#though they soften for their children / each other

[queenlucythevaliant]

Tell Your Dad You Love Him

A retelling of "Meat Loves Salt"/"Cap O'Rushes" for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves event

An old king had three daughters. When his health began to fail, he summoned them, and they came.

Gordonia and Rowan were already waiting in the hallway when Coriander arrived. They were leaned up against the wall opposite the king’s office with an air of affected casualness. “I wonder what the old war horse wants today?” Rowan was saying. “More about next year’s political appointments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“The older he gets, the more he micromanages,” Gordonia groused fondly. “A thousand dollars says this meeting could’ve been an email.”

They filed in single-file like they’d so often done as children: Gordonia first, then Rowan, and Coriander last of all. The king had placed three chairs in front of his desk all in a row. His daughters murmured their greetings, and one by one they sat down. 

“I have divided everything I have in three,” the king said. “I am old now, and it’s time. Today, I will pass my kingdom on to you, my daughters.”

A short gasp came from Gordonia. None of them could have imagined that their father would give up running his kingdom while he still lived. 

The king went on. “I know you will deal wisely with that which I leave in your care. But before we begin, I have one request.”

“Yes father?” said Rowan.

“Tell me how much you love me.”

An awkward silence fell. Although there was no shortage of love between the king and his daughters, theirs was not a family which spoke of such things. They were rich and blue-blooded: a soldier and the daughters of a soldier, a king and his three court-reared princesses. The royal family had always shown their affection through double meanings and hot cups of coffee.

Gordonia recovered herself first. She leaned forward over the desk and clasped her father’s hands in her own. “Father,” she said, “I love you more than I can say.” A pause. “I don’t think there’s ever been a family so happy in love as we have been. You’re a good dad.”

The old king smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you, Gordonia. We have been very happy, haven’t we? Here is your inheritance. Cherish it, as I cherish you.”

Rowan spoke next; the words came tumbling out.  “Father! There’s not a thing in my life which you didn’t give me, and all the joy in the world beside. Come now, Gordonia, there’s no need to understate the matter. I love you more than—why, more than life itself!”

The king laughed, and rose to embrace his second daughter. “How you delight me, Rowan. All of this will be yours.”

Only Coriander remained. As her sisters had spoken, she’d wrung her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. Did her father really mean for flattery to be the price of her inheritance? That just wasn’t like him. For all that he was a politician, he’d been a soldier first. He liked it when people told the truth.

When the king’s eyes came to rest on her, Coriander raised her own to meet them. “Do you really want to hear what you already know?” 

“I do.”

She searched for a metaphor that could carry the weight of her love without unnecessary adornment. At last she found one, and nodded, satisfied. “Dad, you’re like—like salt in my food.”

“Like salt?”

“Well—yes.”

The king’s broad shoulders seemed to droop. For a moment, Coriander almost took back her words. Her father was the strongest man in the world, even now, at eighty. She’d watched him argue with foreign rulers and wage wars all her life. Nothing could hurt him. Could he really be upset? 

But no. Coriander held her father’s gaze. She had spoken true. What harm could be in that?

“I don’t know why you’re even here, Cor,” her father said.

Now, Coriander shifted slightly in her seat, unnerved. “What? Father—”

“It would be best if—you should go,” said the old king.

“Father, you can’t really mean–”

“Leave us, Coriander.”

So she left the king’s court that very hour.

 .

It had been a long time since she’d gone anywhere without a chauffeur to drive her, but Coriander’s thoughts were flying apart too fast for her to be afraid. She didn’t know where she would go, but she would make do, and maybe someday her father would puzzle out her metaphor and call her home to him. Coriander had to hope for that, at least. The loss of her inheritance didn’t feel real yet, but her father—how could he not know that she loved him? She’d said it every day.

She’d played in the hall outside that same office as a child. She’d told him her secrets and her fears and sent him pictures on random Tuesdays when they were in different cities just because. She had watched him triumph in conference rooms and on the battlefield and she’d wanted so badly to be like him. 

If her father doubted her love, then maybe he’d never noticed any of it. Maybe the love had been an unnoticed phantasm, a shadow, a song sung to a deaf man. Maybe all that love had been nothing at all.  

A storm was on the horizon, and it reached her just as she made it onto the highway. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Rain poured down and flooded the road. Before long, Coriander was hydroplaning. Frantically, she tried to remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. Pump the brakes? She tried. No use. Wasn’t there something different you did if the car had antilock brakes? Or was that for snow? What else, what else–

With a sickening crunch, her car hit the guardrail. No matter. Coriander’s thoughts were all frenzied and distant. She climbed out of the car and just started walking.

Coriander wandered beneath an angry sky on the great white plains of her father’s kingdom. The rain beat down hard, and within seconds she was soaked to the skin. The storm buffeted her long hair around her head. It tangled together into long, matted cords that hung limp down her back. Mud soiled her fine dress and splattered onto her face and hands. There was water in her lungs and it hurt to breathe. Oh, let me die here, Coriander thought. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. She kept walking.

 .

When she opened her eyes, Coriander found herself in a dank gray loft. She was lying on a strange feather mattress.

She remained there a while, looking up at the rafters and wondering where she could be. She thought and felt, as it seemed, through a heavy and impenetrable mist; she was aware only of hunger and weakness and a dreadful chill (though she was all wrapped in blankets). She knew that a long time must have passed since she was fully aware, though she had a confused memory of wandering beside the highway in a thunderstorm, slowly going mad because—because— oh, there’d been something terrible in her dreams. Her father, shoulders drooping at his desk, and her sisters happily come into their inheritance, and she cast into exile—

She shuddered and sat up dizzily. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. She hadn’t been dreaming.

She stumbled out of the loft down a narrow flight of stairs and came into a strange little room with a single window and a few shabby chairs. Still clinging to the rail, she heard a ruckus from nearby and then footsteps. A plump woman came running to her from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and softly clucking at the state of her guest’s matted, tangled hair.

“Dear, dear,” said the woman. “Here’s my hand, if you’re still unsteady. That’s good, good. Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Katherine, and my husband is Folke. He found you collapsed by the goose-pond night before last. I’m she who dressed you—your fine gown was ruined, I’m afraid. Would you like some breakfast? There’s coffee on the counter, and we’ll have porridge in a minute if you’re patient.”

“Thank you,” Coriander rasped.

“Will you tell me your name, my dear?”

“I have no name. There’s nothing to tell.”

Katherine clicked her tongue. “That’s alright, no need to worry. Folke and I’ve been calling you Rush on account of your poor hair. I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but it looks a lot like river rushes. No, don’t get up. Here’s your breakfast, dear.”

There was indeed porridge, as Katherine had promised, served with cream and berries from the garden. Coriander ate hungrily and tasted very little. Then, when she was finished, the goodwife ushered her over to a sofa by the window and put a pillow beneath her head. Coriander thanked her, and promptly fell asleep.

 .

She woke again around noon, with the pounding in her head much subsided. She woke feeling herself again, to visions of her father inches away and the sound of his voice cracking across her name.

Katherine was outside in the garden; Coriander could see her through the clouded window above her. She rose and, upon finding herself still in a borrowed nightgown, wrapped herself in a blanket to venture outside.

“Feeling better?” Katherine was kneeling in a patch of lavender, but she half rose when she heard the cottage door open.

“Much. Thank you, ma’am.

“No thanks necessary. Folke and I are ministers, of a kind. We keep this cottage for lost and wandering souls. You’re free to remain here with us for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” was all Coriander could think to say. 

“You’ve been through a tempest, haven’t you? Are you well enough to tell me where you came from?”

Coriander shifted uncomfortably. “I’m from nowhere,” she said. “I have nothing.”

“You don’t owe me your story, child. I should like to hear it, but it will keep till you’re ready. Now, why don’t you put on some proper clothes and come help me with this weeding.”

 .

Coriander remained at the cottage with Katherine and her husband Folke for a week, then a fortnight. She slept in the loft and rose with the sun to help Folke herd the geese to the pond. After, Coriander would return and see what needed doing around the cottage. She liked helping Katherine in the garden.

The grass turned gold and the geese’s thick winter down began to come in. Coriander’s river-rush hair proved itself unsalvageable. She spent hours trying to untangle it, first with a hairbrush, then with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of conditioner, and eventually even with honey and olive oil (a home remedy that Folke said his mother used to use). So, at last, Coriander surrendered to the inevitable and gave Katherine permission to cut it off. One night, by the yellow light of the bare bulb that hung over the kitchen table, Katherine draped a towel over Coriander’s shoulders and tufts of gold went falling to the floor all round her.

“I’m here because I failed at love,” she managed to tell the couple at last, when her sorrows began to feel more distant. “I loved my father, and he knew it not.”

Folke and Katherine still called her Rush. She didn’t correct them. Coriander was the name her parents gave her. It was the name her father had called her when she was six and racing down the stairs to meet him when he came home from Europe, and at ten when she showed him the new song she’d learned to play on the harp. She’d been Cor when she brought her first boyfriend home and Cori the first time she shadowed him at court. Coriander, Coriander, when she came home from college the first time and he’d hugged her with bruising strength. Her strong, powerful father.

As she seasoned a pot of soup for supper, she wondered if he understood yet what she’d meant when she called him salt in her food. 

 .

Coriander had been living with Katherine and Folke for two years, and it was a morning just like any other. She was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee when Folke tossed the newspaper on the table and started rummaging in the fridge for his orange juice. “Looks like the old king’s sick again,” he commented casually. Coriander froze.

She raced to the table and seized hold of the paper. There, above the fold, big black letters said, KING ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EMERGENCY TREATMENT. There was a picture of her father, looking older than she’d ever seen him. Her knees went wobbly and then suddenly the room was sideways.

Strong arms caught her and hauled her upright. “What’s wrong, Rush?”

“What if he dies,” she choked out. “What if he dies and I never got to tell him?”

She looked up into Folke’s puzzled face, and then the whole sorry story came tumbling out.

When she was through, Katherine (who had come downstairs sometime between salt and the storm) took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear,” she said. “I never would have guessed. Maybe it’s best that you’ve both had some time to think things over.”

Katherine shook her head. “But don’t you think…?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think he should have known that I loved him? I shouldn’t have needed to say it. He’s my father. He’s the king.”

Katherine replied briskly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “He’s only human, child, for all that he might wear a crown; he’s not omniscient. Why didn’t you tell your father what he wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t want to flatter him,” said Coriander. “That was all. I wanted to be right in what I said.”

The goodwife clucked softly. “Oh dear. Don’t you know that sometimes, it’s more important to be kind than to be right?”

.

In her leave-taking, Coriander tried to tell Katherine and Folke how grateful she was to them, but they wouldn’t let her. They bought her a bus ticket and sent her on her way towards King’s City with plenty of provisions. Two days later, Coriander stood on the back steps of one of the palace outbuildings with her little carpetbag clutched in her hands. 

Stuffing down the fear of being recognized, Coriander squared her shoulders and hoped they looked as strong as her father’s. She rapped on the door, and presently a maid came and opened it. The maid glanced Coriander up and down, but after a moment it was clear that her disguise held. With all her long hair shorn off, she must have looked like any other girl come in off the street.

“I’m here about a job,” said Coriander. “My name’s Rush.”

 .

The king's chambers were half-lit when Coriander brought him his supper, dressed in her servants’ apparel. He grunted when she knocked and gestured with a cane towards his bedside table. His hair was snow-white and he was sitting in bed with his work spread across a lap-desk. His motions were very slow.

Coriander wanted to cry, seeing her father like that. Yet somehow, she managed to school her face. Like he would, she kept telling herself. Stoically, she put down the supper tray, then stepped back out into the hallway. 

It was several minutes more before the king was ready to eat. Coriander heard papers being shuffled, probably filed in those same manilla folders her father had always used. In the hall, Coriander felt the seconds lengthen. She steeled herself for the moment she knew was coming, when the king would call out in irritation, “Girl! What's the matter with my food? Why hasn’t it got any taste?”

When that moment came, all would be made right. Coriander would go into the room and taste his food. “Why,” she would say, with a look of complete innocence, “It seems the kitchen forgot to salt it!” She imagined how her father’s face would change when he finally understood. My daughter always loved me, he would say. 

Soon, soon. It would happen soon. Any second now. 

The moment never came. Instead, the floor creaked, followed by the rough sound of a cane striking the floor. The door opened, and then the king was there, his mighty shoulders shaking. “Coriander,” he whispered. 

“Dad. You know me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you understand now?”

The king’s wrinkled brow knit. “Understand about the salt? Of course, I do. It wasn't such a clever riddle. There was surely no need to ruin my supper with a demonstration.”

Coriander gaped at him. She'd expected questions, explanations, maybe apologies for sending her away. She'd never imagined this.

She wanted very badly to seize her father and demand answers, but then she looked, really looked, at the way he was leaning on his cane. The king was barely upright; his white head was bent low. Her questions would hold until she'd helped her father back into his room. 

“If you knew what I meant–by saying you were like salt in my food– then why did you tell me to go?” she asked once they were situated back in the royal quarters. 

Idly, the king picked at his unseasoned food. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me, Coriander. My anger and hurt got the better of me, and it has brought me much grief. I never expected you to stay away for so long.”

Coriander nodded slowly. Her father's words had always carried such fierce authority. She'd never thought to question if he really meant what he’d said to her. 

“As for the salt,” continued the king, "Is it so wrong that an old man should want to hear his daughters say ‘I love you' before he dies?” 

Coriander rolled the words around in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then, with a sudden mewling sound from her throat, she managed to say, “That's really all you wanted?”  

“That's all. I am old, Cor, and we've spoken too little of love in our house.” He took another bite of his unsalted supper. His hand shook. “That was my failing, I suppose. Perhaps if I’d said it, you girls would have thought to say it back.”

“But father!” gasped Coriander, “That’s not right. We've always known we loved one another! We've shown it a thousand ways. Why, I've spent the last year cataloging them in my head, and I've still not even scratched the surface!”

The king sighed. “Perhaps you will understand when your time comes. I knew, and yet I didn't. What can you really call a thing you’ve never named? How do you know it exists? Perhaps all the love I thought I knew was only a figment.”

“But that’s what I’ve been afraid of all this time,” Coriander bit back. “How could you doubt? If it was real at all– how could you doubt?”

The king’s weathered face grew still. His eyes fell shut and he squeezed them. “Death is close to me, child. A small measure of reassurance is not so very much to ask.”

.

Coriander slept in her old rooms that night. None of it had changed. When she woke the next morning, for a moment she remembered nothing of the last two years. 

She breakfasted in the garden with her father, who came down the steps in a chair-lift. “Coriander,” he murmured. “I half-thought I dreamed you last night.”

“I’m here, Dad,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, the king reached out with one withered hand and caressed Coriander's cheek. Then, his fingers drifted up to what remained of her hair. He ruffled it, then gently tugged on a tuft the way he'd used to playfully tug her long braid when she was a girl. 

“I love you,” he said.

“That was always an I love you, wasn’t it?” replied Coriander. “My hair.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I think it was.”

So Coriander reached out and gently tugged the white hairs of his beard. “You too,” she whispered.

.

“Why salt?” The king was sitting by the fire in his rooms wrapped in two blankets. Coriander was with him, enduring the sweltering heat of the room without complaint. 

She frowned. “You like honesty. We have that in common. I was trying to be honest–accurate–to avoid false flattery.”

The king tugged at the outer blanket, saying nothing. His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to his lap. Coriander wished they wouldn’t. She wished they would hold to hers, steely and ready for combat as they always used to be.

“Would it really have been false?” the king said at last. “Was there no other honest way to say it? Only salt?”

Coriander wanted to deny it, to give speech to the depth and breadth of her love, but once again words failed her. “It was my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know how to heave my heart into my throat.” She still didn’t, for all she wanted to. 

.

When the doctor left, the king was almost too tired to talk. His words came slowly, slurred at the edges and disconnected, like drops of water from a leaky faucet. 

Still, Coriander could tell that he had something to say. She waited patiently as his lips and tongue struggled to form the words. “Love you… so… much… You… and… your sisters… Don’t… worry… if you… can’t…say…how…much. I… know.” 

It was all effort. The king sat back when he was finished. Something was still spasming in his throat, and Coriander wanted to cry.

“I’m glad you know,” she said. “I’m glad. But I still want to tell you.”

Love was effort. If her father wanted words, she would give him words. True words. Kind words. She would try… 

“I love you like salt in my food. You're desperately important to me, and you've always been there, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I don’t want to lose you. And I love you like the soil in a garden. Like rain in the spring. Like a hero. You have the strongest shoulders of anyone I know, and all I ever wanted was to be like you…”

A warm smile spread across the old king’s face. His eyes drifted shut.

[usagimen]

(h.c. // meta):

        It should go without say, despite being the antithesis to the Zen’in Clan, the Kobayashi lineage should not be idolized. The rigidity to conform can break someone’s spirit easily in half, it is a family that demands to move in unison so their lives are not trampled, Sayuri equates it to a gaping maw one plunges into. Though they have nobility, they also refuse to acknowledge the higher four houses playing neutral territory but this their past of remaining those in the middle && swearing to none. There is an inherited sadness many carry, it is often felt within the very soil despite the brilliance of such a dreamlike sanctum.

       Mourning is a constant, for those who are lost && the inability to live as one desires, shedding the old to become a new. Where many fear being cursed, plenty seem to relish in it, they hold no secrets for the lives that were taken for coin or meddling in political affairs for whoever paid them handsomely. Briefly, it’s been stated many of the women are cursed or come from lineage of female yokai, Sayuri herself being a descendant of Hone-Onna while the current matriarch is the last of Nure-Onna’s lineage. They are often spoken about in hushed whispers, though this also proves to play into their charm as performers or artisans giving many that of a temptress who lulls all to follow.

          Secrecy is everything as if they were ever found out, Clan Kobayashi attests they would be gone, nothing but a name etched in jushiki history. It is the only way they can protect what they hold dear which isn’t to say they do not love one another. In fact, it’s a fierce sentiment among them, none will be excluded, even the weakest has a place within their walls. It’s common to find many gossiping, busy in daily practices, or rushing to entertain clientele, this has been a constant for what seems centuries. One thing that is enigmatic is the role of a son, the firm belief is that no matter what, they shall always be led by a reigning matriarch. Daughters often inherit the role of the mother, an artisan who will become adored or fill into a position of strong social influence. Sons help that world continue on, in one particular case, Sayuri’s father - Minato, found success through kimono making.

     He is well renowned for his excellency in textiles, thus shedding some insight into how males fill in the gap. Marriage is welcomed, though usually it is political or when one retires from life of public performances. This also might be why Sayuri is hesitant to vocalize normal desires, she is strictly held by the binds of her bloodline, out of loyalty && love. Everyone understands this challenge, there is a common knowledge that the tragedy they all speak is what keeps them together; it is a language only they can utter. Hence their families mantra, all that is beauty is deceptive. She is the rarity who ran thus found her freedom && became starved, unable to allow for it to be stolen, they do not scorn her whatsoever instead embrace this - even envy.   

[rafecameronssl4t]

Family man || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: first glimpse of Rafe and his first daughter Madeline!!!

Warnings: slight angst?

Word count: 1,358

A/n: will be writing more about readers birth soon dw!!

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The sound of approaching heels echoed down the hall, drawing closer until they stopped outside the door. Barry’s conversation with Rafe came to a standstill as the two men glanced at each other. Barry raised a curious eyebrow, while Rafe’s sharp gaze fixed on the door. His fingers tightened around the glass of scotch before he swiftly brought it to his lips, downing the amber liquid in one go.

As the glass returned to the table with a quiet clink, the door creaked open, revealing you holding Madeline in your arms. Leo, trailed just behind, his small hands tugging at your dress. “My, my, Mrs. Cameron. Looking good,” Barry remarked with a playful grin, his eyes lingering on you longer than Rafe appreciated.

A quiet tension filled the room, unnoticed by Barry but evident in the subtle narrowing of Rafe’s eyes. You offered a polite smile, always composed. “Thank you, Barry,” you replied evenly, stepping further into the room, feeling Rafe’s gaze on you, cold and sharp.

Rafe rolled his eyes, clearly unamused by Barry’s remark, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. “What are you doing here? I’m busy,” Rafe muttered, the frustration lacing his voice unmistakable as he lazily flicked the unlit cigarette in his hand. Your eyes instinctively followed the movement, a silent reminder of a habit you yourself had let go of since the children were born.

You took a breath, your tone firm yet careful, “Can you watch the kids for a couple of hours?” Rafe’s eyebrow arched in disbelief. His voice dripped with incredulity as he spoke, “Don’t we have nannies for this exact reason?” Before you could respond, Leo’s little fingers reached for the glass of scotch perched precariously at the edge of the table.

Without hesitation, you slid it out of his reach, ignoring the whine of protest that followed. Rafe’s lips twitched, amused by his son’s curiosity. He exchanged a brief, knowing glance with Barry before turning his attention back to you. “She’s sick,” you replied, your voice edged with impatience. “I have an appointment.” You reached for the cigarette between his fingers, plucking it from his hand and placing it in the ashtray.

Your fingers brushed briefly against his, but neither of you acknowledged the touch. Instead, you handed Madeline to him, watching as his rough exterior softened momentarily. He cradled your daughter, pressing a kiss to her cheek as she babbled contentedly in his arms. Rafe’s annoyance resurfaced, though it was quieter this time, buried beneath the calm façade he wore so well.

“And I have a meeting,” he sighed, bouncing Madeline gently on his knee. “Cancel your appointment. I doubt it’s that important.” “I can’t,” you shrugged, the weight of his dismissiveness settling heavily on your shoulders. You leaned down to lift Leo onto a chair, keeping your movements deliberate, even as you felt his blue eyes boring into you. This wasn’t the first time he’d brushed off something important to you, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

As you straightened up, Rafe’s gaze lingered, his irritation now mingled with something more complicated. His protectiveness over the children was undeniable, even as his reluctance to engage with the responsibilities of fatherhood crept into moments like this. You saw it in the way he held Madeline, in the way he looked at Leo, and you knew beneath his cold exterior was a man who loved his family in his own flawed way.

Rafe glanced at Leo, who was now sitting contentedly on the chair, playing with a toy you’d handed him, oblivious to the tension brewing in the room. The smile Rafe had worn moments ago slipped away, replaced with a hard look as he shifted his focus back to you. “And what’s this appointment that’s so important you can’t reschedule it?”

Rafe’s voice was cool, and though his tone lacked the bite you’d grown used to, it still carried the weight of condescension. You straightened, refusing to be diminished under his gaze. “It’s a doctor’s appointment. For me.” You paused, allowing the words to sink in. “I didn’t think I needed to run it by you.”

Rafe’s expression flickered—something shifted in his eyes, but only for a second before the mask slid back into place. He exhaled, frustrated but knowing he couldn’t argue with you on this, at least not outright. He wasn’t a fool; he understood the importance of your health, especially since having Madeline.

But Rafe wasn’t one to back down easily, especially when his pride was on the line. “I’ll make sure the nanny is back tomorrow,” he muttered, bouncing Madeline a little more vigorously now as she giggled at him. “But don’t make a habit of leaving them with me when I have work. You know what kind of pressure I’m under.”

You blinked, stunned by the blatant disregard. Even now, holding your daughter, the reality of his responsibilities as a father seemed secondary to him. Still, you swallowed your frustration. Raising a fight wouldn’t change anything; it never did. “Don’t worry,” you replied quietly, bending down to kiss Leo on the head. “It’s just for today.”

Rafe’s eyes remained on you, scrutinising, calculating as if searching for something in your face—whether it was submission or defiance, you weren’t sure. You had long learned how to mask your emotions, presenting a calm, poised exterior, even when you felt anything but. Barry, who had remained silent for a while, shifted in his seat, clearly sensing the thick tension between you both.

“Hey, it’s just a couple of hours, man. You’ll survive,” he joked, attempting to lighten the mood, but his words caused Rafe to glare at him. Rafe redirected his attention back to you who was at the bar cart, pouring two glasses of water for the kids. Rafe gave Madeline a small smile as she babbled happily in his arms, bouncing her lightly on his knee.

“You’re lucky I love these two,” he mumbled, though his tone carried more warmth now. The sight of his daughter always seemed to soften him, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like things were normal between the two of you. Almost. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Leo standing beside the chair now, looking up at Rafe with wide eyes. He tugged at his father’s sleeve, and Rafe glanced down, his cool exterior melting ever so slightly.

“Come here, buddy,” he said, hoisting Leo onto his lap beside Madeline. The two children giggled, and for a second, the tension in the room dissipated, replaced by the soft, innocent sounds of their laughter. Barry, who had been watching the exchange with an awkward silence, finally spoke up, trying to lighten the mood. “Look at you, Rafe. Mr. Family Man,” he teased, though even he seemed cautious, sensing the fragility of the moment.

Rafe rolled his eyes, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. You watched the scene unfold in front of you—Rafe, sitting there with both kids on his lap, the hard edge in his voice softening as he spoke to them. It was moments like this, fleeting as they were, that reminded you there was still something beneath the cold exterior. Something worth holding onto, even if it was buried deep.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” you finally said, tickling Madeline's tummy and kissing Leo's forehead before you move towards the door. Rafe didn’t look up, his focus now entirely on the kids, but you could feel his silent acknowledgment. It wasn’t exactly an affectionate goodbye, but it was enough. As you reached for the doorknob, you heard Rafe speak again, his voice quieter this time.

“Don’t be late,” he said, though there was less command in his tone now—more a request than a demand. You nodded, glancing back at the three of them. Leo was giggling as Rafe whispered something in his ear, and Madeline was now nestled comfortably against her father’s chest. For a moment, you allowed yourself to feel a flicker of warmth, a brief glimpse of what could have been if things were different between you and Rafe.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Do you ever plan on continuing the Adoptive Son Au?

This wasn't just a mission anymore.

Dick lays perfectly still, staring up at Crowne's bedroom ceiling. Besides him, Crowne is found asleep, and his soft puffs of breath are the only sound to be heard in the room. As always, the other man is curled up facing the wall, one fist under his cheek and the other clutched to the warm set of blankets.

It's something Dick noticed the first night he slept over.

Awake Crowene took up so much space with his commanding aura, steadily leading his team into the future like a king upon a throne—as if he were larger than life.

Asleep, Crowne seemed to grow smaller, a shocking reminder that for all he's accomplished, he too was only eighteen like Dick.

His face softened, and the invisible weight that seemed to be resting on Crowne's shoulders vanished once he slumbered. It surprised Dick, the first time he watched him sleep, to see how gentle the man could be. How innocent he appeared.

It was a reminder of how inexperienced Crowne was regarding relationships.

The mission had gone on longer than he'd ever planned it to. Dick was worried about how far he was going to go with the honey pot aspect, even with his suggestive comments and more daring flirtations. None of his other missions have gotten so far, always stopping at a few cuddles and kisses.

Thankfully, Crowne hesitated to go further. He had agreed to the hotel room, leaving Drake with Nancy for the night, and as Dick was desperately trying to think of an escape as they climbed up to the room, Crowne had grown more and more angsty.

They had kissed against the door and stumbled their way to the bed with heated breaths and whispered moans, but when they actually landed on the hotel bed, Crowne had sprung away. He had burst into tears, shamefully admitting he wasn't ready.

Dick had been so grateful for the out as he gathered Crowne into his arms and promised to wait till the time was right. He would wait until the CEO was ready, wiping away tears and kissing his cheeks dry.

He gave himself more time by admitting he also didn't feel comfortable moving forward yet, and Crowne looked at him with such tenderness Dick forgot about the mission for only a minute.

Instead, the two somehow ended up chatting the night away, lying side by side, whispering to each other against the pillows. None of what they spoke about was useful for the mission, and yet he found himself holding the little facts about Crowne close to his heart anyway.

He learned about Crowne's insecurities, some of the bullying he endured as a kid, the loving parents he missed, and the sister he lost. He even spoke about his fear of failing Drake or the rest of the people at his company who depended on him, how sometimes that fear of failure would creep in and freeze him in place.

In turn, Dick found himself talking of the circus, whispering what he missed and what life was like before his parent's death.

He shared his role as team leader—though not what the team was—and how sometimes he felt like he was still attempting to find his place in everyone's lives. Shockingly, he even admitted that he feared Bruce would never see him as soon, hiding his tears in Crowne's neck as he pushed out the words.

He never opened up to anyone like that, which terrified him of how far he may have lost himself within the lie.

They fell asleep together that night, curling around each other fully clothed, and it was far more intimate than anything he had ever done with anyone else.

The following day Dick had been able to spot love in Crowne's eyes whenever he looked at him. It made him sick. He tried to not make too much eye contact following this, for they had yet to find the missing children, and he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge the devotion of a man he was playing for information.

Now, four months after they agreed to go slow, he slept on the right side of Crowne's bed, which had become his side, watching the snow gently fall outside the window of the new house Crowne had purchased. The mission had far surpassed the expected wait time, as Christmas was quickly approaching, and Crowne had made comments of spending it at Wayne mannor.

He had seen a shopping list with Bruce, Jason, Damian, and even Alfred's names on Crowne's desk, and a couple of gift ideas were written next to them. Because he knew that to Dick, they were his family, and he wanted to make a good impression on them.

The mission had begun in spring, but Dick couldn't find a way to untangle himself from Crowne. He had been heavily involved in the gym Crowne was setting up with Drake, seeing that he adored possibly being a gymnastics teacher more than he ever planned.

Bruce occasionally commented that he shouldn't let himself be swept away by the lie.

He knew the truth.

This domestic bliss he was spending with Crowne was an illusion. It was bound to burst the day they found what they were looking for, but by the gods, Dick honestly thought they were wrong.

They had to be.

Crowne's mysterious rise to power, extortionary science, brilliant business mind, and unexplained funds all pointed to darker, evil intentions.

But Danny? The man's eyes soften by children's laughter. He made silly puns when he wanted to cheer up Dick. He curled around Dick, holding him through nightmares and never asking what they were about.

Danny stepped up for Tim Drake and gave him a home when all signs clearly pointed to the Drakes neglecting their son. Danny was the one who anonymously paid off medical debt, asking nothing in return, not even acknowledgment. Danny was the one who could name all the stars in the sky, yet looked sad when staring upwards.

Danny was the one Dick was in love with, but Danny was also Crowne, and the Bats were gunning to lock him up for the rest of his life.

It tore him to pieces, but Dick pushed himself out of the warm bed. He patted his way to the boxes that still needed to be unpacked. He was the one to convince Danny to buy a house outside the city, knowing the man wouldn't bother to pack appropriately.

This meant he would likely carelessly throw evidence into random boxes—the evidence he needed to finally put him away.

He looked over his shoulder to ensure the other was still sleeping before going through the items. He went through the first five without finding anything, angry at himself for feeling relief until he came across the last box.

Inside were notebooks.

Some date back to the first year Danny was adopted by the Crownes. There were systematic experiments and notes on the portal making, but the worst of all were the files.

Files of the street kids he had moved. With each page turned, Dick found profiles of the kids, where they were found, what they were going through, how they were taken, and where they were placed. There were even several phone numbers of social workers who helped him move the kids about.

A leger of the trafficking ring. All were written in Danny's handwriting. It was a lie, Dick knew, but it was still devastating to realize how evil the darkness within Crowne indeed was.

The very last thing in the box was an engraved ring with Richard Grason on the inside, sitting inside an elegant ring box.

Dick felt sick as he reached up to his earpiece pressing it three times. Bruce picked up with a soft greeting that quickly turned to worry when Dicked choked out through his tears.

"We got him."

[novaursa]

Good evening, can you write about daemon x little sister

If we can see their relation evolved from really protective brother to lover obsessed.

He was always protective of her, he doesn’t like that Viserys come close to her. And when she grow up he scared every men that came closed to her.

She was supposed to married a Lannister but Daemon could not accept it and take her to dragon stone. Everyone thinks she’s dead because they never see her again but when Daemon came back to King’s Landing, he’s not alone but with his sister wife and their children.

Dragonblooded

- Summary: You always belonged to Daemon. And when Viserys gave you away, the dragon took what was his.

- Paring: sister!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The sound of laughter echoes through corridors, a joyful melody that bounces off the ancient stone walls. You are no older than five, your golden-silver hair, so much like your mother’s, trailing behind you as you run through the hallways. Your small feet tap lightly against the cool floor, your tiny hands reaching out to grab at the air, chasing an imaginary butterfly.

"Come here, little dragon!" Viserys calls out, his voice warm and inviting, as he pretends to chase after you. His laughter is softer, more measured, but it carries the same affection that glows in his eyes. He is gentle, your eldest brother, always careful not to frighten or startle you. At ten years old, he already shows the signs of a future king—kindness, patience, a quiet strength that soothes those around him.

You turn, giggling, and reach out for him, and he catches you with ease, lifting you into the air. "I have you now!" he declares, spinning you around in circles, your peals of laughter mixing with his. 

"Viserys, higher!" you plead, clinging to his tunic, your small face lighting up with glee.

But as Viserys twirls you again, you catch sight of another figure standing just beyond the doorway, watching the two of you. Daemon, your other brother, leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, a frown tugging at his lips. He is only two years younger than Viserys, but where Viserys is gentle, Daemon is fierce, his eyes always smoldering with an intensity that belies his young age. 

He steps forward, and though he doesn’t say a word, the air between you shifts, a tension that even you, in your youthful innocence, can sense. Viserys notices too, lowering you to the ground but keeping a protective hand on your shoulder.

"Daemon," Viserys greets, though there’s a hint of wariness in his voice. "We were just playing. You can join us, if you’d like."

Daemon’s gaze shifts from Viserys to you, and his frown deepens. "She’s my sister," he says, his voice low, almost possessive. "I don’t need your permission to play with her."

There’s a beat of silence as the two brothers stare at each other, a silent battle of wills. But before it can escalate, you tug at Daemon’s sleeve, drawing his attention down to you. 

"Daemon, play with me!" you say, your eyes wide and pleading. You adore both of your brothers, but there’s something about Daemon that always draws you to him—perhaps it’s the way he looks at you, like you are the only person in the world who matters to him.

His expression softens the moment he meets your gaze. The hard lines of his face melt into something gentler, something only you seem to bring out in him. Without a word, he scoops you up into his arms, holding you close. You wrap your arms around his neck, resting your head against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

"She’s tired," Daemon announces, his voice brooking no argument as he starts to carry you away. You peek over his shoulder at Viserys, who watches with a resigned smile. 

"I was only playing with her," Viserys says, but there’s a note of understanding in his tone, an acknowledgment of something that has always been between you and Daemon—something he will never quite share with you in the same way.

Daemon doesn’t respond, his attention solely on you as he carries you through the halls. His grip on you is firm but gentle, his warmth seeping through his clothes and into your small frame. You yawn, your eyelids growing heavy, and snuggle closer to him.

"Rest now, little sister," Daemon whispers, his voice soft in a way it never is with anyone else. "I’ll always keep you safe."

And in that moment, as sleep begins to claim you, you know it’s true. You may be Viserys’ beloved little sister, the youngest and most cherished of the Targaryen children, but you are Daemon’s before all else. In his arms, you feel safe, loved, and most of all, his.

The years have passed, and you have grown from a spirited child into a young woman of striking beauty. Your silver-gold hair cascades down your back in soft waves, your violet eyes—so reminiscent of the Valyrian ancestors—shining with a quiet intelligence. Your resemblance to your mother, Alyssa, is so uncanny that it often leaves those who knew her breathless, lost in memories of the past. You are the pride of House Targaryen, a true dragon in both blood and spirit.

The lords of the realm have taken notice of you, their eyes lingering a bit too long as you walk through the halls of the Red Keep. Whispers of your beauty have spread across the Seven Kingdoms, and it seems that every highborn man with a title to his name seeks your hand in marriage. The attention is overwhelming, though you do your best to remain composed, as you were taught. Still, you cannot ignore the way your heart flutters with nerves when you catch their lingering gazes.

Today, you find yourself in the gardens of the Red Keep, the sun casting a warm glow over the roses in bloom. You stroll through the maze of greenery, the scent of flowers filling the air, when you hear the soft murmur of voices behind you.

"My lady, you are a vision," one of the young lords says as he approaches, his tone smooth and rehearsed. He is tall, with dark hair and a confident smile that seems to have charmed many a court lady.

"Lord Caron," you greet him politely, inclining your head. "You are too kind."

"I speak only the truth," he insists, stepping closer. "You grow lovelier with each passing day, my lady. The realm is fortunate to have you."

You offer a tight-lipped smile, trying to mask your discomfort. Though you are used to such flattery, it always feels hollow, lacking the warmth and sincerity you crave. 

Before you can respond, you feel a familiar presence behind you, a shadow that has always loomed large in your life. Daemon steps forward, his eyes cold as they fix on Lord Caron. There is a tension in his posture, a barely restrained fury that makes the young lord falter, his confident smile wavering.

"Lord Caron," Daemon says, his voice a low rumble, "I believe my sister has endured enough of the sun today. She is in need of rest."

Lord Caron glances between the two of you, clearly weighing his options. But the sharpness in Daemon’s gaze leaves little room for argument. He bows stiffly, offering you one last smile before he retreats, his footsteps hurried as he leaves the garden.

As soon as he is gone, Daemon turns to you, his expression dark and unreadable. "You shouldn’t be out here alone," he chides, though there is an edge to his voice that you have rarely heard before.

"I wasn’t alone," you reply, meeting his gaze evenly. "And I can take care of myself, Daemon. I’m not a child anymore."

His eyes narrow slightly at your words, as if the thought displeases him. "You think I don’t know that?" he mutters, his gaze sweeping over you. "I see the way they look at you—the way they covet you. They are like vultures circling above a feast."

You blink, surprised by the venom in his tone. "They are only being polite," you say, though even as you say it, you know it’s more than that. The attention you receive is not just polite—it is predatory, something you have tried to ignore but cannot entirely dismiss.

"Polite," Daemon scoffs, taking a step closer to you. His presence is overwhelming, a mix of anger and something else that you can’t quite place. "They want to marry you, to own you, to take you away from me."

You look up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the intensity in his eyes. "Daemon, I’m not a possession," you say softly, though your voice wavers slightly. "I will marry one day, and when I do, it will be my choice."

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches between you, heavy and charged, until finally, he speaks, his voice low and dangerous. "No man will ever be worthy of you. No man will ever deserve you. You are mine, and I will not let them take you from me."

You stare at him, your breath catching in your throat at his words. The possessiveness in his voice, the raw intensity of his emotions—it’s more than just a brotherly concern. There is something deeper, something darker that simmers beneath the surface, and it both frightens and intrigues you.

"Daemon…" you begin, but he cuts you off, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. The touch is surprisingly gentle, his thumb brushing over your skin as if he’s memorizing the feel of you.

"You are my sister," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "You are the only person in this world who matters to me. I will not let anyone take you away, not Viserys, not any of those lords who think they can lay claim to you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself leaning into his touch, despite the confusion swirling in your mind. "I am not leaving you," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "But Daemon… this is not—"

"Don’t," he interrupts, his thumb pressing lightly against your lips to silence you. "Don’t say anything that will ruin this moment."

His eyes bore into yours, and you feel a heat rising between you, a dangerous pull that you know you should resist but can’t. Daemon has always been the center of your world, but now, you realize, he is something more, something that both terrifies and excites you.

For a long moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, standing in the garden, the air thick with unspoken words and forbidden desires. Then, as if sensing your hesitation, Daemon leans down, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gesture that is both tender and possessive.

"I will always protect you," he vows, his breath warm against your skin. "No one else will ever come between us."

And as he pulls away, you find yourself nodding, unable to voice the turmoil inside you. Because deep down, you know that what he says is true—you are his, and in some twisted, inevitable way, he is yours as well.

The wind howls around the towering battlements of Casterly Rock, the seat of House Lannister. Below, the sea crashes against the cliffs, the waves like thunder as they break upon the ancient stone. You stand on a high balcony overlooking the expanse, your heart heavy with the weight of what is to come. The golden light of the setting sun casts long shadows, and though the view is breathtaking, you find no solace in it.

The marriage to Jason Lannister had been arranged swiftly, a decision made by Viserys in a moment of political strategy. It had all happened so fast—one moment you were in King’s Landing, the next you were being sent across the realm, far from the comforts of your home, and even further from Daemon.

Jason Lannister is a man of means, a wealthy and powerful lord, but he is not the man your heart longs for. Despite his handsome features and polite demeanor, he leaves you cold. You do not love him, nor do you wish to, but the weight of your duty had left you with little choice but to obey your brother’s command.

Tonight is to be your wedding night, a thought that fills you with dread. The thought of sharing your bed with a man who is a stranger to you, despite his politeness and charm, makes your skin crawl. You had always imagined your wedding night to be something sacred, shared with someone you truly loved—someone like Daemon. But such dreams seem so far away now.

As you clutch the stone railing of the balcony, you hear the faintest sound of wings cutting through the air. At first, you think it’s your imagination, a product of your desperate longing. But then the sound grows louder, more distinct, and your heart begins to race.

In the distance, you see it—Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, his massive wings beating against the darkening sky, his crimson scales gleaming like fire in the dying light. On his back, you spot a figure clad in black and red, his silver hair streaming behind him like a banner. Daemon.

He’s come for you.

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him descend, the great dragon’s roar echoing through the air as he nears the fortress. Panic and excitement mix within you—Daemon, your beloved brother, has come to take you away, to rescue you from a life you never wanted.

Caraxes lands with a deafening thud in the courtyard below, his long neck arched as he lets out another earth-shaking roar. The guards and servants scatter in fear, unprepared for such a display of raw power. You waste no time, gathering your skirts and racing down the steps toward the courtyard, your heart pounding in your chest.

By the time you reach the courtyard, Daemon has dismounted, his presence commanding as he strides forward with purpose. He looks every bit the rogue prince, his eyes alight with determination and something far more dangerous. He spots you immediately, his expression softening for just a moment before hardening once more as he glances at the keep behind you.

"Daemon!" you cry out, rushing toward him. He catches you easily, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace that makes you feel safer than you have in weeks. The scent of him—salt, leather, and dragonfire—fills your senses, and you cling to him as if he were the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

"I’ve come to take you away," he murmurs into your ear, his voice rough with emotion. "You belong to me, not to some Lannister dog."

You pull back slightly, searching his face, your own heart torn between relief and fear. "Viserys… he ordered this marriage. He’ll be furious if you—"

"Let him be furious," Daemon interrupts, his eyes blazing. "You are mine, not his to give away. We will go to Dragonstone, and we will marry in the traditions of our House. Fire and blood—that is our way, not these weak southern bonds."

Before you can respond, you hear the clattering of armored boots and turn to see Jason Lannister approaching, flanked by a dozen guards. His face is pale, though he tries to maintain a confident air as he confronts Daemon.

"Prince Daemon," Jason says, his voice steady but laced with underlying fear. "This is madness. She is to be my wife by order of the king. You cannot simply take her."

Daemon’s lips curl into a dangerous smile, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword that has tasted the blood of many a fool. "Can’t I?" he says, his tone mocking. "You think to keep her here, hidden away in this golden cage? You think she will ever be yours, truly yours? You’re a fool, Lannister."

Jason stiffens, but to his credit, he doesn’t back down. "This will bring war," he warns. "If you take her, Viserys will have no choice but to act. The realm will not stand for this."

Daemon laughs, the sound dark and menacing. "Let the realm do as it will. I’ve never cared for the opinions of sheep. You think you can threaten me with war, boy? I am war. I have fought in battles you cannot even imagine. And if it’s bloodshed you seek, I will gladly spill it."

Jason falters, his bravado crumbling under Daemon’s intense gaze. "I…I only seek what was promised to me," he stammers, clearly trying to find a way out that doesn’t end with his blood staining the courtyard. "If you take her, I will not pursue her. But I will require compensation for this slight. The Lannisters will not be insulted without recompense."

Daemon’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, you fear he might draw Dark Sister and end Jason’s life right then and there. But instead, he takes a step closer to the lord, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"You dare to speak of recompense?" he hisses, his face inches from Jason’s. "She is worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock, more than your entire house. There is no recompense for what you tried to steal from me. But I will leave you your life, if only because I have more important matters to attend to."

Jason’s face drains of color, and he takes a stumbling step back, nodding quickly. "Yes… yes, of course. Take her, and may the gods be with you."

Daemon doesn’t spare him another glance. Instead, he turns to you, his expression softening as he reaches out to take your hand. "Come, sister," he says, his voice gentler now. "Let us leave this place. We will wed on Dragonstone, and no one will ever come between us again."

You nod, your heart swelling with a mix of relief and trepidation. Daemon leads you toward Caraxes, his grip on your hand firm and reassuring. The dragon lowers his massive head as you approach, and with Daemon’s help, you climb onto his back, settling in behind your brother.

As Caraxes takes to the sky, the wind whipping through your hair, you cling to Daemon, feeling the power of the dragon beneath you and the warmth of your brother in front of you. The world below falls away, and with it, the fear and uncertainty that had plagued you for so long.

As the Red Keep disappears into the distance, you lean close to Daemon, your voice barely a whisper. "Thank you for coming for me."

He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a fierce intensity. "I will always come for you," he vows, his voice full of conviction. "You are mine, and I will never let you go."

And as you soar through the skies on the back of the Blood Wyrm, leaving Casterly Rock and all its golden confines behind, you know that he means every word. The path ahead may be fraught with danger, but as long as you are by Daemon’s side, you are willing to face whatever comes.

For you are his, and he is yours, bound by blood and fire, as it was always meant to be.

The tourney grounds outside King’s Landing are alive, a sea of banners fluttering in the wind, each representing the great houses of Westeros. The air is full of the scent of sweat, horses, and the faint metallic tang of freshly forged steel. The tournament held in honor of the impending birth of Viserys' child has drawn knights and lords from across the realm, all eager to witness the splendor and skill of the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. 

King Viserys himself sits upon the royal dais, a smile of pride and expectation on his face. He has every reason to be joyous today—the maesters have assured him that this time, his wife Aemma will deliver a son, a true heir to the Iron Throne. But there is an undercurrent of unease in the king’s heart, a shadow that lingers at the edges of his happiness, for it has been years since he last saw his beloved sister.

Not a word has come from Dragonstone since that fateful day when Daemon stole you away, defying the king’s will and igniting a scandal that has only grown with time. Rumors have spread like wildfire, each one more outlandish than the last—tales of dark rituals, of dragons terrorizing the Narrow Sea, and of a brood of Targaryen children raised in exile, far from the eyes of the court. But none of these rumors have ever been confirmed, and Viserys has learned to silence any mention of you in his presence, the wound too deep to bear reopening.

As the king watches the jousting field, his thoughts drift to you, wondering where you are, how you have fared all these years. He tries to push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the spectacle before him. But then, a murmur runs through the crowd, growing louder as the people begin to turn their heads toward the sky.

Viserys follows their gaze, and his breath catches in his throat. 

There, descending from the clouds, is a dragon—its great wings casting a shadow over the tourney grounds as it circles above. The creature’s scales shimmer a deep, blood-red, and its roar is like the rumble of distant thunder. There is no mistaking the beast or its rider. 

"Caraxes," Viserys whispers, a mix of shock and something else—something like hope—rising in his chest.

The dragon lands with a thud just beyond the field, the earth trembling beneath its weight. The crowds part, a mixture of awe and fear on their faces as Daemon Targaryen dismounts from the dragon’s back, his presence as commanding as ever. His silver hair, untouched by time, glints in the sunlight, and his dark cloak billows around him like wings as he strides forward.

But it is not Daemon alone who captures the attention of the gathered lords and ladies. For behind him, gracefully descending from Caraxes, is a figure draped in black and red, a crown of silver-gold hair flowing down her back—you.

Gasps ripple through the crowd as they recognize you, their whispers growing into a chorus of disbelief and astonishment. But you pay them no mind, your eyes fixed solely on the dais where your brother, the king, sits in stunned silence.

You walk toward him with the poise of a queen, your hand resting protectively on the head of a small boy who clings to your side. His hair is a pale silver, much like yours and Daemon’s, his eyes wide with curiosity as he takes in the spectacle around him. Another child—a girl with your likeness—follows close behind, holding onto Daemon’s hand with an air of confidence that belies her young age.

When you finally reach the dais, the entire tourney ground has fallen silent, all eyes on this reunion that none had expected. Viserys rises from his seat, his face a mask of disbelief, his hands trembling as he reaches out toward you.

"Sister," he breathes, his voice thick with emotion. "Is it truly you?"

You nod, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of longing and caution. "It is I, brother," you reply, your voice soft but steady. "I have returned."

Viserys hesitates, his gaze shifting to Daemon, who stands beside you, his expression unreadable. The king’s eyes then fall to the children, and his heart twists with a sudden, overwhelming mixture of emotions—joy, sorrow, anger, and relief all at once.

"And these…" Viserys begins, his voice faltering as he looks at the boy and girl, "are your children?"

"Our children," Daemon corrects, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. There is a proud, possessive note in his tone as he looks at you and the children, as if daring anyone to challenge his claim.

The boy, sensing the attention on him, steps forward, his small chest puffed out with pride. "I am Aegon," he announces, his voice clear and strong. "Aegon of House Targaryen."

"And I am Rhaella," the girl adds, her violet eyes sparkling with the same fierce determination that burns in Daemon’s. "Daughter of Prince Daemon and Princess Y/N."

Viserys looks at them, his eyes filling with tears he can barely contain. "Aegon… Rhaella…" he murmurs, reaching out a hand to them. "My niece and nephew."

But before he can take another step, Jason Lannister, who had been standing nearby, watching the scene unfold with barely concealed anger, speaks up. "This is an outrage!" he exclaims, his voice carrying across the silent grounds. "This man stole the king’s sister and has kept her in exile for years, and now he parades her and their bastards before us as if we should welcome them!"

A hush falls over the crowd, tension crackling in the air like a storm about to break. Daemon’s gaze snaps to Jason, his eyes narrowing into slits of cold fury. He releases Rhaella’s hand and steps forward, every inch the dragon that he is, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister.

"You dare speak of my children in such a way?" Daemon’s voice is deadly quiet, each word laced with barely restrained rage. "You, who couldn’t even keep what was never yours?"

Jason’s bravado falters, but he presses on, his pride wounded. "They are illegitimate! Faith of the Seven doesn't acknowledge such unions!"

Daemon’s lips curl into a predatory smile, and in one swift motion, he draws Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel blade gleaming wickedly in the sunlight. He moves with the deadly grace of a seasoned warrior, closing the distance between himself and Jason in the blink of an eye.

"Speak another word," Daemon hisses, the tip of his blade hovering just above Jason’s throat, "and it will be your last."

Jason freezes, the color draining from his face as he stares into the eyes of the rogue prince. The crowd watches in breathless silence, the tension palpable. You can feel the eyes of everyone on you, but your focus is on Daemon, on the way his hand steadies, his grip sure and unwavering.

"Daemon," you say softly, taking a step forward. Your voice, gentle yet firm, cuts through the tension. "He is not worth it."

For a moment, it seems as if Daemon might ignore you, might spill blood here and now just to make his point. But then, slowly, he lowers the blade, his eyes never leaving Jason’s terrified face.

"Remember this, Lannister," Daemon says, his voice low and menacing. "The next time you speak ill of my wife or my children, I will not be so merciful."

With that, he sheathes Dark Sister and turns away from Jason, dismissing him as if he were nothing more than an insect. The Lannister lord stumbles back, pale and shaken, and quickly retreats, disappearing into the crowd.

Viserys watches all of this in stunned silence, his eyes wide as he takes in the scene before him. When Daemon turns back to you, his expression softens, and he takes your hand in his, pulling you close.

"We are here now, brother," Daemon says, his tone more measured. "We are family, and nothing will change that. Not time, not distance, and certainly not the words of a fool like Jason Lannister."

Viserys looks at you, his eyes searching yours for answers, for reassurance. "Why now, sister? After all these years… why return now?"

You look at him, feeling the weight of all that has passed between you, the distance that had grown and the love that had remained. "Because I could not stay away forever," you say softly. "Because you are my brother, and I have missed you every day. And because our children deserve to know their family."

Viserys steps forward, pulling you into an embrace that is both warm and desperate, as if he fears letting you go again. "I have missed you too," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "More than you could ever know."

Daemon watches the two of you, his eyes flicking between you and Viserys. For a moment, you see something unguarded in his expression—something like relief, though quickly masked by his usual aloofness.

"Let this day be a new beginning," Viserys says, finally pulling back and looking at Daemon, his tone almost pleading. "For all of us. Stay in King’s Landing. Be at my side. Let us be a family again."

Daemon’s eyes harden slightly, as if considering the weight of Viserys’ words. He glances at you, searching your face for any sign of what you might want, what you might ask of him in this moment. For years, you have been his anchor, the one person he would follow anywhere, the one person whose opinion could sway him.

You meet his gaze, and though your heart swells at the thought of reuniting with Viserys, of your children growing up surrounded by family, you know what Daemon is feeling. King’s Landing has never been kind to him. It has always been a place of politics, betrayal, and intrigue, a place that tried to mold him into something he was not. And yet, the desire for peace between the brothers, for some semblance of family, tugs at you.

Daemon’s grip on your hand tightens slightly, and he turns his attention back to Viserys. "You speak of family, brother," Daemon says, his voice carefully controlled, "but it was you who sent your own blood away, who sought to wed her to another man against her will."

Viserys winces at the memory, guilt flashing across his face. "I made a mistake," he admits, his voice pained. "One I have regretted every day since. I thought I was doing what was best for the realm, for our family. But I see now that I was wrong."

Daemon’s expression remains inscrutable, but the tension in his posture seems to ease slightly. "And now you want us to stay," he says, not quite a question, but more of a challenge.

"Yes," Viserys replies earnestly, stepping closer to you both. "Stay. Let us rebuild what was broken. You are my brother, and she is my sister. We should stand together, not apart."

You feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, the air thick with the potential for reconciliation—or for more conflict. You squeeze Daemon’s hand, hoping to communicate your own longing for peace, for a life where your children can grow up knowing their uncle, their heritage, without the constant threat of exile hanging over them.

Daemon glances at you, his eyes softening as he reads the unspoken plea in your gaze. He exhales slowly, as if releasing a great burden, and finally nods, a small but significant gesture.

"We will stay," Daemon says, his tone firm but not without warmth. "But make no mistake, Viserys—I will not be made a tool in anyone’s game, not even yours. We come as equals, or not at all."

Viserys nods, relief washing over him. "Equals," he agrees, his voice thick with gratitude. "As it should be."

The tension that has hung over the tourney grounds like a storm cloud begins to dissipate, the atmosphere lightening as the onlookers realize that the confrontation they feared will not come to pass. Instead, there is a sense of awe, of history in the making, as they witness the reconciliation of the Targaryen siblings.

The children, sensing the change, tug at your hands, their eyes wide with curiosity and excitement. "Will we stay here, Mother?" Rhaella asks, her voice full of wonder. "In the big castle?"

You smile down at her, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "Yes, my love," you say gently. "We will stay, and you will have your uncle Viserys and many others to meet."

Aegon’s eyes light up, his young mind already racing with possibilities. "And will we get to see the Iron Throne? Will we be able to ride our dragons here?"

Viserys, hearing the boy’s excitement, kneels down to their level, a warm smile spreading across his face. "You will see the Iron Throne, and much more," he promises, his voice full of affection. "You are both of the blood of the dragon, and this is your home as much as it is mine."

Daemon watches the interaction closely, a flicker of something like contentment in his eyes as he sees Viserys embrace his role as uncle. There is still wariness in him, a reluctance to fully trust after so many years of betrayal and bitterness, but there is also a sliver of hope, kindled by the presence of his children and the woman he loves.

As you and Daemon stand beside Viserys, the king rises and takes both of your hands in his, his eyes shining with the beginnings of tears. "Thank you for coming back," he whispers, his voice full of emotion. "Thank you for giving me a chance to make things right."

You nod, squeezing his hand gently. "We are family, Viserys," you say softly. "And family is worth fighting for."

Daemon, ever the rogue prince, adds with a smirk, "Just remember, brother, that dragons cannot be tamed. We are here because we choose to be, not because we must."

Viserys chuckles, a sound full of warmth and brotherly affection. "I wouldn’t have it any other way," he says, pulling you both into a rare embrace that speaks of years of lost time and the possibility of a future where the Targaryens stand united once more.

As the sun sets over King’s Landing, casting the tourney grounds in hues of gold and crimson, the three of you—Daemon, you, and Viserys—stand together, a family reunited at last. And though the path ahead may be uncertain, for this moment, there is peace, and there is hope, both of which have been hard-won.

And as you look at the faces of your children, who gaze upon the world with wonder and excitement, you dare to believe that this peace might just last—if only for a little while.

[aweina]

౨ৎ. KIMSET LUST ( 17﹢) ; mike schmidt

tags fem reader. mike’s pov. established relationship. mentions of blood. male masturbation. cunnilingus. mike being put into silly sexual situations + 1.8k words.

unintentionally perverted mike who cannot seem to catch a break from weirdly calculated sexual situations, but ends up going along with it — was it god’s plan? he doesn’t know. all he knows is that it began to unravel when you recently moved into his humble home, though it all seems like some erotic coincidence.

mike hated laundry duties. he’s always done them himself, sluggishly tossing a mixture of dirty clothes while abby plays with the cheap detergent and the sweetening softener. half that time he’s at the verge of toppling over the washer because a good night’s sleep seemed to be his enemy. now with you around, he found himself peacefully lounging on the couch cushions beside you — admiring your delicate hands folding each garment with precision and neatness he couldn’t emulate.

night shifts were less stressful. mike would find his security vest freshly ironed and laid perfectly over his bed. his nightly meal was already packed in his work bag, containers of his favorite food tucked in a orderly stack. you would be at the front door, peppering kisses all over his face while saying your hushed goodbyes — giving him a natural energy booster. despite working gruesome hours and the paranormal nature of the abandoned children’s pizzeria making him rethink all his life choices, mike was thankful you’ve put so much effort into taking care of him.

the office was eerie, darkened and covered in disheveled merchandise. the white noise from the bulky monitors began to irritate him. he could never seem to stay awake, despite the wavering feeling of death — other pairs of eyes stalking his movements, although mike convinced himself it was just all in his head. but restlessness weighed heavier than the feeling of danger, so he decided to steal in a few hours of sleep. tucking his hand in his pocket, the cassette tape he brought felt weird, like thin fabric? mike tugs out the foreign object in curiosity and immediately sputters in embarrassment.

it was your underwear. wrinkled from being confide by his jean pocket — seemingly lost when it was tussled in the dryer. mike was no stranger to seeing you in underwear, but he’s never held them before. damn, it was cute. made with white lace and silk fabric, a pretty little bow hemmed on the waistband. his first instinct would be to put it aside and give it to you probably in the next five hours. but then there were lingering thoughts, not-so-innocent ones.

mike halfheartedly folds the intimate garment until he stares at it for more than a few seconds — so pretty, just like you. he’s imagining you wearing it, how it wraps around your plush waist, how it looks when you bend down. ever so slowly, mike brings it to his face. the silky material felt gentle on his skin, perfumed with floral detergent that you picked out. he pressed it harder on his face, desperately taking in any remnants of your natural scent — even when he knew that wouldn’t be the case. but mike still blindly smelt you, like how would when you’re spread apart in front of him — those quiet nights. his face was completely submerged in the fabric, every audible sniff made him feel a little shameful, but he couldn’t help himself. your heady scent kept him awake that shift.

it was morning, the night shift only hours past him. mike huffs a curse when he guiltily pinches at the hem of your underwear — tainted with his own seed. his face grows hot at his unusual pastime. did he really jerk off with your underwear? in the middle of his job? mike knew he was pathetic, but he didn’t know he could even stoop that low. what’s done is done, he thinks. nervously fiddling with the lock, the sudden sound of a whirling car engine made the keys in his sweaty grasp collapse to the ground. it was a cop car and that really only meant one person.

the tinted windows slid down, a peek of blonde hair made him stumble just a bit.

“hey mike, the shift okay?” vanessa asked with a small smile — blue eyes watching him carefully.

with your underwear still in his grasp, mike suspiciously tucks it in his pocket as he feigns a cough — hoping that could draw away attention from it. he shrugs with attempted composure, keeping his slightly sticky hands deep in his pockets.

“yeah, didn’t sleep this time.” mike was honest, but not too honest.

vanessa squints her eyes, the nervous tone in his voice setting off alarms. it didn’t help that she saw some weird object in his hand, how much more messy his curls were, a weirdly placed lace print marking his flushed face, or the white stains that blotched against his unzipped jeans. actually, she knows exactly what’s going on, but she’ll spare herself from having such an awkward exchange.

at least he hasn’t figured it out yet.

“that’s good, make it back home safe.” vanessa disregards the relieved exhale from mike, quietly amused at the fact that he really thought he was even subtle in his nightly activity.

“thanks, i will.” mike waves as he watches the car drive away, zipping up the fly of jeans with one hand.

that was two days ago. he’s never really told you what happened out of guilt. your soiled underwear was immediately washed twice and dried when he got back home, right before you could even greet him from the kitchen — wafting with the hungering scent of buttery pancakes and sizzling bacon. he even tried to fold it the same way you did to draw away your keen eyes.

it was funny enough that the next day, a blurry photo of your nude body was planted in the folds of his leather wallet. he was lucky to fish it out at a secluded gas station rather than a grocery store. mike stared at the photo for a while, completely enamored by your misted curves and the hazy, lustrous gaze at the camera. of course he saved the photo, tucking it back in his wallet as he patted down the hardened tent on his pants.

then his night shift came along. though, it was much worse. the time looping nightmare kept him shaken, pints of sweat falling from his brow bone. it felt like he was mindlessly holding his breath, choking himself in his own sleep. the jagged cut on his arm bled, stinging with every shallow movement — a deep slash that managed to cut through the thick fabric of his jacket. mike has no idea how he got it, but he didn’t care enough to figure it out, at least for now. it was bandaged rather poorly, done with a trembling hand and limited knowledge of medical attention. all his muddled brain could process right now was the directions back to his home and the desperate feeling to be splayed on his warm bed.

he was an hour late when he got back home, nearly collapsing into a permanent sleep once he sat on the driver’s seat. it was a miracle that he made it back home — with the road being a complete blur and the traffic lights floating behind his eyelids. abby was at school around this time and you were … where were you? despite his worry over your absence, mike promptly darted towards his room — hoping that he could soothe the sores penetrated deep into his muscles, to keep his mind away from the smell of rot that haunted him in his familiar dream.

flinging open the door, mike senselessly tosses his work bag towards the side — bumping into the legs of his littered nightstand with a loud bang. he falls face first on his bed, a comforting warmth instantly washing over his aching body. it felt so soft, much more different than sitting on a hard, freezing chair for hours on end.

“mike?” your soft voice ringed in his ears, you were here.

“hey baby, i’m sorry. i’m tired … really tired.” mike apologetically mumbles, knowing his absence must’ve been unusual — maybe the crash from his bag startled you so early in the morning.

“m – mike.” your voice was much more pitched, you probably didn’t hear him.

the second his mouth fell open, a soft whimper escaped your lips — the magazine you were once browsing through was thrown to the side as your grip on the sheets were tight. mike blinked in confusion, but then he suddenly smelled it. your dripping arousal, his nose buried so deep into the source. from the moment he laid on the bed, he must’ve accidentally fallen his face between your legs without even realizing. was he that tired? why does this keep on happening? the underwear situation only happened a couple of days ago, the nude photo, and now this? he couldn’t tell if he was lucky or not.

the energy that was initially sucked out of his body rushed back into his veins. your body always kept him awake, even in his most restless days. lifting his head slightly, he peeks at the sight of your adorable pout and your watery gaze that could draw him away from the endless nightmares. it was still so early, everything under the sky was filtered blue, the sun was nestled beneath the morning shadows, the biting cold fighting against the whirling heater. but then again, these opportunities kept on falling on his lap, fantasies that mike never realized he had. it all centered around you, like the universe neatly wrapped you in silky ribbons and made you appear in his grayish moments — all the sexual repression he put himself through this week was somehow rewarded.

maybe he could indulge in this gift, thanking whoever is scattering your intimate belongings in his presence and letting him nuzzle between your legs without even having to open his eyes.

with this new epiphany, mike mouthed over your clothed mound, lapping his tongue on the thin fabric with much enthusiasm. he remembered the texture fairly well, how the silk tingled his skin, the press of cotton threads forming floral designs on his cheeks — it was the same underwear he used to masturbate. but now he was blessed with the source of your slickness, not washed away from artificial scents. his jaw moved in fervor, licking and suckling at the dampening fabric. each desperate groan that fell from his lips vibrated into your core — a rush of heat creating goosebumps all over your skin. your moans sounded so pretty, like a sweet tune. the call of his name echoed the empty halls when he finally pushed aside the soiled fabric and latched his mouth eagerly onto your soaked pussy.

something new seemed to happen everyday, all these freakish manifestations of his perverted fantasies.

mike couldn’t wait for what’s next to come.

© aweina : please do not copy, repost, or modify any of my content.

[mynamesaplant]

Forgiveness is Electric

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Just a little short story about @critterbitter's hc of Emmet, Ingo, and Elesa. This is between the Volume Control and Volume Control (Reprise). Just a tiny change, Emmet caught Tynamo bc I sort of forgot when he did... My bad. Please go take a look at Critter's work, it is beautiful in every sense of the word.

I lied about posting to AO3 last time with Yearning for Wood Floors, but I will update that soon along with this one.

Enjoy!~

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“I do not think she will like those.”

“Who doesn’t love sweets?”

Ingo argued, plucking a box of Snom-Caps and turning it over and over in his hands. He contemplated the choices of candy in the aisle, the teenage clerk puffing their long, purple-streaked hair from their eyes behind the counter as the two children agonized over their decision. The clerk, Dakota, saw Ingo and Emmet in here all the time, the former had something of a sweet tooth and the latter… Well, whatever the opposite of a sweet tooth was, that was Emmet. The kid just loved sour things.

It wasn’t unusual to see them, but it didn’t usually take this long for them to make their selection. They had been there for nearly fifteen minutes, painstakingly reading each and every label and discussing them in hushed undertones. That was unusual by itself. Ingo was not known for his volume control.

Although unusual, they weren’t worried about them doing anything shady like stealing or being careless and knock things off the shelf. Might as well let them go about their business. To pass the time, they watched the fretful newly acquired Tynamo circle around them faster and faster until Emmet snatched the Pokémon deftly from the air and soothingly stroked its back.

“I am Emmet. We do not know what she likes.”

“We must do something! I just feel so dreadful.”

Emmet could see Ingo working himself up over this, just as he had a few hours ago, and Emmet placed a reassuring hand on his brother’s arm. His smile and eyes softened as his twin turned to him, Ingo’s eyes glittering with emotion and whatever proclamation dying on the back of his tongue.

He hadn’t meant it. He really hadn’t. He always got too loud when he was excited.

It had just backfired on him horribly.

Ingo cringed even now as he remembered the tears in her eyes, her hands slapped over her ears, and eyes huge with confusion and pain. She had run off before he could even apologize, and that knowledge was eating him alive all day.

Candy wouldn’t fix this. In his heart of hearts, he knew that, and maybe he had come here to grab himself some of his favorite snacks to ease the pain of losing a potential friend.

It was hard for them to understand others. Emmet and Ingo were so in-sync with each other that everyone seemed to be moving so much slower by comparison. It was like playing charades with someone who was underwater, the twins made perfect sense to one another, but it was unclear to everyone else.

This was not new to them, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating.

With their moms being busy with work and their uncle who didn’t have much interest with them most times, Emmet and Ingo came to rely on each other almost exclusively. Drayden would give them a little bit of pocket change, but never much. They had to be ultraconservative with what he gave them and had taken it upon themselves to run around Anville Town to take little odd jobs.

Leaves to rake? Oran berries to pick? Snow to shovel?

Emmet and Ingo did it all and saved what they could. They barely scraped together the money to purchase the Pokéballs needed to catch Tynamo and for additional balls to try and catch Ingo a starter.

Even though they knew everyone, they weren’t really close to anyone in town.

That could have been different if Ingo hadn’t ruined everything!

“Perhaps sweets are not the solution…”

Ingo finally admitted, setting the box down and rising to his feet. Readjusting his cap on his head and dusting off his knees to unconsciously tidy his appearance, Ingo’s frown deepened in thought. Even if he and Emmet apologized to her, Miss Elesa would not understand them. Drat! If only he had remembered her hearing aids, he had completely forgotten them tucked behind her black hair.

Emmet watched his face scrunch up, clearly having a long inner dialogue with himself where he alternatively berated himself and told himself that there was no crying over spilled milk. Gray eyes scanning the shelf, he took a bag of sour gummy-Bewear for himself, and chocolate covered pretzels for his brother, before hauling them to the counter where Dakota waited.

Tynamo drifted just below his elbow, still quite nervous around new people and often retreating to its ball when too anxious. Emmet’s soft encouragement was the only thing keeping the EleFish out while Dakota rang up both bags.

“Tynamo? Good for you, kiddo. I hear they’re not easy to catch.”

They rested their elbows on the counter, chin resting atop with a kind smile to the quieter twin. Dakota could see him beaming with pride, but he merely nodded, shuffling on the spot while he fished in the pocket of his overalls for some money. His Tynamo, like its trainer, seemed a little bashful at their words, and retreated into its ball.

“200… I think you brother is comatose over there.”

Dakota said not unkindly. Emmet jerked his head to where his brother stood motionless in front of the candy.

“Ingo!”

It was Ingo’s turn to jerk out of his, as Dakota had put it, “comatose state”. He trotted over to his side, staring at the bags of candies with confusion before it all seemed to click into place.

“You did not have to spend your pocket money on me.”

Emmet’s smile softened at the bashful note in his sibling’s voice. He wanted to. Ingo was feeling down, his twin often overthinking problems and burning himself out in the process. Emmet liked to take a step back to listen and reflect on people and conversations. A little break would do Ingo some good, so he insisted on the treats.

“I am Emmet. I wanted to. Yup!”

While Dakota bagged their treats in a small brown paper bag, they couldn’t help but lean over the counter to examine them. Although many people didn’t understand the secret code that the twins exchanged between glances, mouth twitches, and hand movements, Dakota could tell something was awry. Withholding the bag, they leaned over the counter with a faintly curious expression and a light tone.

“You guys alright?”

Unsurprisingly, the two exchanged looks, and a wordless conversation was held between them while Dakota waited. It was Ingo who swiveled his head back to face them, his face knit into a calculating grimace that seemed a little less friendly than usual, but only marginally.

“Yes,” he said slowly, eyes not breaking with the clerk, but they could see him shifting uncomfortably. “Emmet and I are attempting to right a wrong. However, we are encountering several roadblocks.”

There is a pause. Dakota still held the bag just out of reach as they gnawed on their lower lip. This wasn’t really their business, and they weren’t the type to stick their nose in where it didn’t belong… They thought of Drayden, who spent a lot of time in Opelucid and not watching his nephews – he barely spent any time with them.

They’re just kids.

“Do you need some help? It’s my job to help customers in the store y’know.”

Another pause. Another exchange of glances.

“I-” Ingo tries to being, already hard pressed to say anything and even less so when his sibling elbowed him in the ribs and shot him a look. He wouldn’t be allowed to take all the blame. “We upset one of our classmates with our carelessness. We think she was attempting to befriend us, but- uh… there were a few errors on our part.”

“And you’re trying to get candy for her to forgive you?”

“We thought about it, but it grew too complicated. We do not know what candy she likes, but more importantly, we do not think it’s a suitable apology.”

The clerk nodded, tapping the counter in thought as they tried to piece together some genuine advice for the boys.

“I think it’s a nice peace offering, but I think an apology would be better.”

“We broke her hearing aids… Yep…”

Emmet croaked suddenly, shrinking back in shame at the same time that Ingo grabbed the brim of his hat to tug it lower over his eyes.

“Ah,” Dakota hummed, tapping the counter even faster. They meant the new family that moved in from Sinnoh. They remembered their dads talking about the new signs that had to go all over town for the girl’s safety. Dakota couldn’t remember her name. “How did you break them?” They asked, already knowing the answer.

“Volume control.”

Ingo cringed, remembering his uncle’s warning about his naturally loud voice. Inside voice, Drayden had been emphasizing, and Ingo was trying to take those words to heart, but it was difficult. Since Ingo’s face didn’t emote well, he relied on his voice and his movement to articulate his emotions to others. They nod sympathetically.

“You didn’t see them?”

“No…”

The boy was squirming now, his shame and embarrassment with the situation reaching an all-time high. He felt Emmet moving to his side, reassuringly pressing against his arm, and resting his head on his twin’s shoulder. A flood of comfort helped Ingo release a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

Behind the counter, the clerk was rummaging through something – although tall for their age, Emmet and Ingo couldn’t see what they were doing. They heaved a box onto the counter, tipping it so the contents spilled out for them to see, and the boys were confused.

“Headphones?”

Emmet leaned forward on his tiptoes to look at the colorful array of boxes that ranged from normal headphones to ones that had Pikachu and Eevee ears topping them.

“Yeah, uh, maybe if she wears these, you’ll remember right away that she has headphones in.”

It was a half-baked idea. In truth, Dakota felt a bit sheepish about it now that the idea was out of their head, but when they looked up, the boys were beaming – well, Emmet beamed. Ingo reminded of them of their friend’s Purrloin in a way they couldn’t quite put their finger on.

“Bravo! What a marvelous suggestion!”

Ingo practically cheered, stepping beside Emmet to look through the headphones. It was probably going to cost them a bit from the tags on the boxes, but it would be worth it. The headphones would immediately remind Ingo that she had hearing aids in so he would be more inclined to get Miss Elesa’s attention in a different fashion, but it also might do the same for others who were unaware of her deafness.

“Sure – er, thank you…” Dakota was looking at the prices now and mentally smacked their forehead. They probably couldn’t afford the headphones. “I’ll-” They hesitate. It almost pained them to say what they were going to next. “I’ll pay for them so you can take them to her now.” The twins’ eyes went wide, both about to protest when Dakota interrupted, “In exchange, you can do a few chores for me at my place. I need to do some yardwork, but it always gives me hay fever. Sound like a deal?”

The answer was easy for them. Dakota told them to pick ones that they thought Miss Elesa would like.

“I think these ones are quite dashing.”

Ingo said, picking up the box with the Pikachu ears. Emmet pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Nope. Too big. Not a gamer girl.”

They continued to rummage through the boxes. They agreed that she must like Electric types. She had a Blitzle as her partner after all.

“I cannot recall, she is from Hoenn, correct?”

Emmet shrugged, unsure himself because they had both been looking through a magazine with an expose on the newest train lines running out of Nimbasa when she had been introduced. That just meant to them that, when the time came, going on their Pokémon journey by rail would be all the easier.

“Not sure.” He looked at the box Ingo had in his hand and his smile broadened, nodding in agreement to his brother’s unasked query. The perfect balance of subtle but stylish. “I am Emmet. Those are perfect.”

Plusle and Minun headphones.

[halfmoonaria]

when she lied

pairing: g!p sam carpenter & female reader

summary: your relationship with sam takes a turn when it’s supposed to be perfect.

word count: 4.5k

author’s note: based on the scene from the last kiss. my posts are flopping so bad its ridicilous, so if this does i wont be surprised.

Dating a professor was never in your plans growing up, let alone one tangled in rumors of being a serial killer.

But despite the unsettling rumors about Sam, you found yourself getting pulled in; as if she was a magnetic force.

You first met Sam at a local bookshop's author event, a quaint spot filled with the scent of old books and freshly brewed coffee.

The moment she walked in, you immediately thought she was the most breathtaking woman you'd ever seen. Her presence commanded the room, and you couldn't take your eyes off her.

It was no different for Sam. She thought you were straight-up gorgeous from the moment she saw you.

However, with her troubled past and a promise to only trust Tara and the twins, it was hard to break through her defenses. But your persistence and genuine care slowly chipped away at her walls.

You showed her kindness and understanding, proving that love and trust were still possible.

Over time, she began to let you in, sharing parts of herself that she had kept hidden for so long. Your patience and love helped her believe in a future where she could trust someone new.

Sam allowed you to take her out on dates, cautiously at first. You spent evenings at cozy restaurants, weekends exploring the city, and quiet nights at home, gradually building a bond that felt unbreakable. Each date brought you closer, and before long, you couldn't imagine life without each other.

It wasn't until Sam had built a solid trust in you that she felt comfortable introducing you to Tara. She was an important person in Sam's life, and she wanted to be sure you were someone who could truly be part of their family.

Tara was skeptical, her protective nature making it difficult for her to warm up to you.

However, as she observed your genuine care for Sam and saw how well you fit into their lives, her perspective softened. Tara eventually grew to appreciate you and welcomed you into the family with open arms.

Eventually, you both had decided on taking the next step and move in together. It was a big decision, but it felt right. You found a charming apartment that was perfect for starting your life together.

During this time, Sam transitioned from being a high school teacher to a college professor. She was passionate about her work and excelled in her new role, gaining respect from colleagues and students alike.

Her career move not only marked a professional milestone but also brought a sense of stability and accomplishment to your shared life.

In your own professional life, you worked as a child psychologist, helping kids navigate their emotions and overcome challenges.

And even though both of your busy occupations demanded a lot of your time, you both cherished the moments you could steal away together, whether it was meeting up after work or spending hours of love making past midnight; not caring if you had work the next day.

And you always made an effort to prioritize each other. Often, Sam would come to meet you after work, witnessing your interactions with the children.

She admired the ease with which you connected with them, the patience you showed, and the gentle way you guided them through their struggles. Seeing you in your element, she felt herself  being moved by your compassion and dedication.

It was in these moments that she became even more eager to start a family with you, convinced that together, with your nurturing nature, you could offer a child a truly loving and supportive environment.

She never said or mentioned it to you, afraid you'd find it too soon and leave her because of her sounding too pushy or desperate.

However, when you showed Sam a positive pregnancy test, beaming with joy and excitement. She failed to keep the thoughts inside her.

She couldn't wait to have kids with you. It was all she ever wanted, it was going to make everything even more perfect.

It was all perfect.

You had everything. Everything you could've asked for.

A wonderful girlfriend, a job you enjoyed and cherished, and now; a growing life inside of you.

You were going to be a mother, alongside the love of your life.

In your mind you had it all. And Sam had not yet to disagree.

Until you started to question everything you have.

Cracks began to appear as reality set in. With your pregnancy, you knew that your stomach would soon begin to grow, and you would have to make significant changes.

As your pregnancy progressed, you faced the undeniable truth that you would need to quit working soon. The physical demands of carrying a child meant that your ability to balance work and personal life was diminishing.

More troubling was the fact that the time you once spent with Sam seemed to evaporate.

She had begun to claim she was "working late" or "staying at the office," but these excuses were becoming increasingly frequent.

You started to notice that instead of spending evenings together, Sam was often absent, and it became clear she was spending her time elsewhere.

You had never had second thoughts or hesitation about you and Sam, but as the dinners alone and nights that was spent waiting for her to come home increased, you were starting to.

The life you had envisioned seemed to be disintegrating, replaced by an unsettling uncertainty about your future together.

It was a damp and dreary Thursday, the kind that soaked through your shoes and lingered in your bones.

The clock was nearing midnight, and Sam had yet to come home.

You sat alone in the couch of the living room, remnants of a cold dinner in the kitchen waiting for her just as much as you were.

The clock ticked louder with each passing minute, amplifying your growing concern as Sam continued to miss your text messages and calls. Your anxiety was palpable.

Finally, the front door finally creaked open, and Sam walked in, her face looking weary and her clothes slightly disheveled. You rose from the couch, feeling the weight of your pregnancy more acutely with each movement. Though your belly was still modest, the curve was noticeable.

You walked over to her, standing firmly in front of her, trying to meet her gaze. "Where have you been?" you asked, struggling to keep your voice steady and calm.

Sam seemed momentarily taken aback before she quickly tried to mask her discomfort. "I was at work," she said, though her eyes avoided yours.

You shook your head, hurt seeping into your tone. "You weren't at work until eleven o'clock at night." Taking a deep breath, you added, "Please, don't lie to me."

Sam's shoulders slumped, and her gaze fell to the floor. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken truths, and you could sense the growing distance between you. The warmth and closeness you once shared seemed to be slipping away, replaced by a cold uncertainty that left you questioning everything you had believed to be true.

You watched her closely, noticing the disheveled state of her clothes—her shirt slightly untucked, her hair a mess. Something about her appearance didn't sit right with you. The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered faintly in the air, a detail that only heightened your unease.

"Who were you with?" you asked, your voice tinged with a mix of fear and suspicion. The late hours, the unanswered messages, and now this—everything pointed to something being terribly wrong.

"I was at work," Sam insisted, avoiding your gaze. "There was no one else. I was the only one who had work and essays left to correct."

You stepped closer, your heart pounding, your voice trembling. "Who were you with, Sam?" Tears threatened to spill over as you thought about all the nights she'd been late recently, all the missed dinners, and the growing distance between you.

You needed to hear her say it, to confirm the gnawing doubt that had been eating at you.

Her eyes flickered with panic, her facade starting to crack. The room fell into a heavy silence, the tension thick and suffocating.

She looked down, unable to meet your eyes.

"This girl I met it was nothing," she blurted out, her words rushed and desperate.

Your heart sank, the weight of her betrayal crashing over you. And without thinking, you raised your hand and slapped her across the face.

The slap wasn't hard, it didn't physically hurt her. She just felt the contact, her reaction one of pure shock. Her eyes widened more stunned by the act than the impact.

You were shaking so badly that the force behind the slap was minimal, driven more by your emotional turmoil than any physical strength.

Sam's expression shifted from shock to a mixture of guilt and sorrow, her shoulders slumping. She knew she deserved it.

Trying to calm yourself down, you took a deep breath, but your voice still quivered with anger. "Did you fuck her?"

You didn't care about the specifics—who the girl was or how Sam had met her. "Tell me, did you cheat on me?"

Sam's face was a mask of regret, her eyes pleading for understanding that you couldn't give. She took a deep breath, as if trying to find the right words, but there was nothing that could make this right.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. The silence stretched between you, heavy and oppressive.

Her shoulders slumped further, her body language betraying the truth before she even spoke. She took a deep breath, as if trying to find the right words, but there was nothing that could make this right.

She nodded slowly, whispering, "Yes."

The single word struck you like a physical blow, knocking the breath out of your lungs. It was as if the ground had been pulled out from under you, and you were falling into a bottomless pit of despair. The room blurred as your eyes filled with tears.

A searing pain tore through your chest, unlike anything you had ever felt before. It wasn't just the pain of betrayal; it was the shattering of dreams, the destruction of trust, and the end of the future you had envisioned together. Your heart, which had once beat with love and joy, now felt like it was being ripped apart.

You turned around, walking away, your hands in your hair as you struggled to contain the flood of emotions. "Oh god, you make me sick," you almost screamed, the pain and anger tearing through your voice. The tears flowed freely now, blurring your vision as you tried to make sense of the reality that had been thrust upon you.

Sam's eyes followed your every movement, filled with regret but devoid of tears.

She had felt a gnawing disgust with herself both before and after sleeping with her. The guilt had been a constant companion, whispering in the back of her mind and tarnishing her thoughts.

But seeing the raw pain and heartbreak in your eyes now, the depth of your betrayal laid bare, was a torment far beyond anything she had imagined.

The reality of what she had done, the gravity of her actions, hit her with an overwhelming force. Her own self-loathing was nothing compared to the devastation she had caused you, and the weight of that realization made her feel truly sick to her core.

Yet she seemed unable to cry, as if knowing her tears would do nothing to soothe the hurt she had caused.

The tears continued to fall, each one a silent cry of your broken heart. You had given Sam everything, your love, your trust, your future; and she had thrown it all away. The realization was almost too much to bear, the pain so intense that it felt like you were being torn apart from the inside.

As you moved through the house, Sam followed, a sense of desperation in her steps. She knew she had to say something, anything, to try and fix the situation.

"Wait, please," Sam pleaded, her voice breaking. She reached out but didn't touch you, afraid her touch would only make things worse.

You walked into the living room, your mind racing, needing space to think, to breathe. Sam's presence was suffocating.

You began to pace, your movements erratic, tears streaming down your cheeks.

Sam stood a few feet away, wringing her hands. "It was one time," she began, her voice trembling. "And it meant absolutely nothing."

You stopped pacing but didn't turn to face her, your eyes filled with hurt and disbelief. The reality of her words only made the pain sharper, cutting deeper.

"It was a stupid thing, baby" she continued, her tone pleading for understanding. "Just a stupid thing." She repeated shortly after.

"I'm so sorry." Sam tried.

Her attempt at an apology only left a more bitter taste in your mouth.

How can she apologize when she had been keeping this hidden from you for weeks, months even?

Just then, Sam's phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. You glanced at the phone in her hand, a sudden, cold suspicion gripping you.

Without thinking, you reached out and snatched the phone from her. Sam's eyes widened in shock, but she didn't stop you. She knew she couldn't.

You looked at the screen, and there it was; a name you didn't recognize, but the message was clear: "Had a great time tonight. Can't wait to see you again." You read the message aloud, your voice dripping with disgust.

Sam's face crumpled, the regret etched deeply in her features. She stood there, the weight of her actions crashing down on her, unable to do anything but watch as the person she loved crumbled before her eyes.

Your heart sank, the final piece of evidence falling into place. You turned the phone towards her, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and heartbreak. "Who is she?"

Sam's face paled, her eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and fear. "Her name is Lily," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Lily." You repeated.

"How old is she?" you demanded, your voice barely holding back the fury and disgust. The interest of who was worth ruining your whole future together growing.

Sam hesitated, avoiding your gaze. "Is she your colleague? Boss? Student? You've always liked them younger."

"Stop," Sam pleaded, her voice barely audible.

"How old is she, Sam?" you pushed, your desperation breaking through.

"Nineteen," Sam blurted out. "She's nineteen, alright?" The moment the words left her mouth, she seemed to regret it, her shoulders slumping further under the weight of her confession.

You felt a wave of nausea wash over you, threatening to make you sick. "She's nineteen, Sam? You slept with a fucking nineteen-year-old?" you screamed, the reality of her betrayal hitting you with full force.

She didn't answer, her silence only deepening the wound. She stood there, her eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and self-loathing, knowing that nothing she could say would make this right.

Sam had always been the most confident and strongest woman you had ever known. She had faced down her own demons and the judgment of the world, standing tall when people whispered about her being the daughter of a serial killer.

She had protected Tara fiercely, fought off threats both physical and emotional, and had always seemed unbreakable.

You remembered the times she had confronted dangers head-on, her bravery almost intimidating. The way she took charge during crises, her unwavering resolve, and the sheer force of her willpower. Sam had always been a rock, someone who never showed fear or doubt.

But now, as she stood before you, she looked scared. Her eyes, usually so steely and determined, were now wide and pleading. She seemed small, fragile, a stark contrast to the woman who had faced down killers and public scorn without flinching.

As you looked at her, you saw something you had never seen before—pity. Pity for herself, and maybe for you too. Her gaze was filled with it, and it made your heart ache even more. Sam had never felt pity for anyone before, not in the way you had seen.

She had always been the strong one, the protector. But now, she looked at you with eyes that seemed to say she was sorry for everything, for every ounce of pain she had caused.

Although her puppy eyes and guilty stare didn't help. In fact, it made you even more furious. And the rage was starting to boil over.

Your head felt like it was pounding, and you felt sick of the thought that Sam had let somebody else touch her. And you wanted to know why.

"What's so wrong with me then?" you technically shouted, your voice breaking. "Am I too old for you now?"

Sam flinched at your tone of voice, her eyes filling with tears, threatening to fall when she shook her head as soon as the question left your lips.

"No, it's not like that" she whispered.

"Does she have a better body?" You continued, voice breaking.

"No, Y/n please, it's not about that." Sam pleaded, but you were relentless.

"Did I not fuck you good enough?" you demanded, the hurt and anger making your voice tremble. "Is that it?"

Sam's face crumbled, and she shook her head desperately. "It wasn't about you. It was never about you"

"Then what is it, Samantha? What's so fucking special about her? Is she prettier than me?"

"No!" she replied as soon as the words left your lips, the answer immediate and forceful. Sam's eyes locked onto yours, filled with a raw honesty.

Your looks had always captivated Sam, from the way your eyes sparkled with emotion to the way your hair framed your face perfectly. She loved the way your smile could brighten a room, the way your presence brought her comfort.

You were everything she had ever dreamed of having in a partner when she was little, and she hoped you knew that.

She used to tell you all the time, to remind you how much you meant to her. But she had stopped when Lily started showing interest.

She wished more than anything that you could see yourself through her eyes, to understand the depth of her admiration and love for you. But now, as she stood there, seeing the heartbreak in your eyes, she realized she had ruined everything. Her betrayal had shattered the trust and love you had built together, and she feared she had lost any chance of you ever believing in her again.

"Liar!" you screamed, the fury in your voice reverberating through the room.

You knew something had pulled her to Sam, some inexplicable attraction that drew them together, but it only made the betrayal sting more. The knowledge that she had chosen someone else, even for a fleeting moment, was unbearable.

You pushed Sam, your hands hitting her shoulders with desperate force. She stumbled back, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and regret. Her back hit the lamp on the drawer, the shade tilting precariously before falling to the side.

"What am I supposed to do now?" you demanded, pushing her again. "What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" Each shove punctuated your words, your voice breaking with anguish. "You've ruined everything!"

Sam flinched with each push, her hands raised slightly as if to steady herself, but she didn't try to stop you. She knew she deserved every bit of your anger, every word of your pain. Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed, her heart aching at the sight of your devastation.

"Will you listen to me, Y/n? It meant absolutely nothing!" Sam pleaded, her voice breaking as she tried to reach out to you.

You stopped pushing her, your hands trembling with a mix of rage and sorrow. The room seemed to close in around you, the weight of her words and the betrayal pressing down on you.

"Nothing?" you echoed, your voice filled with disbelief. "You slept with her. You were out with another woman all night. I'm pregnant, is that fucking nothing to you?"

"Yes! I mean, no," Sam stammered, her voice cracking under the pressure.

"How many times did you fuck her?" you demanded, your voice icy and resolute. "And don't you dare lie to me."

Sam's face went pale, her eyes pleading as if begging you to retract the question. She hesitated, her gaze flickering between you and the floor, clearly struggling with the weight of her confession. Each second felt like an eternity as she fought to keep her composure.

You remained silent, staring at her with a mixture of anger and heartbreak, your eyes unyielding. The room seemed to grow colder with the intensity of the moment, the air thick with tension.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, Sam looked up at you, her voice barely a whisper. "Three times," she said, her tone cracking with guilt.

You turned away, unable to bear the weight of her confession. Your heart felt like it was being crushed under a mountain of stress, shock, and disgust. "I think I'm going to throw up," you said, your voice barely a whisper as you walked toward the kitchen.

You needed to get away from Sam, to escape the suffocating reality of her betrayal. The sight of her was too much, her presence a painful reminder of the lies and broken trust.

But of course, she followed you, her footsteps echoing in the silence that hung heavy between you.

"But it didn't mean anything, baby," she rambled, her voice trembling with desperation.

"She made me realize I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I know that now." Her words tumbled out, as if saying them repeatedly would somehow make everything right.

You stopped just short of the kitchen entrance, turning to face her with a look of fierce anger and hurt.

"I'm five months pregnant, and you're already out trying to fuck other women!" you screamed, your voice breaking with the force of your emotions.

The words hung in the air.

Sam stood there in silence, the weight of her actions pressing down on her like a ton of bricks. She knew there was no justification, no excuse that could make this right.

The realization of what she had done washed over her, leaving her feeling hollow and regretful. She had always prided herself on being strong and confident, but now, faced with the consequences of her betrayal, she felt weak and powerless.

The sight of you, the person she loved and admired most, looking at her with such hurt and anger, made her stomach churn. She wanted to speak, to beg for your forgiveness, but the words caught in her throat, tangled in her guilt.

You stared at her, waiting for something—anything—that could make this less painful. But her silence only deepened the wound. "Fuck you, Sam. It's over."

You turned away from her, walking into the kitchen with a sense of finality. Sam followed, her voice trembling as she called your name. "Y/n..." she started, her tone almost pleading as if she couldn't believe this was happening. You walked further, needing to put distance between you and her.

"Get out right now," you commanded, turning around to face her, your voice filled with a quiet threat. "I'll tell you when you can come and get your shit. Maybe Lily can help you pack." You spat the girl's name like a curse, the mere sound of it making your skin crawl.

Your head was pounding, the pain intense and unrelenting, threatening to explode. The pressure of trying to hold back sobs was almost unbearable, and the anger in your voice was the only thing keeping you from breaking down completely. You stood there, trembling, every muscle in your body taut with the effort of keeping it together.

Sam took a hesitant step forward, her voice trembling but attempting to remain calm. "Y/n, we're having a baby together," she reasoned, her tone a poor mask for the panic bubbling beneath the surface.

She knew deep down that her words wouldn't reach you, that her calm facade was crumbling. Her mind was spiraling, grasping at any hope to salvage what was left.

You turned around sharply, your eyes blazing with anger. "No," you snapped, your voice cutting through the air like a knife. "I'm the one having this baby. I'm the pregnant one. Not you."

Sam opened her mouth to say something, but you cut her off, your voice rising with each word.

"Get the fuck out, Sam, or I swear I'll call the police," you threatened, your voice shaking with a mix of anger and desperation. Sam's eyes widened with shock, and she took a step back, realizing the gravity of your words.

You didn't know what you would say to the police, or if you'd even call them to begin with, but you saw how she looked at you as if you were ready to do whatever it took to get her out of there, so she believed you would actually do it.

"Y/n, please..." she started, but the look in your eyes silenced her.

"Leave," you commanded, your voice steadier now, but no less fierce. "I can't stand the sight of you right now."

But when Sam didn't move, you realized you no longer had the strength to scream at her.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You needed her to understand, to listen to you just one last time. "Will you just get out, please?" you said, your tone softer now, almost pleading.

The exhaustion was overwhelming, making your limbs feel heavy and your vision blur at the edges.

You felt like you might faint from the sheer emotional toll of the confrontation. Sam hesitated for a moment longer, her eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness, but finding none.

With a resigned nod, she turned and walked out, leaving you standing there, the silence of the room pressing in on you, suffocating.

Your thoughts swirled in a chaotic mix of anger, sadness, and disbelief. The betrayal felt like a raw, open wound, each memory of Sam's deceit a fresh stab to your heart.

The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing in as if to suffocate the last remnants of your strength. You reached out for something to hold onto, trying to anchor yourself in a reality that felt increasingly surreal.

The silence now felt deafening, a stark contrast to the heated exchange that had just occurred. It was a silence that spoke of a fractured future, of dreams and trust irrevocably shattered.

When you two first met, Sam was the one who struggled to trust strangers or new people.

Now, you were the one left with the painful understanding that even those you've loved for years could betray you.

[rebelspykatie]

Steve comes from a long line of only children. He’s the last one standing after his mother dies, left alone on a barren family tree. This deep longing for an extended family made a home in Steve’s soul at a young age. For so long, it was only Steve and his mother. She raised him as best she could, but Steve never wanted that lonely existence. 

Finding someone that would want that life with him didn’t pan out the way he thought it would. Dating in Hawkins was limited and if he wanted to be truthful with people, also dangerous. Robin was the best dating app mishap turned best friend Steve could’ve hoped for, and she encouraged him to look into solo parenting, promising to be his platonic coparent every step of the way. 

Before his transition, he started a grueling IVF journey. Wanted to quit more times than he wanted to carry on. It didn’t take the first time, and Robin was there to hold him when he wasn’t sure he could handle another round of it. They didn’t know how lucky they’d get the second time. 

Dustin was born just after Thanksgiving that year, and he turned into a precocious toddler faster than Steve could blink. He had this mass of hair that Steve was in awe of, the height definitely coming from him but the curls were a mystery gift from their donor. Steve loved his chubby cheeks and toothless smile more than anything on earth. 

Everything about Dustin brightened up Steve’s world, even when his screams kept Steve and Robin awake all night, or he spit up on Steve’s shirt right before work and he had to change into a questionably dirty shirt because he hadn’t had time for laundry. Steve loved it all. He especially loved how smart his kid was, shooting straight to the top of his class, reading above grade level, doing math equations faster than Steve could comprehend. Robin joked that the donor must have some strong nerd genes to come from Steve and be that much of a math genius. 

He doesn’t actually know much about the donor, other than the recording he has from the interview and a brief profile of his family’s medical history. It might be silly, but Steve ended up picking this donor because of his laugh. It was melodic, ringing in the air long after he finished laughing, and something about it pulled at Steve’s heart in a way the others didn’t. 

Steve doesn’t hide much from Dustin, there’s no point really when your kid’s a genius, but he doesn’t give Dustin the file until he turns 11, doesn’t even hint at it. While Dustin is a curious kid, he’s also got a knack for knowing when to press an issue or not. He had a lot of questions about the process, but always shied away from asking more about how Steve chose or who his donor was. When they finally talked about it as Steve handed over the file to Dustin on his eleventh birthday, Dustin said he always knew Steve chose to have him and that was all that mattered. 

But once he gets his hands on that file, the curiosity voyage sets sail and Dustin’s chasing leads on who this man is like he’s in an episode of scooby doo. The agency will only give them the contact information they had on file 12 years ago. It’s a long shot, expecting someone’s number to be the same, but it’s all they have. A single phone number. 

When a gruff voice answers the phone and Steve explains the situation, the man on the other line agrees to meet them. The address he gives is for the Munson ranch about an hour outside of town. He knows about the ranch in the same way everyone in a small town knows of each other. He’s never been there, but the owner brings a lot of money into the town and mostly keeps to himself. His nephew was a few years ahead of Steve in school, but they never crossed paths. 

It turns out there’s only one Munson left in Hawkins, and Steve’s pretty sure the bald man that’s twice Steve’s age and looks down his nose at Steve and Dustin, isn’t the donor. Recognition sparks in his eyes, though, when Dustin starts talking, some of that defensiveness melting off his face. It’s softening into the same fondness Steve has when looking at Dustin, that inescapable way he pulls you into his orbit and snatches your heart right up. He lets Dustin take the reins, watching Wayne fall under Dustin’s spell.

His first words after Dustin’s long rambling opener about their predicament are, “Your hair looks just like his at that age.” 

Hope blooms in Steve’s chest. He’d been afraid that they wouldn’t find anything, or what they found might disappoint Dustin. But there’s someone out there that’s half of Dustin. Someone that might have given him all these little quirks that Steve’s so fond of. Someone that might want to be a part of his life, even if Steve isn’t sure he’s ready for that. 

Wayne explains that his nephew is out of town with his band, touring somewhere until the end of the month when they come home for the holidays. That’s only two weeks away and it doesn’t give Steve long to prepare for meeting someone that helped bring the best thing into his life, but it’s enough time for Wayne to welcome them into his home with an open heart.

It’s just long enough for Steve to find out that Eddie grew up on the ranch with Wayne and his father, who abandoned them when Eddie was about Dustin’s age. To find out that Eddie always loved music more than the horses and took off the first chance he got once he had the funds. To see pictures along a mantle of another precocious kid with a wild mane of hair that looks about as unstoppable as Dustin. 

Robin comes with them the night they’re going to meet Eddie. It’s a few days after he’s returned from tour. Wayne wanted enough time to prepare him before getting Dustin’s hopes all the way up. When they got the okay, Steve wasn’t sure he could do it alone, so Robin is glued to his side when they pull up at the ranch and come face to face with Edde Munson. 

But Steve relaxes when he sees the same wide grin on Eddie’s face that he sees on Dustin’s every day. And he doesn’t know it yet, but maybe he’s finally filled out that family tree and found the home he never knew he needed, with branches for Robin, Dustin, and maybe two Munsons.

[latin5mamii]

Family - Jude Bellingham

WARNINGS:fluff🥹🥹

SUMMARY: Rainy days without commitments bring reflections on the future…

AUTHOR’S NOTE: LOVE THIS😭😭

The rain drummed relentlessly against the window of your living room, yet its steady rhythm seemed to fill the silence between the two of you, even though there were no words left to say. You cherished these kinds of days: nothing pressing to do and no demands on your time.

Nestled together on the large sofa, simply enjoying each other's company felt like the perfect choice.Jude's arm was draped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand traced gentle patterns on your arm, sending little shivers of warmth through your body.

You shifted slightly, turning to face Jude more directly, your fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

"What do you think our life will be like in ten years?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jude's eyes softened as he gazed down at you. "I hope it's a lot like this. Just you and me, happy and in love, maybe with a couple of kids running around."

Just the thought gives you butterflies in your stomach. You had never talked about having a family with Jude, even if you wanted to. You didn't want to pressure him obviously, but becoming a mother was one of your biggest dreams, if not the biggest. .Just thinking about how Jude would be a good father made you want to have a baby now.

"Do you want children? How many?" You ask curiously, the excitement can be felt in your gaze.

"I'd like to have at least two, but I've always wanted a big family, you know?" You can tell his mind is trying to imagine the future.

"Why do you ask me that?" You can almost see a smirk he tries to hide, you giggle slightly and hold him tighter.

“I don't know. But you're making me want to have a kid now.” He looks relaxed, not upset by your statement or anything. You can even tell he looks pretty proud.

"With me?" He says with a smirk on his lips.

"With who if not you?" You say, laughing at his somewhat stupid question.

“We can work on it ,if you want.” 

You thought he was joking, but he had a serious look on his face.

"Are you serious?”

"Why shouldn't I be? Or do you want to get married first?"

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rhythm of the rain. “I don’t know, I just thought you’d want to do things in the traditional order.”

Jude’s gaze softened further, his fingers tracing the outline of your face. “I want to do things in our order. If you want a baby now, let’s have a baby now. If you want to get married first, let’s plan a wedding. Whatever makes you happy.”

You felt a bit of excitement, you’ve been together with Jude for a few years now and you’re now so happy that he wants to have a family with you. “Let’s start with the baby,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a hint of nervousness.

He pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your forehead.You can feel and imagine his mischievous smirk. “A baby it is, then”

[for-ests]

Blood Bound: Sukuna x Reader

Pairing: Heian era Sukuna x witch concubine reader Warnings: hella plot w/ eventual smut Word count: 6,800+ Summary: Gifted to the King of Curses by your coven to produce the strongest heir, Sukuna gets more than he bargained for when he realizes you come with conditions. But once he finally gets a taste, he can't get enough. I honestly don't know what compelled me to write this. But if others enjoy I was thinking about making an actual fic!! this isn't fully flushed out yet but I hope it makes sense. This will eventually connect to my Gojo fanfic too!

Sukuna had all the concubines he could ask for, but there was one who was a big headache. You. Disrespectful and conniving, you were the only one who stood up to him. And for some reason, he allowed it. But that was because you were different from the rest. You weren't like the other pathetic waifs he was expected to entertain; you were special—a witch, a curse user from one of the most powerful covens in his territory. And you loved to remind him of it, stalking around him and nosing your way into his business but never giving in to his desires. He could have disposed of you long ago, but that would've wasted your talents. And, of course, your beauty. 

When you first arrived at the palace, you didn't want to get closer to Sukuna, you didn't even want to talk to him. Especially when you realized he was unaware of the conditions he bound himself to. But with each day that passed, you found yourself seeking him out more, with whatever attention you could get—which was usually his lingering eyes as you paraded around with the other women. Like cats and dogs, you argued with Sukuna just so he would respond to your defiance. You didn't submit to just anyone because they asked. Even though Sukuna was the King of Curses, you were still a powerful witch—and you wouldn't be demoted to just an ordinary concubine. 

You weren't just something pretty to look at. Your purpose was to continue your bloodline, to pass that magic down as your ancestors did, with another man of equal or more power. The first night where you revealed the truth to him was a night you didn't want to repeat. 

Sitting under a cherry blossom tree, Sukuna let out a growl. You had forced him to attend another garden picnic with all the concubines. 

You often did things like this intentionally, smirking at him whenever he would complain and spreading the rumors to everyone before he agreed. Even Uraume was in on it, always preparing the best foods for him at your request to soften the blow. 

Why do you have so many concubines if you don't want to spend time with them? You would mock, your underlying intentions amiss in his brain. All you did was play mind games. If you wish for an heir, shouldn't they be happy, too? A happy and healthy concubine will bear the strongest children. 

Whether you were referring to yourself or not, Sukuna was open to the idea. You were right, after all. And that's why he put up with it, partially to spend time with you, too. You always ensured you were busy whenever he thought about calling you to his room. And the few times you had, you only played Go with him and won. 

What an insufferable woman. He thought, watching you fan yourself from across the garden, twirling a lock of your hair around your finger, only glancing at him when he looked away. 

"More wine Master?" One of the concubines approached Sukuna.

"Master, would you like to try what we cooked?" Another concubine animatedly served him a plate. 

But you would bask in the sun on one of the finest cushions conquest could provide, away from the rest of the group, only participating when he requested you. 

His eyes narrowed on you once you stood to get a cup of wine. "Let Y/N serve me, this was her idea so she must be the one to deal with me," he told the others, shooing them away with the raise of his hand. 

Sukuna wasn't in the mood to have any other concubine clinging to him but you. 

As you approached, you rolled your eyes. "Don't call him Master," you said to the women as they backed away. "He doesn't deserve it." 

Sukuna smirked as you poured him some wine, his fingers grazing yours softly. "You never learn, do you?" he asked in a quiet, mocking tone so the others couldn't hear.

You didn't have much to learn, though. You knew he liked power, and you had a lot more than all of his concubines combined. You were the only woman there who had almost mastered sorcery. 

Then, a little more loudly, making everyone stop and pay attention to you, he said, "How would you address me then? Surely, you're not the kind of woman who calls your master darling, are you?" he joked mockingly while licking his lips.

Once you finished pouring his wine, you smirked to yourself, knowing that in the end, you were his favorite concubine. And in his own way, he respected you in return. 

"I would call you by your name," you replied, loud enough for the other women to hear, satisfied to hear their giggles, knowing it would rile him up further. Even if you loathed the other concubines, entertainment was welcomed as the months passed. It's not like you could just leave the castle and return to your coven whenever you pleased. 

Bending down slightly, you whispered into Sukuna's ear with a lustful drawl. "Such a title must be earned." 

As you turned around, Sukuna raised an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips as he watched you return to your cushion, another glass of wine waiting for you to devour. You always acted unbothered, but ultimately, he suspected you were. Why else wouldn't you accept the offer of being his concubine? Your relationship with him was in limbo because you craved something more. 

He sipped the wine, letting the flavor spread across his tongue. He knew you liked to defy him, and he found it quite amusing. "You're quite the bold one," Sukuna said, his voice low yet teasing. "But I assure you, Y/N, soon enough you will beg to call me Master." 

Sukuna was transfixed by your defiant behavior, knowing full well you challenged him because you knew he wouldn't lay a finger on you. He knew your coven protected you with a spell, so he couldn't physically punish you. Despite the frustration, there were still beneficial reasons why he kept you around. It took bravery to even bother with him, and he admired you for it. Perhaps you were the only woman he was genuinely interested in. 

Sukuna listened to his concubines gossiping amongst themselves as he sipped his wine, wondering how he would break his little witch in. He had already tried using his power on you, but as expected, the protection spell had kept you safe. Not that he minded; it just made the chase more amusing.

Ever since you'd been offered to him as a bargaining chip to save your coven, a day hadn't passed where he didn't think of you. When he saw you for the first time, an unquenchable flame ignited inside him. How you looked that night, emerging past the elders in a revealing black dress decorated in gold and jewels, a tiara with rubies dipping between your brows, was a sight he couldn't seem to forget. The Onryo. They called you. 

At the time, Sukuna didn't want a bride, only a concubine. But each day you tempted him, his resistance faltered. Months came and went without you in his bed, and he grew restless and irritated. You opted to tease him instead, insulting him whenever he disappeared with one of his concubines. He knew you were a prized possession; he knew it was dangerous to overstep the protection spell your coven put on you, ensuring no rules would be broken. You already promised him the strongest heir possible, but he still hadn't agreed to every condition in the pact. He wasn't ready to give up his concubines, and you knew that. 

And you didn't budge, only wishing to fulfill your duty when the time was right, for your coven and Sukuna's dynasty.

Over time, Sukuna continued to tire of the other concubines, increasingly ignoring them to the degree that his chambers remained barren for the past few months. It was bothersome, as he didn't like this feeling of… dissatisfaction. None of them excited him the way you did. None of them challenged him like you. 

It all came to a head when he caught you flirting with the palace guards. His eyes burned with frustration, and he summoned his fire, stepping forward before Uraume's sudden presence distracted him. 

"Permission to speak freely, Sukuna-Sama?" they bowed their head slightly. 

"Yes." Sukuna's tone was sharp, eyes still daggering at you, cozying up with the guards and laughing with them as he supposed you did every night when he didn't request you. The only thing he allowed you to leave for was your rituals; sometimes, they lasted all night. It made him wonder if you were fucking his men behind his back. 

A long silence passed, with only the faint echo of your laugh heard. It graded against his eardrums, hearing that another man had captured your attention, let alone make you smile. 

"I wish to remind you that Y/N is a smart woman. I would not want you to do anything in haste." 

"As if I don't know that!" Sukuna snapped, "she belongs to me, after all." 

Shaking their head, Uraume sighed. "My Lord—"

"I am aware," Sukuna interrupted. If anyone knew the truth, it was Uraume. You treated them with extra care, feeding them bits and pieces of your predicament in hopes they would reveal them to Sukuna when necessary. You weren't just playing with Uraume, though. You considered them a friend. Probably your only friend in the palace. They knew that deep within their heart, which is why they bothered to defend you. Seeing your face every day made the palace more lively. Did Sukuna even realize all that you sacrificed for him? 

"That wench of a Supreme tricked me into a binding vow." 

Tricked was a strong word. Nobody could really trick the King of Curses. Uraume knew it was his way of admitting he was weak at that moment. Meeting you for the first time, which even Uraume could admit you looked divine, ravishing, unlike any woman they'd seen before—that spectacle was what led to this entire mess. Sukuna was the one who allowed your behavior to continue. He wasn't tricked. He just wanted the chase and the power. He wanted you from the moment he saw you and was too arrogant to admit it. 

There was no way Sukuna could ever love somebody, right? It all finally made sense to Uraume at that moment. Based on your own admission, based on the fact that he hadn't taken one of his concubines to bed in months, growing more frustrated with each day that passed, only craving a presence he couldn't obtain. 

"Are you…" Uraume chose their words carefully. Sukuna was clearly jealous, but it was your job to say that word, not them. "...Considering to follow through?" 

His crimson eyes narrowed. "It has crossed my mind," he finally admitted. "But I won't be tricked by that she-demon again." 

"I speculate that if Y/N wanted to deceive you, she would have done so already." 

Sukuna let Uraume’s advice pervade. He imagined every possibility for trickery on your part but came up with nothing. You were waiting for him, not the other way around. You were already bound to him, the contract only in limbo because you witches were just as power-hungry as him and incredibly selective. They would not allow a woman from their coven to bear children with a man who also produced bastards. The magic would cease to work for that purpose alone. And that was a sacrifice you wouldn't make, even for him. Even if he was a king, even if he was a curse, the coven always played the long game. As they've done for centuries and would do again. 

"Demand that she visit my chambers when she's done being a harlot," Sukuna spat, turning his back on them and deciding to leave. 

"Sukuna-Sama," Uraume warned, glancing back to the palace gates, where you still chummed with the guards. "Are you sure?" 

Sukuna waved his hand. "My mind is made." 

They stared at their lord as he walked away, acting as if he wasn't bothered by the revelation, acting as if he didn't just spare you and his men from certain death. That was when Uraume recognized Sukuna's true feelings for you. 

However twisted they might be. 

An hour later, the kitchen door swung open, presenting you in a seductive, revealing dress. Whether Sukuna noticed or not, you always wore your best garments on nights when the moon was absent. 

Hunger twisted in your stomach as you realized how late it was and how long you'd gone without a meal. All you wanted was to steal a few snacks without anyone noticing before retreating to your chambers. 

But, for once at this hour, Uraume was chopping away at a slab of meat, some already cooking in a stew on the firewood stove. It smelled delicious, and you sighed blissfully. They would be the last person to mind if you stole a few bites, as you often did, complimenting them with a smile on your face before disappearing again. 

"Sukuna requests you visit his chambers," Uraume said, their tone leaving no room for debate. They didn't even turn around to greet you. No excitement to see you, no friendliness in their tone. It made you pause. 

"Is it a request or is it a demand?" you asked, covering your worry with a displeased smirk, rounding the stone countertop to see precisely what Uraume was preparing. It looked delicious, and your stomach grumbled with comedic timing. 

Uraume finally glanced at you, knowing that you were beside them. "I would suggest going to see him now." They nodded to the elaborately prepared tray beside them. You watched as they spooned a bowl full of cooked meat, steam billowing into the air. "He's already waited an hour." 

"Before he gets angrier?" you asked, plucking some food into your mouth. Once you swallowed, you grabbed the tray in both your hands. "Does he ever feel another way?" 

Only a slight crack in the corner of Uraume's lips signaled they weren't sending you to your death. Their eyes were serious. Even if you were their friend, Sukuna was still their King. 

"He was boiling when he saw you fraternizing with the castle guard," Uraume said, refusing to reveal anything else. "Have you no shame, Y/N?" 

You quirked an eyebrow, unable to hide your surprise. "What else am I to do to pass the time?" 

"You are bound to him, Y/N, don't forget your place. Sukuna-Sama has been generous enough. He can still kill you if he pleased." 

"Generous is a bit theatrical," you huffed, parting from Uraume after one last smile. "But thank you," you added, nodding to the food. Whatever conversation you were about to have with Sukuna might be softened once he saw that you were fetching his meal. 

The castle halls were eerily empty and quiet. There were never many people around, but it had never felt this dreadful to you before. All you could hear was the sound of your own sandals scuffing against the rug as you approached his chamber. 

The sound of your pattering knuckles filled the silence, and you quickly slid the door open and entered before receiving a reply. 

Sukuna's back was to you, his fingers grasping the balcony's edge. He didn't turn around when he heard you enter the room, but he tensed slightly. "Did I give you permission to enter my chambers?" he said curtly, his voice laced with annoyance. 

"You had requested me," you replied just as harshly. "Where have you been all night?"

"None of your concern," he said, tone cold and final. 

There was an agonizing minute of silence that passed. He didn't turn around to look at you, still avoiding having to look you in the eyes. Once he did, he wondered if he could resist the temptation. From afar, he saw what you were wearing. If he had to see it up close… an almost identical dress on the day he first met you. 

"Are you going to stand there staring at my back?" he asked irritably, still not bothering to turn around.

"If you want to be alone, so be it," you snapped, turning around and heading for the door. "I'll leave your meal on the table and thank Uraume for you." 

He turned around quickly, a scowl on his face. "You defy the simplest of orders and instructions," Sukuna muttered under his breath, his annoyance vanishing once he glimpsed the very body he was trying to resist. That damn dress. It was far too revealing. All that was missing was a crown. What a seductress you were, almost bringing the King of Curses to his knees at the very sight of you. 

He was clearly upset. Provoked that even though you purposely annoyed him, hardly followed his orders, and kept yourself and your body off limits to his desires— he always sought you out. "Come here," he ordered savagely, his hungry eyes locking with yours.

You knew when he was angry, as he usually always was. But the look in his eyes was different tonight. Was it sadness? Was it jealousy? Obeying his request, you left the food inside and walked onto the balcony. You were grateful for Uraume's hint, leading you to approach him more cautiously. 

The two of you often played board games out there when the weather was nice. Go was your favorite, and Sukuna still had yet to beat you. Perhaps he relented because he couldn't have sex with you all night, and it was the only way you'd spend time with him alone. Go was maybe the one thing you'd mastered besides magic. 

A part of you wondered if that's what he wanted, too. It had been about a week since the last time you challenged him. You watched him sit down before asking, "Would you care to play a game to release some stress, my Lord?" You added the honorific with the raise of your brows, suspecting you might actually be walking on a thin, thin line with him already. 

"I don't want to play games, witch," he grumbled impatiently, his scowl deepening at your sudden prudence. He much preferred the attitude that kept him on his toes. "Sit down," he incited, hand pointing to the spot next to him on the sofa. 

The wind was blowing briskly, making the trees surrounding the palace sway and rustle softly. The atmosphere was tense, almost dangerous, the air seeming to crackle with electricity.

"It's a beautiful night," you said, watching the branches tangle around each other in the breeze. The stars were shining bright in the absence of the moon. As you finally sat beside Sukuna, you turned to look at him. "Will you tell me what's wrong?" 

"Would it not be easier to use your magic to root through my mind instead?" he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. What a ludicrous answer. 

There was a momentary silence. It was tense and heavy. The only sound that could be heard was the rustling of the trees. 

"What fun is there in that?" you sighed, the tease in your tone fading away with the wind. For once, you didn't come there to defy or disrespect him. For the first time, you came for comfort, to know him better. Yes, you enjoyed your life at the palace. You knew your place, but it wasn't to just be his concubine. What you really wanted was to be his Queen. But Sukuna was cruel, heartless, and malevolent. Rarely, almost never, did fragments of his true self emerge. 

"A strong powerful man like you should be able to express what you're feeling." 

"I'm in no mood for fun," he said curtly, his expression remaining cold.

Another pause, the tension in the air so dense it felt like he was physically curling his hands around your throat. 

Until finally, he heaved a frustrated sigh. "I want you to be honest with me." There was no reason for him to struggle this much with the thoughts swirling in his mind, but being in your presence often did that to him. Sharing his power was something he never wanted to do. He never expected any woman to even stand remotely close to his level of wickedness and hunger for domination. "Did you reject my proposal because of the coven or because of your wishes?" 

"What proposal?" you tilted your head, confused. His red eyes burned with emotions you didn't expect him to be capable of. 

"My proposal to you as my concubine," he said, tone hardening. 

There was a pause; the wind rustled the trees gently and seemed to echo his words. Your reply was absent, which frustrated Sukuna further. He was growing impatient, watching as your lips parted and your eyebrows furrowed. "Why must you refuse to be just a concubine?" he asked. 

"I lust for power just as you do, Sukuna, it is what is required of me," you sighed. "I cannot just be a concubine. I will not descend to the level of those lowly, moronic, women you keep around for no other reason than your twisted pleasure. They cannot give you the heir you need. To them, the title of concubine is an honor, but to me, it is an insult," you said with a bitter tone before glancing away and looking back up at the sky. Sukuna only knew pieces of your bloodline, your coven, and what the spell cast on you entailed. "And I'm not fond of sharing," a displeased, tight smile cracked across your face, hoping he wouldn't pry further. 

Sukuna narrowed his eyes and reached out to grasp your chin, turning your head so that you were facing him again. His expression was cold, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, almost a hint of tenderness. 

"Are you saying you no longer wish me to bed other women?" he asked in a low, menacing tone, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. 

Once he released your chin, you nodded but kept your gaze glued to his. "The thought of your hands on another woman, your body against anyone's but mine makes me..." you trailed off, not wanting to overstep. You loved teasing him. You loved that you had power over the other concubines. But your defiance came from the desperation of your situation. To be handed off to the King of curses like you were nothing but a prized cattle, forced to watch as he took his other concubines to bed, enraged you. The Supreme had tricked him, leaving it up to you to convince the most evil man in the country that you deserved respect. The most rigorous challenge of all. 

Sukuna paused for a moment, considering what you just said. He then leaned close to you, his forehead almost touching yours as his crimson eyes studied your expression intently.

"There's another reason, is there not?" he said in a low voice, his words almost like a whisper. Then Sukuna smirked wickedly, his eyes gleaming with amusement as if it finally made sense to him. "Do you envy them, Y/N?" he teased, his hand reaching your waist, grasping it, and pulling you onto his lap.

You let him encircle his arms around you. It didn't matter if Sukuna was enjoying your torment. This was precisely what you expected. "It's not envy, Sukuna." you rolled your eyes, eyes flickering down to his smirk. His arms slipped around your waist tighter, causing a breathy sigh to leave your lips. The temptation was unbearable. That's why you never sat on his lap until now. Possessiveness glistened in your eyes, nostrils flaring slightly. "It makes me sick to my stomach to see you with those whores." 

Sukuna's smirk grew wider as he heard your response, his eyes filled with amusement and desire. "Then prove your worthiness," he dared in a low, seductive growl that sent shivers down your spine. "Prove to me that you deserve to be my queen," he continued, his hand going further down, his fingers slipping under your dress, gripping your inner thigh.

Just from that intimate touch underneath your clothes, your body felt like it was on fire. You wanted more so desperately, which was the cruelest curse of all. You should have slapped his hand away, but something within you yearned for him vehemently. His fingers crept closer to your pulsing core, and you couldn't pull away. For months, all you had craved was his attention. 

"Sukuna-" you warned, willing to explain it all to him, but was caught off guard when he bit down on the delicate skin of your neck. He sucked the spot roughly, his other hand creeping under your dress and to your thigh. 

"Y/N..." he murmured, his mouth still lingering on the spot, the sound of his voice low and filled with passion. Sukuna's fingers moved higher, brushing against your heat, grinning against your skin as he felt your shiver. He could easily seduce you; he was sure of it, but that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to see you beg for him to take you to bed, and that wouldn't be easy. He wanted you to be willing and eager. He wanted you to give yourself to him. 

"Sukuna...I am not..." you began to protest, your words caught in your throat as his hands pried between your thighs, forcing your legs open wider, teasing your entrance with his fingertips.

Fuck. That was what your mind screamed at his touch. You had been so determined to beat him with twisted power plays, only to care for him in a different way than just the empowerment of your coven through an heir. You thought it would take much more convincing for Sukuna to agree to your demands and understand the repercussions. But he was worshipping your body instead, enticing you to join him in hell. 

Your yearning for him panged so harshly that it came in a sudden wave from your stomach to your core—etching a gasp from your lips. 

"Are you always this exposed underneath such revealing dresses?" he chuckled once he found you weren't wearing undergarments, pressing a finger against your clit. Jolts of electricity shot through your body, and you let out a fervid whimper. Did he know what he was getting into? Was he really considering making you his Queen? It would happen soon enough, though, for the second he impregnated you, the spell would annul every other possible heir if he didn't accept you as his only. 

Once his finger started to swirl in circles, you knew it was over. Your body was begging for him, begging for release. The allure of it all made your explanation die in your throat, and all you could choke out was, "If you take me tonight, I want all the other concubines dead." 

Sukuna chuckled wickedly at your words, the sound resonating deep in his chest and vibrating against your skin.

"Is that so?" he replied, inserting a digit inside your eager, desperate pussy. "How bold of you to give me orders, Y/N." He grinned, red eyes glinting with lust and satisfaction. "Will you deal the finishing blow?" he murmured teasingly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, before he pushed another finger inside. 

"Y-yes," you nodded, stuttering, eyes flickering down to the position he finally had you in across his lap. Your ruffled dress almost pushed up to your waist; legs spread, flush against his growing length as his hands teased your cunt. 

Another gasp escaped you as he began to pump his fingers, his other hand gripping your waist and forcing you to stay still. "You want me...all to yourself?" he murmured in your ear.

"Need you to myself," you whimpered, finally giving in to the temptation. 

"Need me to yourself..." he mimicked seductively, his words filled with desire. He could sense your restraint waning, your body trembling in his grasp. "You need me." He continued pumping harder, his hot breath fanning across your neck. "To be all yours..." he whispered, his own voice filling with desperation and passion. 

But then, Sukuna suddenly paused. He withdrew his hands and leaned back into the sofa. He needed a second to process what was happening. How frustrating it was to be under your spell. It hardly took anything for you to seduce him; he was all over you, getting off on your pleasure and not his. It was strange how willing he was to submit to your desires. Was it some sort of trick? 

"What?" you whimpered at his withdrawal, opening your eyes to gaze at him. Without his touch, you felt cold. Shifting around in his lap, you faced him. 

"Prove your love for me, Y/N," he demanded, his eyes intense as he stared at you, the weight of his request hanging heavy between the two of you. "Tell me," he added, leaning forward to gently take your lips with his. Your eyes widened, but you kissed him back, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, the need for all of him panging deeper. "How far are you willing to go to show me your devotion?" he pulled away to breathe, hot breath caressing your face.

Love…devotion… Have you not already proved it? 

"Anything," you whispered against his lips, grasping his wrists and moving them to the back of your gown. Once he loosened the knot, your dress fell around your shoulders. You tugged the lace down yourself, revealing your breasts to him for the first time. "My power will be yours to wield." 

Sukuna's eyes burned as they drank in your body. How perfect you were, the right amount of beauty and insanity. He admired you in silence, eyes studying the perk of your breasts before his expression turned more serious. One more question, and he would take you. Only if you answered right, though. 

"I will need you to give your blood and body to me, an offering that permanently binds your life to mine," he said, a chill settling over the air. You had already begged, and now he wanted you to prove your loyalty.

"Are you willing to pay that price?" he asked before his mouth pressed gently against your collarbone, then down to the middle of your breasts. Once he lifted his head, he searched your eyes for any hint of hesitation. Just a pause of uncertainty from him made you smile, revealing that he actually cared, that he was solemn and somewhat apprehensive.

But, you had none, already understanding this action would be forever, for eternity, transcending time and any powers you could comprehend. Powers that had yet to even manifest.

You were willing, you were eager.

"I thought it was given." You stared deeply into his eyes. "I am no stranger to binding vows, my King." 

Sukuna nodded, a small smile forming on his face. "Very well then, Y/N," he said, his voice low and firm. "It's settled. From this day forward, you'll be my Queen and I'll be your King. Nobody else will dare to defy your wishes except me," he concluded with finality, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours, all four of his hands coming to cup your cheeks. Your heart swelled with pride as he revealed his true form to you. 

In acceptance, you kissed him harshly before reaching up to pull out the hairpin he gifted you the first day you arrived at the palace. With your hair cascading down your bare shoulders, you revealed the hidden blade inside and swiped it across your finger. "My life is yours, Sukuna," you promised. 

Sukuna watched as a small cut appeared on your finger, blood welling up quickly at the shallow wound. He grasped your hand, bringing your finger to his lips and running his tongue along the edge of the cut. Then he placed your finger in his mouth, sucking on it lightly, his tongue teasing the sensitive skin, tasting the metallic tang of your blood.

When the cut had closed, Sukuna pulled your finger out of his mouth, his crimson eyes fixed on yours. "All mine," he whispered, his voice low and sultry.

Taking the hairpin from you, he swiped over his own thumb, deeper than you had. Your eyes were wide in astonishment as he pushed his bleeding thumb into your mouth, sealing the bond he requested. You sucked, eyelashes fluttering, waiting until the cut closed. 

The King of Curses was now yours, completely. 

"Now, you can have me any way you'd like," you whispered, eyes darkening with lust and excitement. "And afterward, we can go on a killing spree." 

A fervent need flared in his eyes as you spoke, your voice dripping with desire. "You are a dangerous woman, my future Queen," he murmured, his voice gravelly as he stared down at you, a smirk playing on his lips. But it was clear that he was just as aroused as you were, his body tense with need. "I cannot say no to you when you look at me like that."

In the next breath, Sukuna was all over you. His mouth latched onto your breast while the other pinched your nipple. All you could do was hold his face in your hands, moaning as you watched him prepare your body for his length. Desire pooled lower and lower in your abdomen, and all you could do was sway your hips for release, remembering what his fingers felt like inside of you. 

"Can't wait any longer," Sukuna grunted, swirling his tongue across your chest and up the side of your neck before taking your lips with his once again. The kiss was deep, and his tongue dominated your mouth, claiming it without protest. Breaking away for air, a strand of saliva connected your lips to his, the heat and desperation of your emotions were overwhelmingly noticeable. 

"Why don't you just ride me now," he ripped your dress off in a swift movement, etching a gasp from you. "Since you're so desperate for my cock." 

"Y-Yes, Sukuna." Your voice shook from the trepidation and pact you made with him. It was as if you sensed the change, felt your bond to him solidify. Wobbly, you stood up from his lap as he pulled his pants off, kicking them down to his ankles. He was bigger than you imagined, so long and thick that you wondered if you could even take him. But, you were determined, you needed him, craved him, and now you were forever his. 

Sukuna watched your eyes widen as his cock sprang free. All he could do was smirk, especially when he could smell your arousal. "You can take it, Y/N," he encouraged. "You have to take it now." 

You were engorged, dripping, swollen, all for him—from the thought of consummating your pact to him on the balcony, hopefully where everyone could hear you cry his name. He was unable to take his eyes off you as you sat back down on his lap, positioning his cock at your entrance. 

A whimper of elation escaped your lips as you sat upon him, slowly, letting yourself sink down on his throbbing cock, feeling the length stretch your walls until it was impossible to go further. Watching you struggle against him made him grunt with satisfaction. Your pussy felt too good, a prize he'd been pining over for months. The best he ever had and will only have from that night onward. 

Taking your time, your entire body erupted with pleasure as you began to bounce on his cock. It was vivifying; every whimper you let out only fueled his desire further. Your pussy was pulsing erratically, so wet and welcoming for him, but you weren't going fast enough. What Sukuna really wanted to do was fuck you senseless, claim each and every inch of your body. After all, you had made him wait long enough. 

A low, possessive growl rumbled from his chest as he stood up from the sofa, gathering you in his arms with his cock still sheathed inside you. He brought you inside but left the door open, laying you down on the futon. Sukuna let you adjust to the position, let you squeeze against his cock, humming as your legs wrapped around his waist. "Tell me who you belong to," he demanded, staring down at you with a feral gleam in his crimson eyes. 

Nodding obediently, you whimpered, "You, Master." Hardly able to reply before he pulled his cock all the way out and then slammed it back in, burying himself deep inside your pussy, a groan of ecstasy leaving his lips at the way your walls coddled him so tightly, so perfectly, like you were made just for him. 

Crying out, you were a stuttering mess as he pounded into you over and over again, to the point where you swore you could see stars. Sukuna was huge, fucking you until your moans were mixing with his, the sound of your pussy squelching, taking him fully until he was balls deep, causing a devilish grin to spread across his face. 

He was consuming you, feeling his cock twitch inside of you as he glimpsed your breasts bouncing wildly underneath him. You felt too good, heavenly, the best he'd ever had. 

"M-Master!" you cried, climbing higher and higher, your walls constricting, building. "I can't take it—ah—yes!" you choked out, unable to control yourself from the relentless pace, causing you to orgasm all over his unyielding cock.

He smirked, satisfied at how quickly he could make you unravel. "How am I making you feel?" He asked, not slowing his pace or relenting, helping you ride out your high before he was going to throw you into another body-shaking orgasm. 

"Euphoric," you sobbed, tears clouding your vision, the sound of his skin slapping against your now-drenched pussy causing blood to pound louder in your ears. You could barely breathe, completely cock drunk and fucked-out. 

"Since you have arrived, you wanted this, didn't you?" Sukuna grunted, glimpsing the look of intoxication on your face. "I wanted to fill you up until you cry, you wretched creature." 

His sensuality was music to your ears, and all you could do was moan, nodding with parted lips, body rocking back and forth against his relentless pace. 

Your beauty enraptured Sukuna. How well and eager you took his length. "M'gonna breed you until you can't speak with that wicked tongue, forcing me to wait all this time to claim you." 

"Please S-Kuna, please," you whimpered, grasping onto his arms that caged you underneath him for support. You were unraveling in his grip, and he couldn't be more satisfied. "It's too much!" 

"Take it," he groaned an order, ramming into you over and over again. Your back arched against the bed as Sukuna hoisted your legs up higher around his waist, your ass cupped in both of his hands, thrusting right into your already inflamed g-spot.  

All you could feel was him; all you could think about was him. Opening your eyes, you saw his eyes narrowed, determination in his expression. He looked so handsome above you, focused on ruining your body for his pleasure. He was finally all yours. And the memory of it caused the pressure in your abdomen to tighten once again. 

“Fuck-oh-Sukuna!” Another cry was loudly called into the night, as you came again. It was hard. Violent. Sukuna watched as your entire body shuddered, your legs trembling as you squirted against him. You couldn't stop it; you couldn't stop your moans. 

At your quick and vocal release, Sukuna found himself unable to breathe, unable to even mutter a word as he plunged into euphoria, releasing his load into your sanctified cunt just seconds after you finished for the second time. 

Panting heavily, your legs dropped from his waist. You gazed up at your forever lover with rapture in your eyes, satisfaction pulling at your lips. When he pulled out, his load started to leak from your core. 

He simpered, admiring how beautiful you were like this, a smile on your face, skin glistening with sweat, his cum painting your pussy alabaster. 

Some of it started to leak out, but Sukuna would not let it go to waste. He leaned down to your pussy, flicking his tongue out to force it back inside, holding it until you were shaking again.

Once he was satisfied, he lifted his head between your legs, chin resting against your abdomen. The part of you that panged for his attention every night for eternity, that yearned every second to be like this, to see him so submissive between your thighs.

What mattered was his promise, an utterance that had no bounds, not even blood. No amount of sorcery could stop either of you. "I'm gonna breed you like that every night until your belly is swollen with my heir." 

That promise you knew he intended to keep, until the bounds of death were unshackled, and you came face to face with infinity.

[itsonlydana]

Find a cure for my heart | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑

On the eve of the battle, you and Thranduil spent a night that spurred a flurry of letters while Dale grew as a city and you both grew too, first apart, then closer again. However, you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with the truth that your health was deteriorating with each passing day.

warnings/tags: sickness, angst, mentions of death (reader is actively dying but only realizes after Thranduil helps) hurt/comfort, happy end

words: 5,6k

an: finally finished this fic after working on it since January. If you are interested in being tagged when I post new fics– comment that under this post or send it to me in my inbox!

+ masterlist + rules

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Contrary to general belief, the elves did not return to their forests immediately after the battle.

In the stories told, there would be remarks, on how the Elvenking offered his help to the yet-to-be-crowned King Bard once more, bringing aid with however warriors he had left for disposal to search the endless chaos and ruins of Dale for survivors until many sunsets later.

They would speak about the sorrow of losing friends and family and neighbors to a war that had been won at costs no one could comprehend yet, and they would mention how the great Elvenking guided them through the darkest of nights for he had experienced this all before; the grief, the helplessness and the colossal question of What now, who's to say we haven't lost ourselves as well as those we have to bury?

Many had their own experience with the Elvenking, whether it was a hand pulling them off the ground, a loaf of bread delivered to them after days of fighting, or a warm blanket to huddle under to finally lay their body to rest under the watchful eye of Elves that had sworn to protect them.

You had your own story. A different one.

But it wasn't one with the Elvenking, no; the night before the battle, where the air was filled with the sound of blades being sharpened and children crying for their parents, you had met Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves but most importantly: a set of strong arms that caught you as you stumbled out of Bard's tent.

You needed to run away from the discussions over how to draw the dwarfs out of the mountain.

You'd been a friend to Bard for many long years but standing in that luscious tent, being offered wine as the Wizard, Bard, and the Hobbit pondered over what was about to happen while you weren't sure your mind caught up on what had happened already, there was no room for friendship inside your panic-riddled chest.

Just as you flung open the tent flaps and tried to dash away to get some air, your foot caught on a root, and had it not been for Thranduil's fast reflexes, you surely would've planted your face into the dirt and mud.

Up until now, you had no idea what had transcended between the two of you at the moment where his arms held you up, his softening face looking down at your widened eyes filled with tears and your tongue too tied up and heavy to say anything other than: "Air– please"

Whatever it had been, likely an unspoken wish – by Thranduil or you, or maybe you both; it didn't matter – for someone who would not pass judgment over the urge to disappear from your skin and role and crown for one night, a fallen star flung across the darkened skies at the right time.

It felt as though Thranduil had pulled a sheet over your heads; your world narrowed down to this other soul and how beautiful and divine his body felt on yours as you found a way to survive the night before life as you knew it turned once more and the solid ground beneath your feet shifted and broke.

A few nights, while unforgettable and brooding with feelings neither of you admitted to, did not change that you had to move on somehow.

Although the Elves did not depart for Mirkwood immediately and Thranduil and you were given time in the aftermath to find the other in the cover of the night and under the pretense this was nothing more than mere distraction, a wishing star could only do so much shining before dimming out.

The day you awoke to a sunrise bathing the debris of Dale in a pinkish and warm light, pillars being rebuilt dipped into molten gold, and the cracks glued together, Thranduil's strong arms were wrapped around your middle as if he wanted to hinder you from sneaking away, you knew it was him who would leave you before the day was over.

And so he did.

Sunrise came and went and soon enough all the tents were packed up on horseback and wagons, leaving flattened grass as the only reminder they had been there at all if and there were goodbyes, political between Bard and the Elvenking who parted from the weary man and his children with the promise of support, and between you and Thranduil in the form of a slow nod.

Thranduil sat high on a dark stallion, dressed in silver and long robes that hid fingerprints that spoke of an attempt to cling to transience. His chin lowered, though his eyes were fixed on you.

You knew that nod carried the conversation you had whispered into the morning mist.

And it was all that wasn't said that motivated you to step away first and turn your back on the caravan that took away a King and a Lover.

There was much to do, the looming task of building up Dale needed everyone's full attention, and that included you.

Especially you.

There were houses to plan, accommodations to be made so that no one needed to sleep under the stars.

No one could ever pry the reason why you were keen on getting a roof under everyone out of your hands; a lonely part of you wanted the stars to remember you and Thranduil lying in the grass. And no one else.

The first letter arrived a few weeks after you hadn't had the heart to watch him go and threw yourself into one task after the other, dismissing even the smallest hint of sickness, like the heaviness inside your chest every time you lifted something heavy, or tiredness crashing down onto you in moments to catch your breath, to continue working, that you wouldn't find a moment to admit how much you missed him.

That utterly ridiculous mindset stopped as soon as the messenger Elf rode into the city and hand-delivered you the first of many envelopes with the nearly indecipherable handwriting of Thranduil.

Or the Elvenking.

Because the first letter, despite being addressed to you as well as Bard, who wouldn't have been able to read it in the first place, was a list of things the King would send and a question of what else was needed that he could provide.

"It's fine," you said to Bard through a smile that didn't reach your eyes as you read aloud the letter twice, from the greeting to the last paragraph that was signed 'the Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion, Lord of Mirkwood and friend of Dale'.

In the flickering light of the candle dripping wax onto the table between you, the dark circles under Bard's eyes were all the more prominent than when he was running around the city and there was a bottomless pit in your stomach that wouldn't want to add to the many things he was already worrying about.

"It's totally fine," you said to Bard when he asked if you had skipped over a private note from Thranduil or if there truly wasn't one (there wasn't, you had turned the letter over and over in your hands until the edges became soft and wrinkled) and you both knew that to be a lie.

You answered the letter in the same professional manner because even though you wanted to, you couldn't send a letter to a King helping however he could and expecting nothing in return with a smeared "I wish for your heart and our nights and for your voice to tell me we are alright" written under tears in another sleepless night.

The next few letters follow the same pattern, Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion would inquire if there was anything Dale needed and answer Bard's question on leadership and share his knowledge of what was fundamental for a new King, and you would write for Bard on the other side.

The weeks passed and so did the hope of rekindling that fire you had thought to burn in the both of you.

That Thranduil didn't see the need to reach out was a punch to the gut that left little room for anything else but disappointment of putting your effort into pulling on a rope that wasn't attached to something on the other end.

Why waste the dwindling energy of your exhausted body on someone who would live longer than the memory of you?

Every time a new letter arrived by messenger you would find Bard until one late evening you opened the letter by yourself and saw your name written in that beautiful sharp handwriting, not Bard's added in front or behind; only your given name and not your title.

Your hands shook as you stood in the frame of what was to be your house and the ink glued together the cracks of your heart.

'Forgive me for not writing to you sooner and for how sentimental I must sound. It has been weeks since I last saw you and every time I wander through my familiar halls, I find there is no soul around that could understand me how you did, whom I could tell what plagues my mind. The time we spent together has not left my thoughts. Neither has the promise to not grow apart too much and I apologize for not contributing to that. Now, if you would still have me, I would like nothing more than to hear how you are faring. As for me…'

Nothing had the power to stop you from running off that giddy feeling that spread through your chest as Thranduil, finally Thranduil, wrote about the happenings in Mirkwood; not even the cough that sat deep where suppressed laughter spilled into the grass you fell into– the letter clutched into your hands.

Thranduil and you fell into a routine then, one that was no obstruction for the many tasks at hand but made room for each other to hold on to the promise.

You would send out two letters, one on behalf of Bard whom you taught his signature as well as a few more words every fortnight you sat down together, and one addressed to Thranduil, filled with all the thoughts that ran through your mind that you wanted to tell him.

It was by no means as precious as the talks you had now many weeks ago, not when there were days you had to wait for a response instead of seconds.

You appreciated them all the same, every bit of himself that Thranduil wrote into his messages was countered with a confession of your own.

When he said he wished to know where his son had disappeared to or rather if he followed the direction Thranduil had given to him, you admitted to the nightmares that still plagued your mind, the dreams of fire and a monster that still rested in the lake.

You offered piece after piece, chipped bits of your heart into every letter that you sent away, and after a few weeks had passed, and Dale was taking shape with its houses raking their roofs to the sky and its people planting seeds and flowers, rooting themselves into what now was theirs, there was not much left of your heart that was completely yours and not Thranduil's and the letters of his proved that the same could be said about him.

What you did not mention, not with one drop of ink, was that the nightmares were no longer confined to the few hours of sleep you fell into.

There was a dragon, not just in the cold lake where your old home lay in ashes and was drowned in the ruthless darkness, but by the heavy weight on your chest, it felt like there was one inside you as well.

You were coughing as if there was smoke blocking your lungs, blackening out what little air you heaved for when a coughing fit took over your whole body.

It started small, a cough then, a sleepless night there; both accumulated to an uncountable amount and it got only worse as the season changed and the autumn winds lost their last warm touches and the trees bared their wooden arms.

You waved it off as a common cold, nothing that would hinder you from your tasks to becoming a liability the city didn't need in its time of growth.

Then, the coughing got worse, rougher, sometimes taking your voice for a moment until you found some water although that only helped for a small moment, like trying to extinct a burning building with just the water your bare hands could carry.

The worst part was the blood that stained the cloths, the sweats that not only held you awake at night but weakened you at day as well.

"I'm better!" you promised Bard on a night when he had to sit next to your bed, wringing out the cold cloths that lay on your fevered forehead.

His voice was a low whisper when he dabbed away the sweat, pushing your wet hair back with hands that were far too gentle for what you deserved for rotting in bed and not pulling your weight, "You're not, an' that's clear for everyone but you. Did you tell him?"

"Yes," you lied through your teeth, eyelids dropping close from exhaustion but you knew sleep wouldn't come, "he said it would pass, nothing to worry 'bout."

Three days later you were on your legs again, if not a bit shaky and needing more breaks than ever.

You sat in Bard's kitchen, a warm bowl of soup in front of you that tasted like ash and firewood, and ignored the silent pleading in his eyes to tell him what was going on and why you could barely lift the spoon of a soup that you clearly did not enjoy.

Winter wore your body down like rough sandpaper on soft oak, the cold winds and dark hours an enemy far worse than what you had to encounter on the battlefield. This had no logical explanation, nor was there an enemy you could see.

Your own body betrayed you and you had no idea what you had done to deserve it.

You knew that somewhere was a solution to it all, that was the string of hope leading you through the snow outside and the fire in your blood and bones, singing down what little fight was left on the days when the sun pushed away gray clouds and you felt normal and healthy.

The sole reason why you lied in letters filled with otherwise honesty as pure as heaven's snowflakes was that you did not want to be a bother.

Thranduil wrote how much of his time the dwarfs and their trading demands swallowed; he did not need another burden and you would be damned if he came because you had a small cold you couldn't get rid of.

You had promised Thranduil to visit him in spring when the soil was rich enough for the seed to take and the livestock could roam the meadows. If you weren't better by then you would ask him.

Until then work demanded all of you. Even if that was through a white knuckle grip on the last bits of health in aching bones.

⸺

Spring brought forth daffodils pushing through the cobblestone streets. Tilda, the youngest Bardling and a wonderful distraction on the days when getting out of bed was the hardest bounced excitedly beside you and pointed at the flowers.

"Like stubborn trumpets proclaiming winter is finally over!" she said as you followed her outside. "Spring is finally here!"

You disregarded the pain echoing through your body, the weight of guilt forcing you to spend the day with the girl.

She had been knocking on your door every morning, angelic eyes asking if you wanted to come and play with the lambs that she had taken too and this morning, you couldn't disappoint her.

"Aren't they just so pretty?" Tilda crouched down, gently cupping one of the blossoms in her small hands.

Lowering your gaze from the burning brightness of the sun you got a short glimpse at the yellow dots decorating your doorstep.

Then, suddenly, black spots appeared on the edge of your vision, taking you by surprise though they have been your companion for the better part of the last few days.

"Tilda–"

You tried to hold on to your doorframe, bruised hands frantically searching for a grip on the warm wood but they slipped and caught only the edge.

The last thought that crossed your mind was that you should bring Thranduil some of those flowers before you blinked and crumbled to the ground.

⸺

You woke up to the confusing taste of grass on your heavy tongue and the dizzying realization that you were not spread out on the street but tugged inside your bed.

Above you, moonlight fell through the opened window in the slanted roof above your head and you immediately closed your eyes again.

This had to be a dream.

Though your dreams had not been like this in a long time.

Peaceful. Comfortably warm. Silent except for the croaking of toads, the buzzing of insects outside, and the laughter and clattering of your neighbors probably enjoying the night more than you.

A groan passed your lips as you tried to sit up; a seemingly impossible task with the heaviness of your bones as well as the mountain of blankets that covered you.

"What do you think you are doing?" a voice you knew all too well sneered.

For a second you thought it to be a hallucination, a projection or your dazed mind still lulled in the fog of unconsciousness.

The bones in your neck cracked as your head snapped to the other side. There was no way you did not imagine the tall figure that should be across the woods in his palace; not in your bedroom.

"What are you doing here?"

"Merely strolling through the neighborhood," Thranduil's voice dripped with sarcasm, yet a subtle tension marked his stance beside the bed. "Now, enlighten me. Did you conveniently forget to mention this sickness in your letters?"

Ah, straight to the point.

"It's trivial," you waved it off, attempting to assert yourself by sitting up.

Naturally, consciousness promptly slipped away once more.

This time you were not that surprised by the sharp taste of grass on your lips when you came to your senses once more, pushed back into the pillows that had never felt this stuffed. You were still unable to move your leg more than from one side to the other under the blankets and Thranduil was still there, glaring at you through dark furrowed brows and hardened eyes.

You wanted to say something to break the heavy silence but all that passed your lips was a giggle that was more desperate and closer to insane than amusement.

One brow lifted. "Oh, how glad I am you are entertained by this," said Thranduil. He was as rigid in a frightening calm way but all of that was overshadowed by the cloud of confusion that muddled your thoughts.

"Noo," you drew out the word and continued giggling. This had to be insanity. "You jus' look very out of place here – wait. Turn around? I need to make sure you're really here."

He didn't fit into the cramped space of your house, his fine clothing stood out against the poor backdrop of crooked furniture, used towels hanging over stools, and the small layer of dust that covered the areas you hadn't been able to clean in a while; which was most of the bedroom and you didn't dare think about the state of the kitchen.

Where he deserved a throne out of gold you could only offer the chair next to your bed, the one that was crooked and leaned heavily to one side.

That being said, nothing took away the sheer amount of power he radiated.

It easily filled every nook and cranny or tight corner of your humble house, his voice as well as the image of Thranduil, King of the Elves, towering over your bed in long robes and bathed in the light of the night sky, glittering silver like the moon knew the importance of the Elf in front of you.

Thranduil remained stoically still. "I will definitely not do that," he said. "I am here. Where I should have been a while ago."

The accusation would have hit harder if you weren't drugged up on whatever medicine he had apparently fed you while you were out cold.

You shrugged your shoulders as well as you could with your arms bundled under the blankets. "I saw no reason, it was just a cold. Nothing I couldn't manage."

Well, you hadn't managed to handle it, that was the worst realization of the whole lie.

"Clearly," Thranduil said sarcastically and ground his teeth against each other. His arms were behind his stiff back and the way he tilted his head down to you made you feel like a child being admonished for bad behavior. "Do you know how much despair I felt when Bard's letter arrived this morning?" His voice was even but there was a resonance in it – a deep rumble akin to the ominous approach of distant thunderstorms over the sea. "Nearly indecipherable scrambles where he begged me to come; telling me that you have been asleep for two whole days?"

A crack in the form of a small tremor broke through the mask of the all-mighty Elvenking.

"This morning?" you asked, caught up by the first part and ignorant of everything that followed after, and you huffed while running the calculations through your head. "Thranduil, this can not be, the journey is not manageable in one day."

"Is this truly the point you consider most important?" He closed his eyes as a pained expression passed over his face. "You deem it impossible, yet I assure you, nothing could have hindered my arrival here; the boundaries of possibility, for once, were not a barrier but an aid. It reveals your scant regard for your circumstance if your worry fixates on my journey through the land. Not on the sickness that nearly stole you from this world. Two days –" Thranduil took a deep breath, "two whole days where those around you had no idea if you would ever awake again."

"But –"

"No, you can speak when I am finished," he commanded sharply. "You were reckless. Ignorant of your health as if your life was not precious." Thranduil spat the words out cold yet they burned. He was blind to the way you flinched and lowered your burning eyes to the blankets.

You shrunk deeper into the pillows, a hollow ache inside your chest that had felt empty from the pain ever since you awoke the first time.

"But –" you repeated helplessly. This time, he allowed you to continue and you did so in a whisper: "I didn't want to be an inconvenience."

"An inconvenience?" he sneered back at you, the flickering lights of a few burned-down candles casting shadows over the creases of anger edged into alabaster skin.

He took a step toward the bed and you saw a twitch in his lips that had you blanching.

The fury brooding inside him was not new, you had seen it on the battlefield before. In ice-cold cuts of his sword as he flawlessly executed the most brutal movements while his face resembled a mask of the most dangerous kind of rage – stillness.

Now, there remained little of that stillness.

"You were a greater inconvenience by nearly throwing away your precious mortal life, all because of your unfathomable stubbornness!"

"There was lots to do!" you snapped back. Shortly but surely, you were fed up with his anger and the insults he was throwing at you. "This town was suffering far more than me and don't you dare tell me I'm wrong," you had to bury your teeth into your lower lip to stop it from shaking. "Dale needed me!"

The pale skin was flushed red around his heaving chest and delicate ears. "And I do not?" Thranduil road and his voice boomed through your little bedroom loud enough for the cicadas outside to fall silent.

Immediately, your eyes watered. You felt trapped under his gaze, engulfed in pure heat hotter than any dragon fire.

You searched for a response inside you but found none.

All there was was chaos – the loud beating of your heart against your chest like iron being beaten and shaped though all that was formed was pain sharp like a sword edge; cutting through the layers of protection you had wrapped around your heart.

Thranduil slightly lifted his nose, staring down at you through thick eyebrows and a clenched jawline. "You were dying," he said and his nostrils quivered. "I can not fathom how you through that would not have been a greater inconvenience.

His expressions made up in sound for the lowered voice he'd used to speak about what you previously refused to acknowledge.

Never before had you seen him this out of control of his emotions, not even on the nights he had bedded you where he still had a hold on himself.

The way he stood before you, dressed in fine robes not fit for riding, the hem of them stained by dirt, his boots muddy, and his face full of anguish, it was as if he could have been kneeling at your feet.

You ignored the tears slipping silently down your cheeks. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It was indeed, and far beyond that."

The tears made it impossible for you to continue looking at him and your head dropped down as a sob broke through you. "I didn't know," you panicked, "It didn't happen fast so… so I thought it'd pass but – and then it got worse and worse and I was so afraid to speak to anyone about it." The words tumbled into your lap, where, under the blankets, your hands were balled to fists now that the strength to do so had returned to your body, "I – I couldn't," the night air stung as your breaths turned into gasps, "They – Bard was exhausted and –"

Thranduil's face softened ever so slightly, pushing away the furious frown. "You are too pure for this world," he said quietly and – dealing a fatal blow to your ever-fragile heart – slowly went down on one knee next to the bed until you were eye to eye and his cold long fingers could gently caress your wet cheek.

He stopped, most of his fingers covered in the glistening tears he'd freed you from and his thumb rested on the plushness of your lower lip. "The world would have lost its sunshine had you perished," his robes rustled as he drew closer, silver hair falling onto the blankets like stars flying across the skies, "You must promise me to be more careful or darkness shall be my companion from that day on."

How could you do anything else but break into tears once more?

They flooded your face too fast for Thranduil to catch them with his hand and he did what seemed more reasonable yet utterly out of character: he rose to push away some of the blankets and sat down on the mattress.

While his face showed some revelation of his thoughts at the meek bed of hay that surprised him, he said nothing except for a lowered: "Hush now, shh." while his arms found your shaking body and pulled you into his side.

He cradled you until there were no more tears to cry, until your cheeks hurt and your lashes clung together awfully damp, and then some more, his hands on your back, cooling down the firing heat that spread through you and the other in your hair. With tenderness, he massaged his fingertips into the areas where your head throbbed uncomfortably.

You cried for all the nights where you had suffered, drawing closer to a death you hadn't seen coming.

You cried out of relief that this was finally over, that you could breathe and inhale only the rich scents of Thranduil instead of smoke.

You sobbed uncontrollably long into the night, not caring one bit that by the time the wailing grew quiet and exhaustion rendered you weak enough to fall into his chest even more, Thranduils robes needed to be padded dry.

"Thranduil?" you asked and burrowed your nose into a spot of fabric that wasn't salty. "Can you tell me what was happening to me?"

He didn't start directly. Thranduil waited, his heart stuttering for a second that made you marvel that the muscle was affected by you at all despite the many proofs he had laid to your feet.

Were it not for the pounding headache you fostered and tried to push away by shutting away all the lights and leaving your eyes closed, you would have looked at his face to check for those minuscule expressions he only showed to you.

"At first I could not figure it out," Thranduil admitted at last and his previously stilled hand continuing the circular movements against your scalp, gathering hair between his fingers, "and that frightened me more than anything else. There was not a scratch or a wound, nothing that explained why you were hardly–" he flinched and his other hand held your waist tighter, "hardly breathing. Bard was the one who explained how much you fought against this illness all winter, ever since autumn to be precise. He spoke of the meals you denied, the coughing and shaking, the blood-soaked cloths, and how.. how you rarely slept and if you did, he told me he heard your whimpers and sobs whenever he passed your door."

"He noticed it all?"

"He loves you," Thranduil said, "He loves you just as much as his offspring."

You shut your eyes even closer, turning your head more into his chest as another layer of protection against the feeling of pain that flinched over your face like a stone skipping on water, leaving ripples of agony at the memory of the many times Bard had pleaded you to talk to him. "I never wanted him to hurt at my expense."

"He is aware you thought it to be better this way," Thranduil lovingly stroked your hair – and it was love, soft and beautiful like the elf who abandoned his kingdom to race to save you – "To go against his word to you declares him a strong man and leader, Dale will flourish under his guide and your gentle hand will provide your people all they will ever need."

"So what was it?" you asked the question eating away at you, "This sickness?"

Thranduil's fingers twirled a lock of hair as he hummed lowly, "The beast in the lake is at fault," he said, "and its body infesting the in any case dirty water that you used to still your thirst."

You lifted your head at that, staring up at Thranduil whose gaze was already on you. "The dragon?" you repeated perplexed, "I got sick because of that damned dragon?"

Thranduil nodded, "I sent out the order to have its carcass removed this instant, so no one else has to suffer this fate."

You drew your eyebrows together, the hard crease between them immediately found by Thranduil for him to smooth the frown away with his thumb and a soft click of his tongue.

"So I was the only one?" The conclusion was confirmed by another nod that sent you down another spiral of confusing thoughts and loose threats of a riddle that made no sense to you.

"A mystery," Thranduil said as if he could read your thoughts, "There is no explanation as to why you solely were affected and quite intense at that. I was glad to have brought Asëa aranion with me – although you required more than a handful until your heart finally calmed."

In a moment of contemplating silence, you barely managed to stifle a yawn.

Now that your body seemed to be fine again, all your muscles yearned for the sleep that had evaded you for the longest time.

Thranduil's pleasantly warm body around you lulled you into a state of calmness, his body heat and the memories of his touch you replaced with the feeling of his strong chest in your back, and his hands threading hair through his fingers.

He was curled up in your bed, in your home, not some tent under the stars though you could see them if you looked up and through the window.

As you did so, your eyes didn't travel further than Thranduil and the watchful look on his face.

"You're as beautiful as the day you left," you remarked in a whisper like a slip of your tongue but you meant every word.

While your body ached and wore new scars his hands and mouth hadn't explored yet, he could've been away for a day or less.

You lifted a hand to stroke over his left cheek, over the faint scarred muscles that you knew by whispers hid what he deemed hideous.

Thranduil caught your hand before it reached his cheekbones and his lips pressed a light kiss against the calluses, the signs of hours of work.

"Rest, meleth nîn, you need it."

There was no denying that the elvish words had meant something important, that was clear by the way his tongue had wrapped around the words and breathed them out like a kiss but his lowered lashes and downturned lips hindered you from asking what he had said.

This was not the time to question what was probably just for him.

Later, when you were not falling into the depths of sleep cuddled against Thranduil's chest, when you would step outside your house with his looming presence in your back ready to help you with every foot you set on the grounds, there would be stories awaiting you.

Stories of the Elvenking storming into the city on horseback and all alone, the wind seemingly carrying him faster than possible and the fury and worry on his face lowered all citizens to the grounds as he yelled for their King.

They would speak about the way he nearly broke down Bard's door and how he carried your unconscious body in his arms to your house, demanding for the crowd to make themselves rare before he had them all seized and locked into his halls for obstructing his path; and even though he had no authority, Bard was close on his heels and no one dared to object.

You would hear about the day he sat by your side, caring for you and barking out orders for more water, not the one from the lake but from the springs, and how Bard and his children were the only ones allowed to visit – explaining the yellow flowers that took up every single glass your house had to offer.

Thranduil would tell you the meaning of the words he had said that first night he had spent in your bed, fully awake and watching your sleeping form in his lap until the birds woke you up in the morning; and he would say these words on all the nights that followed.

With him in Dale, or you in Mirkwood – never apart from then on.

[jrreigns]

Mama’s Garden

It’s your birthday and your daughter wants to celebrate. Her father can do nothing but oblige.

A/N: My submission for Levi Month Day 21; Post-War: Children. ~1.3k words of pure angst.

Credit to @cafekitsune for the dividers!

“Papa, do you think mama would like this?”

A single pebble. A shiny one at that. Levi gave it an expressionless glance and gave a firm nod.

“Mama would like anything you give her, Eden.”

Hardened eyes met soft bright ones, ones that broke out in innocent glee, ones that made Levi Ackerman’s heart swell. There was only one other person who had this effect on him.

You.

The little girl chucked the pebble into a worn pouch, along with other things she wanted to give you. It was your birthday today and Levi had been up early—partly by his own choice, the other because of the giddy toddler who had been preparing for this day for weeks. It had been hard to put Eden down to bed yesterday and the bags under Levi’s eyes were a testament to that.

The day was sunny and so Levi moved forward with his child’s plans, a picnic for mama. Stowed inside a basket were fruit—the ones you and Eden liked—some sandwiches she helped him make, and leftover stew from yesterday’s meal.

“Mama doesn’t like stew,” Eden huffed, wrinkling her nose.

“Mama doesn’t like it, or you don’t like it?”

Eden gave it a seemingly deep thought.

“Neither of us.”

Dinner time had been a struggle yesterday, too. She turned out to be as picky of an eater as her father.

It was less of a struggle now though, compared to a couple of years ago.

Right. Eden was almost five. How quickly the time has passed.

Time, Levi reflected with a pang, time that he wished he had more of.

“Papa,” a little girl with his features, but your eyes, called to him, “let’s pick flowers for mama.” He nodded before his thoughts could ensnare him again.

“This red one, and this blue one, and this pink one…”

It amazed Levi how much she’s grown. She used to be so small, would fit right into his hands like a dainty little package. Now, she counted to ten and back, knew colors, helped him water your garden. She already knew so many things—Levi sometimes found it hard to keep up.

“Mama, you’re going to like my bucket, I promise,” Eden whispered into one of the bell-shaped flowers, a habit she had ever since Levi had told her that you’d hear her if she spoke into them.

“It’s bouquet, Eden,” he corrected her gently and turning to head back to the house when she stopped him.

“Won’t we water the flowers today?”

Levi paused, a twinge of guilt tightening in his chest. So Eden has noticed; Levi has tried not to let the approaching date affect him, but your garden hasn’t been tended to in a week now. The weeds were beginning to creep in, some flowers were wilted and some of the bush was growing wildly in some places.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, his voice softening, “go get the watering can.”

Eden giggled with delight, small shoes pattering around the corner as Levi watched her disappear momentarily. The minutes felt long; a familiar worry settled in his bones, a worry he couldn’t quite shake when his daughter was out of sight.

Levi let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when Eden finally reappeared. Watering can in tow, they watered the garden together. Levi’s brows were furrowed in concentration, trying not to overwater like you’ve taught him before.

I’ll tend to this later, Levi silently promised as they left the small garden and headed back into the house. He watched as Eden said her goodbyes to each and every flower, exerting patience where there once was none.

With the small basket in tow and a giggling Eden following closely behind, Levi began the familiar trek to the fields to see you.

“Papa, how come you married mama?”

Your toddler exhibited such curiosity that could drive Levi mad at times, but nonetheless he ensured to give her the information she wanted.

“I loved your mama, so I married her.”

Words like love still felt foreign in the former captain’s mouth. Yet, with time, it was getting just a little easier to speak of it—to speak of you.

“So people marry for love?”

Not always.

Very rarely.

“Of course,” he answered, voice steady.

Soon, the cobblestone paths diverted into dirt walkways. The small patch of flowers that had been growing from the cracks of the stone brick now flowed wildly in this section of the road.

Past the willow tree and into the flower fields, alone and by a motionless lake, you were there.

This is where Levi let love in—where he let you in. This is where Levi proposed.

This is where you rested.

“Mama, happy birthday!” Eden exclaimed, her voice ringing out in the quiet air. She took a seat next to the familiar gravestone, pouch already open as she emptied out its contents on the patch of grass she sat on.

Levi watched her for a moment, the weight of the day finally pressing heavily on his heart. Finally, he set the basket down, hand brushing light over the cool stone.

“Here’s this pebble I found today. You can have it, I already have one like it in my room…”

Levi could feel his throat closing up as Eden continued speaking, explaining every single gift she’s brought and what it meant. The pebble, a pink bow she’d begged Levi to buy (a bow he thought was for her), a drawing of a big house and a family of three.

A family of three, Levi wished his family of two could be a family of three. So many nights he spent hoping you were alive somewhere, not just in his mind—those quiet hours when the house felt too empty, and the silence too heavy.

Emotion was getting harder to combat with age, but Levi tried with all his might to refrain from crying. No, today his daughter deserved a moment of happiness, even if you being gone was killing him inside. Even if being here was killing him inside.

But Levi couldn’t stop the tears even if he wanted to.

“Is papa crying?”

He quickly wiped them away with his sleeve.

“No, it’s water.”

“…There was water in papa’s eyes yesterday, too.”

Eden was just like you, always so annoyingly observant. Levi could feel his heart twist at her words.

The flowers swayed peacefully in this part of the field, their soft colors blending with the golden light of the afternoon. The wind blew against Levi’s hair, tickling his face as he watched Eden run and play. A small smile etched itself on his scarred face in this fleeting moment of calm.

When Eden finally tired, she helped her papa clean up and put everything back in the basket. The gifts would stay, except the drawing. Levi had to find a way to secretly take it back home.

“Can we come back soon,” Eden asked, a hint of sadness finally making its way through.

Levi gave a firm nod. “Of course.”

There was a silent pause, a moment of deliberation for the young girl.

“Papa, how come mama can’t be with us?”

She died at childbirth.

“She’s busy,” was Levi’s gruff response, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Mama’s taking care of us…from the sky.” Levi was weary of religion, but if it meant he could spare even a shred of innocence for his daughter for the time being, he’s taking it, no questions asked.

“Mama’s an angel?”

A silent pause.

“Yeah, sure kid.”

She grinned, curiosity quelled for a short minute, before another thought burst through her tiny mind.

“Will you also be an angel one day?”

Levi could feel his heart stop. He hoped so, if it meant he could see you one day. He missed you so much—he missed your smile, your laugh, your playful kisses despite his half-hearted protests. For a brief moment, he allowed himself the comfort of an afterlife with you.

“Yeah, one day,” he finally managed to say, his voice almost breaking.

Eden smiled, her small face lighting up with an innocence that tugged at Levi’s heart.

“Papa, I love you,” Eden says so suddenly, “Mama loves you, too.”

Levi’s breath hitches, a warmth spreading through his chest. His eyes soften, he breaks into a rare, tender smile, one that hadn’t come easily for years.

“I love the both of you, too.”

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

Yandere!Monster X Barbarian!Reader

❤️ Barbarian Reader who seems to have put all their stat points into Strength/Dex, and completely forgot Intelligence

💀 thembo.exe

❤️ A huge sweetheart, and I mean huge

💀 Was always the tallest in their village, towering over both women and men alike

❤️ Due to their height (Reader) had a lot more placed on their shoulders from a very early age

💀 Some internal reflection could have led to a deeper understanding of their secret yearning to rely on another person, but that sounds like a lot of work... And thinking...

❤️ Happy to be sent as part of their tribe's representation when meeting with a tribe of monsters despite knowing nothing about politics

💀 While the presence of the monster people caused visible discomfort in their fellow warriors, (Reader) was too busy being star struck to think about how easily this new species could kill them

Xyleth emerges from his tent, unimpressed with the shivering smooth skins before him. His form was only vaguely human in the front, with a gun metal blue chest and face, sparkling in the sun like his skin was dusted in finely crushed gems. However, his backside and limbs were armored in an inky black shell, spiked for protection along his joints and down his long tail, with bone colored claws adorning his claw like appendages. His eyes seemed black in the shade, but held a universe of stars in the light. Xyleth was born to be a leader, only the strongest of his species developed this coloring, separating him from the rest of his tribe whose shells were a sandy brown to hide in the desert of their home.

❤️ (Reader) didn't notice the congregation were speaking, still taking in the sights about them, before they finally looked forward, witnessing the tallest of the monsters

💀 (gasps) "Damn, you're huge!"

❤️ The barbarians gasp in horror, and flinch away from (Reader)

💀 Was this some sort of joke?

❤️ A tight smile formed on Xyleth's chiseled face. "Yes?"

💀 "Yeah, I thought I was big, but damn, you could crush me without breaking a sweat, huh big guy?"

❤️ What's this? Was this human attempting to flatter him? A war lord of a different species?

💀 No, (Reader) was genuinely impressed.

❤️ "And the point of you bringing this up, small one?" He asked, his on edge grin softening into an amused smile. Although he would have no interest in something not his own species, it was adorable how this human flirted with him so confidently (that's not what's happening)

💀 "Ah, no point. I'd love to wrestle you though!" (Reader) knocked their fists together, pumped at the idea of testing their strength against the beast

❤️ Xyleth and his guards were taken aback, Xyleth's tail smacking the ground with surprise. No one had ever been so brave, so brazen. Unknown to the barbarians, the armored monsters had a very unique mating ritual, similar to scorpions dancing while pressing up against each other to test the male's strength

💀 Despite (Reader) being taller than their fellow barbarians, they were still several feet shorter than Xyleth's shortest villager

❤️ But your personality... None of the women or men had ever approached Xyleth like (Reader) had (again, not what's going on..)

💀 Perhaps Xyleth would actually listen to the barbarians, instead of slaughtering them for having the audacity to request a conference with him like he originally planned

❤️ The barbarians were invited to stay with the rival tribe for a week as they discussed various topics (Reader) had no interest in

💀 (Reader) quickly became loved by the local children, the children adoring (Reader) as a human loves their pet puppy, allowing (Reader) to rough house with them and feeding them snacks like a stray

❤️ (Reader) did not find this insulting, and was enjoying the affection and attention they were receiving

Xyleth was bored in his meetings with the soft skins, upset that (Reader) wasn't involved. He had learned that (Reader) was brought in as the muscle, which irked him. Did they not research how giant his species were before arriving? What did they think someone as small and sweet and adora- Xyleth thumped his tail loudly, frightening the barbarians. Why couldn't he get (Reader) out of his head? "Let's continue this after lunch."

💀 Xyleth roamed his streets in search for (Reader). Although they weren't there as part of the 'debate team' it was a little upsetting that (Reader) wasn't at least waiting for Xyleth near the meeting tent seeing how enamored they were with him

❤️ (Reader) was found in a circle of chuckling adults, struggling with all their might to lift two children at the same time

💀 The sight immediately filled Xyleth's heart with warmth, seeing the children as their own for a split second, and picturing an entire future with the barbarian

❤️ He knew (Reader) would have no objections to becoming his mate, however their people might argue

💀 It didn't matter if he had to kill the other barbarians staying in his town, he had initially planned on slaughtering them anyhow, but it would be better if they enthusiastically supported their love

❤️ And they did support his proposal, especially since it was either trade (Reader) for their protection (from Xyleth's own tribe) on their hunting paths, or die right there and have their entire tribe extinguished

💀 What a supportive family (Reader) has~!

(Reader) didn't notice when the rest of their people left the village, still having the time of their life with creatures that more matched their strength and height. One of the kids gasped and wiggled his way out of (Reader's) arms, running away as his parents also turned back towards their homes. A large shadow approached the confused human, who got up, patting the dirt off their legs.

"Play fighting with young boys? Are you trying to make me jealous, little one?" Xyleth joked with a smile.

(Reader) felt their heart soar being called "Little One", relishing in the friendliness they experienced from the citizens the barbarians called monsters.

"Bwahahaha!!! Jealous? If I was as imposing as you, the only one who could make me jealous would be a god!"

Xyleth couldn't control his tail, whacking the ground in embarrassment over his love's honesty flirtatiousness.

"If it wouldn't be too inconveniencing, I would be honored to take you up on that wrestling proposition now.." He could hardly speak with how excited he was, fearful the adorable little human could hear his two hearts rapid beating.

"Really? Right now? I'm a little worn out, but I'll never turn down a challenge! Just don't be too disappointed!"

Xyleth picked (Reader) up in his arms, fighting every urge to take them right then and there in the center of his village.

"I could never be disappointed in you~" his deep voice vibrated against (Reader's) body, as he carried them to his tent, the poor human completely unaware of what he was about to do to them.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Boys Day Out.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - these new pictures are making me go feral, like his hair grew back so quick and ngl im absolutely loving it 🥰

word count - 2.8k

in which, manchester united are playing luton town fc in the premier league, and so what better thing to do then take your two football obsessed children to watch there favourite team hopefully win.

Friday 16th February, 2024.

Last Friday was a rare moment of tranquility in your household.

You sat nestled in your shared bed, Harry's arm draped around your waist, pulling you close. As you lost yourself in the pages of your book, you couldn't help but steal glances at him, admiring the way his eyes sparkled with every scroll on his phone.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a warm aura around the room, creating a peaceful atmosphere that enveloped you both. With each shared smile and whispered exchange, the bond between you grew stronger, weaving a tapestry of love and companionship that filled the space between you.

As the subtle silence enveloped the room, Harry gently broke it, his voice filled with excitement. "Y’know, m’love, I was thinking... How about taking the boys to the Manchester United match on Sunday? A mate has a few tickets spare. It would be a fantastic day out for them, and I reckon it'd do you good to have some time for yourself."

You paused, considering his suggestion. " H, I don't mind staying with the boys. Besides, it's a big game, and they might get restless."

Harry shook his head, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Nonsense, they'll love it! And you deserve a break, you do so much for them already. Plus, it'll be a chance for me to bond with the boys, just the three of us."

You couldn't help but smile at his earnestness.

"I suppose it would be nice to have a bit of me-time," you admitted, though still hesitant about leaving the boys for the day.

Seeing your uncertainty, Harry took your hand in his, his gaze softening. "Trust me, m’love, it'll be a day they'll never forget. Besides, it'll give you a chance to relax and unwind, do whatever you fancy without worrying about the boys."

His words warmed your heart, and you found yourself nodding, a sense of relief washing over you.

"Okay, you've convinced me. Let's make it a boys' day out on Sunday," you agreed, a smile spreading across your face at the thought of a few hours of peace and quiet.

Sunday 18th February, 2024.

Harry navigated his Range Rover through the familiar streets, the excitement palpable in the air as they neared Kenilworth town where the football match awaited.

In the backseat, Cameron, his eight-year-old son, gazed out of the window with a mix of wonder and anticipation, his Manchester United kit proudly worn.

Cameron Harry Styles was conceived only five months into yours and Harry’s relationship, it definitely came as a shock seeing as he was only twenty-two, but he absolutely wouldn’t change it for the world.

"Dad, do you think Rashford will score today?" Cameron asked eagerly, his eyes alight with excitement.

Harry glanced at Cameron through the rearview mirror, a smile playing on his lips.

"M’reckon he's got a good chance, Cam. But y’know how football is, anything can happen," he replied, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, in the other car seat Dexter Robin Styles, your youngest child who was conceived on your honeymoon.

Dexter, just turned two, slept soundly in his car seat, blissfully unaware of the excitement surrounding him. Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his youngest son, his heart swelling with love.

"Look at him, out like a light already," he remarked to Cameron.

Cameron grinned back, his excitement bubbling over.

"We can wake him up when we get there, Daddy," he declared confidently, already planning the day ahead in his mind. "I can't wait to see the players up close!"

The journey continued for another half an hour, the excitement building with each passing mile. Cameron peppered Harry with questions about the match, his eagerness infectious as they drew closer to the stadium. Dexter stirred in his sleep occasionally, but Cameron kept a watchful eye on him, eager to share every moment of the adventure with his little brother.

Finally, they pulled up in the stadium's private car park, greeted by the bustling atmosphere of fellow fans and the distant sounds of cheers from inside. Harry turned off the engine, glancing back at his sons with a grin.

As Harry stepped out of the car, he made his way around to Dexter's car seat, his heart full of anticipation for the day ahead. Gently, he opened the door and leaned in to wake his youngest son.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," he murmured softly, giving Dexter a gentle shake. "It's time to wake up, buddy."

Dexter stirred, his eyelids fluttering as he slowly emerged from his deep slumber.

"Daddy?" he mumbled, his voice groggy from sleep. "Carry me, please?"

Harry couldn't help but smile at his son's request, knowing full well that Dexter was a total daddy's boy.

"Of course, little man," he replied, ready to scoop Dexter up into his arms. "You ready for some football?"

Dexter nodded, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists. "Yeah, football!" he exclaimed, his voice still laced with sleepiness.

Harry chuckled softly, planting a kiss on Dexter's forehead.

"That's right, buddy. But first, we need to get you out of this car seat," he said, gently manoeuvring Dexter's sleepy limbs.

Meanwhile, Cameron had already made his way out of the car and stood next to his father, his hand clasped firmly in Harry's.

"I can't wait to see the players, Daddy!" he exclaimed, his excitement palpable.

Harry chuckled, ruffling Cameron's hair affectionately.

"I know, buddy. It's going to be an amazing day," he replied, his heart swelling with love for his two sons.

The stadium wasn’t that busy, but that may be because the match didn’t kick off for another hour.

No one had managed to spot him thus far, so it was all smooth sailing.

Dexter was still in his arms, thumb in his mouth and Cameron was holding his fathers hand, his shoulder length curls tied back in a loose man bun that you had done this morning.

As they made their way through the bustling stadium, Cameron's stomach rumbled loudly, coincidently as they passed a nearby food stand.

Oh how he craved some warm food right now.

"Daddy, m’hungry!" he exclaimed, tugging on Harry's hand.

Harry chuckled. "Hungry, huh? Remember, it's not 'want', it's 'would like'," he gently corrected, trying to instill good manners in his son.

Cameron nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the food stand.

"Okay, Daddy. Can I have a slice of pizza, please?" he asked politely, his stomach grumbling impatiently.

Harry smiled, proud of Cameron's manners.

"Of course, buddy. Let's see what they have," he replied, leading the way to the queue.

As they waited in line, Harry turned to Dexter, who was still cradled in his arms.

"And what about you, Dex? Would y’like anything to drink?" he asked, brushing a stray lock of hair from Dexter's forehead.

Dexter nodded enthusiastically, his eyes wide with excitement.

"Fruit shoot, please, Daddy!" he chirped, his little voice filled with anticipation.

He should have guessed.

Harry chuckled, planting a kiss on Dexter's cheek.

"Fruit shoot it is, champ," he replied, making a mental note to grab a couple of bottles for the boys.

Finally reaching the front of the queue, Harry ordered a slice of pizza for Cameron and a couple of fruit shoots for Dexter. As they walked away from the food stand, Cameron eagerly bit into his slice, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. And with Dexter happily sipping on his fruit shoot.

In the stands of the bustling stadium, Harry sat between his two boys, each in their own seat. Dexter, perched proudly in his own seat, had insisted on being a "big boy" for the match, his determination shining through as he sat upright, his legs swinging with excitement.

Though still too young to fully grasp the intricacies of the game, Dexter's eyes sparkled with wonder as he took in the sights and sounds of the stadium, his tiny hands gripping the edge of his seat in anticipation.

Cameron, on the other hand, was completely engrossed in the action on the field. With his Manchester United scarf wrapped around his neck and his eyes fixed on the players, he leaned forward eagerly, his heart racing with each pass and shot. His passion for the game was palpable, his entire being consumed by the thrill of the match unfolding before him.

As the game entered its fifth minute, Manchester United surged ahead with an early goal, igniting a chorus of cheers from the crowd.

Harry couldn't help but smile as he watched the excitement ripple through Cameron, his son's eyes shining with pure joy. And beside him, Dexter's infectious laughter filled the air, a constant reminder of the simple pleasures of being together as a family.

As the game entered its seventh minute, Manchester United's Rasmus Højlund seized an opportunity and scored a magnificent goal, sending the stadium into a frenzy of cheers and applause.

Cameron, unable to contain his excitement, leapt up from his seat, his eyes wide with jubilation as he started jumping up and down.

"Yes! Go, United!" he shouted, his voice filled with exhilaration.

Beside him, Dexter watched with wide-eyed wonder, not quite understanding what had just happened.

Sensing his confusion, Harry leaned down and whispered in Dexter's ear, "Dexter, our team just scored a goal! Isn't that exciting?"

Dexter's face lit up with understanding, and he clambered down from his seat, his tiny legs carrying him over to stand in front of Harry.

With a beaming smile, he reached out for Cameron's hand, eager to join in the celebration.

"Goal! Goal!" he exclaimed, mimicking his older brother's excited jumps.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his two boys jumping up and down in unison, their laughter echoing through the stadium. Quickly pulling out his phone, he aimed the camera at them, capturing the precious moment for posterity.

As the final whistle blew, signaling the end of the match with Manchester United emerging victorious with a score of 2-1, Cameron was buzzing with excitement. He bounced around, his energy infectious as he reveled in his team's triumph.

Meanwhile, Dexter, nestled contentedly in Harry's arms, gazed up at his father with sleepy eyes, still basking in the excitement of the game.

Unbeknownst to the boys, Harry had a surprise in store for them. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he decided to keep it a secret until the perfect moment. As they made their way out of the stadium, Cameron and Dexter assumed they were heading home, completely unaware of the surprise awaiting them.

A kind-hearted stadium staff member, noticing the boys' enthusiasm for the game, discreetly approached Harry and whispered about a special opportunity to visit the dressing room of Manchester United. Sensing the boys' excitement, Harry nodded gratefully, knowing that this unexpected treat would be the perfect end to an already unforgettable day.

They soon arrived at the changing rooms.

"Daddy, where are we going?" Cameron asked, his voice tinged with excitement and curiosity. Before Harry could respond, the door swung open, revealing a sight that left Cameron speechless.

His eyes widened in awe as he took in the scene before him—the dressing room of Manchester United, filled with his favorite players. For a moment, Cameron was rendered silent, his mouth hanging open in disbelief as he stood in the presence of his idols.

Meanwhile, Dexter, wide awake and brimming with enthusiasm, squirmed in Harry's arms, eager to explore. Spotting one of the players nearby, he wiggled free and dashed over without hesitation, his extroverted nature shining through as he greeted the player with a wide grin and a burst of chatter.

Harry couldn't help but laugh at Dexter's boldness, his heart swelling with pride at his son's fearlessness. As Dexter chatted animatedly with the player, Harry followed after him, a fond smile on his face as he watched his youngest son soak up the moment with unbridled joy.

Beside him, Cameron held onto Harry's trouser leg tightly, his shyness evident as he observed the scene with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Harry knelt down beside him, offering reassurance and encouragement.

"S’okay, Cam. They're just regular people, like you and me," he whispered, gently squeezing Cameron's hand in support.

Harry noticed Cameron's apprehension and knelt down beside him, offering a reassuring smile and a comforting squeeze of his hand.

"S���okay, buddy. Y’don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to," he whispered gently, understanding his son's discomfort.

As the bustling activity in the dressing room continued, a familiar figure approached the trio.

It was Marcus Rashford, Cameron's favorite footballer.

The moment Cameron caught sight of him, his eyes widened in awe, and he instinctively tightened his grip on Harry's hand.

Harry smiled warmly as Marcus crouched down to Cameron's level.

"Hey there, buddy! Did you enjoy the game?" Marcus asked, his voice gentle and friendly.

Cameron nodded eagerly, his heart pounding with excitement.

"Y-yes! It wa-was amazing! Y-you're my favorite player," he stammered, his cheeks flushing with nervousness.

Marcus grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Thank you, mate! That means a lot to me. What's your name?" he asked, reaching out to ruffle Cameron's hair.

"C-Cameron," he replied, his voice trembling with excitement. "I-I've always wanted to be like you when I play football with my team."

Marcus's smile widened at Cameron's words.

"That's fantastic, Cameron! Keep working hard, and who knows, maybe one day you'll be playing for Manchester United too," he encouraged, his words filled with genuine warmth and encouragement.

Encouraged by Marcus's friendly demeanor, Cameron slowly began to relax. With Harry's reassuring presence beside him, he found the courage to step out from behind his father's leg and engage in conversation with his idol.

Harry, holding onto Dexter with his other hand to prevent him from wandering off again, watched proudly as Cameron and Marcus chatted animatedly. Despite Cameron's initial nervousness, his admiration for Marcus shone through, and Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at his son's bravery.

And as they continued to talk, Cameron's stutter gradually faded away, replaced by an excited chatter as he eagerly shared his love for football with his idol. In that moment, surrounded by his father's support and the friendly encouragement of Marcus Rashford, Cameron felt like anything was possible.

As their conversation with Marcus continued, he noticed the excitement radiating from both Cameron and Dexter.

With a warm smile, Marcus gently interrupted their chatter.

"Hey guys, would you like to take a photo together?" he offered, extending his arms towards them.

Cameron's eyes lit up with excitement, while Dexter's face broke into a wide grin.

"Yes, please!" Cameron exclaimed, eager to capture the moment with their idol.

Marcus chuckled warmly as he scooped Dexter into one arm and Cameron into the other.

"Alright, let's get a picture," he said, positioning them carefully for the shot.

As Marcus held onto the boys, he glanced over at Harry, who stood nearby, watching with a proud smile.

"Would you like to join us in the photo?" Marcus asked, extending an invitation to Cameron and Dexter's father.

Harry's heart swelled with gratitude at the gesture.

"Absolutely," he replied, stepping forward to join the group.

With Harry now in the frame, another player from the team stepped forward to take the photo.

"Say cheese!" he called out, readying the camera.

Cameron, Dexter, and Harry beamed with excitement as the photo was taken, capturing the moment they shared with Marcus Rashford. As the shutter clicked, Harry felt a sense of overwhelming gratitude, knowing that this experience would be a cherished memory for years to come.

After the photo was taken, Cameron ran straight over to Harry, his eyes shining with tears of joy.

"Daddy, I love you so much! This has been the best day ever!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms around Harry in a tight hug.

Touched by Cameron's heartfelt words, Harry wrapped his arms around his son, holding him close.

"I love you too, Cam. M’so glad we could share this special moment together," he replied, his voice filled with emotion.

Feeling left out of the hug, Dexter toddled over, his arms outstretched.

"Me too! Hug, Daddy!" he chimed in, joining the embrace with a giggle.

Harry couldn't help but laugh at Dexter's enthusiasm, his heart overflowing with love for his two sons. Pulling them both close, he held them tightly, savoring the moment of pure happiness and love.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, laughter mingled with tears of joy. In that moment, surrounded by the love of his family, Harry felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the beautiful memories they had created together. And as they headed home, hand in hand, he knew that this day would be etched in their hearts forever.

[misswynters]

The Bastard Daughter

Davos/Benjicot Blackwood x fem!reader

[ SYNOPSIS: You were born the bastard daughter of Prince daemon, and the elder half sister to baela and rhaena. Once you got married to your betrothed, Benjicot, you took your little brother, whom you shared a mom, with you. Aerys is ten years younger than you, however you raised him since he was a babe. Due to your mother, Lysa Tully, dying in childbirth.

[ WARNING: almost kidnapping, non-canon character death, mentions of blood, stabbing, kinda sloppy writing…

[ REQUESTED: by anonymous

The halls of Raventree Hall bustle with activity as preparations for the upcoming journey to Dragonstone are in full swing. You walk briskly through the corridors, your mind occupied with the heavy responsibilities placed upon your shoulders. As the recognized bastard daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen, you have always been aware of the weight your lineage carries. Riding the wild dragon, Cannibal, only adds to the mystique and danger that surrounds you. But today, it is your duty as a mother and sister that weighs most heavily on your heart.

Benjicot Blackwood, your husband and the Lord of Raventree Hall, is in the courtyard, overseeing the preparations. His tall figure, with dark hair and a stern expression, exudes a sense of authority and protectiveness that has always comforted you. When he catches sight of you, his eyes soften, and he approaches you with a reassuring smile.

"Everything is almost ready," Benjicot says, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Are you sure about this?"

You nod, though a knot of worry sits in your stomach. "Rhaenyra has asked us to send our son and my brother to the Vale with her own sons. They will be safer there, with their dragons."

Benjicot frowns slightly but nods. "If this is what you believe is best, then we will do it. They will be safe, I promise you that."

Your son, Eddric, and your younger brother, Aerys, are playing nearby, their laughter a small comfort amidst the tension. The younger one, Eddric was six years his junior. However both boys are strong and brave, with the fierce spirit of their Targaryen bloodline, but they are still young.

As the day progresses, you make your way to Dragonstone. The sight of the imposing fortress fills you with a mix of awe and apprehension. You know that not everyone will welcome your presence or the presence of your brother and son. Baela and Rhaena, in particular, have never hidden their disdain for you and Aenys.

Upon arriving, you are greeted by Rhaenyra herself. Her warm smile is a balm to your nerves. "Thank you for coming," she says. "As you know we must ensure the safety of our children."

You exchange polite greetings before making your way inside. As expected, Baela and Rhaena are there, their expressions hardening when they see you. The tension is palpable as you introduce Eddric and Aerys to Rhaenyra’s sons, Jacaerys and Joffrey.

"The Vale is no place for these boys," Baela says sharply, her gaze fixed on you. "They are meaningless, having no worth.”

Rhaena hesitantly nods in agreement. "We cannot risk our lives for them."

You step forward, your chin held high. "They are targaryens, just like the rest of us. They have a right to be part of this."

Before the argument can escalate further, Benjicot steps in, his presence commanding the room. "These boys are my family," he says firmly. "I have raised them, protected them, and I will not allow anyone to speak against their place here."

Baela glares at him. "This is not about you, Benjicot. It is about their safety."

Benjicot’s eyes flash with anger. "And I say they will be safe in the Vale. We also have dragons."

The room falls silent, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. Rhaenyra steps forward, placing a calming hand on Baela's arm. "We must trust in each other," she says softly. "Our family will be stronger together."

Reluctantly, Baela and Rhaena nod, though their expressions remain tight. You take a deep breath, feeling a sense of relief.

As the preparations continue, you find a moment alone with Benjicot. He takes your hand, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. "Don’t pay mind to them" he says quietly. You took a deep breath, feeling a sense of relief.

The following day, the courtyard is a hive of activity as the handmaidens, servants and riders prepare for the journey. Cannibal, your imposing dragon, stands apart everyone, his dark scales absorbing the morning sunlight. Eddric and Aerys are wide-eyed with excitement and nervousness, as the elder of the two clasped his hands onto the reins of his dragon. Your son then made his way towards his father.

You walked towards aerys and kneeled before him, smoothing his unruly hair. "Stay close," you instruct him. "And listen to Benjicot and me at all times."

Aenys nods solemnly, his face set with determination. "I will, sister."

Eddric, standing beside his father, looks towards at him. "Will you fly like mother?"

Benjicot smiles, ruffling Eddric’s hair. "Sadly i cannot my brave boy. We will be riding the carriage together."

As you mounted cannibal, you watched as aerys soared through the sky following behind, the wind whipping through your hair. The journey to the Vale is long and arduous, but the sight of the mountains and the Eyrie in the distance fills you with a sense of purpose. Aerys, riding his dragon, was a sight to behold, his youthful enthusiasm blending with the raw power of his mounts. You smiled with pride as his older sister.

Upon arrival, you are greeted by Lady Jeyne Arryn, who welcomes you warmly. The Eyrie, perched high in the mountains, feels like a safe haven amidst the chaos of the realm. The children quickly settle into their new surroundings, as the dragons roosting nearby.

A few days have passed, and the children begin their training in earnest. Under Benjicot’s watchful eye, they practice their swordsmanship and horse riding, their skills improving with each passing day. You spend your time teaching them the history and traditions of House Targaryen, ensuring they understand the legacy they are a part of.

That evening, as the sun sets over the mountains, you find a moment alone with Benjicot. You stand together on a balcony, overlooking the Vale. The sight is breathtaking, but your thoughts are heavy with the weight of your responsibilities.

Benjicot takes your hand, his touch grounding you. "You’ve done well," he says softly. "Aerys and Eddric are safe, and they are learning. You should be proud."

You sigh, leaning into him. "I am proud, but I worry. The realm is in turmoil, and our family is scattered."

Benjicot’s grip tightens on your hand. "With time, we shall be together again. Your family and mine are strong, and we will fearlessly protect each other."

His words are a comfort, and you find strength in his unwavering support. Together, you watch the sunset, the promise of a new day bringing hope.

Tensions remain high between you and Baela and Rhaena. Despite Rhaenyra’s efforts to mediate, old wounds run deep. One afternoon, as you are helping Aerys with his dragon, you overhear Baela speaking with Rhaena.

"They don’t belong here," Baela says, her voice sharp. "They are not true Targaryens."

You feel a surge of anger but force yourself to remain calm. Stepping forward, you address Baela directly. "We are as much Targaryens as you. Our blood is the same, and we have the right to be here."

Baela’s eyes narrow. "Your mother was not a princess. You are a bastard."

“But she was noble, even so… share the same father Baela,” You told her as you rubbed your forehead due to stress. Benjicot steps in, his presence a wall of protection. "Enough," he says, his voice cold. "This bickering helps no one. We are here to prepare for the future. We need to stand as a family."

Baela looks ready to argue, but Rhaena places a hand on her arm, silently urging her to back down. With a huff, Baela turns and stalks away, leaving you and Benjicot standing together.

You turn to Benjicot, your heart heavy. "Thank you," you say quietly. "I don’t know what I would do without you." He pulls you into an embrace, his strength and warmth enveloping you.

The days turn into weeks, a sense of routine settles over the Eyrie. The children continue their training, and the bonds between them grow stronger. The hostility from Baela and Rhaena lessens, though it never fully disappears.

As you gather for dinner, Jeyne makes an announcement. "I have received word from Dragonstone. We must prepare for a council meeting. Our presence is requested by the queen to discuss the future of the realm." The news sends a ripple of tension through the room. You exchange a glance with Benjicot, knowing that this council meeting could change everything.

However journey back is fraught with anticipation. Cannibal is flying in a calm but steady manner. Upon arriving at the Dragonstone, you are struck by the gravity of the situation. The council chamber is filled with lords, their faces a mix of hope and fear.

Rhaenyra takes her place at the head of the table, her presence commanding respect. As discussions begin, it becomes clear that the realm is on the brink of war. Alliances must be forged, and plans must be made. When it is your turn to speak, you step forward, your voice steady.

"My husband and I have brought our family and dragons to support the cause," you say. "We stand with Rhaenyra, and we will fight for the future of the realm."

Your words are met with murmurs of approval, and you feel a sense of pride and determination. As the council meeting continues, you steal a glance at your husband. Benjicot meets your gaze, a small smile playing on his lips.

After the council meeting concluded, you flew ahead back to the Eyrie. It The moon hangs high in the night sky, casting an ethereal glow over the imposing structure of the Eyrie. All is quiet as the inhabitants of the castle sleep, unaware of the danger creeping closer. In the children's chambers, Eddric and Aenys sleep soundly, the fatigue from their rigorous training finally taking its toll.

Suddenly, a faint sound disturbs the silence – the creak of a door opening. Shadows slip into the room, figures cloaked in darkness, moving with the practiced stealth of seasoned kidnappers. They are after the children, seeking to exploit their value as dragon riders and Targaryen blood.

Aerys stirs, sensing the intruders, but before he can fully wake, a rough hand clamps over his mouth. His eyes fly open in terror, and he struggles futilely against his captor. Eddric is also grabbed, his startled cry muffled as he is lifted from his bed.

The kidnappers move quickly, their actions rehearsed and precise. They bind the boys' hands and gag them to prevent any cries for help. The children are carried through the darkened halls, the intruders avoiding patrols and sentries with an eerie familiarity of the castle’s layout.

In the courtyard, the kidnappers approach their hidden escape route. The dragons, knowing their companions are in danger, begin to stir restlessly in their nearby roosts. The beasts' low growls and shifting shapes go unnoticed by the kidnappers, who are focused solely on their escape.

One of the dragons, Cannibal, is particularly sensitive to the distress of its riders. The ancient, fearsome beast senses the peril its bonded humans face and lets out a thunderous roar that echoes through the mountains, shaking the very stones of the Eyrie.

The roar rouses you and Benjicot from your sleep. You leap from bed, your heart pounding with dread. "The boys!" you exclaim, already moving toward the door. Benjicot is right behind you, his face a mask of determination and fury.

Rushing into the courtyard, you are met with chaos. Dragons are roaring, their eyes glowing with rage, and guards are scrambling to understand the source of the commotion. You spot the kidnappers just as they reach the edge of the courtyard, your children still struggling in their grasp.

"Stop them!" you shout, your voice piercing the night air.

Benjicot draws his sword, his eyes blazing with fury. "Let them go!" he roars, charging toward the kidnappers.

The intruders, realizing they have been discovered, hasten their movements. One of them draws a dagger, pressing it to Aerys throat. "Stay back, or the boy dies!" the kidnapper threatens.

Your heart clenches with fear, but you refuse to back down. "You will not harm them," you declare, stepping forward with a fierce resolve. "Let them go, and you might live."

Cannibal lands heavily behind you, the ground shaking under his weight. The sight of the massive, menacing dragon causes the kidnappers to falter, their courage wavering in the face of such a formidable beast.

Benjicot takes advantage of their hesitation, lunging forward with a swift, precise strike. He disarms the kidnapper holding Aerys, pulling the boy to safety. You rush to Eddric, freeing him from his captor's grasp and shielding him with your body.

The remaining kidnappers, seeing their plan unraveling and the dragons closing in, decide to flee. They sprint toward the forest, abandoning their mission in the face of certain death.

With the danger passed, you hold Eddric and Aerys towards you, your heart still racing. Benjicot stands beside you, his sword at the ready, eyes scanning the surroundings for any remaining threats.

"You’re safe now," you whisper to the boys, trying to soothe their trembling forms. "We won't let anything happen to you."

Benjicot kneels beside you, his expression softening as he looks at the children. "We will always protect you," he promises, his voice firm and reassuring.

Eddric clings to you, his voice shaking. "They were going to take us away," he says, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Aerys, though shaken, lifts his chin defiantly. "We’re not afraid," he declares, his young voice filled with the courage of his Targaryen heritage. "We have dragons."

You and Benjicot exchange a look of profound relief, as the boy . Despite the terror of the night, the four of you had emerged stronger through fear.

The day came to a close and it was the next morning, a beautiful crisp autumn day at the Eyrie, the air filled with the rustle of leaves and the distant roars of dragons. You watch Aerys and Eddric from a distance as they train, their laughter and determination a constant source of joy.

The boys have become inseparable, their friendship growing stronger with each passing day. Suddenly, a commotion erupts near the main gate. You see a group of strangers, dressed in dark cloaks, pushing their way through the guards.

Your heart races as you recognized the danger. The attackers move swiftly, drawing swords and pushing past the guards with brutal efficiency.

"Stay here!" you shout to Eddric, who is standing frozen in shock. You run towards Aerys, who is closer to the intruders, your mind racing with fear.

Before you can reach him, one of the attackers grabs Aerys. The boy struggles, his fists pounding against the assailant. "Let me go!" Aerys screams, his voice filled with terror. The boy then grabbed tried to grab his dagger to stab his attacker on the leg. However it wasn’t enough.

You draw your sword and charge at the attacker, your heart pounding in your chest. But before you can reach them, the man uses the boys dagger and plunges it into Aerys chest.

"No!" you scream, your voice breaking as you watch your brother collapse to the ground.

You reach Aerys side, dropping to your knees and cradling him in your arms. His eyes are wide with pain and fear, blood staining his tunic.

"Aerys, stay with me," you plead, tears streaming down your face. "Please, don't leave me."

Aerys's hand reaches up to touch your face, his fingers trembling. "I... I'm scared," he whispers, his voice barely audible.

"I know, little brother. I know," you say, your voice breaking. "I'm here. I love you."

Aerys's eyes flutter closed, and his hand falls away. You hold him close, your heart shattered as you realize he's gone.

The courtyard is silent, the attackers having fled. Benjicot arrives, his face pale with shock as he takes in the scene. He drops to his knees beside you, his hand on your shoulder.

"We'll find them," he promises, his voice rough with grief and rage. "We'll make them pay for this."

But his words bring little comfort. The loss of Aerys is a wound too deep to heal, a pain that sears through your soul. You hold your brother's lifeless body, your tears falling onto his bloodstained tunic.

The sky is gray and somber as you stand beside Aerys's pyre, your heart heavy with sorrow. The dragons circle overhead, their mournful cries echoing through the mountains. The loss of Aerys has cast a dark shadow over the Eyrie, the grief palpable in the air.

You stand with Benjicot, Eddric by your side, his small hand clutching yours tightly. The boy's face is streaked with tears, his grief a mirror of your own. As the flames consume the pyre, you whisper a silent prayer for Aenys's soul, hoping he finds peace in the afterlife. The pain of his loss is a weight you carry with you, a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the cruelty of the world.

The memory of Aerys's laughter, his bravery, and his love will stay with you always. And with Benjicot and Eddric by your side, you vow to honor your brother's memory by protecting them and fighting for the better of the realm.

You couldn’t help but place the blame of your little brothers death on someone, something. Why wasn’t there guards posted at Aerys and Eddrics chambers the night prior. How can two masked assailants just come into the courtyard unseen and unheard until it was too late. You wished you could blame someone, you really did.

taglist: @benjicotblckwood @thornsandtulips

[a/n: sorry anon, i killed the readers brother :/, they really said let’s try again