you, but did it really go that far?

“I did what I had to do. I got into that to try and save my family. If you’re going to judge me over that so be it,” you looked at Edward again glaring right at him.

“Maybe you did do what you had to, maybe it was the only choice you had, but it doesn't change that you chose to go back there. That you learned to hit first and ask questions later. And I cannot leave my daughter's safety to a maybe,” he did lower his gun though, but his words pierced you harder than any bullet ever could.

“Can't leave her safety to a maybe?” you scoffed. “So, you wouldn't do it, huh? If your child was in a coma and the only way you could pay the bills was to go and fight?” you asked, daring him to say that he wouldn't do the same thing you did, if given a chance. You dared hi, to say that if he knew he could go in and win a fight and that fight would give him the money he needed to give a fighting chance to his child that he would not do it.

“If you stopped after they died, we wouldn't be having this conversation, but you went back. I cannot trust you with Jenna’s safety,” he countered, he struck a nerve, he dared to speak of something he didn’t get. Him, Barbara, Hugh, Jenna, everyone who knew what you were involved with, they didn't understand one thing about your choice to go back to those fights.

“You speak of a maybe? You can't let me go and talk to Jenna because maybe I'll hurt her?” you demanded, anger burning in your eyes. “How dare you speak of a maybe when you sent her to work? You agreed to let your teenage daughter go to work in a vile industry where around every corner there can be someone who will take advantage of her in some way. You let her be a child actress even with all the dangers that are much more likely to happen than me hitting her. Because guess what? It pays fucking well to let your-“ and you saw it from a mile away, you saw it and you took it as he punched you in the face so hard your lip burst.

He was breathing heavily, barely holding himself back from hitting you again, and you just stood there, head turn to the side with a smirk on your face. And that just provoked him into hitting you again, on the guts this time.

“Hit a nerve did I? You're not involved in fights yet here you are, resorting to violence,” you laughed though it sounded hollow. “Couldn't control yourself, could you? I provoked you and you struck, so tell me if you're so sure that one day I'll do the same thing to Jenna because I've struck people too, does that mean your family should leave you too?”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” he tried to punch you again but this time you caught his fist.

“Oh, no you don't. Don't think I'm going to stand here and take it as you pummel me, buddy. Just remember, whenever you try to preach about the maybes and all the dangers being with me could bring to Jenna, that you put her at much bigger risk. She wanted to act, I know. It’s her decision, but you could have chosen another way, oh wait that wasn't as profitable as this damn industry is,” and even as you said that, even as you held his arm back, you didn't even consider hitting him back, there was no need to do that. After all these years you spent fighting, deep down you still hated every single moment of it. You would not resort to hitting anyone unless you knew they signed up for it or it was to keep someone else safe. You would never stoop that low to resort to violence as a response to some emotion you felt.

“Dad! Stop!” Jenna cried out, and her dad pulled away as Jenna, clearly shaken up, run up to the two of you. She was horrified by what just happened and she stopped, not in front of him, but in front of you, her hand reaching up to your lip to the thin trail of blood running down from it.

You moved your head back. “Don't get your hands dirty,” you said softly as you brushed the blood off your chin and Jenna stopped and looked down.

“Jenna, get away from her,” her father ordered, yet she hesitated, neither listening to him or disobeying him. It was clear to you that whatever she chose here would be a choice between you and her family. You glanced behind her to see her mother and Aliyah and Markus coming out as well. All of them looking at you the same way her father did, expecting the same thing from Jenna.

“Y/N,” she spoke your name softly, and you could see she was leaning toward you almost subconsciously,

“Choose what makes you happy, Jen,” you just smiled as you looked at her with nothing but understanding and love. She wasn’t afraid of you, it’s just that there was another issue now. Her breath hitched and much to your surprise, she took a step closer to you, her hands reaching for you.

“Jenna!” her mother called out to her just as she was about to touch you, a silent message reaching the girl in front of you. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again you had no need to hear what she would say next. Her eyes told you everything.

“Leave, please. I don't want to hear it,” she chose with a heavy heart and you nodded accepting her decision.

“I see. For what it’s worth I really am sorry,” you got back into the car, leaving the girl behind, her ring still around your neck, her mark left on you for the rest of your life, even if at that moment you thought you would never see her again.

Taglist: @lilbitdepressed27 @freakshow2501 @osnapitzmel1 @belatrixdragon @ijustlovemaths

@niqmandu @justspance @mirage018 @godamnityess

Masterlist / First Part / Previous part / Next Part

A/N: You know, I really considered doing the part of the backstory after Reader's parents die, showing how she went back to the fighting, but I figured I should leave that for when her and Jenna eventually talk things out. (And I was already 7k in and that would make the chapter extremely long 😅🤣🤣) If you survived this chapter and aren't dropping this story, well, good news are this is as bad as it gets. It only gets better from here.

Also, just to be clear! Jenna's reaction at the end is not all she has to say about what happened, she will have words for her dad in chapter 12! It's the 'keep the disagreements behind closed doors' type of situation for her!

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x female reader #x reader #x female reader

154 notes · View notes

dyingswanpavlova · 5 months ago

Text

Secret affairs || 》 Aemond Targaryen 《 OneShot

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x sister!reader

warnings: sorry guys, I'm new to this, I'd say probably mild smut? And also, incest between siblings obviously, a few curse words. Also the dinner scene is a little violent. Love y'all!

summary: Aemond has always found comfort in the loving arms of his sister, that's exactly what he does after his brawl with Jace at the family dinner.

It had been obvious, considering the ridiculous tension in the room. But the moment, Jace and Helaena started dancing, without Aegon bashing anyone's head in, I had considered us to be safe.

But Luke just had to laugh.

At him.

The moment he slammed his hand on the table, followed by a "final tribute", I knew we were done. But I also did not try to stop him. What good was there in it? I could not have prevented it anyway, he was too stubborn and too proud. My seemingly level-headed brother who also was also a brooding, ticking bomb, just waiting to explode.

"To these three...Strong...boys."

"I dare you to say that again."

"Why? 'twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?"

The next thing I saw was how Jace punched him right in the face. I instinctively jumped up - as if I could have done anything to help - but to no one's great surprise, Aemond did not even flinch. He did not even spill the wine from his goblet. The next moment, he tilted his head to the side and pushed Jace to the ground. Luke jumped up as well, only to have Aegon slam his head into the table.

Everyone was screaming and hissing wildly, but Aemond watched with a smug expression as guards pulled the boys back, only to be confronted by Rhaenyra and Daemon.

I finally woke up from my trance and rushed forward, gripping his elbow tightly.

"Was that really necessary?" I asked and sighed.

He was actually calm, which made the situation all the more unnerving. He crossed his arms over his chest as he stared at me.

"Jace swung first. I was merely speaking my mind. You should be happy.”

I rolled my eyes.

"That may be technically true, but we both know you provoked him. We barely made peace with them."

Aemond gave me a glare. He didn’t like when I was the logical one, especially when it came to the situation at hand.

“And why should I care? Luke’s a bastard.”

"Shh."

I grabbed his hand and dragged him away from the tumult.

"Are you trying to get your tongue cut out?"

He pulled his elbow out of my grip. He hated that.

“What? It’s the truth.”

He crossed his arms again. So stubborn. I hated that.

"I know it's the truth. But don't you remember the last time we discussed this so openly, hm?" I pointed at his eye patch. "Mother barely talked father out of having you sharply questioned, just hours after you lost your eye. Aemond..." I lowered my voice.

"Father will always be on their side, you know that."

He was silent for a brief moment, before rolling his eye in annoyance.

“I am perfectly aware of that.”

He huffed before grabbing my arm and pulling me behind one of the pillars so no one would overhear.

Behind the pillar he was closer to me than he had been all night. His one hand was on my arm, keeping it from moving, but the other was gently placed on my waist, to keep me in place as well. His face was completely stoic, yet I could tell there was anger and frustration bubbling up within him.

“I am not an idiot. I know father does not care about me or any of us. I am well aware that he would choose Jace or Luke over us, any day.”

My expression softened and I gently touched his cheek.

"I know they're bastards, Aemond. And I'm not angry at you for provoking that fight. I'm just worried about you."

His body seemed to relax as I touched his cheek. Yet, he stubbornly still refused to show any proper emotions.

“Worried about me? I can take care of myself. You don’t need to protect me.”

"Yes, I do. In fact, we need to stand up for each other. You, Aegon, Helaena, mother and me. Because no one else cares about us." I said firmly.

He hated admitting it but I was completely correct. He did not speak for a moment. He still held me close, refusing to let go even as he looked at me.

“That does not change the fact that they are bastards. That does not change the fact that Jace will be heir to the throne one day, simply because Rhaenyra is a whore.”

"Aemond." I said sharply and glanced around. Everyone was busy chattering wildly in a mess.

He grunted as he moved towards me, pinning me lightly against the pillar with his body. His hands went to my waist, just to hold me in place as he bent his head so it was next to my ear.

“You may be the only person I love in this family, but that does not mean I will not speak the truth if I want to.”

I closed my eyes.

"I..."

I swallowed.

"I'm not asking you to stop. Just...not here. If someone overheard that, Aemond...It would be considered treason." I said quietly.

His one, amethyst coloured eye shut as his head stayed close to mine. His body was still pressed against me, keeping me trapped between him and the pillar.*

“You are too soft, you know that? Too scared. Father would not care if someone overheard us.”

I scoffed.

"Father would have our tongue cut out in no time if it meant he would protect Rhaenyra and his precious succession."

He growled softly in annoyance as he pulled away from me, still keeping me caged in with his arms, but not as close as before.

“Damn him. One of his bastard grandchildren could do the worst thing in the world and he would still protect them until he dies. But then he would not bat an eye if anything happened to any of us. I mean hell, I lost an eye and he did not give a damn.”

"Do not remind me." I almost hissed. I remembered that day vividly. Aemond did not even shed a single tear, except for when the panic coursed through his body, right after it had happened. Later on he only said Do not mourn me mother. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon. While I had spent all night sobbing.

He heard my hiss, and he immediately felt guilty. He knew that day effected me, maybe more than it effected him. His voice had become much softer as he spoke again.

“I have not forgotten the look on your face.”

He gently grabbed my chin, forcing my head up gently to look at him.

“It was like you were the one who lost an eye.”

I reached out and gently trailed my fingertips along the outline of his eyepatch.

"If only it had been me." I said quietly.

His eye shut as I grazed his eyepatch. He hated when I said things like that.

“Do not ever say that.”

He suddenly grabbed my wrist, so I would stop touching the eyepatch. He could tolerate a lot of things being said about his missing eye, but the one thing he could not take was when I made that comment.

He gripped my wrist tightly as he continued to hold it. He could still remember how upset I was that night. How I cried and cried and how nothing he could say seemed to calm me down. He even remembered holding me that night, just so I would calm down.

He pulled my arm gently, forcing me flush against him once more as he leaned down so he was once again close to my ear.

“The look on your face that night, seeing me all bloodied up and missing my eye…I do not want to ever see that look on you again.”

I sighed deeply. "I felt like I was dying."

I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face in his chest to hide it. I sniffled softly but somehow I had to smile.

"I still cannot believe you had to comfort me."

He instinctively wrapped his arms around my waist when I held onto him. He even smiled slightly as well as I buried my face in his chest.

“You could not handle the sight. You are too soft and emotional.” He teased.

I shook my head.

"It was not the sight that made me go insane that night. It was...you. It happened to you of all people."

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat when he heard me say that. He was quiet for a brief second. A thousand feelings and thoughts passed through his mind. Yet his voice was quiet and soft, almost sheepish even after a second.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I pulled my head back and gently cupped his face in my palms.

"It means, I love you and you got hurt that day. And that almost killed me." I said quietly.

He felt a shiver go down his spine when I gently cupped his face. No one had ever touched him, especially his scarred face, with that sort of gentleness. No one but me. He found himself leaning into my touch, his eye closing for a moment.

“It is just an eye, Venice.”

His voice was uncharacteristically soft. He hated feeling vulnerable. It was one of his only weaknesses- me.

"Not to me." I whispered back.

He was silent again. He suddenly felt like that night again. When I had cried and begged and pleaded for him to be more careful. How I had wrapped his face in a cloth and tended to his eye, while trying to keep his face hidden from others.

His voice was still soft, as if something in his mind had suddenly snapped. He swallowed as his hands held onto my waist.

“You love me too much, you know that?”

I smiled gently.

"I am well aware." I said quietly. "I cannot help it."

He was quiet for a moment, soaking in my words, soaking in my touch. He suddenly pulled me fully against his body. My head tucked under his chin so he could hold me as close to him as he could.

“You are being ridiculous.”

Yet he could not deny that he craved my love and affection all the time. He was desperate for my attention.

I laughed softly.

"And you are an emotional cripple." I teased.

He chuckled lowly as he held me even closer with one arm, while the other hand went to my waist once more. He suddenly grabbed a little tighter at my hip. He loved my teasing. No one had ever spoken to him in such ways before. He knew our father might not even give us a second glance if we were suddenly dead. Mother was trying. In her own way. And failing.

“I am not an emotional cripple. You are just annoying. An annoying brat.”

I smiled warmly and pinched his cheek.

"I know you are not. I was teasing you."

He grunted and made a face as I pinched his cheek. He tried to act annoyed, yet he was actually quite fond of my touch. He suddenly pinched my on your rib, in the same place he knew I was ticklish. Accidentally, of course.

I laughed breathlessly and swatted his hand away.

"Hey!"

“Whoops.”

He said nonchalantly, as if it really was an accident. However he smirked when I swatted his hand away.

"Careful now, little sister. I may have to start tickling you for real.”

I smirked and looked up at him.

"You better not, you know? I fight back."

I bit my lip and my expression turned more serious when I heard how mother apologized to Rhaenyra on our behalf behind the pillar. I sighed and buried my face in his chest again.

"Can I come over later?" I asked quietly.

It was not uncommon. Ever since the eye incident, I would sleep in his bed ever so often. Being near him made my nightmares go away. I felt like the older we got, the more inappropriate it felt, so I would normally sneak into his room after dark.

We had gotten...close, a few times, but I had never misinterpreted it as something meaningful. We simply needed each other...Or at least that was what I told myself.

He quickly noticed my changed demeanor when he heard our mother. He could have scoffed at them, but he was more focused on me at the moment. I looked troubled, clearly upset. He nodded subtly as I asked to come over later. He tried to sound unbothered and indifferent as he responded.

“As if I mind.”

His heartbeat was picking up. Me sneaking over at night had become more normal in the past couples years, ever since he had lost his eye. He would never admit it to out loud, but I knew he preferred having me in his bed.

He glanced down at me as I buried my face into his chest. He suddenly felt extremely protective. He was aware of how inappropriate it probably was to continue having me sleep in his bed. However he was too stubborn to stop it. He had almost become dependent on it over the years, especially after I started becoming much more affectionate towards him as well.

He placed a hand on the back of my head and gently played with my hair as he held le close.

“You are such a needy little brat.”

I smiled faintly.

"But only to sleep." I whispered, not sounding too convincing to my own ears.

He smirked slightly once more as I whispered that to him. He was amused at the fact that I was trying to insist that I only needed him to sleep, and that it was all it was. He was not stupid. He caught all the affectionate gestures, the stares, the looks I would give him. He could tell I was just as dependent on him as he was on me.

“Of course. Only to sleep.”

He said in a sarcastic tone, trying his best to hide the fact that he enjoyed having me in his bed.

I swallowed hard and bit my lip. I intertwined my fingers with his.

"I mean it. We will simply sleep. We cannot continue to..."

I closed my eyes.

"You know what I mean."

That was what I said ever so often and a few days later we would fall back into our old patterns.

He raised an eyebrow when I linked my fingers with his. He could not help but get a little annoyed at the fact that I kept insisting that we both would not do more than sleeping together. He let out a quiet sigh through his nostrils.

“Yes. Only sleep. I got it.”

He responded again in a sarcastic tone. He knew deep down I would probably not keep the promise of never going further. I never did.

As I was holding his hand, he suddenly gave it a slight squeeze. He was growing irritated at how badly he wanted me at that very moment. He did not like the way I made him feel so needy and desperate.

“Just come over after dark, as usual.” He finally spoke again, his voice low and soft. He was trying his best to sound nonchalant about it.

I nodded and squeezed his hands back.

"I will go to my chambers. Promise me you will not get into any more fights tonight?" I said teasingly but there was a hint of concern in my voice as my fingertips gently trailed along his bruised chin.

He rolled his eye and chuckled lowly, finding my request amusing- although he knew deep down I was only half joking. He leaned into the touch of my fingers on his face. He would never be able to say no to me when I was sweet and affectionate with him.

“I promise to be on my best behaviour. No fights, no insults, no snide remarks. I shall behave with the most decorum tonight.”

I smiled sweetly and looked at him for a moment longer before I gently withdrew from his embrace and left the dining hall with quick steps.

He reluctantly let me go when I pulled away from his embrace. He wanted me to stay, to continue feeling my body against his and my skin under his fingertips. However he knew it was best to not take the risk of someone seeing us two like that.

He immediately felt antsy and irritated once I was out of sight. All throughout the rest of the dinner, he fidgeted and was restless. He felt extremely distracted. The bastards were back in their quarters, but Aemond could not get his mind off something else entirely.

Once in my room, I took a quick bath and got myself ready for the night. I put on a white nightdress and a white robe. Then I sat down on the bed to read until I was sure that everyone was finally deep asleep. When I thought it to be late enough, I closed my book, opened the door and rushed through the corridor with quick, quiet steps until I reached the door to his bedroom. My steps echoes through the hall, but no soul was close by. I did not bother to knock and quickly vanished inside his bedchambers.

He was laying on his bed, wide awake and reading a book as he waited for me. He had already changed into his nightwear: an all black, satin robe that he wore with nothing underneath. He was slightly frustrated already, having grown very eager and desperate to have me in his arms again. That frustration faded slightly as the door slowly creaked open and I appeared.

He shut his book and set it on the bedside table as soon as he saw me. He sat up, his eye watching me as I practically scurried over to the bed.

He watched as I climbed into his bed on all fours. His heart was beating faster than normal and he was growing impatient. He immediately grabbed me by the hips and pulled me onto his lap. He was in dire need of having me close, having me in his lap, with my legs on either side of his hips.

He was still frustrated and a little irritated, as he wrapped his arms around me in an almost possessive way. His eye darkened as he took in my figure in the white nightdress.

I wrapped my arms around him and rested my head on his shoulder.

"How was the rest of the dinner?" I muttered.

He let out a sigh, suddenly feeling much, much calmer now that I was in his arms, on his lap. He gently cupped the back of my head and ran his fingers through my hair in a soothing motion. He responded in a low, gruff tone as his eye was still darkened with lust - however, he was trying his best to hide it at the moment.

“It was fine. Aegon was as drunk and as unruly as usual. And Rhaenyra was as stubborn and bitchy as always.” He almost spat the last line, as he had never gotten along with our older half-sister.

I smiled faintly.

"So I did not miss much."

He hummed in acknowledgment as he continued to run his hand through my hair. He was growing more and more eager as he was holding me on his lap. He could already feel his body reacting to my closeness. It was driving him insane having me in his lap, wearing such a sheer and revealing nightdress.

“Just the usual. Nothing of worth happened.” He responded in a slightly distracted tone, as he suddenly grabbed my hips a little harder with his hands.

I closed my eyes. I felt how his body reacted to my proximity and of course, my own did, too.

I swallowed and tried to keep my tone nonchalant. To at least try to stick to my earlier words.

"That is good." I said quietly. "Are you in pain? That punch was pretty nasty, but you did not even flinch."

His eye darkened even more when he heard me question him about his injury, specifically about if it was painful or not. He suddenly gripped my hips even harder, his fingers digging into my skin just barely as he shifted me in his lap, grinding me against him.

“I am unharmed. It was a light punch. I have had worse brawls even with Aegon."

He responded, his eye not leaving the way his hands were gripping my hips, the way my sheer nightdress was almost slipping over my thighs.

I could not help the small gasp that left my lips.

He chuckled lowly when he heard that gasp from me, knowing that he had finally gotten me to slip up and give in to him. He suddenly leaned in against my ear, his breath hot and tickly against me as he spoke in a low, gruff tone.

“Does my needy little sister need me?”

He teased me, as he started slowly grinding me against his lap once again, making sure to make me feel how I was affecting him.

A shiver ran down my spine and I let out the softest whimper. Oh, and how I needed him.

"But...Aemond...I thought, we said..." I protested weakly.

He smirked at the way I was already quivering in his arms from his simple touches, and at the way I mewled and whimpered softly as he ground me against him and his lap. It was like music to his ears, watching me lose my composure so quickly.

“I do not care what you said earlier. We both know you need me just as much as I need you.”

He responded with a harsh tone, and he roughly grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

He leaned closer to me, his breath still hot and tickling as it came against my neck now. He roughly grabbed both of my hips with his hands and pulled my body even more tightly against his. He let out a small hiss as he felt my heat rubbing against him, making him feel desperate and needy.

I let out a soft moan and rested my forehead against his shoulder.

"Ah, shit." I whispered breathlessly.

He smiled faintly at my soft moan, his hands grabbing and squeezing my hips roughly as he pulled me even closer to himself. He started slowly grinding me against his lap, the pressure against his own aching length making him even more desperate and needy than he already was.

“Tsk, I told you this was what was going to happen if you came to me. You just cannot resist me, admit it.” *He whispered against my neck, biting and sucking it harshly, leaving marks all the way up to my jawline.

He continued to bite and suck on my neck, leaving a trail of dark marks from my neck to my jaw, marking me as his. He started breathing hard against my skin, desperately gripping m, hips and grinding me against him. He was slowly losing his patience and his control.

“I hope you don’t mind wearing a few extra pretty accessories tomorrow to cover up your neck.” He said in a sarcastic tone in between kisses.

I could not help myself. I rolled over and pulled him along, wrapping my legs around his waist.

"Idiot." I whispered breathlessly. "Last time I was covered in hickeys and bite marks for days. It was so hot outside and I had to run around, covered like a Septa. Mother was so suspicious."

He let out a low chuckle against my neck as I pulled him over with me. He immediately grabbed my legs and held them tightly with his hands. He was completely desperate now that I had initiated the move and started to practically take control of the situation.

"I remember. It was hilarious.” He responded with a smirk, still remembering the fun he had whenever he saw a new bruise he had left on my neck or any exposed skin. I ignored his idiocy.

"Kiss me." I whispered and impatiently started undoing the buttons of his night shirt.

He smirked once again when he heard me demand for him to kiss me, and again when he felt me starting to undo the buttons of his nightshirt.

“So impatient…”

He muttered, as he leaned down and finally started to kiss me in a deep, passionate way. It was a kiss full of desperation, all tongue and teeth. He started getting more and more frustrated as he felt me trying to undo his shirt, but just could not quite do it fast enough.

He grabbed one of my hands and suddenly yanked it away from his buttons, pinning it above my head on the pillow. He was now in the position of power, taking back some of the control that I had grabbed from him, and also frustrated at my lack of speed in undressing him.

“Be patient. You are acting like a spoiled child.” He mumbled against my lips in between messy kisses. He started sucking and biting my bottom lip, wanting to hear me mewl from pain and pleasure, which I quickly did.

I moaned softly against his lips and let out a soft whine.

"Come on, do not make me wait. I have not felt you in days." I whispered pleadingly.

He smiled faintly against my lips at the sound of my whiny and pleading tone. He enjoyed how impatient I was, how desperate I was to have him. It was always a massive boost to his ego whenever I expressed just how much I craved him, just how much I needed him.

“You are so whiney.” He mumbled against my mouth again, before quickly ripping the buttons of his nightshirt open, desperate to get it off.

He pulled the buttons all the way, completely opening up his nightshirt and exposing his upper body to me. He was desperate to feel my touch, to feel my hands on his skin, and he was desperate to feel my body against his as well.

“There you go, princess. Happy now?”

He muttered, in a sarcastic tone, before leaning down and kissing me again.

I let out a shuddery breath and kissed him hard while my hands impatiently roamed around his exposed chest.

He smirked against my lips at the way I was roaming my hands all over his chest hungrily. He enjoyed the feeling of my hands raking across his skin, the way I was desperate to touch him, to feel him, and he was desperate to feel me as well.

"Gods, you are so needy… and impatient… always desperate for me to give you what you want, are you not?”

He mumbled against my lips in between messy kisses.

"I cannot help it. You ruined me." I whispered as my lips found his neck.

He let out a low, stifled moan as I started to kiss and suck on his neck. He closed his eye, relishing the feeling of my lips against his skin and the way my body squirmed under him, wanting him. He was losing control and I was only making it worse.

“I know I did… and you are not complaining, are you?”

He responded as he tightened his hold on the hand that he was holding above my head on the pillow, still pinning me down, on my back, beneath him.

He shifted and moved himself lower on the bed so he could lay in between my legs. He started kissing and nipping at my neck, slowly sucking on the skin, leaving a mark, as he started grinding himself against me again.

"You are all mine, princess. You do not need anybody else - you will be mine, always.”

He started whispering in my ear, still grinding and rubbing himself against me, feeling how my body responded instantly to his touch, to his voice in my ear.

I rolled my eyes.

"Do I look like I am complaining?"

I smirked and gently bit his earlobe, only to whisper: "You ruined me. You compromised me. You turned me into a needy, naughty mess. And I loved every second of it."

He let out another low moan as I whispered that statement in his ear. It was like music to his ears, hearing me admit just how desperately I belonged to him and him alone. He smirked, knowing just how much he had completely changed me, how I had been completely transformed, how he had completely conquered me.

He shifted a little, still laying in between my legs, and he started grinding his hips against me harder as he responded.

"And I take great pleasure in the fact that I did that to you.”

"Oh God-" I moaned softly and immediately my hands went down to undo his pants.

He could not hold back the grin on his face when he saw my hands start to hurriedly undo his pants, clearly getting frustrated with the buttons and buckles. He loved how desperate I was for him, how much I wanted him, and how I was getting impatient with the speed.

“So impatient… so needy… desperate for me, are you not?”

He teased and taunted in a gruff, lust-filled tone.

"Aemond, do you not dare tease-"

When I realized he wore nothing underneath, I laughed.

"So much for only sleeping. You planned this."

He let out a low, amused laugh at my reaction when I realized that he was completely naked beneath his pants. He smirked in response to that comment, loving the fact that I had just realized how much he had planned this out. How he had made sure he was ready for me.

“You know me so well, princess. Do you really think that I would just be lying here, fully clothed, waiting for you to come, knowing you would not be able to resist me?”

He responded with a taunting, teasing, tone.

He smirked again, watching the expression on my face before he started to quickly move himself back up towards me and leaned in close to my ear.

“You should know by now that the only thing I am ever thinking about is you… I cannot get you out of my head… the way you look… the way you react when I touch you… the way you moan and cry for me…”

He started whispering in my ear, still grinding against me as he talked.

"Please." I whispered breathlessly. "I...I need you, Aemond. Now."

He could not ignore the pleading and desperate tone in my voice as I whispered to him how I needed him. He loved it. He loved when I got needy and desperate for him and he could not deny that it was turning him on, making him want and crave me as well.

“Beg for me then, princess… beg and I will give you everything you want.”

He responded, in a deep, lust-filled, voice, still grinding against me as he continued to tease and taunt me.

He felt how my body was squirming and writhing beneath him, how I was so desperately trying to touch him, to touch his body. He loved how needy I was becoming, how I was completely falling apart beneath him, completely under his control.

“Go on, my dear… beg for me… if you want me… if you need me… beg me for it.”

He responded, still taunting and teasing me with his deep tone, still grinding against my aching heat, but not giving me quite what I so desperately wanted.

"Please." I whispered, swallowing my pride. "Please, I am begging you, Aemond. Let me feel you."

He felt his control slipping when he heard my pleading, the way I was begging him, the way I was clearly desperate to feel him. My pleading tone, my desperate words, were all feeding his ego.

“Gods, I love it when you’re pleading for me… begging for me like that… desperate for me to give you what you want…My naughty little love." He responded, still taunting and teasing, but his own need and want growing stronger by the second. He could not deny how badly he wanted me as well.

That was when he decided not to torture me any longer. He positioned himself above me and I finally felt him - teasingly, almost painfully slow.

"Oh God, Aemond-"

I let out a shuddery gasp and buried my hands in his silky hair.

He could not tease and taunt me anymore once he had felt me as well. He had teased and edged us both long enough, bringing us both to the brink of desire, and now he could not hold back any longer. He started pushing himself against me, taking his time, and going painfully slow.

“Gods, I’ve wanted this… I’ve craved this all day… I’ve been desperate for you all day…”

He gasped out in a deep and lust-filled tone.

He felt my hands immediately reach out and grab onto his hair, holding on tightly, and he could not hold back a moan at the feeling of my fingers digging into his scalp.

“Gods, I have missed you, sweetheart."

He muttered out between gasps as he continued to push himself against me, still going as painfully slow as possible, to tease me more.

"Please, Aemond. Do not tease me. Not right now." I gasped out.

He smiled.

And then he made me his. Again and again.

And again.

Until the only thing my lips could form was his name.

And on the next day we promised that all we would do would be to sleep.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond x reader #hotd aegon #hotd #house of the dragon #hotdedit #targaryen #house targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x you

270 notes · View notes

moriitis · 5 months ago

Text

What would it be like dating Toby Rogers?

Slightly NSFW? TWs; gore, blood, manic episodes, kidnapping. Just little HCs.

Pretty much the biggest goofball there is but he can be really annoying, anything to get you pissed, doesn't really understand the concept of overstepping a joke or taking things too far. I feel like warnings kinda go over Toby's head, so if you told him to stop, he would continuously do it because the first time it made you laugh so naturally every time he did it, you'd laugh, right? He'd do things like jabbing you in the sides when he walks past, jamming his fingers up your butt to piss you off (smacking your ass when you bend over), chasing you up the stairs, he'd mock you when you whined and do that thing to mimic your facial expressions in an irritating way but also in a way to make you laugh.

Loves driving you around, especially late at night. More prone to opening up about his feelings when driving because then his attention is diverted to the road and he's forced to avoid your gaze. You'll always know he needs to vent when he asks if you wanna go ride around, listen to music or something, he'd mention it with his hands in his pocket, pretty embarrassed to ask. Also just likes to ride around and find somewhere remote to park so he can fuck you in the backseat of his car.

Probably the worst person ever to try to call or text. He'll never answer so good luck really trying to get a hold of him.

He's a romantic and he's pretty corny. On the rare occasion he does decide to text you, it'll be a song that reminded him of you. Although don't be surprised if he literally hands you a tape with burned music on it. Wild flowers that he decided to pick because the colour of the petal reminded him of your eyes? Coming home late at night with your favourite snacks. He's a good boy and despite the occasional memory loss, he remembers these things about you, he also keeps reminders on a little piece of paper tucked away in his wallet.

He's a physical person but really only in private. Cuddling on the couch? For sure! Want to share a kiss in public? Probably not. It's nothing toward you, he just feels weird expressing bouts of love in public with people watching. Was it the lack of love in his childhood? Probably.

Will roll your cigarettes/blunts for you. He's a natural.

Very competitive gamer, try playing some Mario Kart against him and this guy is quivering at the thought of beating you. You got him with a blue shell once at the finish line, thus taking his first place last minute and he had to step outside to have a cigarette because the loss hit him that hard.

Despite his lack of physical affection in public, he is possessive. Hates the idea of other people looking at you and gets very jealous. Also will stand incredibly close to you, close enough you could feel his breath against the back of your neck. He'll scowl around too and make sure to put himself between you and another guy.

Speaks German when he's angry, like when he rages at Mario Kart (he HATES Yoshi primarily) you'll hear him talking smack to the TV in German.

Also speaks German to you when you're beneath him, muttering small praises in his mother tongue as he pants and groans softly against the skin of your neck. Sometimes he'll mix, start speaking English but end the sentence in German.

His driving is reckless but he'd never put you in any danger, not after what happened with Lyra.

He hates being around you when he has a manic episode, his voice cracking as he yells at you to stand back, that he's dangerous, that he could hurt you, kill you. With each step you take toward him, he takes one back, violently shaking his head. His tics and twitches are worse as he runs his hands through his hair, they bawl, tugging at his locks as if he was daring to rip them out but the pain is non existent to him. He'd storm out, distancing himself from you. It could take weeks, the longest it took was a month before he came back, scruffy, tired, longing.

Talks about how he wants to travel, to go somewhere with you, that he'll kidnap you and take you away forever and that you'll only be his and his alone.

Does get a little thrill of scaring you. Making it look like your home alone but as you walk past the bathroom door, he'll jump out, one hand over your mouth, the other wrapping around your waist as he picks you up helplessly and drags you back. You'll kick and scream until his raspy laughter breaks out behind you. He did it a couple times until you had a panic attack once and he never did it again.

Likes to remind you to take your medication, dude specifically has a calendar to keep track of times and dates, when you should take this and that. Especially birth control.

Will touch your thigh as you sit in the car together sometimes his fingers pushing up further in a little attempt to get lucky, a smug smirk on his face.

Compliments in German too, of course.

Will suddenly hit the breaks in the car to send you flying and then lecture you to always wear a seatbelt. Always wear your seatbelts when sat in car with him.

sorry these suck lololol, idk might seem off character for toby but it's just how i see it play out. i'll make another post for just general HCs for Toby bc i have so many. anywayyy taking requests to shoot if you have any ideas :)

#creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #ticci toby #toby rogers #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby headcanons #toby rogers headcanons #idk these are bad sorry

264 notes · View notes

thatbloodymuggle · 6 months ago

Text

MASTERMIND (iii)

THREE - COLOR THEORY

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 11.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, descriptions of violence, smut, oral (m receiving), thigh humping, fingering

You have always wondered if being born from Light and Dark was a blessing, or a curse. On one hand, it has granted you the ability to navigate life’s morally gray areas; to question everything and listen to opposing thoughts and ideologies. But on the other hand, your existence was born from a violent affair—and you can’t help but wonder if that Dark inevitably lives within you, shielded by the Light.

Right now, more than ever, you believe the latter may be true.

It’s been three days. Three days since you woke up to an empty bed beneath you and guilt weighing heavy atop. Three days since you self-sabotaged your entire mission. Three days since you reveled in the comfort of your enemy’s arms.

You thought the regret would be at its worst the morning after; you figured it would pass with time. But with each day, each hour, each minute that ticks by, breathing becomes just a little bit harder. You can’t even find peace in sleep; not when you are kept awake by images of Eris’s lust-filled gaze and the inevitable heartbreak on Mor’s face. If your own self-stirred panic isn’t enough, you also have the note that Eris left atop his empty pillow to worry about:

I apologize for leaving so soon, Little Bird, but I have some business to attend to. Do write back when you’d like to take a tour of the library. Don’t miss me too much.

The bastard left the proverbial ball in your court. Typically, you like being in control. But with your current frenzied mental state, the last thing you need is yet another convoluted layer to worry about.

Needless to say, you are about one misstep from exploding.

The crackling embers of the fireplace in your cabin stare back at you tauntingly. You hover your hands over the orange flames, letting the heat tickle your skin until the burning becomes too much, and you are forced to pull away. You wait a beat, before raising your shaky hands over the fire once again. Albeit brief, the pain seems to be the only escape from the assault of your traitorous thoughts. Yet, with each retreat of your hands, the empty paper and pen sitting on your bedside table glare at you expectantly. They seem to radiate a cruel impatience—as if Eris is slinking in the shadows, watching you.

Your hands begin to burn again, and you abruptly pull them away. Before you can raise them over the flames once again, you feel the scraping of talons against the cobblestone barrier of your mind.

You want nothing less than to talk to Rhys right now. But you know that if you leave him hanging, he will worry. Reluctantly, you let your walls crumble down, and a shiver runs up your spine as you feel his aura creep in.

Everything okay? His voice sings across your mental connection.

You gnaw on your bottom lip until you wince, swiping your tongue across the droplet of blood.

I don’t know, you relent.

He doesn’t respond immediately. But you can picture the cinch between his brows as he mulls over your answer. Be honest with me. I won’t share with the others, if you don’t want me to. Promise.

Your fingers dance over the flames once more. You can’t possibly divulge what has transpired thus far. But you certainly can’t hold it all in without going mad. The fire burns your skin, and you jolt back before responding.

Promise?

He replies instantly, Yes.

You start talking before you can convince yourself otherwise. I think I may be getting a little too close.

Your response is simple, straight to the point. But something about it feels…heavy.

What do you mean ‘too close’?

You’re careful not to let your thoughts, your memories of what happened in that cottage, to breach your mental connection with Rhys. You stare into the orange flames, admiring how intertwine, before replying.

The ‘seduction from afar’ plan may need to be revised. I’m in too deep to keep my distance for three weeks.

Your heart thumps in your chest as you wait for his response. You subconsciously twirl the silver ring on your thumb, never peeling your eyes away from the blazing fire. Rhys doesn’t say anything for a while. Just as fear begins to creep in, his voice sounds through your mind.

That’s fine. You jolt at his response, and he continues. Between you and me, I don’t care what you have to do. Make him fall in love with you, break his heart, it doesn’t matter. Once you’re out of there, you’ll never have to see him again.

You physically flinch as the reality of your situation hits you like a truck. Three weeks, and you’ll never see him again. Three weeks, and it’ll all be done—there will be no witness to whatever fling you have, no one left to tell the tale. No one ever has to know. Mor never has to know.

Okay, you finally respond simply.

Just tread carefully, you can hear the strain in his voice.

You nod robotically, even though he can’t see you. With a quick farewell, you put up your mental barriers. You stare into the flames for a few minutes longer, until the mere sight burns your irises.

“Compartmentalization,” you mumble to no one in particular.

Finally, you peel yourself off the dust-covered floor in front of the fire. Your legs are wobbly as you take methodical steps towards your bedside table. The empty paper and pen are quivering in anticipation as you approach. Your hand moves with a mind of its own as you pick up the waiting pen and scribble onto the paper.

Does the offer still stand?

The second you set the pen back down onto the table, the paper vanishes into thin air from your fingertips. You wring your hands together as you sit down on the side of your bed and wait. You’re not sure what you’re waiting for exactly, but you wait.

“Compartmentalization,” you say it again. And you say it a few more times. Enough to trick your mind into believing it and slow the frantic beat of your heart. Enough to don a mask of apathy as a crack sounds outside the front door followed by a sharp knock.

You twist the silver ring around your thumb once more before standing, this time on steady legs. Your steps are calm and calculated as you tread towards the door. You take one last deep breath, ridding your body and mind of any residual apprehension. With your lips curled into a beguiling grin, you swing the door open.

Eris’s smile is almost as wicked as yours as he scans you from head to toe, drinking in your appearance.

“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me, Little Bird,” he smirks.

You pick at your nails nonchalantly, “I’m flattered I’ve been on your mind, but I’m not sure I can say the same.”

His vicious grin only widens, “You wound me, Birdie. But I must admit,” he dips down and lowers his voice to a whisper, “I quite like your bite today.”

You arch a brow and don’t so much as flinch at his proximity, “Are you a masochist, Eris Vanserra? Or does chasing after disinterested females turn you on?”

Your thinly veiled insult only eggs him on. It takes everything in you not to shrink back as he lowers his lips so they graze the shell of your ear.

“Are you sure you want to go down this road? Because last I remembered, you were a whimpering little mess—”

His sentence is abruptly halted by your fingers pinching his lips shut. His eyes widen in incredulity at your childish action, and a giggle bubbles in your throat at the sight. You release him and walk briskly past, leaving him dumbfounded behind you.

“Well, are we going or not?” you snark over your shoulder.

He falls into step beside you, and you jolt as he places his hand on the small of your back. His touch gentle, but commanding. You don’t dare look at him as he warns, “I’ll let this one slide, Little Bird. But don’t forget that my teeth are much sharper than yours,” he wraps his arm tightly around your waist, “And I’m not afraid to use them.”

Your rebuttal is cut short as he pulls you to his chest before winnowing you both out of the woods.

The Forest House is just as remarkable as you remembered it—even more so in the sunlight. The tangles of ivy enveloping the red-brick walls are a vibrant green, and the intricate details of the gate itself seem to glisten underneath the sun’s rays. However, unlike your last visit, this time sentries line nearly every inch of the expansive walls. Their taut faces and intimidating steeds exude a sense of savagery that makes your skin prickle.

Eris’s hand retreats to its spot on the small of your back, and you jump slightly as you are reminded of your purpose for being here. Reluctantly, you peel your eyes away from the curvature of the golden gates and cock your head towards his. The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you can tell he’s holding back a comment from the twitch in his lips.

“Spit it out,” you feign annoyance.

He shakes his head with an airy laugh, “It’s nothing. I just like the way you look at the world—all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, like you’re experiencing life for the first time. It’s cute.”

You frown.

His comment, while innocent, puts you on edge for two reasons. The first, and the one that really makes your skin crawl, is his incessant ability to unknowingly point out parts of yourself that belong to you, rather than Athena Ellesmere. With each destination he takes you to, you do feel like you’re experiencing the world for the first time. But that’s not Athena—and with each of your quirks he reveals, he’s one step closer to sniffing you out entirely.

The second, well…

“Cute?” you deadpan.

His teeth flash as his grin widens, “Cute.”

You’re not cute. You’re supposed to be sexy, confident, untouchable—a femme fatale. Not fucking cute.

You know your bubbling frustration is futile, so you simply narrow your eyes into a warning glare and march towards the golden gates. You know that the pout on your face isn’t helping your case—but you can’t seem to wipe it off. The sentries shift on their steeds as you approach but return to their stationed positions when Eris falls into step beside you. They don’t so much as look in your direction as you pass through the gates.

“Once you are formally welcomed inside the gates, you are free to come and go as you please,” Eris’s fingers brush yours as he speaks, “So if you are in further need of the library after today, you can return.”

Your ears perk up at this, but you nod coolly. He leads you around the side of the large mansion, away from the front door, and lowers his voice to a murmur, “But I would prefer if you’d let me accompany you, if you should visit again.”

“Why? Want me all to yourself?” you snort.

He wears a playful grin, but his eyes are vapid.

“You know I do,” he teases, “But the beauty of this place is deceptive. Darkness lurks behind these walls, Little Bird.”

A shiver crawls up your spine, but you swiftly retort, “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“I know,” his voice is thick with trepidation.

You bristle at the way he speaks about you like he knows you. Yet again.

His hand returns to the small of your back as he leads you towards a small door, almost completely covered by thick ropes of vine. If he wasn’t guiding you, you would’ve completely missed the hidden entrance. You suck in a breath in anticipation as he pushes it open, wood creaking against rusted hinges. You hide your curiosity as you take in the burgundy carpet lining a hallway so long, you can’t see its end. The walls are built of centuries-old limestone, the darkness illuminated by flame torches.

You peel your eyes away from the hallway as Eris leads you to the left, down a steep, spiral staircase. Just like the hallway, it is built entirely of dark stone which holds a red hue thanks to the flickering flames of torches lining the walls. He steps in front of you, and you follow his lead silently as he leads you down the stairs. The steep wind of the steps is dizzying as you descend downwards, deep into the ground below, and into the heart of the tunnels of the Forest House. With each floor you pass, you picture Azriel’s map of the house. Finally, Eris takes a turn at the ninth floor you’ve descended. You follow closely behind and note the change in architecture. Gone are the limestone walls, and in their place, deep mahogany wood lined with a variety of paintings: family portraits, Autumn Court landscapes, still life’s. This hallway is also dimly lit with torches, but it holds a peculiar warmth unlike the others.

“How big is this place?” you voice echoes down the expansive hallway.

You know exactly how big it is. But you can’t stand the eerie silence.

Eris’s voice rumbles lowly, “Miles long. It would take you half the morning to walk from one end to the other.”

Your eyes widen in mock astonishment—as if you don’t know that it is exactly 4.2 miles long.

“And you don’t get lost?” you ask.

“You forget I’ve had centuries of practice, darling,” he chuckles.

You open your mouth to fire another question, but a squeal escapes instead as you feel something wet bump against your right hand. You snatch your hand to your chest and look down to find a pair of beady, vermillion eyes staring back at you. You instinctively inch closer to Eris as you stare down at the creature in awe.

You know what smokehounds are. And you know that Eris owns a whopping twelve. But you weren’t quite prepared for the predator standing before you. Its fur is gray and sleek like smoke, and its eyes are the color of blood. Your initial fear fades as you realize, despite their crimson hue, its eyes are not filled with malice—but rather, curiosity. You cautiously lower the hand clutched to your chest back to your side, and slowly stretch your fingers apart. Its wet nose bumps your hand again, and you shiver at the tickling sensation as it sniffs you. A giggle bubbles in your throat as it sticks its tongue out and licks between your fingers. You tentatively stroke the side of its face with your knuckles.

“She likes you,” Eris hums beside you.

The smokehound nuzzles into your side, and you stroke the top of her head with your full hand. You know they are vicious creatures—you’ve read about how they can race as fast as the wind to sniff out any prey. But the creature standing below you seems as harmless as a fly.

“What’s her name?” you ask as you scratch softly between her ears.

“Sage. She’s my oldest,” his hand joins yours as he strokes the back of her neck.

“I never pictured smokehounds to be so…affectionate,” you wonder aloud, curiosity piqued as she licks your hand again.

Eris laughs softly, “They aren’t. She must be drawn to you—the same way I am.”

You can feel his gaze on you but refuse to look in his direction as you fight the blush crawling up your neck. He withdraws his hand, and you follow suit as you continue your walk down the hallway, this time with Sage by your side. She trots beside you, close enough that your fingertips brush the silken fur on her back and her side rubs against your dress. Even as you continue down the dimly lit hallway, you can’t take your eyes off the elegant creature walking alongside you.

You nearly slam into Eris as he halts abruptly in front of two large oak doors. Just as you regain your footing, you nearly lose it again at the sight before you.

There are seemingly endless rows of books reaching at least fifty feet tall. An ornate rug of red and gold covers the stone floor, and hundreds of flickering candles are suspended in midair. Vibrant green ivy, much like the kind you’ve seen outside, wraps around each shelf. To top it all off, the ceiling is a mosaic of crystalline windows shining golden rays of sunlight down below—some kind of enchantment, you presume, given that you are at nine floors underground.

“Wow,” you breathe. With your mouth agape and your eyes wide with wonder, you know that you are proving Eris’s earlier point. But right now, you couldn’t care less.

You wander towards the shelves, Sage trailing behind you, and run your fingers gently along the spines of the books. The smell of parchment and wood is intoxicating, and your heart swells with joy as you scan the collection of classics. Some are so old; you presume they must be original prints. Others look brand new, completely untouched.

One binding in particular catches you attention—well, ‘binding’ is generous, considering the book is barely hanging together by a thread. You carefully pull out the amethyst-colored cover and turn it over. Shattered Realms.

“Is this an original copy?” you question, unable to peel your eyes away from the novel.

Eris looks over your shoulder, “Yes. It’s been passed down in my family for generations—although it originally belonged to the Night Court.”

Your lips twitch with amusement, but you force down a laugh at the irony. You glance at him over your shoulder, “How did it end up here?”

He takes a step closer to you, his chest inches away from pressing up against your back, and runs a finger over the binding of the book in your hands. His scent of sandalwood and nutmeg invades your senses.

“Many centuries ago, my grandfather was in a bit of a tiff with the Night Court High Lord at the time. He stole it during their feud.”

You smile softly and make a mental note to retrieve the book before you return to Velaris as a little souvenir for Rhys. You carefully place the book back in its spot before continuing your exploration. Eris follows closely behind, whereas Sage has found comfort in front of the fireplace.

“Do you have any favorites?” you wonder aloud as you come to the end of the aisle.

“I have many,” his hand brushes yours.

You hook your pinky finger over his, “Care to share?”

“Any particular genre you’re interested in?” he curls his finger against yours.

You bite your bottom lip in thought as you mull over the options. Asking you to pick a favorite genre is like asking a mother to pick her favorite child.

“I’ve recently been on a bit of a reading kick of philosophical essays,” you tap a finger to your chin in thought, “Mind-body dualism, introspection, all the good stuff,” you drawl.

Eris’s brows raise in surprise, “I never would’ve thought that philosophy pairs well with filthy little romance novels.”

Your eyes narrow into a glare, and you move to snatch your pinky away from his, but he swiftly intertwines your fingers. He’s dragging you down the aisle before you can protest, and you stumble to keep up with his swift feet. Eris leads you past rows of bookshelves, up a spiral staircase, and past even more rows of books. He doesn’t give you a chance to admire the collection of literature as he tugs you along. Finally, you halt at a small alcove decorated with stained glass windows.

Your eyes widen as you take in the collection of books written by countless ancient philosophers. But you force on a façade of indifference, careful not to fuel his already bursting ego even more. You hold your breath as he leans over you and pulls a book at least six inches out of your reach. The binding is tattered—not as badly as the original copy of Shattered Realms, but enough that you can tell it’s at least a few centuries old. He holds it out expectantly, and you tentatively grab it from his waiting hands.

“I think you might find this to your liking,” he grins, “A collection of Tydeus’s correspondences with Lady Baldwin. It’s not an original copy, but surely the closest to it.”

He releases your other hand, and you clench your jaw to conceal your excitement. You’ve been searching for a copy of this for years now—ever since you stumbled across the collection of the ancient philosopher Tydeus’s works in the Velaris library. Your mother used to love reading the copy of his correspondences in the Day Court libraries, but that feels like a lifetime ago now.

“Tydeus’s ideologies are a bit archaic for my taste. But I suppose this will do,” you lie through your teeth. Eris chuckles lightly, observing the curious glint in your eyes and the way you hold the book with a delicate reverence.

“There are wards around the house which prevent these books from leaving the premises, so unfortunately, I cannot loan it to you. And given your past thieving tendencies, I’m not sure I would want to,” he teases as he leans against the shelve of books.

Well, there goes Rhys’s solstice gift.

Your lips dip into a frown, “I know Vanserras are cruel, but I never imagined you’d be this twisted—dangling one-of-a-kind copies of ancient literature over my head only to pull them away.”

“Don’t fret, Little Bird,” he purrs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “You can read to your heart’s desire—inside the house, of course. I’ll show you to a place with a bit more…privacy.”

You gulp as his fingers linger against your cheekbone. His touch is electrifying, and you fight the instinct to chase after it as he pulls away.

“Okay,” you whisper, “Is it alright if I pick out a few more?”

His teeth flash as he observes the effect he has over you.

“Take your time. I’ll be keeping Sage company.”

He brushes past you, and you remain frozen in place for a moment. Get it together, you scold yourself internally. You will your mind to empty as you continue your stroll down hundreds of rows of books. You try your very best not to pick up everything that catches your eye—only those which really pique your interest. But even so, you quickly find yourself with a stack of books so high they nearly reach your chin. Your arms tremble underneath the weight, but still, you add a couple of atlases to your stack for good measure. You have no intention of reading them—but Athena Ellesmere would.

Finally satisfied with your collection, you walk slowly back towards the front of the library. You rest your chin on the top of the stack, careful not to topple the tower of books. The winding staircase proves to be a challenge, and you nearly stumble twice. But by some miracle, you make it down unscathed, and approach the blazing fireplace.

Eris lounges on a couch with Sage on the ground beneath him. He scratches her ears nonchalantly as he flips through his own book. His neck cranes at the sound of your uneven footsteps, and a roaring laugh fills the room when he lays eyes on you.

It’s a sight he wishes will be forever imprinted in his memory—your arms wobbling underneath a stack of books nearly as tall as you, and your flushed cheeks peeking out on top.

“Some help would be appreciated,” you hiss.

He sets his book down and glides over, taking half the stack from your arms. You nearly moan in relief at the literal weight lifted off your shoulders.

“A few more, huh?” he taunts with a wily smirk.

“A few means a small number. Comparative to your collection, yes. A few,” you grit your teeth.

“Whatever you say, Little Bird. Although I except a thorough review of each,” he sings.

Eris balances his half of the stack in one arm and wraps his other around your waist, pulling you tight to his chest. You save your own stack from nearly tipping over with a stumble. You aren’t afforded a chance to protest as he winnows you both away, leaving Sage sleeping peacefully in front of the fire.

This time, you aren’t able to save the stack from spilling out of your arms as you land in a new room. Much to your displeasure, Eris’s pile of books is fully intact in his arms. You drop to your knees with a huff and begin collecting the books strewn about a patterned, crimson carpet.

“You’re a clumsy one, aren’t you?” he taunts from above you.

Your head snaps upwards and you open your mouth to retort but pause as you take in the new surroundings. Much like the library, this room holds a golden glow highlighted by swirling patterns of golds and reds along the walls. You can feel another fire blazing behind you, and just past the deep-seated sofa in front of you lies an enormous canopy bed. It suddenly clicks—you are in Eris’s private chambers.

You cock a brow at the sight and a smirk tugs at your lips, “You know, if you wanted to get me in your bed all you had to do was ask.”

He sets down his stack of books on a small, wooden table in front of the couch and reaches a hand down to you expectantly. You tentatively place your hand in his, and he raises you up from the ground, pulling you to his chest with a sultry smile.

“Is that an offer, darling?” his breath tickles your neck as he dips down to your ear.

Your cheeks flush as he caresses your jawline with his thumb. You clench your thighs as you are reminded of how his fingers felt inside you, dripping in your arousal. But before you can melt into his touch, you raise your lips to his ear and croon, “I’m not that easy. You’ll have to work harder than that, Fox.”

He presses his nose against your temple and groans, the vibration of it sending a tantalizing chill up your spine. Just as easily as he’s able to get you flustered, so are you able to drive him up the wall.

You pull away from him, ignoring his whine of protest. He is absolutely shameless in his desire for you, and the thought alone makes your gut churn with delight.

You gather your stack of books from the ground and carefully place them beside the other half on the wooden table. You sift through the titles before finally settling on the Tydeus copy Eris recommended. You don’t so much as glance in his direction as you take a seat on the couch and kick off your heavy boots. The fire is just close enough that the flames warm your skin, and you all but sink into its comfort. You can feel Eris’s eyes on you, but you continue to ignore him as you stretch your legs out across the velvet expanse and open the ancient book. You aren’t even through the first page when you feel Eris’s hands on your calves.

You squeal as he raises your legs, giving himself space to sit beside you, before lowering them again so they are draped over his lap. You glare at him over your book, but he ignores your malice as he leans forward and picks his own book from the pile on the table. He leans back in his seat, his legs spread beneath yours, as he opens the book—a rare biography of one of the original Valkyries. Your own book sits limply in your hands as you study his profile—the plump of his lips, the shift of his jaw. You can’t help but admire the freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose. He is incredibly handsome, which simultaneously makes your job easier, and all the more difficult.

“I know I’m gorgeous but try not to drool on my centuries-old book,” he hums nonchalantly, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

You raise your leg to kick him, but he firmly grips your ankle and sets it back onto his lap without so much as a glance in your direction. He doesn’t remove his hand, letting it rest on your leg. With a huff, you return to your book. You are halted, once again, this time by his wandering hand. He teasingly pushes up the skirt of your long dress, just below your knees, so he can rest his hand on your shin. Your breath hitches as he rubs circles into your calf with his thumb, massaging it gently.

Reluctantly, you succumb to the comfort of his touch and return to your book once more. You page through Tydeus’s correspondences with Lady Baldwin. Their letters begin simply enough. But you quickly find yourself immersed in their debate over morality. Whereas the Lady takes a relative stance, Tydeus takes on an absolutist one. As their back-and-forth shifts to the dichotomy of good and evil, you are eerily reminded of your own inner turmoil earlier that morning.

“Anything good so far?” you jump as Eris’s gravelly voice cuts through the comfortable silence.

You meet his inquisitive gaze and note how the flame of the fire reflects in the amber of his eyes.

“My mother would have loved this,” you reply.

She did love it. You remember how she used to read it constantly in the Day Court—you never thought you’d be able to get your hands on a copy of it again.

“Why is that?” he asks, curiosity laced in his tone.

You lower the book onto your lap, “She loved all of Tydeus’s works. She was a strong believer in the dichotomous division between ‘good’ and ‘evil’.”

Eris sets his own book down and rubs your leg with both of his hands.

“And what do you think?” he challenges thoughtfully.

You shrug, “I’m not sure. On the one hand, I think morality is relative—that individuals are not uniform, and thus form their own ideas about what is ‘good’ and what is ‘evil’. But then on the other, I used to believe that there are some things we universally categorize as one or the other.”

“You don’t anymore?” he counters

You bite your lip and avert your gaze to the fire. The anxiety you managed to dispel earlier that day starts creeping in. Your gut twists uncomfortably as you reply simply, “I’m not sure.”

His hands slow, noticing your shift in demeanor. He studies the furrow of your brows as you stare into the fire.

“I think it is not morality that dominates the situation, but the situation that dominates morality,” he counters after a few beats of silence.

“A moral relativist?”

“I don’t like labels,” he shrugs.

The vibrancy of the fire is burning your eyes, but you keep them trained on the flames as you reply, “I suppose I agree with that—the problem is, it’s not the answer I’m seeking.”

“And what answer are you seeking?”

You long to reach your hands out over the flames until the heat sears your skin. The déjà vu makes your stomach churn.

“It’s not so much an answer as a direction,” you speak softly to hide the quiver of your voice, “I wish there was some way to know if I’m moving in the right direction.”

He chuckles, “Which brings us back to the question of absolutism versus relativism.”

You peel your eyes away from the flame, and your eyes lock with his. They hold a certain understanding, as if he can see straight through you and into your soul. Your body moves with a mind of its own as you sit up and subconsciously inch closer.

“I suppose all we can really do is justify our actions for ourselves—and hope that others will agree with our division of morality,” you whisper.

His gaze darkens, and he bows his head towards you, “I think life is full of gray areas, and we can’t be faulted for how we choose to navigate them.”

His response strikes a chord deep within you. Your eyes flick down to his pink lips, just inches away from yours.

Compartmentalization be damned.

You lurch forward to close the gap, and he meets you halfway.

The moment your lips meet his, every ounce of worry is swept away from your mind. You barely register the thump of your book hitting the ground as his lips glide against yours. His taste is addictive—a sweet peppermint that you can’t seem to get enough of. Your nose bumps against his as you climb on top of him, your legs straddling his lap. You cup the side of his face with your hands, deepening the kiss. He grips the small of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip: a question. Your mouth parts: an answer.

You snake one hand behind his neck and run your fingers through his crimson locks, tugging sharply. He groans, and just as he moves to deepen the kiss, you abruptly pull away.

His sounds of protest are silenced by your lips against the sensitive skin of his neck. You move tentatively at first, remembering how it felt to have his lips against your neck, and mimic his maneuvers. He tangles a hand in the hair at the nape of your neck, pushing you closer as a sign of encouragement. You become bolder, alternating between open-mouthed kisses, small nips, and swipes of your tongue. His groan of approval spurs you on, and you fiddle with the bottom of his tunic, pulling it up his chest. You draw back briefly to peel the shirt completely off his body before resuming your work.

“Who taught you how to do that?” Eris hisses as you suck harshly at the apex of his collarbone.

You grin at the blossoming purple hue on his pale skin and run your tongue over the spot soothingly, “A wily fox too clever for his own good.”

He pulls you back up, abruptly cutting your abuse of his neck short. You eagerly smash your lips against his once more and trail your hands down the expanse of his chest, dragging your nails lightly along his rigid abdomen. His hands loop around you and he swiftly yanks down the zipper of your dress. You eagerly shed the suffocating material, so it pools at your waist, exposing your bare chest to him. Eris moans at the sight of your peaked nipples and doesn’t hesitate to massage your breasts with his large hands. His lips trail down your neck, but before he has a chance to carry out the same treatment you’d given him, you slip from his grasp entirely.

Eris watches, stunned, as you slip off his lap and sink down onto your knees before him. His lips part as you nudge his knees apart, and lurch forward to trail open-mouthed kisses down his chest, to his abdomen, until you finally reach the waistband of his bottoms. He jolts as you brush your hand over the very obvious, and large, tent in his pants.

“Little Bird,” he mumbles as you palm over him, “You don’t have to do this.”

Your eyes flick up to his and you speak with conviction, “I want to.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps and you all but drool at the sight. He nods once, and you begin fiddling with his belt buckle. His hands move to help you, but you swat them away. You make quick work of the fastenings, and slowly drag the material down his legs, inch by inch. You know he’s growing impatient by the clenching of his abdomen. You flash him a sultry smile as you finally pull the material from his legs, leaving him in his underwear. His hands move to the waistband, but you swat them away again.

“Patience is a virtue,” you muse before nipping the skin of his inner thigh. He inhales sharply, and shudders as you run your tongue over the same spot, soothing the ache.

“Using my own moves against me,” he croons, but the strain is evident in his voice, “I’m impressed, Little Bird.”

Your heart thumps in your chest as you graze your hands along the waistband of his underwear. You dip your fingers underneath, and your confidence falters slightly. He runs a hand through your hair soothingly, coaxing you to continue. Your keep your eyes trained on his as you inch the fabric down his thighs. He raises his hips and releases a sigh of relief as his erection slaps up against his stomach, free from the confining material. You toss the garment aside haphazardly and take in the sight of his complete bareness.

The first thing you notice is that he’s big—well, you think so, at least, considering you have nothing to compare him to. His dick is much thicker than you’d imagined, with veins branching upwards towards the tip which is a shade darker than the pink of his lips. You can’t help but wonder how it could possibly fit inside you. A blush paints the apples of your cheeks at the thought.

Eris notices your apprehension, and he curls a finger underneath your chin so your eyes meet his.

“Would you like me to talk you through it?” his voice is soft.

The amber of his eyes is warm, like honey. You nod shyly.

“Okay, darling. Can you wrap your hand around my cock?” the sweetness of his voice is a stark contrast to the dirtiness of the words tumbling from his lips.

You rest your left hand on his thigh and raise your right hand, delicately wrapping your fingers around his girth at its base. You hold him loosely, and he releases a pleasured sigh at your tentative touch.

“You can hold it a bit tighter, love,” he hums while stroking the shell of your ear.

You follow his direction with a nod.

“Now move your hand—”

You don’t give him a chance to finish as you slowly begin moving your hand over his cock, from the base to the tip. His lips part and he shudders at the motion.

“Good,” he rasps, “Now can you spit on it? Get it a little wet for me?”

Your cheeks flare, but you follow his request. You timidly lean forward and dribble over his tip, captivated by the way it mixes with the bead of precum before sliding down. You use your hand to spread it around, and the friction eases as your hand slides more freely.

“I think you’re a natural, Birdie,” he praises through a gasp, “Can you twist your hand for me a bit?”

You twist your hand in time with your strokes, and admire the way his face scrunches with pleasure. You squeeze a bit harder when you reach his base, and his hips twitch. Testing the waters, you slowly lean forward and stick your tongue out, licking over his tip. Eris grunts at the action, and you feel a bit more confident as you wrap your lips completely around the head.

A guttural moan escapes his lips as you suckle on the head, your hand continuously pumping his shaft. You pull off his tip, and your gut twists with desire at the string of saliva between the head of his cock and your lips. You lurch forward, flattening your tongue against the base and dragging it upwards, before wrapping your lips around the tip again in a teasing maneuver.

“Fuck,” he groans, “Can you take me a bit deeper?”

You nod, pupils blown. Your hand resumes its stroking movement as you slowly, tentatively, slide downwards. Your mouth burns from the stretch of his girth, but you breathe through your nose steadily. You take him in, inch by inch, until his tip hits the back of your throat, bringing tears to the corners of your eyes. You keep your hand around the base of his shaft, pumping and twisting the length you can’t fit.

“So good for me, Little Bird,” he moans. His right-hand digs into the fabric of the couch until his knuckles turn white, and his left brushes the hair out of your face. “Can you move your pretty little mouth for me?”

You slowly bob your head up and down, timing the strokes of your hand with the rise and fall of your lips. Tears spring to your eyes each time his tip hits the back of your throat and spit dribbles down the sides of your mouth, but any ounce of insecurity is washed away by the sinful noises tumbling from Eris’s lips.

“Can you use your tongue for me?” his voice is strained.

You flatten your tongue against his length as you bob up and down, swirling it around his length to the best of your ability.

“Look at me, love,” he gasps through an animalistic groan.

Your eyes flick up and you peer at him through your lashes. His pupils are blown and his lips parted, brows scrunched with a vulnerability you never imagined you’d see.

“You look so pretty with your lips wrapped around my cock,” he rasps, “Wish I could keep you like this forever.”

You hum around him, and he shudders at the vibration. He tangles a hand in your hair, guiding your movements but not pushing you, slowly increasing your pace. Tears begin rolling down your cheeks at the delicious burn in your jaw and the back of your throat.

His chest heaves as he pants, “So close. Just a little more.”

You move with a newfound vigor at his words, finding a rhythm that keeps the noises tumbling from his mouth. You raise your unoccupied hand to the base of his cock. Experimentally, you brush over his balls with your thumb, eliciting raucous moan from Eris. He twitches in your mouth, and you do it again while swirling your tongue in a prolonged sweeping motion around his length.

“Fuck, Little Bird. I’m—”

He halts midsentence with an earth-shattering groan as his cock twitches violently in your mouth. You slow your movements as he reaches his high, thick ropes of cum painting the back of your throat. You splutter at the feeling, but continue milking him, swallowing his load. You stroke him gently, your tongue rubbing along him in a coaxing manner, until his thighs jerk, and his length softens in your mouth. You inch off him, stroking a hand over his thigh soothingly, and press one last kiss to his tip before pulling off completely.

You glance shyly up at Eris, and your chest swells with pride as you find his head thrown back in pure bliss. You rake your nails softly against his thighs, peppering feather-like kisses over his abdomen. His head lulls down towards you, and your heart skips a beat at the carnal look in his eyes. His hands are gentle as he wipes away the tears staining your cheeks before swiping over your mouth, collecting the saliva staining your lips.

“You are an enigma, Little Bird,” he mumbles while intertwining your hands with his and pulling you back up.

Your dress falls from your waist to the floor as you rise, leaving you completely bare aside from your panties. He pulls you onto his lap and you eagerly straddle him, connecting your lips to his. He groans into your mouth at the taste of his own release on your lips.

“Good?” you breathlessly ask against his mouth.

He pulls away from your lips with a chuckle and trails kisses underneath your ear as he mutters, “I haven’t finished so quickly in centuries.”

Your eyes crinkle with pride.

His lips meet yours once again, and you marvel at the way you slot together like the final two pieces of a puzzle. Mimicking his earlier move, you run your tongue along his bottom lip and he grants you entry, allowing you to deepen the kiss. His hands run down the curve of your back before settling on your ass, exploring your soft skin. Your gut clenches at the arousal pooling in your panties.

“Would you like to try something new?” he murmurs against your lips.

You respond with an affirmative hum, and whine as he pulls away.

He grips your waist, lifting you off his lap as if you weigh nothing at all, before setting you back down so you straddle just his left thigh. You jolt as your clothed arousal presses against the bare skin of his thigh.

Eris rolls his thumb over your swollen lips and whispers tauntingly, “Are you horny, Little Bird? Do you need some release?”

You nod shamelessly.

“Get yourself off, then.”

Your brows pinch with confusion, but realization dawns over you as he digs his fingers into your ass cheeks, grinding your clothed cunt against his leg. Your lips part in a silent gasp at the wave of pleasure that rolls through you. He guides you as you set a steady rhythm, grinding your throbbing clit against his thigh. The friction is electrifying, but you need more. The thin barrier of fabric separating you from him is suffocating.

You whine pathetically, and he senses your desire. Eris pinches the flesh of your ass, and you lift your hips slightly. He removes his hands from behind you and you watch as they dip down between your thighs. You throb with anticipation as he hooks a finger underneath the fabric. Your arousal sticks to the flimsy material as he peels it aside, exposing your bare cunt.

“You’re dripping for me, darling,” he croons.

A long moan escapes your lips as you settle back down onto his thigh. With nothing separating you from him, you can feel how every ridge of his muscle stimulates your clit. He continues guiding you with his hands on your waist for a few seconds, before abruptly pulling away.

You pause, mouth agape, as he stretches his arms over the back of the couch. Your cheeks flare in a combination of frustration and embarrassment as he leans back in his seat with a coy smirk on his lips.

He arches a brow expectantly, “Go on.”

You desperately want to wipe the smug look off his face—but your lust, your need for release, is too strong. You brace your hands against his broad shoulders and begin moving again. You groan at the way your clit slides against his bare thigh.

“You like making a mess over my thigh?”

You nod obediently.

He jerks his thigh once underneath you, and you cry out at the sensation.

“I need words, Birdie,” he drawls.

You roll your hips against him desperately and pant between gasps, “I love it.”

He shakes his leg at a steady pace, and the additional stimulation sends you reeling.

“Yeah?” he coos, “Tell me how it feels.”

Your legs tremble as your clit catches against the tensing muscles of his thigh.

“Feels filthy,” you mewl.

He grips your chin firmly, directing your gaze to his, before his arm returns to the back of the couch.

“Fitting for a filthy little girl, getting herself off on my leg,” he purrs, “I’m not even touching you and you’re a whimpering mess for me.”

His degrading words don’t even register, your mind clouded with desire. You can feel the tension building in your gut, and you pant with each roll of your hips. You try to increase your pace as you feel your high approaching, but your legs tremble underneath you, leaving that peak you so desperately desire just out of reach.

“Please,” your voice trembles.

Eris knows exactly what you want, but he taunts you, “Please what?”

A fat tear escapes the corner of your eye and rolls down your flushed cheeks.

Your bottom lip wobbles as you whimper, “Touch me, Eris. Please.”

He swiftly pulls you off his thigh and lays you down on the couch. He crashes his lips against yours, your teeth bumping at the force. Eris doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath as he trails his hand up your inner thigh before sliding his middle finger through your slick, from your entrance to your swollen clit. Unlike last time, he doesn’t waste time teasing as he promptly sinks his middle finger inside of you.

You cry out at the feeling of his finger deep inside you, and he curls it in response. He doesn’t hold back as he rubs your clit with his thumb while thrusting his finger, curling it against your g-spot with each maneuver. He latches his lips to your neck and sucks harshly while his unoccupied hand flicks over your peaked nipples.

Your mind whirls at the sensation—the feeling of him all over you. It’s almost too much, having him everywhere. You desperately claw at his back, searching for something to stabilize you.

Your stomach coils as you feel your high approaching again. He can feel you clench around his finger, and he groans against your skin, “You gonna cum for me, love? Finish all over my hand?”

Another tear rolls down your cheek, “Yes,” you blubber, “’M so close.”

“Let go, Little Bird,” he coaxes while slipping another finger inside of you.

The added stretch sends you over the edge. You all but scream as shockwaves of pleasure roll through your body. Your toes curl and your nails dig into his back as your vision spots. His fingers slow, but he keeps rubbing your clit as you ride through your high. He continues until your hips jerk from the overstimulation, and your hands go limp around his neck. You wince as he pulls his fingers from you and watch through hooded eyes as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, licking up every last drop of your arousal. Your chest heaves as you catch your breath, your mind spinning in a post-orgasmic haze.

Eris softly strokes your cheek with the back of his hand before dipping down and capturing your lips with his. This time, the kiss is slow—no bumping teeth or clashing tongues. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, relishing in the intimacy of it all, until he pulls away.

An airy laugh passes through your lips as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’ll be the end of me, Little Bird,” Eris mumbles. He places a chaste kiss on the tip of your nose before collapsing on top of you. You grunt at the weight, and he shifts over enough so that he isn’t restricting your breathing, but his bare body remains draped over yours.

“The end is but a beginning in disguise,” you tease as he nestles his nose against your cheek.

He chuckles, his breath tickling your neck.

“How were you made so wise?” he muses.

“Wisdom isn’t born, Fox. It’s learned,” you trace your fingers along the arm draped over you, “And I have a lot more living to do before I can even come close to it.”

“Well, I think you’re plenty wise,” he curves a finger underneath your chin and tilts your head towards his.

Your nose is millimeters apart from his as you gaze into his amber eyes. Their golden hue is vibrant, much like his lopsided smile. But suddenly, something inside them dims, and the corners of his lips twitch downwards. Your brows furrow as you note the subtle change.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper, brushing back his crimson locks.

Eris shakes his head, “It’s nothing.”

You quirk a brow, “Clearly not.”

His hardened stare doesn’t stray from your eyes, but it seems to be searching for something. A chill crawls up your spine at his scrutinizing gaze, as if he’s trying to read your darkest thoughts. You’re suddenly aware of how exposed, how vulnerable you are to him right now—both physically and emotionally.

“Your eyes…” he pauses, as if searching for the right words, before continuing, “Do you remember the first night we met?”

The crinkle between your brows deepens, “How could I forget?”

He wets his lips before replying, “I told you your eyes were familiar.”

Fuck.

You pray that he doesn’t feel the uptick of your heart and continue stroking his arm steadily.

“I just realized,” he continues, “Who they remind me of.”

Panic washes over you, but your expression doesn’t falter, and you maintain your soothing touch.

“Oh?” you hum nonchalantly, “Who may that be?”

Eris shifts his gaze away from the eyes in question, and instead watches the rise and fall of your bare chest.

“A woman I knew a long time ago,” he finally replies.

You continue threading your fingers through his hair as you contemplate your next words. You are breeching unfamiliar territory, and one wrong step could doom you.

“Was she important to you?” you ask cautiously.

He doesn’t respond for a while, and his body is tense over yours. You wait with bated breath for his reply, your curiosity growing with each passing second.

“I don’t know.”

It’s not what you were expecting—but you aren’t sure what you were expecting, exactly.

You mull over his response, nibbling on your bottom lip in thought. Pressing him further feels like a violation—not only of his vulnerability, but of Mor’s. But curiosity is gripping you like a vice. This is the first time in a week you’ve gotten him close to talking about the Night Court, you justify to yourself, don’t let the opportunity slip through your fingers.

“May I ask what happened?” you inquire tentatively.

He grunts and rests his head in the crook of your neck, “It’s not exactly a bedtime story, darling.”

You frown, unsure how to press him further without raising suspicion.

He must notice your disappointment as he sighs, “I can practically hear those gears turning in your head, Little Bird. Would you really like to know?”

You nod. He traces shapes over the expanse of your stomach as he contemplates where to begin.

“Many centuries ago, my father arranged for my marriage to a daughter of the Night Court,” he speaks slowly, “It was purely political—a chance to strengthen the alliance between our courts.”

This is so wrong, you think to yourself. But you make no move to stop him.

“She did not want the union. So, the night before the wedding, she escaped—into the arms of another male, hoping that if she tarnished her…purity, the wedding would be called off.”

Tears prick your eyes as you know exactly what’s coming next, but you blink them away.

“Her father was—is—a cruel man. As cruel as my father,” the steadiness of his voice falters, but he continues, “When he found out what she’d done, he tortured her with a brutality unlike any I’ve witnessed. He left her, stripped naked, at the border of our court, with a sign that she was ours to deal with.”

You’re grateful for his sparing of the details, because you’re not sure you’d be able to hold yourself together.

“I found her that morning, while out with my guards,” he stops, and for a moment you don’t think he will continue. But he releases a deep sigh, and barely speaks above a whisper, “I demanded them not to touch her.”

Anger bubbles in the pit of your stomach, and it takes everything in you not to scream. You feel nauseous, the reality of your predicament suddenly sobering—the reality that you’re lying naked on a couch with a man who left your sister for dead.

“If I or any of my guards touched her, she would have been stuck in Autumn—doomed to a life she did not want, according to my court’s laws. If I had…” his voice trembles ever so slightly, “If I had touched her, my father would have killed her on the spot. So, I left her there. I knew her…her friends would come save her. But it was not a decision I wanted to make.”

The fury trembling in your bones settles, and your mind reels over his recount of the events. This is not the version of the story you’ve heard from Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel. He could be lying—but what reason would Eris have to lie to you, when he is blissfully unaware of your relation to Mor? More than that, you’re unable to ignore the sincerity, the distress in his voice.

“Do you regret it?” you whisper so quietly; you’re surprised he can hear you.

“No,” his response is immediate, “Not for a minute. I gave her a chance to live. Even if she doesn’t see it that way. But I’ll never be able to get that image out of my head…of her pleading for help, and me being unable to grant it.”

Your mouth is dry and you’re sure he can feel the thundering of your heart. Your head is a muddled mess, to say the least.

“Gray areas,” you whisper simply.

We can’t be faulted for how we choose to navigate them, his earlier words ring through your mind. But not faulting him feels like the gravest betrayal you could commit.

A humorless chuckle tumbles from his lips as he echoes you, “Gray areas.”

His head sinks further into the crook of your neck and he runs his thumb soothingly over your abdomen, unknowingly combatting the pounding of your head as you process the onslaught of new—and unexpected—information.

“Do you still align with the Night Court?” you change the subject boldly but keep your tone nonchalant.

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem fazed by your question. Unfortunately, he doesn’t entertain it either.

“I like to keep my business separate from the bedroom,” he rasps against your neck, and you shudder at the tickle of his breath.

You purse your lips into a humorless smile, “Compartmentalization.”

“Forgive me, darling,” he muses, the seriousness of his tone gone, “But I can’t bring myself to discuss pompous High Lords while lying atop a beautiful, naked female.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” you tease half-heartedly.

He raises his head from your shoulder and looks down at you, the fox-like grin that had momentarily disappeared back, “I don’t think, I know,” he brushes his nose along your jawline, “You are the most delectable little thing I’ve seen in centuries.”

You feel his groin twitch against your upper thigh, and you roll your eyes, “You are insatiable, Eris Vanserra.”

He laughs and your heart sings at the sound, despite your reeling mind. He presses his chest against yours and stretches his arm out to the floor. You watch curiously as he rolls back into his previous position with your forgotten book in hand.

“I’m not quite sure if Tydeus qualifies as a bedtime story either,” you arch a brow.

He shrugs with a cheeky grin, “Well if you ever plan on getting through that mountain of books, you’d better get started.”

Eris holds it out expectantly, and after a moment of contemplation, you grab it with your free arm. You untangle your other hand from his hair and wrap it around his shoulder so you can balance the book on your stomach with both arms. He squirms over you, and you squeak he accidentally elbows the side of your breast.

“Careful,” you hiss.

“My apologies, Little Bird,” he coos as he finally finds a comfortable position on his side. One arm rests underneath your neck, while the other remains draped over your stomach behind the book. He drops his head onto your shoulder, so he has a full view of the book in your hands.

“I’ll let you know when to turn the page,” he nods his head against you, encouraging you to begin.

You squint but relent as you see his eyes moving back and forth, reading the text before him. You can feel him smiling below you as you focus your gaze on the page in front of you and pick up where you left off earlier.

You’re nearing the end of the page when Eris taps the side of your hand with his finger. He waits patiently for you to finish, and both of your heads shift when you flip the page. You fall into a comfortable rhythm. He taps your hand softly each time to indicate when he’s finished, and you alternate between who finishes first with each flip of the page. The rise and fall of your bare chest moves in time with his breath against your skin, and despite your nudity, you don’t feel an ounce of shyness.

As you read, you can’t help but think that this must be what heaven feels like: orange flames warming your skin as you lounge on a couch reading with a gorgeous, and very naked, male on top of you. But there’s just one tiny problem—the gorgeous, and very naked, male in question.

You feel your thoughts slip from the book and urge yourself to focus on Tydeus’s philosophy rather than dwell on your anxiety. You find yourself so immersed in one passage in particular, that you don’t notice the way Eris’s breathing slows, or how his head lulls against your chest. You reach the end of the page and wait patiently for his signal to continue. Your brows cinch as the seconds stretch into minutes. You look down and realize that the heir to the Autumn Court throne, in all his glory, is sleeping like a babe using your breasts as a pillow.

The book lays forgotten in your hands as you observe him. Even in his softest of moments, his features still hold a certain sharpness. But right now, he looks…peaceful. His cheek is pressed up against the flesh of your breast, and with his eyes closed, you notice that his eyelashes are much longer than you imagined. You long to trace your fingers over the freckles splattered across his nose, to feel the curve of his nose. It’s hard to think that the male before you is capable of any cruelty at all.

But he is.

And you’re gazing at him wide-eyed like a lovestruck teenager.

You wish you could speak to your sister right now. You’re not sure what you’d say—maybe nothing at all. Maybe looking into her eyes, which are so similar to yours, would reveal some hidden truth, buried deep under centuries of hatred. Or maybe they would hold disdain—disappointment directed at you, for rolling around with a male who hurt her deeply.

Eris snores softly, halting your train of thought. Your chest tightens and the flames of the fire start to burn your skin. You can’t stay here. More importantly, you have a job to do.

You set the book down on the floor beneath you, and cautiously shift your body. He grunts in his sleep, but doesn’t stir, as you carefully slip out from underneath him. You hiss as you tumble onto the ground below and pause to make sure he’s still asleep. His snores don’t falter, and you rise from the ground.

You make quick work of gathering your clothes, cringing at the dried arousal covering your inner thighs and panties. Just as you’re about to slip out of his chambers, you turn back to take one last glance at his sleeping form. You gnaw your lower lip, a pang of guilt tugging at your heartstrings. Against your better judgment, you search for a scrap piece of paper and pen to leave him a note, as he had done for you.

‘Till we meet again, Eris Vanserra

Your lips purse—simple, yet effective. You set the note down on the wooden table and drape a throw blanket over the sleeping male in case he has any unexpected visitors. You don’t dare look back as you creep towards the doors.

The creaking of the rusted hinges has you cringing as you ease them open, inch by inch, and peer into the hallway. It’s empty—thank the Mother—with the only movement coming from the flickering flames of torches on the walls.

You slink into the shadows as you move to your left down the hallway. Assuming Azriel’s map is correct, Eris’s office is two floors above his personal chambers, about one mile to the left. Despite the sizeable distance, you don’t risk winnowing for fear of someone catching you.

As you move along the walls, there’s a heavy weight on your shoulders. You can’t help but feel guilty for playing with his feelings and using them to your advantage—especially following the vulnerability he showed you tonight. But you remind yourself that, even in life’s dimmest gray areas, your loyalty to your family is unwavering.

Your heart thumps in your chest as you scale the winding staircase, keeping an eye out for any guards or lurking Vanserras. As you make your way down the next hallway, identical to the last, you move as swiftly as you can. The sooner you’re gone, the better—but you can’t deny the unease that grows with each step. On one hand, you hope you’ll find something to report back to Rhys. But on the other, you dread finding something that may contradict your image of Eris thus far.

Your steps are featherlight, and by the grace of the Cauldron, you make it to your destination without any setbacks. You press your ear against the door before slowing pushing it open.

The room is much like Eris’s chambers: swirling yellows and reds along the walls, a blazing fireplace, and a deep mahogany rug carpet covering the stone floor. In the middle sits a large, mahogany desk, covered in parchment. You creep forward, careful not to make any noise. You run your fingers along the polished wood of the desk, glancing over the papers. Nothing stands out as you shuffle through them. You search through his cabinets, rifle through the small bookcase in the back, and even check beneath the cushions of the chairs. All you can seem to find is polite, and uninteresting, correspondences with various courts, and menial to-do lists. You check each possible hiding place but come up short once again. There’s absolutely nothing here.

You’re not sure whether to feel relieved or frustrated—or perhaps, both. You glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the dimly lit room. 3:06. You contemplate redirecting your search to Beron’s office, but you remember from Azriel’s map that it’s six floors down, and approximately two miles away on the opposite side of the house. If you were to go now, there’s a chance the sun would be rising by the time you’re ready to leave, leaving you defenseless without the dark of the shadows.

With a sigh, you check over the room once more to ensure nothing is out of place before making your exit. You leave just as you came, slinking into the shadows along the hallways as quiet as a mouse. As you navigate the winding tunnels, you wonder if Eris is still sleeping soundly by the fire, or if he’s aware of your absence. And as your thoughts drift to the crimson-haired heir, you find yourself moving faster—as if escaping the walls of the Forest House will erase him from your mind.

The wind is even more chilling than usual in the dead of night, you realize as you finally make it out through a side door. You make quick work of the courtyard, using the shadows to your advantage to avoid detection by the sentries littered throughout. When you finally make it out, you will the air to twist and fold around you, winnowing you back to your ransack cabin just as the sun begins to peek out from the horizon. Your limbs are tired, but your mind is racing. You know that sleep will not be kind to you. So, you kick off your boots and plop yourself on the dirty floor in front of the fireplace.

You find yourself just as you were before; hovering your hands over the orange embers until the burn becomes too much, and you are forced to pull away. Again. Over and over. As if the pain will grant you some sense of clarity. As if nothing has changed since you were last sat here. As if you aren’t falling further into the fox’s trap with no way out.

Being born of Light and Dark can be a difficult thing. But there are far worse evils in the world, some lurking just around the corner.

taglist:

@lilah-asteria @goldenmagnolias @myromanempiree @i-know-i-can @hannzoaks @olive-main @lilylilyyyyyy @batboygirlie @stuff-i-found-while-crying @moni-cah @6000-fandoms @melsunshine @roseodelle @rcarbo1

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra smut #eris x reader #eris vanserra fanfic #eris acotar #mastermind

351 notes · View notes

undreaming-fanfiction · 5 months ago

Text

Meet Me at the Bar

Written for @steddieangstyaugust day 8: Miscommunication. I got stuck on this one, but I'm finishing the list, one by one.

"I hope you get over that quickly."

That was it. A simple sentence that blew up their friendship. Eddie never told Steve that they were done, but he could feel the coldness, the growing distance between them. They acted civil for the sake of their friends when they met, but there were no more late talks over beers, no Eddie barging in at various times during the night to complain about his life in Hawkins, his job in a garage, his future, and of course, his love life.

It was the latter that caused the rift, and Steve never really understood what he did wrong. They were sitting together as usual, chatting about how everything everywhere sucked, how customers are the worst people to ever exist, and then suddenly Eddie's tone changed. He admitted to Steve that one of the reasons why he hated Hawkins was that he couldn't be himself, not as he is. That he had a coworker at the garage, slightly older than him, and he'd been developing a crush on him for the last few months. That was how he fully admitted to himself he was gay.

He tried to give it time and space, but given that Eddie's brain was always speeding five miles ahead of his good judgment, he tried to raise the issue. Gently. Inconspicously.

Which ended up in a full blown proposal and even more full blown rejection, nearly bordering on violent.

That is how Eddie ended up on Steve's couch and with majority of Steve's alcohol in his system. Steve had already expressed to Steve that nothing is going to change between them, that the guy sucked for reacting that way. And then he told Eddie - "I hope you get over that quickly." He hated seeing Eddie so dejected.

There must have been something to his words that Eddie understood differently. He froze in his alcohol haze, blinked several times - were those tears? But before Steve could check, Eddie excused himself, and no matter what Steve said, he wouldn't talk about anything past "it's too late" and "I need to sleep it off, I feel like a walking brewery."

Just like that, their friendship was gone.

Eddie soon moved away, and Steve? Steve slowly watched everyone who he loved abandon him. He waited in Hawkins until it was nothing but old memories and empty streets, and then he decided - why not. He'd held the fort for long enough.

He packed his bags and moved to Indianapolis the following week.

Steve often thought about his friendship with Eddie, about how he missed his wild smile, his constant stream of trivia and outrageous ideas. It was only when he saw what life could have been in Indy, stolen glances and hidden kisses in dark alleys, that he realized - huh. Maybe we were similar.

Steve found a bar to…explore. He didn't want to admit or label anything yet, he just went there to see if he was right. The same evening, he was pressed against a dirty wall, felt the stubble against his chin as he was being kissed with more passion he'd ever felt in his life. Yep, definitely similar.

He didn't look for anything serious, not yet anyway. Finding out who he was, that was scary. But sharing his whole life with a stranger, letting them into his home, his heart? That was way scarier. He liked what he had - going for a drink once or twice a week, a quick makeout session, maybe a bit more if he was lucky. It was all fine.

At least until the day when a painfully familiar figure sat himself down next to Steve at the bar. "Well well well. King Steve, in such an establishment? Color me shocked."

Steve opened his mouth and wanted to say so many things. Something like, I missed you, I'm sorry for whatever I did, are you safe? But they all froze on his tongue when he saw Eddie's face. It wasn't playful or happy. It was just bitter.

"Hi Eddie," he said weakly. "Didn't know you came around here."

Eddie didn't even spare him a look, he just waved at the bartender and ordered a drink. "Oh, I don't. I mean, I frequent another one, you know. Closed for some dumb reason, so here I am. I'm surprised to see you here though - isn't it just a tad hypocritical?"

"It's…what?"

"You know," he drawled out and finally turned to meet Steve's eyes. Steve'd never felt so hated in his life. "After that all "I hope you get over it" thing?"

Steve almost choked on his beer. "How the fuck is it hypocritical to wish for your friend to get over a heartbreak?"

"Oh, is that what it was?" Eddie's voice could cut steel. "Because it sounded a bit more like "phew, he got rejected, now let's go back to pretending you're straight for everyone's convenience". Because that's the best option, right?"

Steve drew a shaky breath and finally set his beer glass down. He took in Eddie's angry eyes, his trembling voice. This wouldn't do.

He reached for Eddie's hands, refusing to get deterred by his flinch. He grasped both of them and leaned close to Eddie. "Eddie. Man, I don't understand why you'd think that, but if I made you feel like that, then I'm sorry. Really. Even if you find it hard to believe me, that's all it was - we were drunk, you were telling me about this asshole who threatened you over you liking him, and I was just thinking - I hope Eddie gets over it soon, because he's my friend and he's great. And he deserves someone who loves him unconditionally."

Eddie didn't look so angry anymore. His hands grew still in Steve's and his eyes seemed glassy. Steve wanted to reach out and catch all the tears before they fell. "Steve, I…shit, I really thought-"

"It's okay. It's fine, because I got to tell you in the end. I hoped you'd get over it - so that someone better could have you."

"Someone like you?" Eddie laughed, phrased it as a joke, but it really wasn't. Not to Steve.

He smiled at Eddie and wiped away the rogue tear. "I wish. Back then, I still didn't know. Or maybe I did, but couldn't really admit it, you know? Everything around me was changing so fast and I didn't feel ready to do the same. But I think it was always you who made me wonder. Who made me think that being different wasn't so bad. But even if it couldn't be me, I wanted you to be loved and cherished, like you deserved." After a brief eh, fuck it moment, he added, "And now it can be me. If that means anything."

Eddie finally found back his voice. Clearing his throat, he squeezed Steve's hand back and straightened his back. "Before I say anything more stupid, just answer me this one thing, Harrington - are you as painfully single as little old me?"

Steve laughed so hard he thought he cracked a rib for a second. "Agonizingly so."

Eddie batted his eyelashes at Steve, doing a very poor impression of one of Steve's many conquests back in Hawkins. "Oooh, big words. I like that in a man." Then, in his normal voice: "That's all I wanted to know. Buy me a drink, Harrington? We have a lot of catching up to do."

Steve had never reached for his wallet so fast in his life.

Something shifted between them. It still wasn't okay, they had a lot of talking to do, but it was a start. A new beginning. And for that moment, it was enough.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #steddieangstyaugust

219 notes · View notes

loveinhawkins · 2 years ago

Text

When Eddie’s terrified, he feels cold—and it’s not a mild thing, not just goosebumps on his arms. It’s violent shivers: his breath catching as ice forms in his lungs, crystallising up his throat until he can barely talk.

It was bad at the middle school talent show: stuck in the wings with fellow students pressed up against him, all jostling for space. He should’ve been sweating.

And technically he was, but it was as if his brain hadn’t checked in with his body or maybe the other way round, and he kept biting down hard on his tongue as his teeth chattered.

A teacher noticed and even asked if he was feeling sick, if he wanted to be sent home.

He shook his head, felt his legs shaking; Jeff had to speak for him until it was finally the band’s turn on stage, and the ice thankfully thawed enough for him to sing.

But right now he thinks the ice is here to stay.

He’s sat back in the boat, the tarp tangled up by his feet; he can’t stop one knee from bouncing up and down erratically. He knows he isn’t really shaking because of the literal cold, but it doesn’t exactly help that it’s damp as hell in here.

He’s not alone—he’s still surrounded by quite possibly the most random group of people in history. Dustin’s leading the conversation, which has devolved into Max teasing him about some girl called Suzie.

Eddie suspects the change of tone is deliberate, that these kids who are somehow well-versed in a literal fucking war have an admirable intuition; have sensed that he needs a cool down after learning about an evil alternate dimension. Kinda like what he does if he watches a horror movie late at night—makes sure to read some light-hearted crap before he goes to sleep, so the scary shit isn’t the last thing on his mind.

Eddie appreciates the thought. If he wasn’t still repressing shivers, he might even find it sweet.

But the chatter isn’t helping.

He can’t grab a hold of it, the sounds slipping away before he can make sense of them; his mind keeps drifting away, and he’s suddenly stuck on the thought that he can’t remember what Chrissy’s last words to him were. He can hardly even recall what her laugh sounded like in the woods—like everything about her has been trapped underwater, stifled beyond all recognition.

He let her die, and he can’t even manage the decency of remembering her. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He exhales shakily. Neither Max or Dustin seem to notice, which both relieves him and sets his teeth on edge.

His lungs are tight, but he still feels a sudden urge to talk—for once wishes that he’d just bite his tongue instead.

Something’s cracking deep inside him.

He’d thought his breaking point had been reached long ago, but it keeps getting worse; as the kids talk, he can’t avoid the fact that they’ve already watched him profoundly lose it, and shame spreads from the pit of his stomach—merges with the ice, culminating in a bitter wave of self-loathing.

Leave me alone, he desperately wants to say, but he knows it’ll just come out in a scream, knows it’ll sound like he’s furious. That’s always been the way of things, at least for him: deep-seated fear hiding underneath anger.

He opens his mouth. His teeth are clacking together.

He manages to temper the feeling right at the brink so that all he says is, “D-don’t you assholes have a bed time?”

“Oh, that’s cute,” Dustin says, over the sound of Max scoffing.

Please go, just fucking go, I’m gonna fall apart and I don’t want you to see it, not again.

“Yeah, well I have a bedtime, so let’s get outta here, dickheads,” Steve says.

He sounds dry, borderline snippy. But his eyes fleetingly meet Eddie’s as he speaks, like he’s heard him somehow. Like he understands.

Dustin stands with some customary grumbling, pulling Max up with him.

“Night, Eddie. It’ll be okay,” he says, so optimistic—with an unshakeable courage that Eddie has never once possessed.

Eddie attempts a smile. Has no idea if he succeeds.

Robin’s already standing, walking off behind Dustin and Max—but then she spins, doubles back on herself; Eddie jumps at the sudden movement.

“Water!” she says, “I’ve got some in the car, you should—hang on, Eddie.”

“I’m—I’m fine, I don’t need…” Eddie’s voice is hoarse, fades out on him. He coughs, tries again, slightly louder, “I said I don’t need it!”

But Robin’s already too far away to hear him.

The quiet rustle of a jacket: Steve is still here.

Eddie lunges forward as quick as he can. His hand clasps around Steve’s wrist.

“Harrington, seriously, tell her not to bother, man. I’ll—” He swallows. “I’ll just throw it back up.”

It’s almost too dark to see, but Eddie swears Steve’s eyes are flickering over his face. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing. Doesn’t think he wants to know the answer.

“Dude, you need to drink, at least,” Steve says finally. He gently tugs himself free—stepping back with an apologetic air, slowly enough that Eddie doesn’t startle. “Gimme a sec.”

He’s back in under a minute, passing Eddie a bottle of water with the cap already off.

Eddie drinks. Despite his protesting, he knows it’s for the best; his head is pounding. He spills the water more than once; his hand is trembling.

Steve doesn’t mention it.

“I can get you some food,” he says.

Eddie shakes his head. “I ate before. Not hungry.”

He’s telling the truth, although he can’t remember what he ate. Can’t remember much of anything.

Steve doesn’t look very happy with that response. His frown is audible when he asks, “Don’t you have a blanket or something?”

Eddie laughs, horribly false. “Why, Harrington? Wanna tuck me in?”

Steve doesn’t answer.

Eddie wants him to retaliate with what he deserves: cutting words. Wants Steve to throw out something cruel, then leave him be.

No. That’s not…

He wants… he wants…

“Don’t move,” Steve says. “I’ll be right back.”

Eddie laughs again—a little more genuine. “Can’t exactly go anywhere.”

He doesn’t know how long Steve takes. He loses track of time after the sound of the car reversing fades away; the darkness stretches out before him, and his fingers flex, tremulous, and he almost starts to believe that no-one’s found him after all, that he’s alone, that he’ll always be—

The soft crunch of tires rolling over gravel. The twin clunks of a car door being opened then closed, not too loudly, followed by even footsteps. Slow. Safe. And Eddie hears Steve singing, quiet enough that he can’t really decipher the lyrics.

He doesn’t know why he recognises it, why it’s so familiar. But he understands why Steve is doing it, the realisation burning in his throat: that Steve is signalling his approach, so Eddie knows it’s him.

“Hey,” Steve says, and there’s a gentle kind of thud—something being dropped by Eddie’s feet. Then the soft press of fabric behind him: a pillow.

Eddie manages to shift his feet a bit. More fabric. It’s a blanket.

“I just thought, like, two layers, y’know?” Steve is saying. “Not ideal with the tarp, but it should trap more heat compared to…” Eddie’s throat tightens even more. It’s so… so fucking kind.

“Thanks,” he manages.

“Hey,” Steve says again, softer—a hand lands on Eddie’s knee; his palm is warm. “You’re okay.”

Eddie realises belatedly that he’s crying again. For a little while, it just feels automatic, as if he’s detached from the tears; Steve gives him space, working around him.

And Steve’s not tucking him in really, just sort of shaking out the blanket, but he lets it fall with intention—smoothes out the creases when it gathers around Eddie’s knees.

Eddie doesn’t know what changes, just knows that he’s abruptly aware of the silent tears building into something more. There’s a false jagged sensation of something getting caught in his chest as he swallows, and he gasps, inhales sharply—once, twice; feels that panicked stutter to his breath, like when he was a kid failing at treading water.

Steve crouches by the side of the boat.

“You’re okay,” he repeats. He’s rubbing his throat ever so slightly while he says it—doesn’t seem aware that he’s doing it.

“I’m s—” Eddie chokes on the words again, a distressed hum cutting through instead. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Eddie, it’s—”

Eddie points to Steve’s throat. “C-could’ve—mm, mm. Could’ve been bad.”

He remembers the feeling of Steve’s skin against the shard of glass, remembers his stupid shaking hands—so close, too close to blood being spilled.

Just a hair’s breadth away from…

It could’ve happened so easily. Two deaths on his conscience.

“Eddie,” Steve says calmly. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t have let you.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a reassurance.

His hand falls away from his neck, as if making a point.

Eddie stares and stares—and it’s definitely too dark to tell if there’s a bead of blood on Steve’s skin, but his mind does the work for him.

Vivid, wet. It wouldn’t stop. Chrissy. Her eyes…

The ice freezes over completely, stops up his throat.

Eddie can’t breathe.

“Yeah, you can,” someone’s saying, “hey, it’s gonna pass, it’s gonna pass, okay? I’m just gonna…”

A snap.

Eddie flinches, cries out with a wordless noise of anguish.

Through the roaring in his ears, he hears, “Shit,” before a contrite whisper of, “Sorry, sorry.”

Steve. Steve’s here, guiding his hands until they’re cupped around something.

Something warm.

It starts the thaw, draws air back into Eddie’s lungs. His head clears a little. He knows where he is. Wishes he wasn’t…

He wants someone to tell him that Chrissy didn’t suffer, that she didn’t feel anything.

No.

He wants someone to wake him up, to tell him it was just a nightmare, that he can go home; he wants the universe to rearrange itself so that Chrissy never even met him—that the only trouble she ever has to deal with is which shoes to wear with her graduation robes.

“I want,” he gets out, “I want—”

“I know,” Steve says.

His hands are still wrapped around Eddie’s.

And Eddie senses the source of the heat now, a packet of some kind.

A hand-warmer.

He manages to take a proper breath, deep enough that he can smell the pillow Steve has given him; it doesn’t smell of the detergent Wayne uses, but it smells like a home at least. The dip in the middle makes him suspect that Steve’s brought the pillow from his own bed.

Eddie breathes in again. Out.

“There you go,” Steve murmurs.

Gradually the warmth against Eddie’s palms brings about a repeatedly suppressed, bone-deep tiredness. His eyes are stinging with it, and he feels like the boat’s been pushed out onto the lake; he sways forward without meaning to.

“Sorry,” he says, tongue thick.

He lifts his head to find Steve looking at him intently, brow furrowed.

“You should lie down,” Steve says quietly. “You look exhausted.”

Eddie does, turns onto his side so he can still just about see over the side of the boat. But…

“I won’t sleep,” he tells Steve through a sigh. He’s not arguing the point; it just seems inevitable.

Steve shrugs. “Just shutting your eyes is better than nothing,” he says casually enough, but it sounds too knowing, like he’s speaking from experience.

Eddie wonders what Steve sees when he falls asleep.

Steve stands up slowly. Hesitant.

“I’m—um. I’m sorry,” he says. “I’d stay, believe me, but I just—I don’t want the car here too long in case someone…”

“Go, Harrington,” Eddie says, hopes it comes out as gentle as he means it to be. “You’re the taxi service.”

Steve smiles. “We’ll be back,” he says. “Tomorrow, okay? I promise. We’ll bring food.”

“Tomorrow,” Eddie echoes. Tries and fails to push down a yawn. “Food.”

It’s not so bad, listening to Steve walking away. Eddie’s eyes close, burn with relief; in his head he follows along with the sound of Steve’s footsteps as they get more and more distant.

Car door opening. Closing. Seems farther away than before. His head is heavy.

He doesn’t expect to fall asleep. But he does his best to keep his thoughts on something light anyway. Maybe the continual warmth between his hands helps, ensures he doesn’t spiral back down to… to…

It comes to him fuzzily: why he recognised Steve singing in the first place.

Last summer, going to the mall to catch a movie, walking past an ice-cream parlor and hearing…

It was an unselfconscious kind of singing—no tension in the high notes. The sort usually done alone.

And do you feel scared? I do. But I won't stop and falter.

Eddie glanced over. Steve had been mopping, head down, but he looked up suddenly—for a moment, Eddie worried that he had been spotted. But then he watched the surreal sight of a group of children walking all over the wet floor, Steve beckoning them onward with fond exasperation.

He tapped at his wrist. “You’re cutting it fine tonight. Through the back, round the—”

“We know,” came an already distant chorus.

Steve rolled his eyes.

“And if anyone hears about this—”

“We’re dead!”

A door shut—alone again, Steve shook his head to himself. Smiled.

And if we threw it all away. Things can only get better.

Eddie remembers thinking that his voice wasn’t all that bad. It was nice.

It was…

Eddie wakes up warm.

The sight of the tarp disorients him for a few seconds—but he’s too sleepy to be panicked. The blanket against his jeans feels perfectly heavy. Keeps him still. Keeps him…

He thinks he must unintentionally drift off again; when he comes to, he feels that the hand-warmer he’s holding has gone cold. His feet knock against something, and he opens his eyes enough to see that Steve’s left more pouches. He takes one, hums when he cracks it so he doesn’t hear the…

It’s another day. He’s still here, damp wood against his back. A pillow beneath his head.

He knows the nightmare hasn’t stopped; Chrissy is still dead.

But there’s things he can touch, hold onto—evidence that he’s not been left alone, not really. He knows that Steve will come back. They all will.

His hands are warm.

And that’s something.

#this is my first ‘the boathouse’ fic! ❤️#pre steddie #steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steve and the party

1K notes · View notes